Monday, November 12th.—An old Parliamentarian, when asked by a friend to what party the PRIME MINISTER now belonged, sententiously replied, "He used to be a Radical; he will some day be a Conservative; and at present he is the leader of the Improvisatories."
The latest example of his inventive capacity does not meet with unmitigated approval. Members were very curious to know exactly how the new Allied Council was going to work, and what would be the relations between the Council's Military advisers and the existing General Staffs of the countries concerned. Mr. BONAR LAW assured the House that the responsibility for strategy would remain where it is now, but did not altogether succeed in explaining why in that case the Council required other military advisers.
The SECRETARY FOR SCOTLAND is about the mildest-mannered man that ever sat upon the Treasury Bench. But even he can be "trÈs mÉchant" at a pinch. When Mr. WATT renewed his complaint that sheriffs-principal in Scotland had very little to do for the high salaries they received, Mr. MUNRO replied that "it would just be as unsafe to measure the activities of the sheriff-principal by the number of appeals he hears as to measure the political activities of my hon. friend by the number of questions he puts."
The Pensions Department at Chelsea is to be reorganised. Mr. HODGE excused the delays by pointing out that an average of thirty-three thousand letters a day is despatched, but, as he added that there is a staff of four thousand five hundred persons to do it, it hardly looks as if they were overworked.
Tuesday, November 13th.—The House of Lords was to have discussed the state of Ireland, but, owing to the absence of its LEADER, fell back upon the less exciting but more practical topics of sugar-substitutes for jam, and barley for beer. It was cheering to learn from the Duke of MARLBOROUGH that the jam-manufacturers gave great care to exclude arsenic from their glucose, and from Lord RHONDDA that there would be plenty of barley for both cakes and ale.
Mr. WARDLE is the latest example of the poacher turned gamekeeper. A few months ago, as leader of the Labour Party, he was instant in criticism of the ineptitutes of Government officials. This afternoon, upon his old friend, Mr. TYSON WILSON, venturing to refer to the "stupid decisions" of the Board of Trade, Mr. WARDLE was down on him in a moment. With the air of one who had been born and brought up in Whitehall Gardens, he replied, "Stupid decisions are not made by the Board of Trade."
The Pacifists had rather a mixed day. They were visibly relieved when Mr. BONAR LAW (supported by Mr. ASQUITH) declined to admit into the Bill for extending the life of this Parliament a provision enabling constituencies to get rid of Members who had ceased to represent them. But they did not like his contemptuous reference to their argumentative powers. Mr. TREVELYAN, who regards himself as the representative (by literary descent) of CHARLES JAMES FOX, was particularly annoyed.
As party-funds are rather under a cloud just now the Government thought they might justify their existence by drawing on them for the campaign against enemy propaganda. But their custodians thought otherwise. The Tory Whip was prepared to make a small contribution; the Liberal would give nothing, on the ground that the total required was extravagantly large. So the country will have to foot the bill.
Wednesday, November 14th.—The knowledge that Mr. ASQUITH was to "interpellate" the PRIME MINISTER regarding his recent speech in Paris, and the Allied War Council therein described, brought a crowd of Members to the House, and filled the Peers' Gallery with ex-Ministers scenting a first-class crisis.
The protagonists on entering the arena were loudly cheered by their respective adherents, but the expected duel did not come off. Mr. ASQUITH'S questions were searching enough, but not provocative. Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S reply was comprehensive and conciliatory, and ended with the promise of a day for discussion. Instead of a fight there was only an armistice, usually a preliminary to a definite peace.
A little disappointed, perhaps, the Peers betook themselves to their own Chamber, there to hear Lord PARMOOR discourse upon the woes of conscientious objectors. Many of them, he thought, had been vindictively punished for their peculiar opinions. Nobody, in a somewhat cloudy discussion, made it quite clear whether the Tribunals or the Army authorities or the Home Office were most at fault; and Lord CURZON'S suggestion that persons who refused not merely to fight but to render any kind of service to their country in its time of need were not wholly free from blame had almost the air of novelty.
The Air-Force Bill passed through Committee in one sitting. The credit for this achievement may be divided equally between Major BAIRD, who proved himself once more a skilful pilot, and Mr. BILLING, who spoke so often that other intending critics got little chance. Counting speeches and interruptions, I find from the official reports that he addressed the House exactly one hundred times; and it is therefore worth noticing that his last words were, "This is what you call muzzling the House of Commons."
Thursday, November 15th.—Lord WIMBORNE did his best to-night to defend the inaction of the Irish Executive in the face of the Sinn Fein menace. But he would have been wiser not to have adduced the argument that Ireland was a terra incognita. If there is one subject that the Peers think they know all about it is the sister-island. Lord CURZON thought it would be a mistake, by enforcing "a superficial quiet," to check the wholesome influences brought into being by the Convention. He did not go so far as to say that Mr. DE VALERA was one of them.
At last the Government have decided to take short order with the pernicious literature of the Pacifists. In future all such documents are to be submitted to the Press Bureau before publication. A howl of derisive laughter greeted the HOME SECRETARY'S announcement, but when Mr. SNOWDEN essayed to move the adjournment, although he and his friends were joined by some of the Scotch and Irish malcontents, the total muster was only thirty-three, and the motion accordingly came to earth with a thud.
By a large majority the House refused to reinstate the Livery franchise in the City of London. In any case this ancient privilege could not long have survived the curtailment of the Lord Mayor's Feast.
The Colonel. "I'D TAKE ALL THOSE MUTINOUS HOUNDS AND PUT 'EM AGAINST THE WALL."
Aunt Jane. "BUT, MY DEAR, THE AWFUL THING IS THAT IT HAS SPREAD TO OUR OWN ARMY. I HEARD TWO SOLDIERS IN THE TRAIN TO-DAY TALKING ABOUT THEIR SERGEANT-MAJOR IN A DREADFUL WAY."
BOON FOR BUSY BRIDEGROOMS.
In these days of military hustle, when a soldier comes home, falls in love, gets engaged, marries, sets up a home, and returns to the Front in less than a week, there is little time for the ordinary courtesies of matrimonial procedure. It is felt, therefore, that the appended printed form of thanks for wedding presents—based on the model of the Field Service Postcard—will prove a great boon to all soldiers who meditate matrimony during short leave. It will be found sufficient merely to strike out inappropriate words in the printed form, which is as follows:—
"Captain and Mrs. —— beg to return thanks for your
\
Beautiful "
Charming "
Generous "
Very generous "
Useful " Gift
Very Useful "- Cheque
More than useful " Letter."
Unexpected "
Totally unexpected "
Remarkable "
Artistic "
/
Examples.—(1) To a rich and miserly uncle, who has come down with an astonishingly handsome sum—strike out everything except "Very generous—more than useful—totally unexpected cheque."
(2) To an eccentric former admirer of the bride, who has sent a forty-stanza poem, entitled "Sunset in the White-chapel Road: Thoughts Thereon"—strike out everything except "Remarkable gift."
(3) To an enormously wealthy female relative, who disapproves of the bride and has sent a second-hand plated sugar-sifter—strike out everything except "Gift."
(4) To anyone of whom much was expected, but who neither gave a present nor wrote—strike out everything on the postcard.
"Strange Story of a Wedding in the Divorce Court."—Daily News.
It seems a rather unfortunate choice of locale.
Extract from an Indian begging-letter:—
"My mother is a widow, poor chap, and has a postmortem son."
"AMATEUR GENT., experienced, wanted, for week at Xmas. All expenses paid." Daily Telegraph.
Why not have a professional one and do the thing handsomely?
ONCE UPON A TIME.
THE LETTER.
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, an illustrious man of affairs—soldier and statesman too—visited our shores, and by his wise counsels so captured the imagination of his hearers and readers that one of the greatest of all compliments was paid to him, and anyone with a black cocker spaniel to name named it after him; and he had a name rather peculiarly adapted to such ends too.
It chanced that among the puppies thus made illustrious was one which a young soldier before leaving for France to win the War gave to his sister, and when writing to him, as, being a good girl, she regularly and abundantly did, she never omitted to give tidings as to how the little creature was developing; and I need hardly say that in the whole history of dogs, from TOBIT'S faithful trotting companion onwards, there never was a dog so packed with intelligence and fidelity as this. Most girls' dogs are perfect, but this one was more remarkable still.
Now it happened that the gallant brother, in the course of his duties as a war-winner, was moved from place to place so often that he gradually lost definition, as the photographers say, and the result was that one of her recent letters failed to catch up with him. That was a pity, because it was a better letter than usual. It gave all the news that he would most want to hear. It said what picture her father was working on at the moment, and told, without spoiling them, his two last jokes. It said whom her mother had called on and who had called on her mother and how something must be done to stop her smoking too many cigarettes. It said that their young brother, having sprained his ankle at hockey, had become a wolf for jig-saw puzzles. It said where their parents had dined recently and where they were going to dine and who was coming next week. It said what she had seen at the theatre last Saturday and what book she was reading. It said which of the other V.A.D.'s had become engaged. It said what an awful time they had had trying to buy some tea, and how scarce butter had become, and what a cold she had caught in the last raid, and how Uncle Jim had influenza and couldn't go on being a special, and how Aunt Sibyl had been introduced to one of the GEDDESES and talked to him as though it was the other, and how she herself had met Evelyn in the street the other day and Evelyn had asked "with suspicious interest after you"—and a thousand other things such as a good sister, even though busy at a hospital, finds time to write to a brother over there, all among the mud and the shells, winning the War. And not being in the habit of signing her name, when writing in this familiar way, she finished up with a reference to the darlingest of all dogs by sending its love at the very end: "Love from ——" and so forth.
Well, the letter, as I have said, could not be delivered. The postal people at the Front, and behind the Front, are astonishingly good, but they could not get in touch with the brother this time, and therefore they opened the letter and looked at the foot of it for the name of the writer and found that of the dog, and at the head of it for the street and town where the writer lived, and sent it back as "insufficiently addressed."
And that is why in a certain house in Chelsea a treasured possession is a returned letter for General SMUTS.
From an article entitled "Is it Safe for Cousins to marry?":—
"It is just as well, however, to pick out somebody besides your cousin for your wife." The Family Doctor.
Before acting on this advice, however, it might be safer to consult The Family Lawyer.
AFTER A DAY ON THE ALLOTMENT.
"SUDDENLY SHE REALISED THAT HER IDOL HAD FEET OF CLAY."—Extract from popular novel.
THE VERY GLAD EYE.
Mother put down the key of the hen-house and took up the letters that lay beside her plate.
"If only Joan would write larger," she sighed, turning over an envelope across which an ant seemed to have walked and left an inky trail. "I've mislaid my glass too, and shan't be able to read a word. Where could I have put the miserable thing?" she asked, peering again at the ridiculous little script.
Father put down his paper and said these hunts for Aunt Matilda were getting monotonous. Only yesterday he had rescued her from some dried bulbs in the greenhouse, and didn't Mother think it time she saw a good oculist and had proper spectacles, instead of using the old lens in that carved gold bauble belonging once to his grandmother's aunt.
"Perhaps it's just a bad habit," she answered with a smile, "or my eyes are getting lazy. But really I can see so well through it, and if they would print the newspapers better—"
"No one we know in this morning's list," said Father shortly, as he turned a sheet; "and we should be hearing from those rascals now that the push is over," he added, glancing at Mother who began to sip her coffee hurriedly.
"They might even get leave together," ventured Margery. "It's five months since Dick came home, and as for Christopher—"
"What swank for old Margots, now her hair is up," piped Archie. "Two brothers from the trenches to—"
"If you'd make a little less noise, my son," said Father in a strange voice, "I might be able to take in what I'm reading. There's something here about Christopher."
"What?" cried Mother, springing from her chair.
"Yes, it's Christopher plain enough," he repeated with shining eyes. "Christopher Charles Bentley, and—God bless my soul!—the boy has been splendid! It's all down here, and—-
"Read, read!" we clamoured, as his voice grew husky and indistinct.
"Read!" again we shouted, as Mother came and took the paper gently from him.
"When you're all quiet, children," she began, devouring the words before her.
Quiet! Even the canary held its breath while Mother read that wonderful paragraph.
It was a long one, and every word of it a tribute to our magnificent Chris, who had organised a small volunteer party, attacked a strong point, and captured fifteen of the enemy and a machine-gun, for which gallant act he had been awarded the M.C.
With lingering pride she went through it a second time, and only then did we see that she was staring at the paper, proudly and fiercely, through the handle of the hen-house key!
First A.B. (indicating old tramp steamer in ballast). "THANK 'EAVENS WE AIN'T GOT PROPELLERS WHAT STICK OUT LIKE THAT ON THIS 'ERE JUNK, BILL."
Second A.B. "WHAT ARE YOU GROUSING ABOUT NOW?"
First A.B. "WHY, THE BLOOMIN' FIRST-LOOTENANT WOULD MAKE US POLISH THE BLINKIN' THING."
THE MUSICAL CRITIC'S ORDEAL.
[Mr. CYRIL SCOTT, the musical composer, in his recently published volume on The Philosophy of Modernism in its connection with Music, states that the criterion of lofty music, the method of gauging the spiritual value of art, "is only possible to him who has awakened the latent faculties of the pineal gland and the pituitary body."]
Lately I've been reading CYRIL SCOTT'S
Book on Music, modern and unmuzzled,
And, though solving many toughish knots,
By one statement I am sadly puzzled,
Namely, that if we would understand
What divides the noble from the shoddy
We must cultivate "the pineal gland,"
Also "the pituitary body."
But unfortunately SCOTT refrains
(Hence my present painful agitation)
From elucidating how one gains
This desiderated consummation.
Must I fly to silken Samarcand,
Or explore the distant Irrawaddy
For the culture of my pineal gland
And of my pituitary body?
Is the object gained by force of will
Or some drastic vegetarian diet?
Does it mean a compound radium pill
Causing vast upheaval and disquiet?
Do I need some special "Hidden Hand,"
Or the very strongest whisky toddy
To arouse my dormant pineal gland,
My unused pituitary body?
Should I read the works of Mr. YEATS,
Or the lays of WILCOX (ELLA WHEELER)?
Must I visit the United States
And consult the newest occult "healer"?
Is the tragedy of IBSEN'S Brand
Or the humour of Poor Pillycoddy
Better feeding for my pineal gland
And for my pituitary body?
Vain the subtle art of HENRY JAMES,
Vain the wealth of ROTHSCHILDS or of MORGANS,
If I fail to satisfy the claims
Of these mystic and momentous organs;
I'm no better than a grain of sand
Or a simple common polypody,
With an undeveloped pineal gland,
An inert pituitary body.
Blindly seeking for a helpful clue,
Welcoming no matter what suggestion,
I have lately sounded one or two
Leading doctors on this vital question;
But they think I'll have to be trepanned
If I wish effectively to modify
the structure of my pineal gland
Or of my pituitary body.
'Gin pituitary bodies,
With awakened eye,
Meet with humble hoddy-doddies—
Smaller human fry—
Cries and kissing both are missing
When they're passing by,
And the astral demi-god is
Comin' thro' the rye.
OUR COLLOQUIAL CONTEMPORARIES.
"Repeated charges by Turkish cavalry resulted in only a slight gain of ground at the expense of heavy osses."—Daily News.
FREE FOODERS
"ROSYTH WORKERS AND THE COST OF LIVING.
"Mr. Douglas moved that they demand a reduction in the cost of living of 200 per cent. by abolishing profiteering and securing national control of food supplies. It was subsequently agreed to demand 100 per cent. decrease in the cost of food."—Glasgow Herald.
