  It is comforting to know that we need not yet despair of human nature. Even the most abandoned politician may have one redeeming quality. For example, The Express tells us that Mr. Winston Churchill is a reader of The Express. It is reported to be the intention of General Botha to visit this country in June or July, and the Labour Party here are said to be already taking steps with a view to having him deported as an undesirable. If Mr. Henry Chaplin has been correctly reported he is even more of a reactionary than most of his opponents imagined. In the course of the debate on the Sunday Closing Bill he is said to have delivered himself as follows:—"Drunkenness is diminishing, and I say Thank God; long may it continue." The pious ejaculation would seem to be an expression of gratitude for the joys of inebriety. "Does the nightingale really boycott the land of Llewelyn and Mr. Lloyd George—and why?" asks an anxious inquirer in a contemporary. If it is so we suspect the reason is a fear on the part of the bird that the Chancellor may get to know of the rich quality of his notes and tax him out of existence. Mr. George Storey has been elected a Royal Academician. This will surprise no one. Burlington House has always favoured the Storey picture. And as regards Mr. H. S. Tuke, who was promoted at the same time, his serial tale, "Three Boys and a Boat," has now been running for quite a number of years. "English," says Mr. Balfour, "is abominably difficult." But Erse is worse. Despatched at Teddington twenty-three years ago a postcard has just been delivered at Walton-on-Thames. The postal authorities trust that the publication of this fact will induce people to exercise a little patience when they do not receive correspondence which they expect, instead of at once jumping to the conclusion that it has been lost. As a consequence of recent outrages at the Royal Academy the Council is reported to be testing "unbreakable glass." No doubt the Indestructible Paint Company is also circularising artists. A man walking across St. Paul's Churchyard gave a remarkable exhibition of presence of mind one day last week. He was knocked down under a motor-omnibus, but managed so to arrange himself that the wheels passed clear of him. Cinema operators will be obliged if he will give them due notice of any intention to repeat the turn. "The London General Omnibus Company advertises itself, so why shouldn't we?" said the L.C.C. Tramways—so they had a nice little collision on the Embankment last week. At the second annual celebration of "Mothers' Day" at the London Central Y.M.C.A., an eloquent address was delivered by the secretary of the association, Mr. Virgo. The thought that, in spite of his name, this gentleman, try as he might, could never become a mother is said to have raised a lump in the throat of many a member of the audience. We are glad to hear that "Hospital Egg Week" has been a success. We find it difficult, however, to believe one account, which states that sufficient new-laid eggs have been contributed to last the whole year. "If Adam had lived till now," says Mr. Snowden, "and had worked hard at honest labour the whole time, and had been a thrifty man withal, he would not have had an income like some of those enjoyed to-day." Mr. Snowden is apparently presuming that Adam's wife would have lived as long as her husband. At his examination in bankruptcy a Clacton monumental mason attributed his failure to the healthfulness of the neighborhood. Suggested motto for Clacton funeral artists: "Si monumentum requiris—go elsewhere." Among probable forthcoming improvements at the Zoological Gardens is the provision of a band on Sunday. But one great difficulty, we imagine, will be to persuade the laughing hyena and certain other rowdy animals not to take part in the performances. The didactic drama is with us again, and this time we are to be taught to feel affection for the unpopular. Love Cheats is the hortatory title of a play to be produced by Miss Horniman's company next month. Mr. Margam Jones has written a volume entitled Angels in Wales. Nonconformists, we presume. THE NEW DRESS.THE NEW DRESS "Going along Oxford Street, are you? I should love to come with you, but it would be a little hard on Bond Street. You see, I haven't shown it to Bond Street yet." BAD LANGUAGE."BAD LANGUAGE. From Sir Herbert Tree. To the Editor of The Daily Mail." We hope the Editor replied suitably. "WHO FEARS TO SPEAK OF"—NINETEEN-SIX?[Thoughts on "a Bill for the Better (sic) Government of Ireland."] There was an Isle all green and fair Where milk and whisky used to flow, Where, thanks to lavish legislators, The pious cult of pigs and taters. Filled with content the balmy air— Eight little years ago! Distressful she had been, a land Of kine curtailed and burning ricks, Until we others oped our purses To rectify her feudal curses And freed the soil with generous hand— Prior to nineteen-six. Though still the casual moonlight raid Occurred at seasons, just for joy, New brands of owners, fat and thriving, Had lost their use for cattle-driving, And agitation's artful aid, Pined for its old employ. Then came the Liberals in and eyed This land where Peace had poised her wings; And "O!" said they, "how sad a smutch on Our clean United Kingdom's 'scutcheon! It is our duty to provide A Better State of Things." Eight years ago! And now we see The dogs of war about to bay; The Bill for Ruling Ireland Better (Strangely enough) has so upset her That pretty soon there ought to be The Devlin's self to pay. So, when the general atmosphere Becomes opaque with flying bricks, And those who ran the Home Rule movement Bid me applaud this marked improvement, From pure politeness I shall fear To speak of nineteen-six. |
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