* * * * *

    “Royal Horse Guards.—­Captain (acting Marquis) W.B.  Marquis of
    Northampton resigns his commission.”—­Provincial Paper.

But retains, we trust, his acting rank.

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SPRING MODES AT MURMANSK.

We, the enthusiasts of the Relief Force who sailed from England with the fine phrases of the Evening Press ringing in our ears have arrived at Murmansk, only to be disappointed and disillusioned.  It is not that the expedition looks less attractive than it did, or that our leaders fail to inspire us with confidence.  It is because the gilt has disappeared from the sartorial gingerbread of our adventure.

Why did we leap forward to volunteer before we were wanted and continue to leap till, for very boredom, they sent us embarcation orders and a free warrant?  Was it simply to escape an English Spring?  Was it not rather that we might win our furs—­might wear the romantic outfit which we were led to believe was de rigueur in the most exclusive circle, namely, the Arctic?  What was the first remark of our female relatives when we showed them the War Office telegram?  Was it not, “Of course you must be photographed in your furs and things?”

No wonder, after the monotony of khaki, if we looked forward to the glory and distinction of fur-lined caps and coats, Shackleton boots, huge snow-goggles and enormous gloves turning hands to savage paws.

And now what spectacle greets us at Murmansk, with everybody’s camera cleared for action?  What is the example set by those to whom we naturally look for light and leading?  Behold the General and his Staff coming on board in the snow-reflected sunshine flashing with the gold and scarlet trimmings of Whitehall.  And what of the old residents, our comrades?  They are playing football in shorts and sweaters.

The genial R.T.O. cheered us up a little and kept the more resolute of our Arctic heroes in countenance by sporting a magnificent and irresistible fur head-dress; but an R.T.O. can do what would be regarded as nerve in you and me; and, moreover, here is the A.P.M. in the familiar flat cap, encircled with the traditional colour of authority.

Even the nice little Laplander and his lady, driving in to do shopping, drawn on a sleigh by a nicely-matched trio of reindeer, was sitting on more furs than he or Mrs. L. were wearing; while even the naked team seemed to feel the heat oppressive.

I suppose we have come too late in the year for the romance of skins and ski, and must condescend to the familiar gum-boot until the mosquito season opens and a man may design some becoming effect in muslin.

Of course there is still plenty of snow to be photographed against in the full splendour of a Hyperborean disguise; but is it worth while to unpack one’s valise for that?  And anyhow would not the atmosphere of the picture be marred, the pose of the explorer be rendered unnatural by his consciousness of insincerity and his fear of imminent suffocation?