“I have a god of my own,” said the Editor, watch in hand, “and I see him very distinctly.  Powerfully built, with a boyish face and a wealth of fairish hair over one side of the noble brow.  Aloof but vigilant.  Restive but determined.  Quick to praise but quicker to blame.  Adaptive, volcanic, relentless and terribly immanent—­terribly.  That is my god.  A king, no doubt, but”—­here he sighed—­“by no means invisible.  Good day.”

Nothing but the absence of Mr. FRANK HARRIS in what is not only his spiritual but his actual home, America, prevents the publication of his definitive and epoch-making views on this suggestive theme.

Meanwhile things go on much as usual.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Officer (superintending party that is trying to extinguish a fire at French farm).  “GOOD HEAVENS, CORPORAL, WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE?”

Irish Corporal.  “I’M WATCHIN’ THE STRAW DOESN’T CATCH A-FIRE, SOR.”

Officer.  “WELL, TAKE CARE.  IS IT AN EASY PLACE TO GET OUT OF?”

Corporal.  “IT IS THAT.  YOU MIGHT GO THROUGH THE FLOOR ANNYWHERE, SOR.”]

* * * * *

MORE SUBSTITUTION.

From a Stores circular:—­

    “Members who like a very delicately Smoked Bacon or Ham will
    appreciate the valuable new line recently added to our Stock,
    namely;—­

    ——­ MILD CURED SALMON.”

* * * * *

    “From Switzerland comes a report of a noiseless machine gun,
    operated by electricity.”—­Yorkshire Evening Post.

Another invention gone wrong.

* * * * *

NEW LIGHTS ON ANCIENT HISTORY.

    “Senor Aladro Castriota, the wealthy wine merchant of
    Xerxes.”—­Daily News.

HERODOTUS omits this detail.

* * * * *

    “Mrs. ——­ thoroughly recommends her Russian Nursery
    Governess; speaks fluent French, German; will answer any
    question.”—­Daily Paper.

There are a lot of questions we should like to ask her about Russia.

* * * * *

    “The jury found the prisoner guilty of man-slaughter, and was
    sentenced to 18 months’ hard labour.”—­Provincial Paper.

No wonder there is a scarcity of jurymen.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

“SHEILA.”

Mark Holdsworth, a bachelor of middle age, is bored with commercial success and seeks a diversion.  He would like to have a son.  And his attractive typist, Sheila, strikes his fancy as a suitable medium.  On her side the girl (obviously recognisable by her innocence as a pre-war flapper) is sick of drudgery, longs very simply for the joys of life, as she imagines them, meaning freedom and pretty dresses