E.V.L.

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[Illustration:  Valetudinarian. “I’VE GOT CIRRHOSIS OF THE LIVER, AN INCIPIENT CARBUNCLE ON MY NECK, INFLAMMATION OF THE DUODENUM, SEPTIC SORE THROAT AND GENERAL PROSTRATION.”

Sympathetic Friend. “WELL, AND HOW ARE YOU?”]

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A KNOWING OLD BIRD.

    “Grey African Parrot ... every question fully answered; L10 or offers.”
    —­Weekly Paper.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

We have had to wait four years for the concluding volumes of The Life of Benjamin Disraeli (MURRAY), but, as the engaged couple said of the tunnel, “it was worth it,” for in the interval Mr. BUCKLE has been able to enrich his work with a wealth of new material.  This includes DISRAELI’S correspondence with QUEEN VICTORIA during his two Premierships, and the still more remarkable letters that he wrote to the two favoured sisters, ANNE, Lady CHESTERFIELD, and SELINA, Lady BRADFORD, during the last eight years of his life.  To one or other of them he wrote almost every day, and from the sixteen hundred letters that have been preserved Mr. BUCKLE has selected with happy discretion a multitude of passages which throw a vivid light upon the political events of the time and upon DISRAELI’S own character.  Whereas the first four volumes of the biography might be likened to a good sound Burgundy, thanks to these letters the last two sparkle and stimulate like a vintage champagne.  As we read them we seem to be present at the scenes described, to overhear the discussions at the Cabinet, to catch a glimpse of the actors en deshabille.  Mr. BUCKLE says that “Disraeli, from first to last, regarded his life as a brightly tinted romance, with himself as hero.”  In one of his letters to Lady BRADFORD he says, “I live for Power and the Affections.”  A poseur, no doubt, he was, but not a charlatan.  His industry was amazing and his insight almost uncanny.  “I know not why Japan should not become the Sardinia of the Mongolian East,” he writes in 1875.  To the political student these Volumes will be almost as fruitful a field as BURKE; for myself, I have found them more fascinating than any novel.

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It seams a great pity that Mr. KIPLING’S Letters of Travel (MACMILLAN) contains nothing later than 1913.  It would have been particularly interesting to see how far the events of the great tragedy might have modified or aggravated his scorn against those who do not see eye to eye with him.  In the pre-war KIPLING, as we have him here, “Labour” is always the enemy, “Democracy” the hypocritical cant of cranks and slackers.  What do they know of England who only KIPLING know?  Well, they know one side of it, and a fine side.  The first sheaf of letters—­“From Tideway to Tideway