How happy we feel! How happy we feel!
Now why did Arthur Hoare pull out
A sovereign with a happy shout
And give it rashly to his scout,
Who almost had a fit?
Why of a sudden did he fling
A hard-boiled egg at Eustace Ling,
Forgetting how an egg can sting
The person who is hit?
Why after dinner did he turn
In fury on his room, and burn
His old oak chairs with unconcern?—
A stupid thing to do!
And why so harshly did he pelt
With forks a fresh and timorous Celt
Afraid to utter what he felt?
Arthur had got his Blue!
(W.G. Grace's XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)
Nothing went right. The Champion cut
And drove and glanced, and cut again,
Till every bowler we possessed
Deep down within his smarting breast
Half wished he'd lost that early train!
Dobbin went on with Sneaks,
Robin appeared with Tweaks,
And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Contributed Lightning Streaks!
Nothing went right. The Champion's bat
Seemed twice the breadth of postern door.
The leather flew at pace immense
To crackle on the boundary fence,
Acknowledged by the public roar.
Dobbin went on with Tweaks,
Robin obliged with Sneaks,
And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Exhibited Lightning Streaks!
Nothing went right. At last, at last
A bell (than Angelus more fair!)
Rang respite for the fieldsmen who,
By sprinting hard from twelve to two,
Had scarce a ragged breath to spare.
Robin abstained from Sneaks,
Dobbin abandoned Tweaks,
And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard,
Prohibited Lightning Streaks!
Luncheon went right. The weary team
Found benches, beer, and salad sweet.
But asking blessing was too bad,
Because they all were somewhat sad
From too much Grace before their meat!
Health to your noble name,
Monarch in fact and fame,
From twenty-two hearty lads in a party
Broadened and bronzed by the Game!
When the run of the bowler is measured,
And he, with brows knotted,
Bowls fierce at your timber-yard treasured,
To pot, or be potted,
If the ball to the bone that is funny
Fly swift as a swallow,
And you squeal like a terrified bunny
As agonies follow:
Then, then is a capital season,
More fit than another,
Loose language of silly unreason
In courage to smother.
Clean speech is too frequently shamed
For Cricket to shame it!
One word is too often exclaimed
For you to exclaim it!
Beside the pillar-box a girl
Sells daffodils in golden bunches,
And with an apron full of Spring
Stays men a moment from their lunches:
Some fill their hands for love of bloom,
To others Cupid hints a reason;
But as for me, I buy because
The flowers suggest the Cricket season!
Although I trouble not to seek
A maiden proud to wear my favour,
Right glad am I to change my pence
For blooms, and smell their wholesome savour;
For as I carry blossoms home—
Sisters of gold with golden sisters—
My heart is thumping at the thought
Of pads and bails and slow leg-twisters.
My only sweetheart is a bag—
A faithful girl of dark brown leather,
Who's travelled many a mile with me
In half a hundred sorts of weather!
Once more to clasp your friendly hand,
To tramp along by Hope attended,
Dreaming of glances, drives, and cuts,
My Dear Old Girl, how truly splendid!
We had a fellow in the School
Whose batting simply was a dream:
A dozen times by keeping cool
And hitting hard he saved the Team.
But oh! his fielding was so vile,
As if by witch or goblin cursed,
That he was called by Arthur Style,
King Butterlegs the Worst!
At tea-time, supper, breakfast, lunch,
For many disappointed days,
We reasoned with him in a bunch,
Imploring him to mend his ways.
He listened like a saint, with lips
As if in desperation pursed;
Then gave three fourers in the Slips—
King Butterlegs the Worst!
'Twas after this the Captain tried,
In something warmer than a pet,
To comfort his lamenting Side
By pelting Curtice in a net.
Aware of his tremendous power,
The Captain used it well at first,
And peppered only half-an-hour
King Butterlegs the Worst!
But half-an-hour at such a range—
From such a Captain!—was enough
To work so prompt and blest a change
That Curtice ceased to be a muff.
When from his bed at last he came,
Where fifty bruises had been nursed,
He was no more a public shame,
Nor Butterlegs the Worst!
He was a person most unkempt,
And answered to the name of Cust.
He had a frenzied mass of hair,
A little redder than red rust,
And trousers so exceeding short
It looked as if by mounting high
They meant unceasingly to try
To change to knickers on the sly.
He was a person whom a Bat
Could view without the least distrust.
He caught me at the fifth attempt—
Imagine my profound disgust!
For if the ball had gone to hand
I had not felt the least unrest;
But, as it happened (Fate knows best!)
It struck him smartly on the chest.
I cannot tell you how he squirmed
And capered on the greensward there,
Until at last he took the ball
(Or so it seemed) from out his hair,
And meekly rubbed the coming bruise.
Thus was I humbled in the dust
Because of Albert Edward Cust.
Imagine my profound disgust!
Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun,
Here's to the joy that we ponder;
Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun
When the babes of our babies are—Yonder!
Rivers' Popular Novels
Crown 8vo., 6s.
The House of Merrilees. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL.[Now Ready.
The Unequal Yoke. Mrs. H.H. PENROSE.[Now Ready.
The Discipline of Christine. Mrs. BARRÉ GOLDIE.[Now Ready.
Peter Binney, Undergraduate. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL.[Now Ready.
Peace on Earth. REGINALD TURNER.[Now Ready.
The Countermine. ARTHUR WENLOCK.[Now Ready.
The Friendships of Veronica. THOMAS COBB. [May 17.
Hugh Revel, A Public School Story. LIONEL PORTMAN. [July 25.]
Notes on Books.
In issuing a list of new and forthcoming publications, Mr. Alston Rivers cannot but express his gratification at the spirit of fair play which has enabled him to realise such a striking series of successes. The primary business of a publisher is to discriminate, both as to intrinsic literary merit, and with regard to what will hit the public taste, a classical illustration of the difficulty in gauging the latter being the rejection of "John Inglesant" by the late James Payn, then "reader" for an eminent firm. While fully recognising the remarkable gifts of the author Mr. Payn's hesitancy as to the book's attractions got the better of his judgment; and with "The House of Merrilees" it is now an open secret that very much the same point of view was taken in more than one instance. Mr. Marshall's "Peter Binney, Undergraduate," had been and is still decidedly popular, but his new book was more ambitious, possessing such a plot as to require peculiarly delicate handling. Had it been handled in a way that combined a really high literary standard with more stirring qualities? The question requires no answer now, for the triumph which the publisher at once foretold on reading the manuscript has been more than attained, and "The House of Merrilees" is indisputably the novel of the season. It has at the same time demonstrated to the publishing trade that a sensational story does not labour under any disadvantage by the abduction of literary style.
In a wholly different vein are "The Discipline of Christine" and "The Unequal Yoke," by Mrs. Barré Goldie and Mrs. H.H. Penrose respectively. In the former the ways and moods of childhood are depicted in original and inimitable fashion, which makes it safe to predict that the author will go far beyond her first effort as a novelist. In "The Unequal Yoke" Mrs. Penrose has taken for her theme the love story of a clergyman whose benefice is an Irish coast town, and in whose flock prominence is attained by narrow zeal rather than by amiability. He is really a good man, and is lucky enough, or the reverse, to win the hand of a delightful young lady whose charms, however, do not command the unanimous approval of the parishioners. The possession of high musical attainments makes her temperament all the more interesting, and accounts for the presence in so remote a district of her German friend whose acute sense of the ridiculous leads to such untoward results. It is hard to say whether the author's talents are best evinced by her true pathos or by the delicate touches of humour which pervade the book. Another commendable feature of the novel is an alert skill in construction which stamps it as a thoroughly artistic production.
Ready May 2.
The Soul of London.FORD MADOX HUEFFER. Author of "The Life of Madox Brown," "The Face of the Night," &c. Imperial 16mo, 5s.nett.
Ready May 9.
More Cricket Songs.NORMAN GALE. Imperial 16mo, 2s.nett.
New Edition. Now Ready.
Spring Blossoms and Summer Fruit.JOHN BYLES. Cloth, Crown 8vo, 1s.6d.nett.
These "Sunday Morning Talks to Children" are full of charm and suggestive thought.
"We can hardly praise too highly the beauty and exquisite simplicity of these talks."—Literary World.
London: ALSTON RIVERS, 13, Arundel Street.
Mr. Reginald Turner has already achieved such distinction as an author of superior fiction (witness the success of his "Comedy of Progress" and "Cynthia's Damages,") that a cordial reception was assured for his latest book "Peace on Earth." It is a pathetic story that he has to tell; of the sorrows of the outcast amid poverty, and the rage against law and government provoked thereby; of the less obvious, but equally poignant, griefs which smoulder beneath the surface of "comfortable circumstances." The plot is, in short, one that in the hands of any other than a thorough man of the world, would fail hopelessly, which makes Mr. Turner's complete and undoubted success all the more meritorious.
"The Countermine" is the work of Mr. Arthur Wenlock, whose "As Down of Thistle" showed considerable promise, though perhaps his subtle vein of sardonic philosophy escaped due recognition. As its name denotes, the interest in the new novel is largely military; in every line the soldier, with his nice sense of honour, his virility, and his direct methods, stands revealed. "The Countermine" is certainly a most thrilling tale, and should raise the author to the front rank of writers on "Service" topics. Of Mr. Thomas Cobb, whose reputation is already firmly established, it is only necessary to say that in "The Friendships of Veronica" his fertile and resourceful pen is at its best if, indeed, his literary reputation has not been substantially advanced.
The Alston Rivers' Shilling Library.
Creatures that once were Men. MAXIM GORKY. With Introductory by G.K. CHESTERTON.
Lovers in London. A.A. MILNE.
"'A Coming Humorist.' ... In Mr. Milne it may not be extravagant to descry a writer with a future before him." —Evening Standard and St. James's Gazette.
Change for a Halfpenny. C.L.G. and E.V.L.
The hustling methods of modernity possess undoubted possibilities for humorous treatment, and no one has appreciated the fact more keenly than the authors of "Wisdom While you Wait." In this their latest work the prospectus of the Napolio Syndicate forms a bowstring whence fly shafts of satire that hit the mark every time.
The Loot of Cities. ARNOLD BENNETT.
Publican and Serf.
A striking study of nomadic life among the peasant classes, translated from the Russian by J.K.M. SHIRAZI.
It is one thing to be a famous writer; it is another to be widely read. Maxim Gorky is at present included in both categories, though as regards the second condition he had scarcely qualified prior to the publication of "Creatures that once were Men." It was a bold venture, for all the former successes in shilling form were either sensationally melodramatic or frankly farcical. Encouraged by the huge demand for Maxim Gorky's book, Mr. Alston Rivers is publishing in the same form (1/-nett, paper, and 1/6 cloth) "Publican and Serf," by Skitaletz, a Russian Author, who, while by no means behind Gorky in point of realism, possesses in the opinion of some critics a still greater measure of literary ability. Other items of Mr. Alston Rivers' Shilling Library, which has prospered as only the result of the most careful selection could prosper, are "Lovers in London," by A.A. Milne, brightest and most promising of the younger humorists, and "The Loot of Cities," by Mr. Arnold Bennett, the mere name of whom is a sufficient guarantee of entertainment. As for general literature, "The Soul of London," by Ford Madox Hueffer, may be justly described as worthy of a place in every library. The author in his introduction, remarks that he has tried to make the book anything rather than encyclopædic, topographical, or archæological, and beyond that somewhat negative phrase it is difficult to give any more complete designation to the work. For the treatment of the subject is altogether original, this attraction being intensified by the particularly graceful style in which a remarkable gift of observation finds expression.
The Novel of the Season
THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES
.
6/-
By ARCHIBALD MARSHALL,
Author of "Peter Binney, Undergraduate
"
"Thebest mystery novelsince Sir A. Conan Doyle's 'Sign of Four.'"—Daily Graphic.
"Can recommend cordially and with confidence to those who like areally good story, well constructed and excellently told."—Punch.
"A really satisfactory tale of mystery is alwayssure of its welcome, and 'The House of Merrilees' ought to secure wide popularity."—Daily Mail.
"Great ingenuityis shown in the way in which clue is crossed by counter-clue."—The Daily Telegraph.
"It is a pleasure to praise a book of this kind, and rare to find one in whicha narrative of absorbing interestis combined with so many literary graces."—The Bookman.
"A veryengrossing story."—Graphic.
"Thebest storyof its kind we have read for years."—Guardian.