Mr. Redmond. "WELL RIDDEN!"Mr. Asquith. "YES, I KNOW; BUT AS WE CAME ROUND THE CORNER AN 'OBJECTION' OCCURRED TO ME, AND I FEEL BOUND TO LODGE IT MYSELF. I HOPE YOU WON'T MIND."
Mr. Redmond. "WELL RIDDEN!"
Mr. Asquith. "YES, I KNOW; BUT AS WE CAME ROUND THE CORNER AN 'OBJECTION' OCCURRED TO ME, AND I FEEL BOUND TO LODGE IT MYSELF. I HOPE YOU WON'T MIND."
House of Commons, Monday, May 18.—Field-MarshalAsquith, on military duty in attendance on theKingat Aldershot. Takes opportunity to giveHis Majestya few hints on the setting of a squadron in the field. In his absence depression customary on reassembling after week-end recess asserts itself with increased force. Through early portion of Question-hour benches half empty. As hands of clock approached the mark 2.45, stream of arrivals increased in volume. At conclusion of Questions House so densely crowded that side galleries were invaded, and group of Members stood at Bar.
Mr. Lloyd George and the Welsh Disestablishment Bill."For the rest it was the same grinding out of barrel-organ tunes that has been going on these three years."
Mr. Lloyd George and the Welsh Disestablishment Bill.
"For the rest it was the same grinding out of barrel-organ tunes that has been going on these three years."
Strangers in Gallery rubbed their eyes and asked what this might portend? Explanation simple. Within limit of Question-hour no division may take place. As soon as boundary passed danger zone for Ministerialists entered. Last week Opposition snapped a division at earliest possible moment and nearly cornered Government. To-day at least two divisions on Welsh Church Bill imminent. Ministerialists, obedient to urgent Whip, in their places in good time. When divisions were called—one on report of financial resolution of Welsh Church Bill, the other closing Committee stage—298 voted with Government against 204 for rejection of motion. By rare coincidence figures in both divisions were exactly the same, re-establishing Government majority at 94.
This done, Members trooped out in battalions, leavingHume Williamsto spend on wooden intelligence of empty benches able argument in support of motion for rejection of Bill at Third Reading stage. Lifeless debate temporarily uplifted by speech of simple eloquence fromWilliam Jones, who, after long interval, breaks the silence imposed upon a Whip. Quickly gathering audience listened from both sides with obvious pleasure to a speech which, asStuart-Wortleysaid, was "marked by real fervour and manifest sincerity." We have not so many natural orators in present House that we can with indifference see given up to the drudgery of the Whips' room what was meant for mankind.
One passage, a sort of aside, brought tears to eyes of case-hardened section of the audience seated in Press Gallery. They furtively dropped when Member for Carnarvon described how, a small boy visiting the Strangers' Gallery, he found seated there "a saintly Pressman, a frail and fragile figure in bad health, who wrote weekly letters to the WelshBaner. I saw him," he added, "at lucid intervals, writing his letters."
House loudly laughed at picture thus graphically drawn. Pressmen, not essentially saintly, know how desirable is the accessory of lucid intervals for the writing of London Letters.
Business done.—Under Procedure Resolution agreed to last week Welsh Church Disestablishment Bill carried through Committee as quickly as Chairman could put formal motion. Debate opened on Third Reading.
Tuesday.—"I rejoice," saidF. E. Smith, rising at ten o'clock in half empty House to support motion for rejection of Welsh Church Bill on Third Reading stage, "that debates on this measure are approaching termination. We are all driven to make the same speeches over again and to cite old illustrations of the insane constitution under which we live."
A PASSIVE RESISTER."Let degenerate Irishmen, suborned by bargain with a Saxon Government, go forth to save it in the Division Lobby."(Mr.William O'Brien.)
A PASSIVE RESISTER.
"Let degenerate Irishmen, suborned by bargain with a Saxon Government, go forth to save it in the Division Lobby."
(Mr.William O'Brien.)
This frank admission of the inutility of stretching debate over two sittings not agreeable to feelings of those responsible for weary waste of time. All the same, lamentably true.
Only impulse of vitality given to proceedings came from speech ofGeorge Cave. Member for Kingston does not frequently interpose in debate. Long intervals of silence give him opportunity of garnering something worth saying, a rule of Parliamentary life that might be recommended to the attention of some who shall here be nameless. For the rest it was the same grinding out of barrel-organ tunes in varied keys that has been going on these three years.McKennagave touch of originality to his remarks in winding up debate by avoiding reference to the lateGiraldus Cambrensis. Thus momentarily refreshed, Members gratefully went out to Division Lobby, and Third Reading was carried by majority of 77.
In two other divisions concerning Welsh Church Bill taken yesterday, what the late Mr.G. P. R. Jamesif he were starting a new novel would describe as a solitary figure—"a solitary horseman" was, to be precise, the consecrated phrase—might have been observed sitting in corner seat below Gangway on Opposition side. It wasWilliam O'Brienassuming the attitude of passive resister to a measure which, in respect of an established Church that national feeling regards as alien, proposes to do for Wales what nearly half a century agoGladstonedid for Ireland. In Parliamentary parlance, "the hon. Member in possession of the House" is the gentleman on his legs addressing theSpeaker. Whilst a crowd of Members streamed out, some into the "Aye" Lobby, others into the "No,"William O'Brienremained seated, for a moment or two literally the Member in possession of the House.
Let degenerate Irishmen, suborned by bargain with a Saxon Government, go forth to save it in the Division Lobby. Sea-green (with envy ofJohn Redmond, whose name will, after all, be imperishably connected with the final success of a National movement inaugurated forty years ago byIsaac Butt) incorruptible,William O'Brienthus protested against a course of events he has been unable to control. To those who remember his fierce eloquence in past years dominating a hostile audience there was something pathetic in the spectacle.
Business done.—Welsh Church Disestablishment Bill read third time. Sent on to meet predestined fate in Lords.
Thursday.—Quite lively goings on. House met to open debate on Third Reading of Home Rule Bill, at special desire of Opposition to be extended over three sittings.Campbellhad given notice of intention to move rejection. Everything pointed to long dreary evening, the serving-up of that "thrice boiled cole-wort" whichCarlylehonestly believed to form the principal dish in the House of Commons shilling dinner.
Expected thatPremierwould indicate purport and scope of promised Bill amending an Act not yet added to Statute Book. Questioned on subject he announced that Bill will be introduced in the Lords. Judged by ordinary business tactics this seemed a reasonable arrangement. On return from Whitsun holidays the Lords will find Home Rule Bill at their disposal. Do not conceal intention of throwing it out on Second Reading. Whereupon, Parliament Act stepping in, it will be added to Statute Book. Meanwhile Lords, having no other business on hand, might devote their time to consideration of that settlement of Ulster question which all parties speak of as their heart's desire.
House of Commons is, however, above consideration of ordinary business ways. Announcement of Ministerial intention with respect to Amending Bill raised clamour worthy of our best traditions. PoorCampbellgetting up to perform appointed task was greeted by his own friends with stormy cries for adjournment. For full five minutes he stood at Table, with nervous fingers rapping a tune on lid of brass-bound box.
"What's he playing, do you think?"WintertonaskedRowland Hunt.
"As far as I can make out," said the Man for Shropshire, "it's 'The Campbells are Coming.'"
"By Jove, they shan't come," saidWinterton, who was in his element (hot water). "'Journ! 'Journ! Journ!" he shouted, leading again the storm of interruption that prevented a word being heard fromCampbell.
Speakerat end of five minutes askedBonner Lawwhether this refusal of the Opposition to hear one of their leaders met with his assent and approval?Bonner Lawhaughtily refused to answer.WintertonandKinloch Cookemore delighted than ever. Uproar growing, theSpeakerdeclared sitting suspended and left the Chair.
"MORITHURI TE SALUTHAMUS.""In regard to the Home Rule Bill, the position of himself and his friends was, 'We who are about to die salute thee.'"—Mr. Tim Healy.
"MORITHURI TE SALUTHAMUS."
"In regard to the Home Rule Bill, the position of himself and his friends was, 'We who are about to die salute thee.'"—Mr. Tim Healy.
A critical moment. So high did angry passion run that there might have been repetition of the famous fisticuffs on floor of House that marked progress of first Home Rule Bill. Ominous sign whenRoydsof Sleaford, ordinarily mildest-mannered of men, rushed between Front Opposition Bench and Table and shook a minatory forefinger atAsquith.
Premieronly smiled. Happily his indifferent good humour prevailed on his own side. There was interchange of acrid compliments as parties joined each other on the way out. But nothing more happened, except thatHasletonand another Irish Nationalist, passing empty chair ofSergeant-at-Arms, lit, the one a pipe, the other a cigarette.
"Shocking!" cried an outraged Member of the old school.
"Not at all," saidSark. "When the House of Commons is enlivened by pot-house manners there is surely no harm in two customers lighting up as they pass out."
Business.—Outbreak of disorder,Speakersuspends sitting.
I had often thought I should like to possess a really good piano—not one of those dumpy vertical instruments, but a big flat one with a long tail. For a long time I hesitated between a Rolls Royce, a Yost, a Veuve Cliquot, and a Thurston. At last I put the problem to a musical friend. He said:
"It's a piano you want, not a motor-typewriting-champagne-table? Very good, then. You go to Steinbech's in Wigram Street. They'll fix you up. Mention my name if you like."
"What'll happen to me if I do?"
"They'll sell you a piano. That's what you want, isn't it?"
So I went. I told the man at Steinbech's that I believed they sold pianos. He said that my belief was not without foundation, but that, in any case, they would be prepared to stretch a point in my favour and sell me one. What sort did I require?
"A big flat one with a long tail," I replied.
"Ah, you want a full concert-grand? Then kindly step into our show-room, Sir. Now, this one," he said, indicating a handsome brunette, "is a magnificent piano. Best workmanship and superior materials employed throughout. Splendid tone and light touch. Price, one hundred guineas. Examine it; try it for yourself, Sir." And he opened the keyboard as he spoke.
"Er—what order are the notes arranged in?" I asked.
"In strict alphabetical order," he answered. "A, B, C, and so on."
"You must excuse my asking the question," I went on, "but the fact is I've never seen a Steinbech before. I thought perhaps that different makers adopted different arrangements of the notes, as makers of typewriters do. Now, will this piano playBeethoven?I particularly want a piano that will play the 'Moonlight' and the 'Waldstein.'"
"You're not thinking of apianola, Sir, are you?"
"No," I replied, "I am not. I have no sympathy with music that looks like a Gruyère cheese. The music I want my piano to play is the ordinary printed kind—black-currants and stalks and that sort of thing."
"Well, Sir, you will find that this piano is specially adapted for playing all kinds of printed music. Music in manuscript may also be rendered upon it."
"That's one point settled then," I said. "Now, if you will kindly prize the lid off, I should like to look at the works."
He lifted the lid and propped it up with a short billiard-cue which fitted into a notch. All danger of sudden decapitation having been removed, I put my head inside.
"Hallo!" I cried. "What's this harp doing in here? Doesn't it get in the way?"
"That is not a harp, Sir; that is part of the mechanism—the wires, you know."
I plucked a few of them, and they gave forth a pleasing sound. So I plucked some more.
"Yes," I said decidedly, "I like the rigging very much. And now perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what those two foot-clutches are for, which I noticed underneath the keyboard. I suppose they are the brake and the reversing-gear?"
I was wrong. The man expounded their true functions to me. Then I said, "I should just like to examine it underneath, if you wouldn't mind turning it on its back."
The fellow told me that it was unnecessary and unusual—that I had seen all there was to see. This made me suspicious. I was certain he was trying to conceal some radical defect from me. So I made up my mind to see for myself. I took off my coat and crawled underneath. As I suspected, I found two large round holes in the flooring. When I had finished rubbing my head, I drew the man's attention to them. He was able to give a more or less reasonable excuse for them. I forget what he said they were—ventilators, I think.
He concluded by saying that the instrument would be certain to give me the utmost satisfaction.
"You would not recommend my having a more expensive one?" I asked. "A Stradivarius, or a Benvenuto Cellini?"
He thought not; so we clinched the deal.
"I think," I said, as I handed him my cheque, "that I should like my name-plate fixed on it somewhere—say, on one of the end notes that I shall never use."
But he advised me against this. None of the players handicapped at scratch ever thought of such a thing.
"Very well," I said. "Just wrap it up for me, and I'll——"
"Hadn't we better send it for you," he suggested, "in one of our vans, in charge of our own men?"
"Just so," I agreed. "Good morning."
The piano duly arrived, and when we had taken the drawing-room door out of its socket and demolished a large portion of two walls, they got it in—just in. With care I can squeeze into the room. However, I am happy, though crowded, for I have achieved my heart's desire.
It has been with me a year now. I must soon think of learning to play it.
(Doctors generally are prescribing refined paraffin for various ailments.)Mistress."The oil finished again, Mary? it seems to go very quickly."Cook."It's the Master, Mum. Whenever 'e runs out of 'is 'refined' 'e comes a-dipping into this 'ere."
(Doctors generally are prescribing refined paraffin for various ailments.)
Mistress."The oil finished again, Mary? it seems to go very quickly."
Cook."It's the Master, Mum. Whenever 'e runs out of 'is 'refined' 'e comes a-dipping into this 'ere."
From "Books Received" inThe Daily Chronicle:—
"Misalliance, The Dark Lady of the Sonnets and Fanny's First Play; with a Treatise on Parents and Children, by Bernard Constable, 6s."
"Misalliance, The Dark Lady of the Sonnets and Fanny's First Play; with a Treatise on Parents and Children, by Bernard Constable, 6s."
"Ouimet was born at Brookline.... As his name rather suggests, his parents were French Canadians, who moved to Brookline from Montreal."—Pall Mall Gazette.
"Ouimet was born at Brookline.... As his name rather suggests, his parents were French Canadians, who moved to Brookline from Montreal."—Pall Mall Gazette.
It seems a great deal for the name to suggest.
A man who elopes with his friend's wife cannot fairly expect to command general sympathy when, sooner or later, he has to pay the claims of offended morality. Yet one could not help being a little sorry forColonel Herrick, the leading delinquent in Mr.Jerome'splay. For scarcely had they started for the Continent from Charing Cross (to be precise, the train was passing through Chislehurst) when the lady suddenly repented of her rash act and burst into unassuageable tears. If, on reaching Dover, he had had the happy thought of despatching her back to her home as unaccompanied baggage, he would have saved himself a vast deal of trouble. But, being a soldier, he set his teeth and went forward, and for eight days she made the hotels of Europe ring with her lamentations. Nor was this his only source of discomfort. Though, for convenience, they appeared in the visitors' books as man and wife, the lady's attitude compelled the maintenance of platonic relations, and, whereas in actual life this would merely have meant that he had to occupy a separate bedroom, in Mr.Jerome'svision of things as they might be it meant that he had to sleep in the bath-room.
It will be readily understood that, toThe Colonel, the advent of the infuriated husband was of the nature of a relief. Thanks to the intervention of a large assortment of friends, and after assurance given of the lady's technical retention of her virtue, he agrees to take her back if she cares to rejoin him. It is true that before the happy conclusion, so satisfactory toThe Colonel, is reached, a duelmanquéis interposed; but this is designed for the sole benefit of the audience and does not affect the result.
Meanwhile, the lady adopts an enigmatic behaviour. On the appearance of her husband she exchanges the black dress of remorse for the gay yellow garb of a mind at ease; yet under his very nose she permits herself to exhibit a very intimate delight inThe Colonel'smore obvious attractions. So cryptic indeed is her conduct (both for us and her friends) that it is arranged that her choice between the two men shall be decided by the test of a dream. In consequence, however, of an attack of insomnia this dream (like the duel) fails to come off and shortly after midnight her waking doubts are resolved in her husband's favour.
It will be seen that, the stuff of Mr.Jerome'splay is sufficiently fatuous; but Mr.Edmund MauriceasThe Colonelwas always amusing, and in the multitude of counsellors there was merriment. Unfortunately Mr.Stanley Cooke, as aHerr Professorand leader of the chorus, did not quite succeed in executing his share of the fun.
How Unhappy could I be with Either!The HusbandMr.Michael Sherebrooke,The WifeMissSarah Brooke.The ColonelMr.Edmund Maurice.
How Unhappy could I be with Either!
The HusbandMr.Michael Sherebrooke,
The WifeMissSarah Brooke.
The ColonelMr.Edmund Maurice.
The farce was varied by a very amateur romance as between a young American and the niece of an hotel-keeper; also by a slab of melodrama (dealing with the girl's parentage) which only escaped from pure banality by the too brief glimpse it gave us of that admirable actress, MissRuth Mackay.
The scene (perhaps the best part of the whole show) was laid in "An Ancient Grove" adjacent to a German University. (The catalogue, peculiarly reticent about proper names, offers my memory no refreshment.) This "Ancient Grove," unchanged throughout the play, served a number of useful purposes. It made excuse for the intermittent apparition (otherwise inexplicable) of a little woodland figure that played upon a pipe. Its proximity to an hotel afforded occasion for meal after mealen plein air. Its proximity to a University Town encouraged the frequent passage of German students, vivacious and vocal; also the convenient appearance of any foreign resident or visitor at a moment's notice. Its Statue of Venus (fully draped) afforded an authentic incitement to the making of love. Its environs enabled Mr.Jerometo dispose of his puppets whenever their presence became undesirable. They simply said, "Let us stroll in the woods;" or "Come for a walk with me," and he was rid of them. Finally the "Ancient Grove" contained a central patch of boscage in whose cover one of the duellists, arriving on theterraina little before the time, remainedperduin slumber, undisturbed by a loud conversation carried on within a few feet of him by all the other parties to the combat.
Indeed the scenery put in some good work, and I really don't know what we should have done without it.
The Great Gamblewas, of course, the lottery of marriage. But for some of us it meant the risk we ran in attending the first night of a play by Mr.Jeromeafter our bitter experience of hisRowena in Search of a Father. To say that his present work is an improvement upon his last would be to damn it with a fainter praise than it deserves.The Great Gambleis a strange and inscrutable medley, but it has its exhilarating moments, and the humour of its dialogue, though it is mitigated by the Professor's contributions, is worthy of a much better design.
O. S.
"Now that Miss Cecil Leitch has won the Ladies' Golf Championship after seven years' unsuccessful striving, it may be suggested that she might alter the spelling of her name to Leach. Just to show how she stuck to it!"—Glasgow Evening News.
"Now that Miss Cecil Leitch has won the Ladies' Golf Championship after seven years' unsuccessful striving, it may be suggested that she might alter the spelling of her name to Leach. Just to show how she stuck to it!"—Glasgow Evening News.
The writer should have stuck to his dictionary.
"It was officially stated yesterday that Dr. Herbert William Moxon, the son of a former prominent Unionist in West Derbyshire, had consented to address a meeting of Liberals with a view to his adaptation as Liberal candidate for West Derbyshire."Daily Mail.
"It was officially stated yesterday that Dr. Herbert William Moxon, the son of a former prominent Unionist in West Derbyshire, had consented to address a meeting of Liberals with a view to his adaptation as Liberal candidate for West Derbyshire."
Daily Mail.
These adaptable politicians.
"Mr. Palmer would still deserve to be crowned with unfading laurels."—Times.
"Mr. Palmer would still deserve to be crowned with unfading laurels."—Times.
Palmerqui meruit ferat.
"Djaraboub ordinarily contains only 350 inhabitants but these are swollen by pilgrims."Siam Observer.
"Djaraboub ordinarily contains only 350 inhabitants but these are swollen by pilgrims."
Siam Observer.
First Jack Tar Abroad(to second, very "busy riding"). "'Ulloa, Bill; looks like yer workin' yer passage."Bill."Yuss; 'ad bloomin' rough weather, too; but it's all right if ye 'old on to this 'ere forestay."
First Jack Tar Abroad(to second, very "busy riding"). "'Ulloa, Bill; looks like yer workin' yer passage."
Bill."Yuss; 'ad bloomin' rough weather, too; but it's all right if ye 'old on to this 'ere forestay."
Dundee.—Strap-hung again to-day; London train abominably crowded. That is the worst of living in these inner suburbs. Men who live on the other side of the Orkney Tunnel tell me the train only begins seriously to fill up at Caithness; before that, one has reasonable hope of a seat. Brown, for instance, says that, coming up from Kirkwall and entering train before pressure begins, he rarely has to use strap. Don't know how the poor wretches at Newcastle and Durham ever get to town at all, though, living so close to King's Cross, they can perhaps afford to stand for the few minutes they are in train....
No change for better, so have been studying agents' lists; some items attractive. For example:—
Belgian Tunnel Line.—Antwerp and Liverpool Street in 29 minutes; low season-ticket rates; excellent mid-day service, enabling business men to take luncheon at home.
Charming Maisonettesin fine healthy suburb, S.W. London (Penzance district); bath h. and c.; Company's water; two minutes Bachelet Railway-station; 25 minutes Paddington and City.
Sunny Cairo, S.E.—Nice self-contained flats; charming desert view; low rents; ninety-five minutes Charing Cross; five minutes Sahara golf links (inland course but real sand bunkers).
Week-End Cottage for Harassed City Worker, Siberia (near London).—To be let furnished; bracing air; perfect quiet.
In view of the impending scarcity of meat, so vividly foreshadowed in a recent article inThe Times, it is most reassuring to learn that a new comestible, palatable and nutritious, yet entirely free from the drawbacks of all flesh foods, has been invented by a German scientist and will shortly be put upon the market at a price which will bring it within the reach of the humblest household.
Professor Schafskopf, the inventor, has long been engaged on experiments with a view to the production of synthetic mutton, and his diligent efforts have now been crowned with success. The basis of the new food is compressed peat, which is so permeated with a variety of nutritive juices, applied at high pressure by a grouting machine, as to be practically indistinguishable from the best Southdown mutton.
By way of putting his discovery to the test Professor Schafskopf entertained a number of distinguished guests at the Fitz Hotel last week, and with hardly an exception they were astonished at the succulent and sumptuous flavour of the new food, which is called by the attractive name of "Supermut."
Professor Bino Byles, interviewed at the close of the banquet, said that "Supermut" was a distinct success. It had all the digestibility of tripe with an added aroma of Harris Tweed.
Mr. Gullick, the famous motorist, said that "Supermut" reminded him of the best cormorant. He believed that it could also be used for making unpuncturable tyres.
Lord Findhorn, the eminent Scots Judge, said that "Supermut" had converted him to carnivorous food, though he was an hereditary vegetarian.
Finally we note thatThe Forcepsin a laudatory article pays a handsome tribute to the new food, and says, "It must be conceded that a very reliable substitute for mutton has at length been produced. We found it hard to distinguish it from a saddle."
Someone has settled (it's not my fault;And, whatever we do, let's take some salt)—Someone has settled, don't you see,Without referring the thing to me,That this is a day to be bright and hearty,And to take our lunch as a picnic party—To take our lunch with toil and careAway from home in the open air.Now I maintain that it can't be right,When there isn't a single wasp in sight,To have mint-sauce and a joint of lamb,Some currant cake and a pot of jam,A gooseberry tart, with sugar and cream,And some salad dressing, a bottled dream—All the things that a wasp loves bestWhen he buzzes away from his hidden nest;And you all shout "Wasp!" and flick at the fellow,And you miss his black and you miss his yellow,And only succeed in turning overYour glass of drink on the thirsty clover.A picnic? Pooh! Why, you merely waste itWhen there isn't a wasp to come and taste it.However, a picnic's got to be,Though they haven't referred the thing to me.There's a boat and we put our parcels in it,And off we push in another minute.And our pace is certainly rather slow,For everybody wants to row;And there's any amount of laugh and chatter,And crabs are caught, but it doesn't matter;For we're all afloatIn an open boat,And the breeze is light and the sky is blue,And the sun is toasting us through and through.By a buttercup field we came to landAnd every passenger lent a handTo unload our food and spread it out,While the cows stood flapping their tails about.And Peggy as waitress played her part,And John fell into the gooseberry tart.I can't explain, though I wish I could,Why everything tasted twice as good?As it does at home in the cheerful gloomOf the old familiar dining-room.Every picnicky thing was there,Including the girls and the son and heir,A red-cheeked frivolous knife-and-fork's crew,Who hadn't forgotten, oh joy, the corkscrew!And, last, we furbished our feasting-green,And left no paper to spoil the scene,Did up the remains in a tidy packAnd took to our boat and drifted back.R. C. L.
Someone has settled (it's not my fault;And, whatever we do, let's take some salt)—Someone has settled, don't you see,Without referring the thing to me,That this is a day to be bright and hearty,And to take our lunch as a picnic party—To take our lunch with toil and careAway from home in the open air.
Someone has settled (it's not my fault;
And, whatever we do, let's take some salt)—
Someone has settled, don't you see,
Without referring the thing to me,
That this is a day to be bright and hearty,
And to take our lunch as a picnic party—
To take our lunch with toil and care
Away from home in the open air.
Now I maintain that it can't be right,When there isn't a single wasp in sight,To have mint-sauce and a joint of lamb,Some currant cake and a pot of jam,A gooseberry tart, with sugar and cream,And some salad dressing, a bottled dream—All the things that a wasp loves bestWhen he buzzes away from his hidden nest;And you all shout "Wasp!" and flick at the fellow,And you miss his black and you miss his yellow,And only succeed in turning overYour glass of drink on the thirsty clover.A picnic? Pooh! Why, you merely waste itWhen there isn't a wasp to come and taste it.
Now I maintain that it can't be right,
When there isn't a single wasp in sight,
To have mint-sauce and a joint of lamb,
Some currant cake and a pot of jam,
A gooseberry tart, with sugar and cream,
And some salad dressing, a bottled dream—
All the things that a wasp loves best
When he buzzes away from his hidden nest;
And you all shout "Wasp!" and flick at the fellow,
And you miss his black and you miss his yellow,
And only succeed in turning over
Your glass of drink on the thirsty clover.
A picnic? Pooh! Why, you merely waste it
When there isn't a wasp to come and taste it.
However, a picnic's got to be,Though they haven't referred the thing to me.There's a boat and we put our parcels in it,And off we push in another minute.And our pace is certainly rather slow,For everybody wants to row;And there's any amount of laugh and chatter,And crabs are caught, but it doesn't matter;For we're all afloatIn an open boat,And the breeze is light and the sky is blue,And the sun is toasting us through and through.
However, a picnic's got to be,
Though they haven't referred the thing to me.
There's a boat and we put our parcels in it,
And off we push in another minute.
And our pace is certainly rather slow,
For everybody wants to row;
And there's any amount of laugh and chatter,
And crabs are caught, but it doesn't matter;
For we're all afloat
In an open boat,
And the breeze is light and the sky is blue,
And the sun is toasting us through and through.
By a buttercup field we came to landAnd every passenger lent a handTo unload our food and spread it out,While the cows stood flapping their tails about.And Peggy as waitress played her part,And John fell into the gooseberry tart.I can't explain, though I wish I could,Why everything tasted twice as good?As it does at home in the cheerful gloomOf the old familiar dining-room.Every picnicky thing was there,Including the girls and the son and heir,A red-cheeked frivolous knife-and-fork's crew,Who hadn't forgotten, oh joy, the corkscrew!And, last, we furbished our feasting-green,And left no paper to spoil the scene,Did up the remains in a tidy packAnd took to our boat and drifted back.
By a buttercup field we came to land
And every passenger lent a hand
To unload our food and spread it out,
While the cows stood flapping their tails about.
And Peggy as waitress played her part,
And John fell into the gooseberry tart.
I can't explain, though I wish I could,
Why everything tasted twice as good?
As it does at home in the cheerful gloom
Of the old familiar dining-room.
Every picnicky thing was there,
Including the girls and the son and heir,
A red-cheeked frivolous knife-and-fork's crew,
Who hadn't forgotten, oh joy, the corkscrew!
And, last, we furbished our feasting-green,
And left no paper to spoil the scene,
Did up the remains in a tidy pack
And took to our boat and drifted back.
R. C. L.
R. C. L.
The corncrake has arrived. As I turned in at the gate last night he reported himself in the usual way. So now we are in for it. The priceless boon of silence in the hours of darkness will be denied to us for many weeks to come.
I do not know how to describe his utterance. It could not without extravagance be called a note, still less a chirp, and least of all a song. It is not a bark—not quite. It is hardly a growl or a grunt or a snort; I should be sorry to call it a bray or a yelp. And yet I am not going to admit that it is a quack or a bleat; and it isn't a screech or a squeal or a sob. Nor is it a croak, though now we are getting nearer to it. The puzzling thing about it is that it was clearly meant by Nature to be an interjection. Uttered once, suddenly, from the far side of a hedge it would admirably convey such a sentiment as, "Hi!" "What ho!" or "Here we are again!" But in practice it is the one sound in the whole landscape that never interjects. It is a monument of barren reiteration.
I wonder why he does it. No doubt he has some end in view. He must get something out of it—some bodily ease or mental stimulus or spiritual consolation. But he must surely have been born with a prodigious passion for monotony. It may surprise you to learn that in the course of the season he will make that same remark over two million times. I have worked it out. Two million is a conservative estimate. It only allows for eight hours' work out of the twenty-four, for a term of six weeks: so that it is well within the mark.
Our corncrake—I don't know what the usual standard may be—does ninety-eight to the minute. He is as regular as the ticking of a clock. You can't hustle him and you can't wear him out. At times when I have thought he might be getting tired and thirsty I have imagined that he was slowing down; but he never gets below ninety-six; and in his most active and feverish moments he very rarely touches the hundred. At short measured intervals he punctuates the night with his dry delivery, unhasting yet unresting, his sole idea to get his forty-seven-thousand up without a break before the morning. He just doesn't know the meaning of the word emphasis; he has absolutely no sense of rhythm. Once I tried to believe that he was talking in three-four time, or at least that he was occasionally accenting a note. But he never does. He gets no louder or softer, higher or lower, quicker or slower—he just keeps on.
You need not suppose that I have meekly sat down under this thing. This is his sixth year, and I have been at war with him all the time. But finally he holds the field, and my only hope now is that his powers may begin to fail as old age creeps on. Even if he dropped to eighty a minute it would be an intense relief. But I dare say he means to bequeath the pitch to a successor at his death—perhaps to a relative.
At first I used to throw things at him out of the bedroom window—hairbrushes and slippers and books and all sorts of odds and ends. I had to go round with a basket after breakfast collecting them. But it was no good; he never dropped a beat. Then I deliberately devastated the garden, with a view to deprive him of cover. I had all the bushes taken up and the flowerbeds removed, and I laid down, just under my bedroom window, a wide expanse of tar-macadam, as bald and flat as a mirror—a beetle couldn't have hidden himself on it. (I had to call this a hard tennis-court for the sake of appearances. We do as a matter of fact play on it sometimes.) But it had no effect on the corncrake. Of course the truth is that I never have the least idea where he is; no one has. No one has over seen him or ever will. He is endowed with great ventriloquial powers. That is a provision of Nature, and if you will reflect a moment you will see that it must be so. For, granted that he is to go on talking like that, if he could not throw his voice about from place to place and thus make it impossible to get at him, the species would become extinct.
There is nothing more that I can do, and it is only fair to admit that the whole thing is my own fault. When I built my house six years ago I might have shown a little common foresight in this matter. I got everything else right as far as I could. My rooms are well placed for sunshine and they have the best of the view. The water-supply is good; there is plenty of fall for the drainage system; we are well out of the motor dust. But I omitted one precaution. I should have had the ground surveyed for corncrakes.
InThe World Set Free(Macmillan) Mr.H. G. Wellshas seen a vision—the vision of a world plunged into blazing and crumbling chaos by the ultimate logical issues of military violence. Defence, becoming always less and less effective against attack, which is always more and more a matter of the laboratory, finally succumbs beforeHolsten'sdiscovery of "Carolinum" and its final disastrous application in the "atomic bombs." Romancing on a theme out ofSoddy'sInterpretation of Radium, Mr.Wells, with those deft strokes of allusive and imaginative realism—so convincing is he that realism is the only apt word for his daring constructions of the future—depicts the shattering of the headquarters of the War Control in Paris, followed by a swift counterstroke against the Central European Control in Berlin by the aviation corps, the destruction of capital after capital, and the final great battle in the air, with the bombing of the Dutch sea walls. Thereafter comes the attempt at reconstruction by the Council of Brissago, a convention of the governing folk of the world—the dream and deed of the FrenchmanLeblanc, "a little bald, spectacled man," a peacemonger whom, till that day of ruin, everyone had thought an amiable fool. One monarch, "The Slavic Fox," sees in the assembly a chance to strike for world sovereignty, and the failure of his bomb-fraught planes and his final undoing in the secret arsenal are breathless pieces of description.
A subject for wonder is the astonishing advance in the author's technique.The World Set Freeis on an altogether different plane fromThe War of the Worldsand those other gorgeous pot-boilers. It combines the alert philosophy and adroit criticism of theTono Bungayphase with the luminous vision ofAnticipationsand the romantic interest of his eccentric books of adventure. The seer in Mr.Wellscomes uppermost, and I almost think that when the history of the latter half of the twentieth century comes to be written it will be found not merely that he has prophesied surely, but that his visions have actually tended to shape the course of events. Short ofHolsten's"atomic bombs" (which may or may not be developed) Mr.Wellsmakes a fair foreshadowing of the uprush of subliminal sanity which may very well be timed to appear before 1999. I can't take my hat off to Mr.Wellsbecause I've had it in my hand out of respect for him these last few years. So I touch my forelock.
Roding Rectory(Stanley Paul) is in many respects the best novel Mr.Archibald Marshallhas written. Those who rememberExton Manorand the three books dealing with the lives and deeds of theClintonswill consider this to be high praise, as, indeed, it is meant to be. Mr.Marshallpreserves the ease and amenity of style which we have learnt to expect of him; he creates his characters—ordinary English men and women, animated by ordinary English motives—with all his old skill, and he sets them to work out their destinies in that pleasant atmosphere of English country life which no one sinceTrollope'sdeath has reproduced with greater truth and delicacy than Mr.Marshall. This time, however, the clash of temperaments and traditions is more severe, the story cuts deeper intohumanity, and the narration of it is, I think, more closely knit. The Rector of Roding, theRev. Henry French, is a fine figure of a man honourably devoted to the duties of his parish and abounding in good works. It is sad to see him cast down from his pride of place by the sudden revelation of an ill deed done in his thoughtless youth at Oxford. In an interview managed with an admirable sense of dramatic fitness he is faced by a son, the living embodiment of his all-but-forgotten sin, and soon the whole parish knows of it. But the Rector, with the aid of his wife, fights his fight and in the end wins back his self-respect and the respect of his neighbours. He is helped, too, byDr. Merrow, the Congregational minister, a beautiful character drawn with deep sympathy. Indeed, it isDr. Merrowwho has thebeau rôle, and, I must add, deserves it. For the rest I must let Mr.Marshall'sbook speak for itself. He has written a very powerful and interesting story.
Among reviewers of books there is a convention by which the matter of a first edition—whether a single story or a collection of stories—which has been reproduced from a magazine or magazines, is treated as if it were a novelty. It is a sound and benevolent convention, because the stuff of magazines only receives at best a very sketchy notice. MissMay Sinclair, however, is apparently prepared; to risk the loss of any advantage to be derived from it, for her collection of short and middle-sized stones republished under the title of the first of them,The Judgment of Eve(Hutchinson), is prefaced by an article in which she replies to those critics who took notice of some of them at the time of their appearance in magazine form. By this recognition of judgment already passed she sets me free to regard her stories as old matter, and to confine myself to a review of her introduction. In this answer to her critics I cannot feel that she has been well advised. Even in a second edition critics are best left alone, unless the author can correct them on a point of fact or interpretation of fact. Here it is on a matter of opinion that she joins issue with them. They seem (the misguided ones) to have rashly said that "The Judgment of Eve" was "a novel boiled down," and that "The Wrackham Memoirs," on the other hand, was "a short story spun out." But MissSinclairis very sure that she knew what she was about. She can "lay her hand on her heart and swear that 'The Judgment of Eve' would have lost by any words that could conceivably have been added to it;" she is certain that "Charles Wrackham required the precise amount of room that has been given him." I dare say she is right, but I wish she could have left someone else to say so. For myself I should have thought it obvious that a story dealing with character and its development by circumstance demanded more room in which to spread itself than one that dealt with a situation, dramatic or psychologic; yet "The Wrackham Memoirs," which, whatever its complexity, belongs to the latter type, takes up very nearly as much space as "The Judgment of Eve," which belongs to the former. Of course no critic of even moderate intelligence would propose to fix a limit of length for every type of story, but it may safely be said that, if you takeMaupassantfor a standard, the best short stories have concerned themselves with situation rather than with character; and, though I have not had the privilege of reading the criticisms which are the subject of MissSinclair'srebuke, I can easily believe that they were governed by this elementary reflection. It must have occurred to MissSinclairherself, even if she did not find it convenient to take cognisance of it in her reply. Perhaps she will have something to say on this subject in some future edition of her very interesting book, and I should indeed be flattered if she would consent, in a brief phrase or two, to review my review of her review of her reviewers.
The new Cash Register as used at the Royal College of Music for calculating the value per minute of voices in the vocal training department.
The new Cash Register as used at the Royal College of Music for calculating the value per minute of voices in the vocal training department.
Good costume novels are not so common nowadays that I can passDesmond O'Connor(Long) without a most hearty welcome. For it is an excellent example of its class—full of rescues, of swashbuckling and of midnight escapes; with a gallant hero (and Irish at that), a lovely heroine, two bold bad villains and a sufficiency of kings and other historical celebrities to fill the background picturesquely. In fact Mr.George H. Jessophas seen to it that no ingredient proper to this kind of dish shall be wanting, and I have great pleasure in congratulating him upon the result.Desmondwas a soldier of fortune, a captain in the gallant Irish Brigade that servedKing Louis XIV.against the Allies. During the siege of Bruges the young captain chanced to see one morning at mass the fairMargaret, Countess of Anhalt. She had lately fled to the town to frustrate the intentions ofLouis, who would have given her hand to an equally unwilling suitor. There was also, hanging about, a certainDe Brissac, who in the event of the countess's death or imprisonment would succeed to her estates. So off we go, cut and thrust, sword, cloak and rapier, all to the right jingle of tushery, till the last chapter, in whichKing Louisrelents and does what kings (of France especially) always do in the last chapters of historical romances. Really it seems sometimes as though the Louvre under the Monarchy must have been run as a kind of superior matrimonial agency in a large way of business. Anyhow he rings down the curtain upon a bustling tale that should add to the reputation of its author.