When sons of BacchusFiercely attack us,Lauding the majesty of Alcohol,And, spite ofHorsley,Indulge quite coarselyIn panegyrics of dry Monopole—For consolationIn our vexationThe news from Mexico we gladly hail,Learning howVillaShuns ManzanillaAnd only slakes his thirst withAdam'sale.No wonderWilsonThe beer of PilsenRegards as liquid death within the pot,When even a banditCan't stick or stand it,And gibes atHuertaas an aged sot!Let senile soakersAnd jaded jokersTheir bottle-noses still incarnadine,But we, withVilla,Prefer VanillaOr Sarsaparilla to the choicest wine.Port, brandy, sherryMake idiots merry—They're little use when civil wars begin;Men who can slaughterUpon barley-waterAre in the long run always bound to win.
When sons of BacchusFiercely attack us,Lauding the majesty of Alcohol,And, spite ofHorsley,Indulge quite coarselyIn panegyrics of dry Monopole—
When sons of Bacchus
Fiercely attack us,
Lauding the majesty of Alcohol,
And, spite ofHorsley,
Indulge quite coarsely
In panegyrics of dry Monopole—
For consolationIn our vexationThe news from Mexico we gladly hail,Learning howVillaShuns ManzanillaAnd only slakes his thirst withAdam'sale.
For consolation
In our vexation
The news from Mexico we gladly hail,
Learning howVilla
Shuns Manzanilla
And only slakes his thirst withAdam'sale.
No wonderWilsonThe beer of PilsenRegards as liquid death within the pot,When even a banditCan't stick or stand it,And gibes atHuertaas an aged sot!
No wonderWilson
The beer of Pilsen
Regards as liquid death within the pot,
When even a bandit
Can't stick or stand it,
And gibes atHuertaas an aged sot!
Let senile soakersAnd jaded jokersTheir bottle-noses still incarnadine,But we, withVilla,Prefer VanillaOr Sarsaparilla to the choicest wine.
Let senile soakers
And jaded jokers
Their bottle-noses still incarnadine,
But we, withVilla,
Prefer Vanilla
Or Sarsaparilla to the choicest wine.
Port, brandy, sherryMake idiots merry—They're little use when civil wars begin;Men who can slaughterUpon barley-waterAre in the long run always bound to win.
Port, brandy, sherry
Make idiots merry—
They're little use when civil wars begin;
Men who can slaughter
Upon barley-water
Are in the long run always bound to win.
The following letter may have been noticed in the columns ofThe Daily Eyesome weeks ago:—
The Lilac Grove,Moonvale Park, S.E.
The Lilac Grove,Moonvale Park, S.E.
The Lilac Grove,
Moonvale Park, S.E.
Sir,—On looking out of my bedroom window this morning at 6 o'clock I observed a cuckoo eating ripe strawberries in the garden next but one to mine. It occurs to me that for a cuckoo to be in a suburban garden eating ripe strawberries so early in the year as April 15 is somewhat unusual. Can you tell me whether this has ever been known before?
Yours etc.,Augustus Quest.
Yours etc.,Augustus Quest.
Yours etc.,
Augustus Quest.
We understand that the following further letter has been sent to the Editor ofThe Daily Eyeby the writer of the above, but has not appeared in print:—
Sir,—Some days ago I sent you a letter in which I mentioned that on April 15th a cuckoo was seen eating ripe strawberries in the garden next but one to mine, and asking whether you could tell me if anything of the kind had been known before. But up to the present I have received no reply. The only result of my letter has been the receipt of a number of circulars announcing works on the subjects of nature study and fruit culture. From a publisher's announcement which has been sent to me, giving specimen pages from "How to Tell Our Feathered Friends at a Glance," I discover that the bird I saw in my neighbour's garden could not possibly have been a cuckoo, its body being altogether too small. And in conversation with my neighbour in the train this morning I learnt that his garden does not contain strawberries; the bird, whatever it was, must therefore have been eating something else.
Yours, etc.,Augustus Quest.
Yours, etc.,Augustus Quest.
Yours, etc.,
Augustus Quest.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
THE POLITICAL "FACE OF THE SKY": APRIL 28.Changeable; threatening in parts with passing squalls; considerable heat at first, milder later; general outlook more favourable.
THE POLITICAL "FACE OF THE SKY": APRIL 28.
Changeable; threatening in parts with passing squalls; considerable heat at first, milder later; general outlook more favourable.
House of Commons, Monday, April 27.—In accordance with arrangements made last week, House met to-day with primary intention on part of Opposition to placePremieronce more on the rack constructed of Questions relating to "the Plot" for over-aweing peaceful law-abiding Ulster. Startling things have happened since the Friday afternoon when Members went off for well-earned week-end holiday. There had actually been a plot in Ulster, a real one, not compact of circumstantial imaginings—a skilfully planned scheme successfully carried out in the dead of the night, when honest citizens, including the police and the military, were sound asleep. Telegraphic and telephonic communications were ruthlessly cut; cordons of armed men were drawn round selected spots. Thus surrounded and protected the conspirators landed large quantities of rifles and ammunition, distributing them through the country by relays of motor-cars.
Something like a "plot" this, dismissing into ignominious shade report of bloodthirsty intentions ofFirst Lord of the Admiraltyand theEx-Secretary of State for War.
Interest in the old plot being thus suddenly, dramatically cooled by vigorous birth and development of the young 'un, it might reasonably have been expected that elaborate preparations for fanning it would be dropped, and House would straightway get to business on the genuine thing. Not a bit of it. Hon. Members who had in interests of the nation spent ingenuity and energy in compiling ninety-four Questions addressed toPrime Ministernot to be denied pleasure of putting them.
As usual in similar circumstances not much change got out ofAsquith. Answered sometimes by monosyllable; never exceeded a score of words. Yet none could complain of incompleteness of reply. Performance occupied full period allotted to Questions. When hand of clock pointed to quarter-to-three, the time-limit of intelligent curiosity, thronged House drew itself together, awaiting next move with breathless interest. How would the Government take this midnight outbreak of armed and disciplined men?
Lying down? or standing up sternly to grapple with it in their capacity as custodians and champions of established law? Inquiry voiced from Ministerial side, where Members are growing increasingly impatient with benevolent neutrality.Premier'sreply brief but weighty.
THE QUESTION CRAZE.Scene—The Battle of Belfast, 19—.GalloperF. E. Smith, of the Ulster Volunteers, to ask thewar ministerwhat are the next tactical dispositions to be carried out by the Military forces of the Crown."Do these right hon. gentlemen really suppose that they will be able to conduct a campaign against the Government on the field and at the same time to ask the Government all the awkward questions they can think of about their military operations?"—Mr.Churchill.
THE QUESTION CRAZE.
Scene—The Battle of Belfast, 19—.
GalloperF. E. Smith, of the Ulster Volunteers, to ask thewar ministerwhat are the next tactical dispositions to be carried out by the Military forces of the Crown.
"Do these right hon. gentlemen really suppose that they will be able to conduct a campaign against the Government on the field and at the same time to ask the Government all the awkward questions they can think of about their military operations?"—Mr.Churchill.
"In view of this grave and unprecedented outrage," he said, "the House may be assured that His Majesty's Government will take without delay appropriate steps to vindicate the authority of the law and to protect officers and servants of theKingand His Majesty's subjects in the exercise of their duties and in the enjoyment of their legal rights."
Cheer after cheer from excited Ministerialists punctuated the ominous sentences. There was no counter-demonstration from the Opposition.
Business done.—Lords, abandoning rumoured intention of forcing crisis by throwing out Army Bill on Second Reading, passed the stage without debate. In the Commons Plural Voting Bill read a second time.
Tuesday.—In crowded House two nights' debate opened on motion bySon Austendemanding Judicial Inquiryinto the "Plot." Circumstances peculiar. Attack on Government planned last week. Since then what is called "a great Coup," as distinct from an unnamable "Plot," startled the world and upset things generally.Austen, above all things systematic and orderly, insists on limiting discussion to the "Plot." The wilyWinstonequally determined, on chatting about the "Coup."
Pretty play, watched with keen interest by critical audience.Austen'sspeech pleasantly differed from some familiar of late from same quarter. Luminous, lucid, temperate yet firm, it did much to uplift debate with tone of late lamentably lacking.
Horror and indignation of the Rev. SirChadband Bylesat the grave prospect of a conciliatory attitude on the part of the Government towards the Ulster "rebels."
Horror and indignation of the Rev. SirChadband Bylesat the grave prospect of a conciliatory attitude on the part of the Government towards the Ulster "rebels."
Winston, whilst once more replying in detail to insinuations and allegations upon which existence of the "Plot" is based, preferred to talk about the "Coup." This naturally goaded Opposition into recriminatory retort. Incidentally it led to exhibition of fine generosity and good feeling, innate in House of Commons, peculiarly welcome just now.
Winstonwas drawing vivid picture of great Conservative Party "committed by its Leaders to a policy of armed violence, to tampering with the discipline of the Army and Navy, to overpowering the police, coastguards and Customs officials, to smuggling arms by moonlight."
From centre of Opposition Camp rang the cry, "Shall we let him go on?" Then came the noble inspiring answer fromWinterton—
"Oh yes, let him go on."
So they did, right on to the end, reached by earnest appeal for peaceful settlement of a question which between the varied circumstance of "Plot" and "Coup" has already brought Ulster within touch of civil war.
Business done.—Motion made from Front Opposition Bench for Judicial Inquiry into the "Plot." Following upon sound and fury there may be observed indescribable, but unmistakable tendency towards peace.
Wednesday.—When, as happened in respect of three speeches, debate on motion for Judicial Inquiry turned aside to deal with critical situation in Ireland, it rose to heights commensurate with the national interests involved. YesterdayWinston, towards close of speech particularly exasperating to Opposition, suddenly sheathed his sword and waved the olive branch. The happy accident ofPrince Arthur'schancing to resume debate this afternoon gave it at outset the lofty tone echoed and preserved byCarsonand thePremier. As the latter said, it was impossible for anyone to listen to concluding passage ofPrince Arthur'sspeech without liveliest emotion. Finely conceived, its message was conveyed in language whose eloquence had the charm of simplicity and sincerity.Carson'syearning for a really united Ireland was greeted with sympathetic cheers. ThePremier'sdeclaration that he "had never closed the door against a peaceful solution of the problem, and until compelled by absolute force of circumstance will never do so," gave fresh assurance of a happy issue of what twenty-four hours earlier seemed hopeless dilemma.
Business done.—Austen Chamberlain'smotion negatived by a majority of 80 in House of 608 Members.
ONE OF THE NUTS?"No, the form of the right hon. gentleman is not the embodiment of the Suburban Nut."—Mr.Lulu Harcourton the Member for Wimbledon, Mr.Chaplin, in the Debate on the Plural Voting Bill.
ONE OF THE NUTS?
"No, the form of the right hon. gentleman is not the embodiment of the Suburban Nut."—Mr.Lulu Harcourton the Member for Wimbledon, Mr.Chaplin, in the Debate on the Plural Voting Bill.
Thursday.—Amid turmoil of Parliamentary week pleasant to look in onWedgwood Bennin snug little den arranged for himself off quiet staircase leading from Central Lobby. When last week he mounted to roof of Westminster Hall, the way led for a quorum of Members by that youthful athlete SirThomas Roe(æat.80), he came upon party of grubs which, obedient to family tradition that goes back for centuries, had eaten into it. Conveyed choice specimens to his room and carefully provided for their comfort.
His favourite is theXestobium tesselatum, which boasts that at least 35 per cent. of the damage to historic roof stands to its credit. Turns out to be lively, intelligent creature.Wedgwood, always thoughtful of other people's tastes, brought down with him from the roof (inThomas Roe'spocket) a few chips. One of these he placed in a saucer borrowed from the tea room. Here the grub, which for brevity we will call X., lives. In incredibly short time X. burrowed through the wood, its bright intelligent eyes gleaming out on the other side, as who should say, "Here I am again."
Expects in time to be able to make it converse. Busy teaching it difference between a coup and a plot. Hasn't grasped it yet, its mother tongue being Norman-French. But prospect promising.
Business done.—In Committee of Supply on Post Office Vote.
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,He walked in Wood-o'-LeaAnd happened on a stranger—A nut-brown maid was she;His heart it did rejoice of her,As you may recognise;The wind was in the voice of her,The stars were in her eyes.Johnny Rigg, the ranger,He followed far away,He didn't know the dangerThat lurks at time o' may;She drew him with the smiles of her,She left him with a laugh,Bewildered with the wiles of her,And moon-struck as a calf.Johnny Rigg, the ranger,The muckle oaf was he;He followed of a stranger;She led him bonnily;The fox he marked the track of himAnd watched him through the segs;The tinkers ran a-back of himAnd stole his pheasant eggs!Now, all you jolly rangers,When nesting-time is on,Don't go to follow strangers,Nut-brown nor white as swan;Beware of 'em, be wise of 'em,For sooth it is that's said:When stars get in the eyes of 'emThe moon gets in your head.
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,He walked in Wood-o'-LeaAnd happened on a stranger—A nut-brown maid was she;His heart it did rejoice of her,As you may recognise;The wind was in the voice of her,The stars were in her eyes.
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,
He walked in Wood-o'-Lea
And happened on a stranger—
A nut-brown maid was she;
His heart it did rejoice of her,
As you may recognise;
The wind was in the voice of her,
The stars were in her eyes.
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,He followed far away,He didn't know the dangerThat lurks at time o' may;She drew him with the smiles of her,She left him with a laugh,Bewildered with the wiles of her,And moon-struck as a calf.
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,
He followed far away,
He didn't know the danger
That lurks at time o' may;
She drew him with the smiles of her,
She left him with a laugh,
Bewildered with the wiles of her,
And moon-struck as a calf.
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,The muckle oaf was he;He followed of a stranger;She led him bonnily;The fox he marked the track of himAnd watched him through the segs;The tinkers ran a-back of himAnd stole his pheasant eggs!
Johnny Rigg, the ranger,
The muckle oaf was he;
He followed of a stranger;
She led him bonnily;
The fox he marked the track of him
And watched him through the segs;
The tinkers ran a-back of him
And stole his pheasant eggs!
Now, all you jolly rangers,When nesting-time is on,Don't go to follow strangers,Nut-brown nor white as swan;Beware of 'em, be wise of 'em,For sooth it is that's said:When stars get in the eyes of 'emThe moon gets in your head.
Now, all you jolly rangers,
When nesting-time is on,
Don't go to follow strangers,
Nut-brown nor white as swan;
Beware of 'em, be wise of 'em,
For sooth it is that's said:
When stars get in the eyes of 'em
The moon gets in your head.
In a moment of expansion, Sheila Armitage confided in me that she has worked it out, and that we are third cousins twice removed. I accept her word for this, because I have to work at other things, getting a living and so forth, while her sole occupation is to acquire aflairas a hostess, week-ends being her speciality.
I hope that I am not unkind to Sheila when I say that she seems to me more attractive when she is either in trouble or ill-health; in her more joyous moods I simply do not belong—and donot want to belong—to her life. A friend of mine once called her a social pirate, and there is no doubt that her method of collecting the people whom she wants is to besiege them until they eventually surrender. Why, however, Bobbie Outram is always asked to her smartest week-ends was a conundrum to me until I met her magnificently convalescing after influenza at Folkestone. For I know Bobbie, and I would run a mile or two any day to avoid him.
Sheila was in a bath-chair, but looked radiantly well, and at once gave me a list of her latest victims.
"They sound all right," I said. "But will Bobbie Outram like them?"
At this she gave a little gurgling laugh and put two fingers on my arm.
"Of course you know Bobbie. I forgot."
"I kicked him at school, I loathed him at Cambridge, and let him know it, and he is still all over me. He brags about you whenever he sees me before I see him."
"He is the greatest success I have ever had," she declared.
"Then Heaven help you," I replied.
"You don't understand; you think it's quite easy to collect——"
"People tell me you tried to found asalon, but only got as far as a Zoo," I interrupted.
For an instant she frowned, then she gurgled again.
"Brenda Thornton told you that," she protested. "It's just her jealousy. As a fact I'm quite good at getting only the right people. Fliers have rather had their day, though they are still useful, and I like an explorer or two for week-ends, though the best kind seems to be always exploring. But Brenda was getting ahead of me—I don't mind confessing that to you—until I thought of Bobbie Outram. He's my one stroke of genius; even David admits that."
"I never thought much of your husband's taste," I said brutally, and then, "in men," I added gently, as she was recovering from influenza.
She smiled again and continued:
"There is one thing that is indispensable to a successful week-end."
"It can't be Bobby Outram," I declared.
"It is, or somebody like him; but he is easily the best. Bobbie is my point of contact."
"He used often to be my boot's," I growled.
"The more you can fuse your guests the better," she went on, as if she were giving a lecture. "Everyone knows that; it's the A B C of entertaining; but they must have something to agree about—a sort of rallying point. And I was the first hostess to discover that no party is complete unless you have someone in it whom all the others can most cordially abuse."
"So that is Bobbie'smétier?" I said.
"The help that man has been to me on wet Sundays is beyond belief," she replied ecstatically; "and Brenda Thornton is absolutely furious."
"I never expected to be sorry for Outram, but——"
"My dear Jack, you needn't worry about Bobbie. He knows all right. I told him, and he enjoys it. He's really rather a dear."
But at this my gorge rose. "At any rate," I said, "he's going to Mrs. Thornton's from next Friday to Tuesday; he told me so yesterday."
"The little worm," said Sheila.
"'Worm' is the word," I said; and as we remained to abuse Bobbie for another ten minutes with much mutual goodwill I suppose he had once more justified his existence by a successful feat of "fusing."
"Yes, that's the sort of man they would give work to—A man wiv no principles! Why, only last week 'e was 'ad up for beating 'is wife, and now'E'S WORKIN' ON A CHURCH!"
"Yes, that's the sort of man they would give work to—A man wiv no principles! Why, only last week 'e was 'ad up for beating 'is wife, and now'E'S WORKIN' ON A CHURCH!"
"The Clever Ones."
I do wish I had been one of the clever ones, for they seemed to be in Mr.Sutro'sconfidence and able to penetrate the obscurity of his motives. At first even I could understand something of the scheme, which ran (as I thought) like this:—Wilfrid Callender, a rich bachelor of Harrow and Oxford, has a socialist friend,David Effick, at whose meetings he happens to have encountered a Girton girl,Doris Marrable(pretty daughter of a hop-merchant in affluent circumstances), who affects revolutionary ideals. In order to win the approval of this lady he represents himself as an anarchist plumber, earning five pounds a week; and to the horror of her family they become affianced. Having no sort of intention of keeping up the imposture, even if he could, and being fearful lest the exposure of his wealth and education would, in her present state, alienate her affections, he proposes by practical demonstration to disgust her with the mode of life which she designs to lead. In collusion withEffickhe arranges that he shall inviteDoristo take tea at his friend's attic in Bethnal Green, and reveal to her the sordid conditions of existence in that quarter.
So far good, and the delightful first Act was rich in promise. Then came the complexities. There was another girl,Rose Effick(a rich relation of the socialist), to whomCallendershould have been engaged but for a misunderstanding. It is her business to divert him back to his old love. You would naturally say that, if it isCallender'sobject to disgustDoriswith the life of the people, so that she may change her mind and take him for what he actually is, it will beRose'sobject, since her aim is the frustration of this design, to make Bethnal Green as attractive as possible, so thatDoriswill refuse to sacrifice her ideals when she learns the truth aboutCallender. Yet it looks as ifRoseis playingCallender'sgame and not her own. At first, it is true, she tries to make the attic more supportable; imparts a pleasant flavour to the meal; dismisses the hurdy-gurdies thatCallenderhas chartered from the Universal Provider. But subsequently she goes slumming withDoristo such good purpose that the latter turns sick of the whole thing. Now, you will say,Callender'sway is clear; he will reveal his identity andDoriswill be prepared to tolerate his wealth. On the contrary, Mr.Sutkois not to be defeated by his own machinations; he means to bringCallenderandRosetogether; so he just takes and throws them into one another's arms and consignsDoristo an old admirer whom we have never so much as set eyes on.
A HAIR-AND-TIE ANARCHIST.Wilfrid Callender: Mr.Gerald du Maurier.
A HAIR-AND-TIE ANARCHIST.
Wilfrid Callender: Mr.Gerald du Maurier.
I hope I am more lucid than I seem to myself to be—more lucid, anyhow, than Mr.Sutro, who has threatened to damage an excellent scheme by defiance of the first law of drama, even of farce, namely, that the audience should be permitted to know what the author is after. Nor, again—though of course he was not asking to be taken seriously—was he very particular about the probability of some of his characters.Doris, for instance, was required to be too many things at once. A bluestocking and asansculotte(not a very usual combination), she was also a woman of the very latest cry in frocks. MissNina Seveninglooked pretty and wore them well, but beyond this she gave us very little help.Rose, too (charmingly played by MissMarie Löhr), who disguised herself as a dweller in Bethnal Green by the simple expedient of a duster pinned over her shoulders—how could Mr.Sutroexpect her dainty skirt and smart white shoes to escape the eye of this "clever" female, her rival?
All the same, he gave us much matter for mirth, though the Second Act, which promised so well, was dragged out by interminable trivialities over the preparations for tea. I wish that authors and actors would understand how depressing it often is when people on the stage will insist on keeping things bright and brisk with domestic details.
As for the wit of "the clever ones"—Dorisand her mother and her aunt—I don't know how the first-nighters took it, but when I was there a great deal of it (when audible) was over the heads of the audience. They understood all right the humour of things when somebody (not a clever one) said "Damn," but I wonder how many of them appreciated the symbolic force of the termépicier, or grasped the purport ofQuem deus vult perdere prius dementat.
Mr.Sutroowed much to the excellence of his cast. Mr.Gerald du Maurierwas, of course, inimitable; but there were also MissFlorence Haydon, MissMary Broughand Mr.Edmund Gwenn, all delightful in their own specialised veins of humour—the plaintive, the rich, the uproarious. But Mr.Holman Clarkhad not enough scope for his unique qualities.
I hear rumours of a revision, and hope that this means that I shall receive an invitation to renew a most delightful evening. For my only real criticism is that Mr.Sutrothought me more intelligent than I actually am—an error that I always encourage.
"Dusk."
Account Rendered, a comedy of some promise, but produced with an extraordinary inadequacy in the matter of what the programme called "the decors," has been very quickly withdrawn from the Little Theatre. But its curtain-raiser,Dusk, is to be retained for the revival ofMagic.
That is nearly all that I have to say about Mr.Vansittart's"Oriental Fantasy." It deals with a youthful bride who has just been attached to a Persian hareem. In the garden at dusk she finds a young English traveller (who has just told us what apenchanthe has for "women, women, women"—he is very insistent about this), and being caught in conversation with him is placed by her lord in a sack and consigned to the deep; but not before she has explained in fluent verse that in the circumstances this abrupt end to her young career has no terrors for her. But for this courageous attitude on her part I should have experienced greater relief when the hero appeared next morning in his pyjamas and indicated that the regrettable incident was a figment of his sleeping brain.
I thought I detected some good lines among the Englishman's remarks (though I did not like his voice), but I prefer to study poetical drama at leisure before attempting to pass any comment on it. I may add that I don't suppose that that engaging actor, Mr.Fred Lewis, has ever previously played the part of a Persian slave with a taste for philosophic recitation; and I hope he never will again, for, frankly, it is not hismétier.
O. S.
[Circular from head office of a London bank to its branches:"Suggested that the Cashier should drop his cash-scoop as a warning to the remainder of the staff that a forged cheque is being presented and that they are to detain the presenter."]The cashier at our Goldstead branch has the misfortune to drop his scoop accidentally when cashing a cheque for his worthy mayor of our select suburb.
[Circular from head office of a London bank to its branches:"Suggested that the Cashier should drop his cash-scoop as a warning to the remainder of the staff that a forged cheque is being presented and that they are to detain the presenter."]
The cashier at our Goldstead branch has the misfortune to drop his scoop accidentally when cashing a cheque for his worthy mayor of our select suburb.
It is generally in the spring that I begin to notice how big my accounts are growing. I don't know why this should be, unless it is because I haven't paid any during the previous year. At any rate you must take my word for it. I have the accounts here.
Then, again, it is a most remarkable fact that whenever one has bills to pay one finds there are other things to be bought.
A few days ago I discovered that my tailor wanted thirty pounds. I also discovered that I wanted a lighter overcoat and a raincoat. It was a nice problem.
On occasions of great difficulty like this I always consult Edith. Edith might have married me if it hadn't been for Henry. Had she accepted me I should probably have gone in for something. As it is I just go on existing.
The really sad part of the whole affair is that she seems to be very fond of me. Poor girl! We all make mistakes. Anyhow, apart from her momentary mad infatuation for her husband, she is very sensible and I always like to consult her. Married women are so different from single girls; I don't know why, unless it is that they have husbands.
Edith being married, therefore, I rang her up.
"I want," I said, "to consult you financially."
"Certainly," she replied. "What is it?"
"Private. I will come round to tea."
I rang off. I made a little parcel of my accounts and then telephoned for a taxi. In due course I found Edith in the drawing-room.
"Hello," she said. "Is it very bad trouble?"
"We are," I replied, "in deep water. Life is very shallow." Edith laughed; she appreciates wit.
"Well, let me see if I can help."
I sat down. "I want two new coats," I explained. "My tailor is clamouring for thirty pounds, balance of account owing, and," I added significantly, "there are others. It is going to be a big smash."
"Poor boy!"
I sighed heavily as I opened the accounts.
"Here we are," I said. "Tailor, thirty pounds."
I paused and again sighed.
"Hatter, three pounds."
"Three pounds?" Edith looked amazed.
"That's your fault. I bought a new hat for your wedding. Not only was I best, but best-dressed man. I wore beautiful clothes to hide a breaking heart."
Edith smiled. "A beautiful hat was perhaps superfluous," she suggested. "They are worn so little in church. Are there any more?"
"Plenty. Hatter, three pounds; Glover, one pound——"
"What for?"
"Gloves. Need I go through the sad list?"
Edith shook her head. "What's the total?"
"Fifty-four pounds, thirteen andfourpence. I'm hoping to avoid the fourpence in discounts. Total spare cash, twenty pounds, and nearly three months to go before I touch any more."
"Poor boy, have you really only twenty pounds?"
"To throw about in bills, certainly. I shall want all my other money for rent and food and cash payments."
"And are they all clamouring for their money?"
"Yes, the sharks."
Edith lay back in her chair and thought. Suddenly she sat up.
"It can't be helped," she said. "Some of them will have to wait. We'll put their names in a hat and the first three we draw out get paid."
"Yes," I objected, "but what about my overcoats?"
"You must wait."
"No," I said, "I have a better idea." I paused impressively. "I think that we can fairly assume that my creditors are sportsmen. At any rate, they must have the benefit of the doubt. That being so, I put my own name in the hat and draw against them. If I'm in the first three I get my new coats."
"But——"
"Not a word." I slipped noiselessly out of the room and came back with Henry's Homburg. In less than five minutes everything was prepared.
"Now," said Edith, and she put her hand in the hat. There was a tense silence. "(1) Glover, (2) Tobacconist, (3) Tailor. Bad luck!"
I suppressed a groan. Had I not been sitting down, I should probably have reeled. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together and smiled.
"Well, that's all right," I said.
"All right?"
"Certainly," I said; "I can pay off the first two."
"But what about the tailor?"
"I have thought of that," said I. "I shall make a distinction in his favour. I shall give him an order for two coats. Surely that means more to him than a mere settlement."
"Yes," said Edith doubtfully. "But of course you'll pay him the money?"
I laughed amazedly. "My dear girl! Either I pay his account just like the other two, or I distinguish him by ordering the new coats. He can't have it both ways. And I couldn't very well pay for the new coats, if that's what you mean, before the old account is settled. You see that?"
"Yes, but still it doesn't seem——"
"Ah, perhaps not," I said, "perhaps not, at first sight. I hardly saw it myself at first. It was really a clever idea of yours."
Edith brightened visibly. "Yes, wasn't it?" she said.
My dear Charles,—I know that from your superior standpoint as a Londoner you are disposed to regard us as dwellers in a quiet backwater, unswayed by the currents of political strife, but you must not imagine that the stirring events of the past few weeks have failed to leave their mark on the life of our little town. A study of the Press—that faithful mirror of our time—would quickly convince you to the contrary.
The Press, as you know, is here represented byThe Signal, a fine old weekly journal of inflexible Unionist views. Well, last week, rising on a wave of enthusiasm,The Signalburst into poetry.
The Gun Runners, it is called, by "Cecilia Merrifield."
The air is still, the night is dark;Along the harbour sideThere stands a silent, waiting parkOf motors, full inside.
The air is still, the night is dark;Along the harbour sideThere stands a silent, waiting parkOf motors, full inside.
The air is still, the night is dark;
Along the harbour side
There stands a silent, waiting park
Of motors, full inside.
That is the opening stanza. You may possibly take exception to the French rhyme, but you cannot fail, Charles, to appreciate the fine spirit of it.
What are they full of? Not of man,But rifles, neatly packed,Taken from out the good shipFan,Now in the harbour backed.
What are they full of? Not of man,But rifles, neatly packed,Taken from out the good shipFan,Now in the harbour backed.
What are they full of? Not of man,
But rifles, neatly packed,
Taken from out the good shipFan,
Now in the harbour backed.
Strictly speaking, I believe it was not theFanat all, but that is a small matter.
Brave men have toiled across the seaTo bring those rifles in,With helm held stoutly hard-a-leeAmid the breakers' din.
Brave men have toiled across the seaTo bring those rifles in,With helm held stoutly hard-a-leeAmid the breakers' din.
Brave men have toiled across the sea
To bring those rifles in,
With helm held stoutly hard-a-lee
Amid the breakers' din.
I am not at all certain of the accuracy of the term "hard-a-lee" in this connection, but what a fine sense of stedfast heroism that run of aspirates awakened. "With helm held stoutly hard-a-lee."
Amid the breakers' strident cryThey kept their courage cool,For thus, they said, Home Rule must die,We will not have Home Rule!They 'scaped the vessels of the FleetBy lavish use of paint;The warships had to own defeatWith loud and long complaint.
Amid the breakers' strident cryThey kept their courage cool,For thus, they said, Home Rule must die,We will not have Home Rule!
Amid the breakers' strident cry
They kept their courage cool,
For thus, they said, Home Rule must die,
We will not have Home Rule!
They 'scaped the vessels of the FleetBy lavish use of paint;The warships had to own defeatWith loud and long complaint.
They 'scaped the vessels of the Fleet
By lavish use of paint;
The warships had to own defeat
With loud and long complaint.
But I cannot give you more than a selection from these noble verses. They continue in the same lofty strain until the good ship is warped safely in port. Then comes another dramatic change of tense. We are again on the quayside.
The night grows darker. All at onceAn order sharp we hear—The order waited for for months;The motors come in gear.
The night grows darker. All at onceAn order sharp we hear—The order waited for for months;The motors come in gear.
The night grows darker. All at once
An order sharp we hear—
The order waited for for months;
The motors come in gear.
Yes, I admit that this stanza is open to criticism on more than one count, but I would not have it changed. It bears the impress of red-hot inspiration.
Criticism must always be silent when confronted with that.
The joy of having to obeyLights up each driver's face,And so the motors move awayEach to its destined place.
The joy of having to obeyLights up each driver's face,And so the motors move awayEach to its destined place.
The joy of having to obey
Lights up each driver's face,
And so the motors move away
Each to its destined place.
You must not suppose, however, that there was no show of opposition. As you have observed, our poetess believes, on the whole, in sticking closely to historical truth.
The minions of the Government,A weak and craven breed,Stand by, quite helpless to preventThis great heroic deed.
The minions of the Government,A weak and craven breed,Stand by, quite helpless to preventThis great heroic deed.
The minions of the Government,
A weak and craven breed,
Stand by, quite helpless to prevent
This great heroic deed.
I cannot say I altogether like the tone of the second line, but the fury of enthusiasm, shackled by the exigencies of rhyme, must be forgiven much. Let us continue.
Across the night the motors throbWithout the slightest hitch,For this is quite a business job,Though in romance so rich.Indeed, the whole stupendous plotIs cleverly arranged;Even the motor-cars have gotTheir number plates all changed.And so they speed by tortuous waysWith Freedom in the van,And patriotism sets ablazeThe face of every man.
Across the night the motors throbWithout the slightest hitch,For this is quite a business job,Though in romance so rich.
Across the night the motors throb
Without the slightest hitch,
For this is quite a business job,
Though in romance so rich.
Indeed, the whole stupendous plotIs cleverly arranged;Even the motor-cars have gotTheir number plates all changed.
Indeed, the whole stupendous plot
Is cleverly arranged;
Even the motor-cars have got
Their number plates all changed.
And so they speed by tortuous waysWith Freedom in the van,And patriotism sets ablazeThe face of every man.
And so they speed by tortuous ways
With Freedom in the van,
And patriotism sets ablaze
The face of every man.
And so on. Then we come from the general to the particular, and follow the fortunes of a single consignment of arms until it reaches its destination.
And into cellar, pantry, shed,In kitchen, bedroom, loft,The rifles go. Home Rule is dead!The words are uttered oft.The ammunition, too, is hidIn many a secret hole,Each bearer doing as he's bid,Intent upon the goal.
And into cellar, pantry, shed,In kitchen, bedroom, loft,The rifles go. Home Rule is dead!The words are uttered oft.
And into cellar, pantry, shed,
In kitchen, bedroom, loft,
The rifles go. Home Rule is dead!
The words are uttered oft.
The ammunition, too, is hidIn many a secret hole,Each bearer doing as he's bid,Intent upon the goal.
The ammunition, too, is hid
In many a secret hole,
Each bearer doing as he's bid,
Intent upon the goal.
The goal being, I take it, the final death of Home Rule. And now comes the wonderful peroration, in which the whole great adventure is brought to its dignified and eloquent climax. It runs into twenty-three stanzas, of which I will give you the last two without comment—
Freedom is what we labour for,Freedom, it is our right;We have no wish for bloody war,But, if we must, we'll fight.This is our message sent to him,The dark Dictator's tool—Whatever happens, sink or swim,We Will Not Have Home Rule!
Freedom is what we labour for,Freedom, it is our right;We have no wish for bloody war,But, if we must, we'll fight.
Freedom is what we labour for,
Freedom, it is our right;
We have no wish for bloody war,
But, if we must, we'll fight.
This is our message sent to him,The dark Dictator's tool—Whatever happens, sink or swim,We Will Not Have Home Rule!
This is our message sent to him,
The dark Dictator's tool—
Whatever happens, sink or swim,
We Will Not Have Home Rule!
There, Charles! I challenge you to produce anything approaching that from all your boasted London dailies.
Yours,
Robert.
"A villager will always tell the difference between a good coin and a bad one, but he cannot tell the difference between a bad coin and a good one."—Pioneer.
"A villager will always tell the difference between a good coin and a bad one, but he cannot tell the difference between a bad coin and a good one."—Pioneer.
He must try to enlarge his mind.
Perspiring Sportsman (who has been riding in fourteen-stone point-to-point race)."Well, thank goodness that's the last of the season!"Friend."Thought you liked it."Perspiring Sportsman. "Yes, if it weren't for the wasting you've got to do to ride the weight?"
Perspiring Sportsman (who has been riding in fourteen-stone point-to-point race)."Well, thank goodness that's the last of the season!"
Friend."Thought you liked it."
Perspiring Sportsman. "Yes, if it weren't for the wasting you've got to do to ride the weight?"
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Doubtless you will think, as I did at first, that the title ofThe Priceless Thing(Stanley Paul) has reference to love or something intense like that. Far from it. Not in fifty guesses would you be likely to discover that its real meaning is an autograph of the lateWilliam Shakspeare. One knew already that Mrs.Maud Stepney Rawsoncould write a vigorous and bustling tale. If I have a complaint to make againstThe Priceless Thingit is indeed that it suffers from some superfluity of plot, and what approaches a plethora of villains, real or supposed. For this reason it is a story more than usually hard to condense fairly into a paragraph. Briefly, however, the P. T., which was the peculiar treasure of the noble line ofAnnerslie, lived in a case in the library of their ancestral home. The heroine,Anstice, a relation of the Family, was employed by My Lord as librarian. When I tell you, moreover, thatAnsticehad run away from her own father on finding that he was an expert manufacturer of literary forgeries, and that her circle of friends included an American blackmailer, a curiosity dealer and a mad Italian who was even better at the forgery business than her own father, you will perceive that the poor girl was likely to find her situation "some job." I could not begin to tell you what really happened. Towards the end there had been so much mystery, and the story had become such a palimpsest of forged signatures, that I myself knew no more thanLord Annersliein which to believe. But I think we both had the upholding conviction that an affair of this kind was bound to come out all right in the end. Which indeed it did; leaving all the virtuous characters abundantly satisfied, a feeling that will, I am sure, be shared by Mrs.Rawson'smaze-loving public.
Robert Tressallwas a house-painter, a Socialist, and very evidently a sincere if somewhat raw thinker. He left to his heirs and assigns a manuscript of many thousand words. It was a novel, oddly entitledThe Ragged Trousered Philanthropists(Grant Richards), and fell into the hands of MissJessie Pope, who recognised the genius in it (none too strong a word), made some excisions, and now stands sponsor for it to the world. It is a grim story of the unpicturesque and horribly anxious lives of working-folk, specifically of the house-painter and his mates working on a job, elated and satisfied at the beginning, depressed and despondent as the work nears completion with the uncertainty as to how long it will be before another job comes along. Nobody who hadn't lived exclusively in this hard environment could have written with such candour and intensity. Mr.Tressallhas avoided altogether the pretentiousness and literary affectation that betrayed, for example, Mr.H. G. Wells'bathchairman,Meeks. The earlier part of the book is better than the later, where the propagandist ousts the chronicler. The exposition of Socialist doctrine is made with a considerable if a crude skill. It is disfigured with certain familiar limitations; the author can recognise no work except that done with the hands; and, whether by unhappy accident of actual circumstance or through defect of temperament, he sees his employers with a disproportionate bitterness that somewhat discounts his indictment, while he views his fellow-workmenfrom rather a disdainful height. ButThe Ragged Trousered Philanthropistsis a book to be read by any who want an insight into the conditions of working-class life at its average, with its virtues, its vices, its courage, its intolerable piteous anxieties.
Mr.Grant-Watsonis one of the most resolute and intrepid novelists I have met, and his directness of speech may give offence, I fear, to the more reticent of his readers. His story of two white men andAlice Desmond, freed from the social conventions and let loose among the natives on a remote island in the Pacific, proceeds apace and with little regard for the susceptibilities of civilisation and refinement. Familiar but rarely printed language is used when occasion demands; primitive passions stalk naked and unashamed; and when murder is to be done it is done brutally, forthwith and notwithstanding the respective merits, from an heroic point of view, of active and passive agents. Being myself so situated in life that I am never likely to take part in any affair more passionate and drastic than a football match or a law-suit, I found the savage reality, the candour and the unbridled wrath ofWhere Bonds are Loosed(Duckworth) most welcome by contrast. It gave me pleasure to see a man's annoyance being worked off by the use of fists, knives and bullets, a woman's impatience spending itself in immediate violence, and love and hatred being expressed in sharp and decisive action rather than in deliberate subtleties of conversation. In short, Mr.Watsonleft me wondering, somewhat fondly, to what lengths I myself might go in my more heated moments if I too were isolated on Kanna Island and beyond the supervision of police-constables and next-door neighbours.
Once upon a time it was my lot to read a slender volume of Prose Poems, all about stars and rivers and moons and such other things of which prose poetry is made, and written by the most intense and soulful young woman who ever put pen to paper. Which, being perused, I handed to another and elder woman, noted for a great reader of books. And after many days, and after (I suppose) much fruitless toil on the part of my friend, the volume was returned to me with this single comment, "It seems very racily written." I tell you the story, which being true is without point, because I have been wondering what the same critic would have found to say about another slender booklet calledThe Word of Teregor(Nisbet). My idea of it is that Mr.Guy Ridley, the author, knows and admires hisKiplingand delights in hisMaeterlinckto such extent that (possibly after a visit toThe Blue Bird) he felt himself inspired to sit down and write these Forest-Jungle-Book tales of an earlier world, wherein Man and Beast and all created things were subject to the benevolent rule ofTeregor, the Oak-tree; when everything living had a voice and used it, pleasantly enough, in rather mannered prose of the "Yea, Nay and Behold" type; and when all the old legends had yet to be started in ways of which Mr.Ridleygives his own most original explanations. So if you care about this kind of thing (and I had quite a pleasant half-hour from it myself) get it. You will at least find here a book entirely different from anything else in the library-box; printed in type that is a pleasure to the eye, and having, moreover, the classic excuse of being a very little one.
I have for some time watched a steady improvement in the work of Mr.Ralph Straus. It is therefore a pleasure to greetThe Orley Tradition(Methuen) as his best yet. TheOrleytradition was to do nothing whatever, and, like the House of Lords inIolanthe, to do it very well. They were, as a family, noble, of ancient lineage, and fine stupidity.John Orley, the hero of the tale, starts out to follow worthily in the footsteps of his race, as a brainless but agreeable country magnate. Then comes an accident, which thwarts his physical ambitions and awakens his mental. Thereafter he essays the life of affairs—and fails all round; is defeated for Parliament, and equally worsted in the lists of Art. So, being now recovered of his hurt, he says a graceful farewell to the career intellectual and resumes the traditionalOrleyexistence. This, in brief, is his story; but I give it without the pleasant style of Mr.Straus'stelling. There are many very happily touched scenes; more especially had I a guilty sympathy roused by one in which poorJohnendeavours to concentrate his very slipshod brains upon an afternoon of hard reading. And almost all the characters are alive, from the entertaining old lady who keeps the village post-office toMrs. Adderson, the naughty novelist in whose handsJohn Orleycompleted his sentimental education. As for the setting, I fancy that those who have spent their summers round about St. Margaret's Bay will have little difficulty in identifyingHandsfield. Altogether a happy book (more so than you would expect from its theme) and one that marks, as I said, the further advance of a ready and agreeable writer.