Women in the RingTHE SEX'S PROGRESS.From "women at Prize-Fights" To "Women in the Ring" should be an easy step in the upward movement.
"You journalist chaps just spoil us," said Puncher Pete, when I called upon him yesterday at his training camp. "You draw us into conversation, stick down our remarks in your note-books, and then make us out to be the biggest boasters on the face of the earth. It's not right.
"For instance, you've got it on the tip of your tongue to ask me if I think I'll lick Jimmy Battle next Thursday. Well, of course I'll lick him. Jimmy's a good boy, but he can't stay, and thenhehasn't gone twenty rounds with three blacks, as I have. But what's my opinion matter to you? Why make me shout it out like a cock on a steeple?
"Yes, I shall beat Jimmy. Six rounds will cure him. All right. Very well then. Leave it at that.
"One of your fellows called upon me two days ago. 'Pete,' he said, 'they say you're ill.' 'You tell 'em to mind their own ills,' I gave him back. Ill, indeed! If I were ill could I walk my forty miles a day and think nothing of it?" Could I lift Harry Blokes there with one hand and hold him above my head? D'you suppose a sick man could dothis?"
The Puncher seized a skipping-rope and did marvellous things with it. Then he smashed lustily at a punch-ball, left, right, left, right, duck, bing! "Here, Harry!" he cried. His sparring partner approached, bruised but beaming. The Puncher knocked him down.
"I seem ill, don't I?" said Pete, turning to me. "But what's it got to do with all you chaps, anyway? Wait till Thursday. Then you'll find out whether I'm ill or not. And even if I was ill Jimmy couldn't do it. Jimmy's got as good a punch as the next man. I'll say that for him. If he gets it in it would foil an ox. But can he get it in? Not next Thursday.
"Now, see here, you're not going to draw any words from me about the coming fight. You may draw others. I refuse. Let's get right off this fight and on to other things.
"After all, fighters are modest chaps. When I knocked Torpedo Troop out in three rounds last April for a purse of £5,000 and the Championship of Nova Scotia I didn't go bragging. I might have said that this was the first time that the Torpedo had ever had his eyes closed. Well, I didn't. What's more, I never shall. Tell your reader that!
"Take my victory over Quartermain, again. Or over Dinghy Abbs, who was down and out in the second round in spite of all the fuss that was made about him beforehand. I was a sick man at both these fights. Not a soul knew it, mind you. My wife—for I'm as fond of home life as any ordinary man, and we have a little baby—my wife used to worry terribly. She'd expect me to come home on a stretcher. But I never happened to choose that conveyance, and she don't fret any more.
"Will it be a stretcher on Thursday? I can see you want to put that question, but I'll ask you to excuse me. Next Thursday, as I've already hinted, will tell its own story, and when I say that the tale will have a happy ending for one of us who isn't too far from your ear to boast about it if he was inclined that way, perhaps you'll guess without my telling you what I mean.
"Not at all, Sir. Don't mention it. I'm always glad to have a friendly chat with anyone, and I hope you'll forgive me for refusing to talk shop."
PERMIT ME, GENTLEMENA RESORT TO THE OBVIOUS.Mr. Punch."PERMIT ME, GENTLEMEN—I DON'T THINK YOU KNOW ONE ANOTHER: SIR EDWARD CARSON—MR. REDMOND. IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU MET."
Mr. Punch."PERMIT ME, GENTLEMEN—I DON'T THINK YOU KNOW ONE ANOTHER: SIR EDWARD CARSON—MR. REDMOND. IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU MET."
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
House of Lords, Monday, July 13.—Camperdown, likeHabakkuk, iscapable de tout. Can do (is at least ready to undertake) anything. Like LordJohn Russell, he would at an hour's notice take charge of the British fleet, whether in Home waters or on Foreign stations. Confesses with pathetic modesty that there are two things beyond his capacity. One is to find a needle in a pottle of hay; the other, to discover a teller in Division Lobby when no one proposes to tell.
Masterman recalls happy memoriesThe shade ofMastermanrecalls happy memories to the inconsolableWorthington Evans.
The shade ofMastermanrecalls happy memories to the inconsolableWorthington Evans.
To-night this last dilemma faced noble earl. Home Rule Amendment Bill before House in Report stage.Macdonellmoved amendment introducing principle of proportional representation. After long debate Question put from Woolsack. There being a few cries of "Not content!" House cleared for division.
Hereupon strange thing happened. Whilst majority of peers streamed into Content Lobby discovery was made that not only were there no tellers for the Not-Contents but no Not-Contents for the tellers. FortunatelyCamperdownon the spot. Instantly took charge of the affair. According to his own narrative, which thrilled the listening Senate, he had gone into Division Lobby, "where," he added, "I stayed a long time."
Began to realise something of the feeling of the boy who stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled.Camperdownessentially a man of action. No use mooning round deserted Lobby wondering where everybody was.
"I tried," he protested, "to find a teller for the Not-Contents, which I was not able to do. There were no Not-Contents in the Not-Contents' Lobby and there were no tellers. I do not know," he added, turning his head with enquiring pose, likeMr. Pecksniffasking his pupilMartin Chuzzlewitto take compass, pencil and paper, and "give me your idea of a wooden leg," "whether any of your lordships have seen an occurrence like this before. I have not."
Murmur of sympathy ran round perturbed benches. Dilemma awful, unprecedented, irretrievable. But everyone felt thatCamperdownhad done his duty, and that if he had failed to find Not-Contents in an empty Lobby no one else could have found them.
Business done.—In House of CommonsPremierannounced winding-up of business at earliest possible moment with intent to meet again in "early winter" for new Session. No Autumn Session, you'll observe. Feeling against it so strong that insistence might have broken bonds that link faithful Ministerialists with their esteemed Leader. Accordingly prorogation about usual time in August, and new Session, instead of opening in February, will date from November. When we come to think of it, seems to amount to much the same thing as Autumn Session, which usually begins in mid-October. That an illusion. There will be no Autumn Session. Only we shall all be back at Westminster again in drear November.
adaptations of a German system"He did not want these adaptations of a German system, which theChancellor of the Exchequerseemed to have chosen."—LordHugh Cecil.
"He did not want these adaptations of a German system, which theChancellor of the Exchequerseemed to have chosen."—LordHugh Cecil.
House of Commons, Tuesday.—LikeRachelweeping for her children, the Opposition will not be comforted in respect of the continued absence ofChancellorof the Duchy. 'Tis a touching trait, illustrating the high level of human nature the Commons reach. Had it beenMasterman'spolitical friends who mourned his absence, recognising in it cause of insecurity for the Empire, situation would be natural and comprehensible. It is from the so-labelled enemy's camp that lamentation is sounded.Worthington Evans, Masterman'sseverest censor whilst he still sat on Treasury Bench in charge of Insurance Act, is in especial degree inconsolable. Physically and intellectually reduced to a pulp—using the word of course in Parliamentary sense.
As he is too unnerved to dwell upon subject,BarnstonandHayes Fisherto-day take it up. Want to know how long a state of things most painful on their side of the House is to continue?Premiermakes light reply. Points out that it's no new thing for a Minister to fail to find a seat, the globe meanwhile serenely revolving on its axis. In 1885 and in 1892 the Duchy was unrepresented on the Treasury Bench.
A more striking case, overlooked byPremier, of a Minister long struggling with adversity at the poll finding the door of House of Commons bolted and barred is familiar to LordHalsbury. Appointed Solicitor-General in 1875Hardinge Giffarddid not take his seat till the Session of 1877. Crushed at Cardiff, left in the lurch at Launceston, hustled at Horsham, named as a probable starter at every election racein the three kingdoms taking place within a period of eighteen months, he persuaded the blushing borough of Launceston, on a second wooing, to yield to his advances.
Oddly enough, when at last he came to the Table to take the oath, he found he had mislaid the return to the writ, production of which is indispensable preliminary. Was nearly turned back, a calamity averted by discovery of the document in his hat on a bench under the Gallery where he had awaitedSpeaker'ssummons to the Table.
But precedents are nothing when the bosom is deeply stirred.
"Can't theChancellorof the Duchy make an effort to secure a seat?"Barnstonasked in tremulous voice.
"He has made two already," retorted the practicalPremier.
Then came alongWatt, with cryptic inquiry breaking silence that brooded over Ministerial benches.
"Has the time not arrived," he asked, "to jettisonJonah, in view of the fact that nobody seems willing to swallow him but the whale?"
House left thinking the matter over.
Business done.—House of Lords passed Third Reading of transformed Home Rule Amendment Bill. In the Commons Budget Bill again dealt with in Committee. Sharp strictures from both sides. But Ministerialists who had come to criticise remained to vote in its favour. Majority accordingly maintained at normal level.
Wednesday.—Son Austen, who little more than a fortnight ago left the House Member for East Worcester, returned to-day representing the division of Birmingham where his father sat impregnably throned for uninterrupted period of twenty-nine years. As he walked up to Table to take the oath and sign afresh the roll of Parliament, was hailed by hearty burst of general cheering.
This rare. Common enough for one or other political party to welcome recruit to its ranks. On such occasions, the other side sit silent, save when especial circumstances elicit responsive bout of ironical cheering. To-day's demonstration afforded striking recognition of genuine merit modestly displayed.
Ever a difficult thing for young Member to be son of distinguished father also seated in the House. Position to be sustained only by exercise of qualities of mind and manner rarely combined. Whilst his father yet enthralled attention and admiration of House by supreme capacitySon Austensuccessfully faced the ordeal. AfterDon José'swithdrawal from the scene his son's advance to a leading place in the councils of his party and the estimation of the House was rapid. Within limits of present Session he has shown increased power as a debater, promising attainment of still loftier heights. Ever courteous in manner, untainted by the "new style" deplored byPremier, he, though an uncompromising party man, has made no personal enemies among any section of his political opponents.
Business done.—House of Lords threw out Plural Voters Bill on second time of asking. Commons still in Committee on Budget.
A REVOLTING TASK.A REVOLTING TASK.The waiter's early-morning job.
The waiter's early-morning job.
"Hearne and Mead, the not-outs of Monday, were separated at 80, their partnership having yielded 441 in forty-five minutes."Daily Mail.
"Hearne and Mead, the not-outs of Monday, were separated at 80, their partnership having yielded 441 in forty-five minutes."
Daily Mail.
The spectators, we suppose, could stand the strain no longer.
(Yawning, though rude, is, according to the doctors, an extremely healthy exercise.)
I have a friend who wrote a bookAnd begged me to peruse it,And bluntly state the view I took—Encourage or abuse it.I want, he said, the truth alone,But said it in a hopeful tone.Perceiving there was no escape,With Chapter I. I led off;Page 2 provoked my earliest gape,At 3 I yawned my head off,At 4 I cast the thing awayUnto some dim and distant day.For weeks I racked my harassed brainFor something kind and ruthful,To spare his feelings and remainComparatively truthful(I'm very often troubled byMy inability to lie)."Dear Charles," I wrote him in the end,"I fear no contradictionWhen I declare that you have pennedA healthy work of fiction.I am, I candidly admit,A sounder man through reading it."
I have a friend who wrote a bookAnd begged me to peruse it,And bluntly state the view I took—Encourage or abuse it.I want, he said, the truth alone,But said it in a hopeful tone.
I have a friend who wrote a book
And begged me to peruse it,
And bluntly state the view I took—
Encourage or abuse it.
I want, he said, the truth alone,
But said it in a hopeful tone.
Perceiving there was no escape,With Chapter I. I led off;Page 2 provoked my earliest gape,At 3 I yawned my head off,At 4 I cast the thing awayUnto some dim and distant day.
Perceiving there was no escape,
With Chapter I. I led off;
Page 2 provoked my earliest gape,
At 3 I yawned my head off,
At 4 I cast the thing away
Unto some dim and distant day.
For weeks I racked my harassed brainFor something kind and ruthful,To spare his feelings and remainComparatively truthful(I'm very often troubled byMy inability to lie).
For weeks I racked my harassed brain
For something kind and ruthful,
To spare his feelings and remain
Comparatively truthful
(I'm very often troubled by
My inability to lie).
"Dear Charles," I wrote him in the end,"I fear no contradictionWhen I declare that you have pennedA healthy work of fiction.I am, I candidly admit,A sounder man through reading it."
"Dear Charles," I wrote him in the end,
"I fear no contradiction
When I declare that you have penned
A healthy work of fiction.
I am, I candidly admit,
A sounder man through reading it."
"Captain Turner only got a single when J. W. Hearne bowled him, and lunch was taken.
Essex.F. L. Fane c. Hendren b. Kidd57Russell run out51Major Turner b. J. W. Hearne1"
Probably the Major got his step during lunch; and it was no doubt richly deserved, though not on account of the score he had made in the morning as a Captain.
"John Charles Edmund Carson were the names which Lord Gillford, the infant heir of Lord and Lady Clanwilliam, received yesterday afternoon."Daily Mail.
"John Charles Edmund Carson were the names which Lord Gillford, the infant heir of Lord and Lady Clanwilliam, received yesterday afternoon."
Daily Mail.
If only this were a misprint for John Charles Redmond Carson.
"The anniversary of the Cattle of the Boyne was celebrated with unusual enthusiasm throughout Canada.""Times" Toronto Correspondent.
"The anniversary of the Cattle of the Boyne was celebrated with unusual enthusiasm throughout Canada."
"Times" Toronto Correspondent.
These were the original Irish bulls, we suppose.
"Plant strawberry runners with grouse on Aug. 12th."—R. H. S. Gardener's Diary."Plant daffodils between grouse and partridges."—R. H. S. Gardener's Diary.
"Plant strawberry runners with grouse on Aug. 12th."—R. H. S. Gardener's Diary.
"Plant daffodils between grouse and partridges."—R. H. S. Gardener's Diary.
The daffodils should make good cover, but the runners will stand no chance against the Cockney sportsman.
Is the batsman out or not?THE OLD, OLD PROBLEM.Is the batsman out or not?
I must confess that at one time I had little regard for collectors of cigarette cards; it seemed a feeble pursuit, though perhaps I should add I am of a somewhat intellectual nature. Some little time ago, however, I happened to glance at one of these cards and was surprised to see a picture of a gentleman attired in white flannels and a vest of white, decorated with red embroidery. He was grasping a towel in both hands and appeared to have two or three sets of arms. The label said, "Scarf or Towel Exercises 4." A perusal of the instructions on the back of the card made everything clear.
Ten minutes later I entered the shop of an athletic outfitter. Unfortunately he had no white vests with red edges: I had to purchase one with blue. A scarf or towel I could find at home.
Then I entered a tobacconist's.
Four days later I had collected Scarf or Towel Exercises 2 and 3.
"We can," I said, "now make a start." As a matter of fact it was not altogether a foolish proceeding. Deep thinkers are apt to overlook the need for physical culture. This error I decided to remedy.
Every morning I (1) stood in position illustrated, (2) raised arms above head in manner indicated by the instructions, (3) straightened right arm and lowered right hand so that towel (still taut) sloped to right, (4) returned to Position 1. I then changed towel for scarf (my own idea) and continued with Exercises 3 and 4.
I was very happy; my only worry was the absence of Scarf or Towel Exercises 1.
Every morning I called at the tobacconist's and purchased packets of cigarettes, eagerly searching them for the missing card. Every afternoon I called again.
For a week I bore my disappointment bravely; then I became cynical.
"Perhaps," I said, "there is no Exercise 1. It may be a joke on the part of the makers."
My consumption of cigarettes increased. Packet followed packet with extraordinary rapidity, and still no Exercise 1.
I began to get worried. "Is it safe." I asked myself, "to do 2, 3 and 4 without 1? The omission may have a serious effect on 2, 3 and 4."
Then I returned to the attack with renewed vigour. In a week I got through twenty tens—with no result.
Disappointed and weary I was walking to the office one morning when suddenly I had an attack of giddiness. By the end of the day I was beginning to wonder if I was very ill. I felt it. Usually the clearest of thinkers, I was dizzy and dazed.
The evening saw the arrival of my doctor, and a thorough examination followed, at the end of which he shook his head gravely.
"'M," he murmured. "Ah."
"Tell me," I said with extraordinary calmness—"tell me the worst. Brain fever, I suppose?"
"Oh, dear no," he replied. "What I'm worrying about is the heart. It's in a bad state-a really bad state. Heaven knows how many cigarettes you've been consuming lately. You'll have to stop it altogether."
I looked at him blankly; then, with a bitter laugh, I (1) stood in position illustrated, (2) raised arms above head in manner indicated by the instructions, (3) straightened right arm and lowered right hand so that handkerchief (still taut) sloped to right, and (4) returned to sofa.
"Engineers and firemen on the western railways of the United States have threatened to strike unless their demands for increased wages and other reforms are not granted."The Times.
"Engineers and firemen on the western railways of the United States have threatened to strike unless their demands for increased wages and other reforms are not granted."
The Times.
They seem very hard to please.
Irving as Sir Hubert LisleMr. H. B.Irving(Sir Hubert Lisle)."Pomfret will fall in another two seconds if I don't ride over and raise the siege. Still, my first duty is to Mr.Stephen Phillips, and he wants me for a few dialogues and a brace of soliloquies before I start."
"Pomfret will fall in another two seconds if I don't ride over and raise the siege. Still, my first duty is to Mr.Stephen Phillips, and he wants me for a few dialogues and a brace of soliloquies before I start."
"The Sin of David."
This is not, like the plays in whichJosephhas recently figured, an adaptation from the Hebrew. Mr.Stephen Phillipshas given a seventeenth-century (A.D.) setting to theBathshebamotive, transplanting it from the polygamous East into the England of one-man-one-wife. His object, no doubt, was to emphasize one aspect of his borrowed theme, which is further enforced by his choice ofmilieu—the camp of the Puritans.
Lest this fairly obvious note of irony should escape us, Mr.Phillipsaccentuates it at the start by making hisDavid(Sir Hubert Lisle, Commander of the Parliamentary Forces in the fenland) condemn a young officer to be shot for a "carnal" offence. The delinquent's answer—
"Thou who so lightly dealest death to meBe thou then very sure of thine own soul;"
"Thou who so lightly dealest death to meBe thou then very sure of thine own soul;"
"Thou who so lightly dealest death to me
Be thou then very sure of thine own soul;"
andLisle'sprayer—
"And judge me, Thou that sittest in Thy Heaven,As I have shown no mercy, show me none!...If ever a woman's beauty shall ensnareMy soul into such sin as he hath sinned"—
"And judge me, Thou that sittest in Thy Heaven,As I have shown no mercy, show me none!...If ever a woman's beauty shall ensnareMy soul into such sin as he hath sinned"—
"And judge me, Thou that sittest in Thy Heaven,
As I have shown no mercy, show me none!...
If ever a woman's beauty shall ensnare
My soul into such sin as he hath sinned"—
these passages, even if the title of the play had not prepared us, afford fair warning of the way in which things have got to go. In fact it is all very simple and straightforward, and (on the constructive side) Hellenic. Perhaps indeed the treatment is a little too direct, and the tragedy moves too quickly to its consummation (thirty or forty minutes suffice for the reading of it). It might serve its publisher (of the Bodley Head) as one of a series to be entitled: "Half-hours with the Best Sinners."
As a poemThe Sin of Davidcannot compare for beauty withPaolo and Francesca, though it contains isolated lines which recall Mr.Phillips'searliest drama, such as the plea ofJoyce, the condemned officer—
"Her face was close to me, and dimmed the world."
"Her face was close to me, and dimmed the world."
"Her face was close to me, and dimmed the world."
orLisle's—
"Thou hast unlocked the loveliness of earth."
"Thou hast unlocked the loveliness of earth."
"Thou hast unlocked the loveliness of earth."
But then, of course, the exotic manner would here have been an impropriety. This is not Rimini; it is the English Fenland; and all the characters, with the exception ofMiriam Mardyke(theBathshebaof the piece), who was bred in France and had its sun in her blood, were of the Puritan pattern that does not accommodate itself very easily to the language of passion.
But all this we knew ten years ago, whenThe Sin of Davidwas first published; and the only new interest was the question of its adaptability to the theatre. Poetic drama seldom gains much by presentation on the stage, unless it is full of action; and there is little action in this play except of the inward kind. In almost the only case where quick movement is here demanded one becomes conscious of the intrusion of words. When he knows that the relief of Pomfret depends upon his instant action,Lislestill finds time for conversations with his servant, withMiriamand with the doctor, and for a couple of well-sustained soliloquies.
Certain lines, again, whose literary flavour, when read, makes us overlook their inherent improbability in the mouth of the character that utters them, take on, when spoken, an air of artifice. Such are the lines in whichMiriamdescribes her old sister-in-law, to her face, as
"living without sinAnd reputably rusting to the grave."
"living without sinAnd reputably rusting to the grave."
"living without sin
And reputably rusting to the grave."
And there is always the danger that actors will be content with a rather slurred and perfunctory recitation of lines that have no bearing on the action but are just inserted for joy as a rhetorical embroidery.
It may be a trivial criticism, but I think the play suffered a little from the appearance of the love-child whose death was to be the punishment forLisle'ssin in sendingMardyketo his death in a forlorn hope. The instructions in my book are contradictory. The time of Act III. is described as "five years later," and we are then told that "four years are supposed to have elapsed since Act II." Anyhow, the boy should be only three or four years old. Actually he is a girl (the stage must have it so) of some ten summers. You may say that all those years during which the lovers' passion has been purified by worship of the child's innocence, and "God has not said a word," add a dramatic force to the blow when at last it falls. But for myself—a mere matter of taste—I feel that the vengeance of Heaven has been nursed too long.
As for the interpretation, I must honestly compliment Mr.Irvingand MissMiriam Leweson their performance. It is true that I should never have mistaken Mr.Irvingfor a fighting Roundhead, and he might well have sacrificed something of his personality for the sake of illusion. It is true, too, that he was more concerned about dramatic than poetic effects; yet, within the limitations of a very marked individuality, he did justice to the author by a performance that was most sincere and persuasive. MissLewisplayed her more difficult part with great charm and delicacy. Her manner, even under stress of passionate feeling, still kept the right restraint thatMiriamhad learnt from her environment; but always we were made to feel that under the prim Puritan gown was a body that had been "born in the sun's lap," and held the warmth of the vinelands in its veins. Perhaps it was from France, too, thatMiriamhad caught her strange habit of pronouncing "my" (a perfectly good word) as "me."
There is little so worth seeing on the stage to-day asThe Sin of David, and I very sincerely hope that both the play and its interpreters may win the wide appreciation they have earned.
O. S.
It is unfortunate that Mr.Arthur Eckerley'singenious little farce,A Collection will be made, was only introduced into the bill at the Garrick two days before the withdrawal of theDuke of Killicrankie, and that, like the melancholyJaques, it has had to share the ducal exile. I look forward to its early reappearance under happier auspices, and with Mr.Guy Newallagain in the leading part.
"The father of a young lady, aged 15—a typical 'Flapper'—with all the self-assurance of a woman of 30, would be grateful for the recommendation of a seminary (not a convent) where she might be placed."—Times."Coaching required for Cambridge Little Girl."—Times.
"The father of a young lady, aged 15—a typical 'Flapper'—with all the self-assurance of a woman of 30, would be grateful for the recommendation of a seminary (not a convent) where she might be placed."—Times.
"Coaching required for Cambridge Little Girl."—Times.
Is it the same little girl?
purchase of donkeysA proposal for the purchase of donkeys for practising ammunition-supply in the field has been approved by the War Office.
[The armbone of a prehistoric lion has been discovered in Fleet Street during the excavations for the new offices of "The Daily Chronicle." Remains of other prehistoric animals were found some years ago near the same spot.]
Reader, when last you went down Fleet(Wait half-a-second. Thank you.) Street,And gazed upon it from your seat,Perched on a motor-bus,Did you, I wonder, guess that there,In ages long ago, the bearContended for the choicest lairWith the rhinoceros?Where now the expectant taxis prowl,And growlers, still surviving, growl,And agonised pedestrians howl,Seeing the traffic skid,There lions roamed the swampy glade,There the superb okapi brayed,And many a mighty mammoth madeWhatever noise it did.It pleases me to pause and thinkThat where to-day flows printing-inkAll sorts of beasts came down to drinkClear waters from a spring.I like to reconstruct the scene;I feel existence must have been,Before the rotary machine,A more delightful thing.I like to think how, westward bound,Tigers pursued their prey and foundThe Strand a happy hunting ground,Seeking tit-bits by night.Reader, will you come there with meWhen London lies asleep? MaybeTheir phantoms still prowl stealthilyDown by the Aldwych site.
Reader, when last you went down Fleet(Wait half-a-second. Thank you.) Street,And gazed upon it from your seat,Perched on a motor-bus,Did you, I wonder, guess that there,In ages long ago, the bearContended for the choicest lairWith the rhinoceros?
Reader, when last you went down Fleet
(Wait half-a-second. Thank you.) Street,
And gazed upon it from your seat,
Perched on a motor-bus,
Did you, I wonder, guess that there,
In ages long ago, the bear
Contended for the choicest lair
With the rhinoceros?
Where now the expectant taxis prowl,And growlers, still surviving, growl,And agonised pedestrians howl,Seeing the traffic skid,There lions roamed the swampy glade,There the superb okapi brayed,And many a mighty mammoth madeWhatever noise it did.
Where now the expectant taxis prowl,
And growlers, still surviving, growl,
And agonised pedestrians howl,
Seeing the traffic skid,
There lions roamed the swampy glade,
There the superb okapi brayed,
And many a mighty mammoth made
Whatever noise it did.
It pleases me to pause and thinkThat where to-day flows printing-inkAll sorts of beasts came down to drinkClear waters from a spring.I like to reconstruct the scene;I feel existence must have been,Before the rotary machine,A more delightful thing.
It pleases me to pause and think
That where to-day flows printing-ink
All sorts of beasts came down to drink
Clear waters from a spring.
I like to reconstruct the scene;
I feel existence must have been,
Before the rotary machine,
A more delightful thing.
I like to think how, westward bound,Tigers pursued their prey and foundThe Strand a happy hunting ground,Seeking tit-bits by night.Reader, will you come there with meWhen London lies asleep? MaybeTheir phantoms still prowl stealthilyDown by the Aldwych site.
I like to think how, westward bound,
Tigers pursued their prey and found
The Strand a happy hunting ground,
Seeking tit-bits by night.
Reader, will you come there with me
When London lies asleep? Maybe
Their phantoms still prowl stealthily
Down by the Aldwych site.
Lady Diana Dingo was in the Park yesterday, walking with Lancelot, her new ant-eater, and the latter, who has happily recovered from his severe attack of measles, is now quite tame, and was wearing bronzed toe-nails and a large blue ribbon under the left ear.
The Countess of Torquay and her sister, Mrs. Pygmalion Popinjay, were at the Earl's Court Exhibition on Wednesday. The Countess's crested toucan, Willy, was much admired.
The Ladies' Park Pet race at Ranelham next Friday is expected to prove an exciting event, especially as Stella. Lady Killaloo, has entered her large crocodile, Horace—called after her late husband—who is known to prove rather fractious at times.
Mrs. Halliday Hare is in deep mourning for her bandicoot, Maud Eliza, who was unfortunately set upon and eaten last week by the Hon. Mrs. Joram's young jaguar during an afternoon call at the house of a mutual friend of their mistresses. Mrs. Hare is leaving town at once, and her house will be closed until late in the autumn.
The iguana worn by Miss Bay Buskin in the second Act ofThe Belle of Bow Streetis a delightful little creature, and accompanies his mistress everywhere. While on the subject of the theatre, we are glad to learn that the cages now being erected behind the stage at Galy's Theatre will soon be ready, when there should be no further cause for complaint about the rapacity of some of the larger carnivora owned by certain ladies of the chorus.
The recent fashion of having one's pet emu coloured to match one's frock is dying out, and armadilloes with gilded trotters are becoming the vogue.
"Very well," said the lady of the house, "don't let's do it. Nobody can force us to go to the seaside if we don't want to."
"It's too late," I said, "to begin to agree with me now."
"It's never too late to realise how reasonable you are."
"Yes, it is. The agreement is signed; half the rent has been paid; Sandstone House has got us by the legs, and, whether we like it or not, we've got to go there next week."
"We might try the effect of a death-bed repentance."
"No," I said, "we're dead already. We died when the blessed agreement was signed."
"Well, then, let's write and say our aunt from British Columbia is about to arrive here unexpectedly on a visit to us, and that sand and seaweed and prawns and star-fish are simply death to her. We can wind up with a strong appeal to the landlord's better nature. No true landlord can wish to be responsible for the death of anybody's British Columbian aunt."
"You're quite wrong," I said. "Landlords just revel in that kind of thing. Besides, he will not believe in our aunt. He will say that she is too thin."
"But the aunt I'm thinking of is stout and wheezy. She is a widow; her name is Aunt Wilhelmina; except ourselves there's nobody in the world left for her to cling to. No marine landlord can dare to separate us from Aunt Wilhelmina."
"It's no good," I said. "I'll admit that your Aunt Wilhelmina——"
"She's only mine by marriage, you know; but I love her like a daughter."
"I admit," I continued, "that Aunt-by-marriage Wilhelmina may some day be useful to us. We will put her by for another occasion. But she can't help us now."
"Well, go ahead yourself and suggest something, then."
"I could suggest a thousand things. Suppose we just pay the rest of the rent and don't go."
"The man," she said with conviction, "is mad."
"I thought you'd say that, and I know you'd say the same about any other suggestion of mine, so I shan't make any more."
"You mustn't be sulky," she said.
"I never am. I'm reasonable, but, as usual, you'll realise it too late. Besides," I added, "it's you who've brought us into this fix."
"I?" she said with an air of wonder, "How can I have done that?"
"I'll tell you," I said firmly, for I saw that my chance had come. "For weeks and weeks past you have been engaged in shutting up avenues and closing loop-holes. Wherever there was the tiniest way of escape from the seaside, there you were with your walls and your fences, until at last you'd got me safely penned in."
"You didn't struggle much, did you?"
"No, I was like the man inThe Pit and the Pendulum, and you were—whoever it was that made the walls close in on him."
"I refuse," she said, "to be called a Spanish Inquisition."
"You may refuse as much as you like, but that's the sort of thing you've been. How you worked on my domestic affections and my household pride! When Helen forgot to go to her music-lesson you said the poor child was evidently run down and wanted a breath of sea-air. When Rosie lost her German exercise-book, and when Peggy fell off her bicycle, you worked both these accidents round into an imperative demand for salt water. When John was bitten by a gnat you said the spot was bilious and things would never be right with him until he got into a more bracing climate; and when Bates tripped up in the pantry and broke a week's income in plates and dishes you said he needed tone and would get it at the sea. Seaside, seaside, seaside! I couldn't got away from it."
"Oh, but you haven't been there yet, you know. You're shouting before you're hurt."
"No," I said, "I am not—I mean I am hurt, but I'm not shouting. I'm just whispering a few salutary truths."
"And there's another thing," she said; "it must be terrible for you to know what a designing person your wife is."
"Madam," I said, "my wife is as heaven made her. I will not permit her to be abused. She has good impulses. She means well. Her plain sewing is quite excellent."
"Spare me," who said, "oh spare me. I will never go to the sea again."
"But youshallgo to the sea," I said. "Everything is settled. The agreement is signed; the tickets are all but taken. John and Peggy are panting for pails and spades. Do you think I want to stand in the way of their innocent pleasures? We will all try for shrimps while you sit on a heap of sand and tell us not to get too wet, or that it's time for tea, and have I forgotten the thermos-flask again."
"Horatio," she said, "I can see you paddling in my mind's eye."
"But tell me," I said, "when do we start."
"We start on Tuesday. The whole lot of us together, you know, servants and all. Won't that be fun?"
"Ye—es," I said, "it will—I mean it would if I could go with you, but unfortunately——"
"What!" she said, "you mean to desert us?"
"No, no, I can never desert you, but I've got two solemn engagements on Tuesday—meetings in the City."
"Then I'm to take the whole party, am I?"
"Yes, dear," I said. "And I'll join you next day."
"You've won," she said.
Sweet as a wild-rose was Kitty Adare,Blithe as a laverock and shy as a hare;Mid all the grand ladies of all the grand citiesYou'd not find the face half so pretty as Kitty's;"'Tis the fine morning this, Kit," says I; she says, "It is,"The day she went walking to get to the Fair.She was bred to give trouble, was Kitty Adare,For she had my heart caught like a bird in a snare;O, her laugh was the ripple of quick-running water,And—the seventh-born child of a seventh-born daughter—She wore the green shoes that the fairies had brought herTo help her go dancing that day at the Fair.She'd the foot of a princess, had Kitty Adare,And the road fell behind her like peel off a pear;She was into the town with the lads and the lassies,And the shouting of showmen and braying of asses,And on to the green where the host of the grass is,With the sun shining bright on the fun of the Fair!She was light as a feather, was Kitty Adare,And she danced like a flame in a current of air;O, look at her now—she retreating, advancing,And stepping and stopping, and gliding and glancing!There wasn't a one was her marrow at dancingOf all the young maidens who danced at the Fair.O Kitty, O Kitty, O Kitty Adare,Till the music was beaten you danced to it there;And the fiddler, poor fellow, the way that he was in,Him sweating for six and his bow wanting rosin,He was put past the fiddling a month—all because inA pair of green shoes Kitty danced at the Fair!
Sweet as a wild-rose was Kitty Adare,Blithe as a laverock and shy as a hare;Mid all the grand ladies of all the grand citiesYou'd not find the face half so pretty as Kitty's;"'Tis the fine morning this, Kit," says I; she says, "It is,"The day she went walking to get to the Fair.
Sweet as a wild-rose was Kitty Adare,
Blithe as a laverock and shy as a hare;
Mid all the grand ladies of all the grand cities
You'd not find the face half so pretty as Kitty's;
"'Tis the fine morning this, Kit," says I; she says, "It is,"
The day she went walking to get to the Fair.
She was bred to give trouble, was Kitty Adare,For she had my heart caught like a bird in a snare;O, her laugh was the ripple of quick-running water,And—the seventh-born child of a seventh-born daughter—She wore the green shoes that the fairies had brought herTo help her go dancing that day at the Fair.
She was bred to give trouble, was Kitty Adare,
For she had my heart caught like a bird in a snare;
O, her laugh was the ripple of quick-running water,
And—the seventh-born child of a seventh-born daughter—
She wore the green shoes that the fairies had brought her
To help her go dancing that day at the Fair.
She'd the foot of a princess, had Kitty Adare,And the road fell behind her like peel off a pear;She was into the town with the lads and the lassies,And the shouting of showmen and braying of asses,And on to the green where the host of the grass is,With the sun shining bright on the fun of the Fair!
She'd the foot of a princess, had Kitty Adare,
And the road fell behind her like peel off a pear;
She was into the town with the lads and the lassies,
And the shouting of showmen and braying of asses,
And on to the green where the host of the grass is,
With the sun shining bright on the fun of the Fair!
She was light as a feather, was Kitty Adare,And she danced like a flame in a current of air;O, look at her now—she retreating, advancing,And stepping and stopping, and gliding and glancing!There wasn't a one was her marrow at dancingOf all the young maidens who danced at the Fair.
She was light as a feather, was Kitty Adare,
And she danced like a flame in a current of air;
O, look at her now—she retreating, advancing,
And stepping and stopping, and gliding and glancing!
There wasn't a one was her marrow at dancing
Of all the young maidens who danced at the Fair.
O Kitty, O Kitty, O Kitty Adare,Till the music was beaten you danced to it there;And the fiddler, poor fellow, the way that he was in,Him sweating for six and his bow wanting rosin,He was put past the fiddling a month—all because inA pair of green shoes Kitty danced at the Fair!
O Kitty, O Kitty, O Kitty Adare,
Till the music was beaten you danced to it there;
And the fiddler, poor fellow, the way that he was in,
Him sweating for six and his bow wanting rosin,
He was put past the fiddling a month—all because in
A pair of green shoes Kitty danced at the Fair!
Cheerful HouseholderCheerful Householder (to burglar)."By the way, when you go downstairs you might let the cat in; she's been spoiling my sleep."
Cheerful Householder (to burglar)."By the way, when you go downstairs you might let the cat in; she's been spoiling my sleep."
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
If memory serves me, the publishers ofWorld's End(Hurst and Blackett) described its theme as one of unusual delicacy, or words to that effect. I should like to reassure them. The particular kind of marriage of convenience which it concerns (marriage for the convenience of the wronged heroine, by which the virtuous hero gives his name to the child of the villain) may be, indeed is, a delicate matter, but—in fiction at least—by no manner of means unusual. Nor can I see that its present treatment byAmèlie Rives(PrincessTroubetzkoy) lends it any degree of novelty. No, let me be just; perhapsRichard Bryce, the wicked betrayer, does strike a somewhat new note, at least in his beginnings.Richardwas the product of art superimposed upon dollars. He was so cultured that the humanity in him had dwindled to a negligible quantity; and thus, when poorPhoebewanted him to "do the right thing by her," he sent her instead some charmingly modern French verse—which she could not understand—and finally took ship for Europe in mingled alarm and boredom. You will have gathered that the scene is laid in America. Perhaps this explains the hero.Owen Randolphwas one of the strong and silent. He was so silent that, though he knew perfectly well all that had happened, he marriedPhoebe, and allowed that unhappy lady to suffer chapters of agonized apprehension as to his attitude, when half-a-dozen words would have set her at ease on the subject. He was, moreover, so strong that, when eventually the theme of their relations withPhoebedid crop up between himself andRichard, the latter spent some months in hospital as a consequence. However, he recovered, and things were thus able to reach the kind of ending which was expected of them. There are parts ofWorld's Endthat are worthy of a better whole, but that is the best I can say for it.
I believe thatPaul Moorhouse(Long) was never really predestined to end unhappily and that his suicide was a conclusion as little premeditated by the author as it was apparently by the hero. If such ends must be, they should be a climax demanded by relentless logic: some sort of culminating event should occur which, added to what has gone before, leaves no alternative.Paul, however, had survived for years under the stress of all the circumstances which finally constrained him to make an end of himself; and, had he stayed the course—only another hour or so—he would have found that all had turned out for the best and that adequate arrangements had been made for his permanent happiness. No doubt these things happen in real life and I cannot accuse Mr.George Wouil(a most discerning author) of any inhuman treatment of his puppet; yet I wish that he had been more kindly disposed and had spared me a bitter disappointment. Having knownPaul, man and boy, for upwards of ten years, I had become sincerely attached to him; as assistant time-keeper, foreman and works-manager he showed a spirit true to the real Black Country type. He had his moments of weakness when he went astray after the manner of his kind; but he always became master of himself again and, when he had to, paid like a man the price of his misdeeds, never pausing to discoverthe overcharge. As forJoan Ware, his intended and his due, she was a dear; poor dear!
I do not think that you will believeThe Story of Fifine(Constable), although Mr.Bernard Capestakes some pains to give it an air of actuality; but if you are like me you will not be greatly concerned about that. Purporting to be the ill-used daughter of a mad French marquis,Fifine, in thatnaïveand charming way which has always been so dear to the hearts of novelists, came to live at the bachelor abode in Paris of the sculptorFelix Dane(his half-sister, who was keeping house for the marquis, provided the introduction), and, calling each other "cousin" and "gossip," these two shared rooms together in perfect simplicity of soul and held several conversations which reflect. I suppose, Mr.Bernard Capes'views on the plastic arts and life in general. And why, in passing, he should continue to heap ridicule on staid Victorian respectability I cannot for the life of me imagine. The plucky and unorthodox thing nowadays surely is to make game of Bohemianism. But, anyhow, the happy moment for me arrived whenFelix Danesuggested (on the grounds that the marquis would soon discover his daughter's hiding-place) a holiday tour through Provence. Mr.Bernard Capesin Provence is Mr.Bernard Capesat his best. How the lovers (for that—perhaps you roguishly guessed it?—they gradually became) paid visits to Nîmes, to Aigues-Mortes, to Arles and to Paradou les Baux, and metM. Carabas Cabarus, the native minstrel, you must read for yourself, for I cannot give a faint idea of the eloquence with which their fairyland is portrayed. And if the plot ends as artificially as it began, and with an unnecessary tragedy thrown in, I suppose for the sake of that idyll in the very nesting-place of idylls I must shrug my shoulders and forgive. After all, it does not matter much whoFifinereally was, nor what happened to her. Suffice it that Mr.Bernard Capeshas conducted her to Arles.
The Caddis-Worm(Hurst and Blackett) is an appropriate enough title for Mrs.Dawson Scott'snovel, but I confess to having grown a little restive at its appearance on the top of each of 352 pages. "Episodes in the Life of Richard and Catharine Blake" is the alternative title, and to the average human reader possibly a more significant one.The Caddis-Wormis quite in the modern manner, having no plot—or what has been contemptuously called "anecdote." I have, however, a more genuine grievance against Mrs.Dawson Scott, and it is that she seems inclined to be a propagandist without the requisite robustness. A little more vigour in her protests against the iniquity of British laws, and her theme might have allured me. As it is, the troubles ofCatharinewith her peremptoryRichardonly made me want, but not very keenly, to take and give her a good shaking. Whereas, with a little more encouragement, I believe I should have been quite anxious to kick her husband from the top to the bottom of several flights of stairs. Drastic methods were taken by the author to bringRichardto his senses; in fact, at one time he made a sort of corner in disasters. But unless a sanatorium exists where patients are treated kindly and firmly for swollen-head I do not think thatRichard'scure is likely to be permanent. That, however, does not affect my view that Mrs.Dawson Scotthas given us a book which is full of clever writing and fairly shrewd observation.
"It was a wild wet night, though the month of May was well begun." Without caring very much about the month of May, I felt on reading these introductory words that the story calledMy Lady Rosiahad excellently well begun. I am sorry to add, though, that it does not carry on quite so bravely as you might expect from such a start. My own suspicion is thatLady Rosiais one of many novels that owe their existence to a summer holiday. I haven't the slightest knowledge of the facts, and still less wish to incur a libel action, but, by my way of imagining it, MissFreda Mary Grovesfound herself one day in the Winchelsea country, fell very naturally in love with its jolly old houses, and determined there and then to write a story about them. So here it is, with a mildly romantic hero,Bernard, a heroine in the titlerôlewho is as pretty and persecuted as heroines should be, a villain (Lord Segraveby name—even, you see, in those Black-Princely days peers were a bad lot), some conflicts not quite so exciting as they might have been, and the rest of the mixture as before. You perhaps catch already my chief ground of complaint. Frankly I do not think that MissGroves'pen is quite sufficiently dashing for this sort of thing. Historical and adventurous romance, if it is to earn my vote, must keep me out of breath the whole time. It should never be allowed to slacken pace; and (to be entirely candid)My Lady Rosiasometimes ambles rather heavily. I forgot to add that it is published byWashbourne, printed on detestable paper, and contains some pleasant illustrations of the places mentioned in the story. In few, the best I can say of it is that it would make a charming gift for the young Person (if she still survives) on the occasion, say, of a family holiday to Hastings.