First Stoker (weary)."I'd like to find the merchant 'oo invented boilers!"Second Stoker (also weary)."Boilers be blowed! I'm lookin' for the blighter 'oo found out that coal would burn."
First Stoker (weary)."I'd like to find the merchant 'oo invented boilers!"
Second Stoker (also weary)."Boilers be blowed! I'm lookin' for the blighter 'oo found out that coal would burn."
"Wanted.Reliable Woman to Wash Mondays, 2s. 6d. daily."—Llanelly Star.
"Wanted.Reliable Woman to Wash Mondays, 2s. 6d. daily."—Llanelly Star.
Some Mondays are so black.
"War Work for capable open-air Woman of leisure. Wanted to help sister of man called up to run sole grocery shop in lovely country."—Advt. in "The Times."
"War Work for capable open-air Woman of leisure. Wanted to help sister of man called up to run sole grocery shop in lovely country."—Advt. in "The Times."
Why wasn't he called up to fight?
The ObserverrebukedThe Daily Newsfor unkindness in remarking that at a certain point in the recent "Poets' Reading," Mr.Birrell, "who had been sitting with his head in his hands, looked up delighted." But was it quite nice ofThe Observeritself to say in its account of the same function that "the Prime Minister looked in when the readings were in progress, and remained for some time talking with many friends"?
Peppery Senior (through din of Bosches' "morning hate")."Late for breakfast again."Very Junior Officer (apologetically)."Sorry, Sir. Didn't hear the gong."
Peppery Senior (through din of Bosches' "morning hate")."Late for breakfast again."
Very Junior Officer (apologetically)."Sorry, Sir. Didn't hear the gong."
This was the day appointed, after considerable discussion, for our visit to London, and at an early hour Frederick and I were ready for the journey. Frederick, who is tending slowly, as it seems to me, towards an as yet sufficiently remote ninth birthday, had been vigorously and successfully scrubbed till he shone with an unwonted absence of grime; his hair had been temporarily battened down; his Eton collar was speckless, and his knickerbocker suit, while not aggressively new, was appropriate and free from visible rents. I cannot say he was impressed with the solemnity of the occasion, but he was eager and fully determined to purchase as many stamps as could be secured for the generous prize of money bestowed upon him by a lady who had observed his progress in the study of Nature—beetles, moths, tadpoles and the like—and had noted his ever-growing passion for postage-stamps.
London he looked upon as one gigantic repository of stamps. I spoke to him of Trafalgar Square and the Nelson Column and the Landseer Lions. He replied by informing me that there was a certain issue of Mauritius which was valued at £1,200. "If," he said, "I could get that some day I shouldn't want to collect any more."
"It seems," I said, "a lot of money to pay for a small piece of paper."
"Yes," he agreed, "it is; but perhaps I could get it cheap in some old shop which didn't know much about it."
I then tried to divert his attention to the prospect of having luncheon with me at the Rhadamanthus Club, but he begged me not to interrupt him, as he was endeavouring to calculate how many years it would take him to get together the sum if he could manage to save two-pence a week out of his pocket-money. After a short mental struggle, however, he gave it up and banished the blue Mauritius, or whatever it is, from his ambitions and his conversation.
Before we started Francesca addressed a few earnest words to me about the proper care of a boy in London.
"Be sure," she said, "to see that he keeps his hands clean. I should hate to think that he was wandering about Piccadilly and Pall Mall with dirty hands."
"He'll have to wander," I said, "with such hands as Nature provides for him. No little boy can ever keep his hands clean anywhere for more than half a minute at a stretch."
"But you might give him an occasional wash, you know."
"I will do everything," I said, "that may become a father, short of carrying about a wash-hand basin and a jug of water and a piece of soap and a towel through Piccadilly and Pall Mall."
"And his hair," she said,—"you'll not let it got too untidy, will you?"
"I'll brush it when I can," I said; "but you must remember that a little boy without a Catherine-wheel of hair on the back of his head is only fit for a museum. I must insist on his keeping his Catherine-wheel substantially intact."
Well, at last we got off in the train on our adventure, I with a morning paper, and Frederick deep in a stamp-catalogue, from which he occasionally brought forth things old and new. In due time we reached our destination and stood triumphant in the stamp-shop. It was not a large shop, but it was a rich shop, owning countless valuable varieties, and Frederick, whose hands were now of the subfuse hue which Cambridge insists on for the garments of her candidates, was soon engaged in an animated discussion withthe affable and amused proprietor. At last the five shillings were exhausted and the deal was complete, the last item consisting of a perfectly terrific set of Gaboon stamps, each decorated with the fuzzy head of a spear-bearing native warrior. It speaks volumes for the power and courage of our French allies that they should have been able to overcome these savage and formidable tribesmen, and reduce them to the order that is implied by the existence of a post-office and the possession of stamps.
We now found that we had about forty minutes to spare. It is hardly necessary to say that, being in the immediate neighbourhood of the Strand, we devoted the time to a Cinema. The change from the Gaboon and its truculent inhabitants to a highly sentimentalised fishing-village was something of a wrench, but Frederick, clutching his purchases and his catalogue as if his life depended on stamps, was equal to it. He bore without flinching the storms and the wrecks, and the bodies of drowned men tossed upon the shore. Nor did he audibly disapprove when one fisherman, rescued from death, lost his memory for many years, and eventually regained it in extreme old age amid the rejoicings of his relatives and neighbours.
Thence we passed by a happy change to the detached and melancholy malice of Mr.Charles Chaplin, of whom I can now say,Vidi tantum. Mr.Chaplin'svictim on this occasion was a well-dressed foreign gentleman of perfect manners but fiery temper, who was compelled to suffer a series of dreadful indignities. We left him struggling silently but furiously against an adhesive lobster salad which Mr.Chaplinhad, in an absent-minded moment, plastered over his face.
We now went on to the Rhadamanthus. Here the rite of washing and brushing was duly performed, Frederick remarking with obvious regret that if it had only been on the Cinema he would have had to throw the soap at me and splash the water in my face. "But," he added, "I shall be able to do it to Alice when I get home." He was not at all overwhelmed by the marble and gilded splendours of our palace, but sat himself down to luncheon as if he had an immemorial right to be there. General Wilbraham (in khaki), Mr. Justice Black, and Mr. Trevor, the eminent publisher, kind old gentlemen, my friends and contemporaries, came up to us and were introduced to the little boy and smiled at him and patted his head, where the indomitable Catherine-wheel still whirled in triumph, and all declared that it was hardly tolerable in another to be so young, and asked him what it felt like, and said that growing up was the great mistake.
And then a strange thing happened. The luncheon-room suddenly became a hall filled with boys. The General and the Judge and the Publisher dwindled and changed. The long-lost hair came back to their heads in great untidy tufts; they put on Eton jackets and collars and grubby hands. In fact, they were little boys again; and Master Wilbraham said he was keepingCave, and Master Black said something was a regular chouse, and Master Trevor declared violently that somebody was a sneak and that somebody else must have tweaks for new clothes. It lasted for a moment, and then, as with a puff of air, it all changed back, and we were again in the luncheon-room of the club, four time-worn veterans and one eager little boy tightly grasping a catalogue of stamps.
R. C. L.
Subaltern (proudly, as devastating motor-cyclist dashes by)."One of 'ours.'"
Subaltern (proudly, as devastating motor-cyclist dashes by)."One of 'ours.'"
The drama is almost the only religion I know that can expose the mysteries of its ritual to the vulgar gaze and yet retain the devotion of its worshippers. There is nothing a British audience so loves as to be taken behind the scenes and shown how it is done—or not done; and then it will attend the next play and go on adoring with the blindest infatuation. Were it not for this astounding gift of resilience one might deplore the prurient curiosity that wants to peep into the hollow image of Isis and get at the machinery of the priesthood.
More human and wholesome is the satisfaction derived from the revelation of amateur foibles, for here we are laughing at ourselves, as inA Pantomime Rehearsal. InThe Show Shopthis element was supplied by a young plutocrat who took a small part with a travelling company in order to be near hisfiancée, the leading lady; and continued in it asjeune premierbecause she refused to be made love to on the stage by anybody else. In assuming arôlefor which he was incredibly ill-qualified he seemed likely to facilitate the achievement of his purpose, namely to make the play a hopeless failure and so secure the deliverance of his lady from the thraldom of her mother's ambitions and set her free to marry him.
However, the failure failed to come off, and although he forgot to remove his overcoat (containing the stolen bonds) at a critical juncture on which the Great Situation turned—the error was so deadly that the mother, who had stage-managed the thing and was witnessing the first performance from a box, actually rose in her seat to correct it—the play was a roaring success; and there was nothing for it but a secret marriage, marred by the prospect of a two years' run "on Broadway."
Mr.A. E. Matthews, as the amateur, made extraordinarily good fun for us; and there was something fresh in the idea of following up the dress rehearsal with a first night. It not only gave the amateur his chance of making the big mistake against which he had been thoroughly warned, but our own applause allowed the company to put into practice the lessons they had learned in those sacred conventions which regulate the taking of a call.
There are those who say that Transatlantic humour should be interpreted exclusively by a native cast, and that an Anglo-American alliance is a mistake. I trust PresidentWilson'srecent policy will not be affected by this view. Certainly, though the combination was responsible for the noisiest fun of the farce, the purely American performance of MissMargaret Moffattat the opening of the First Act was as good as anything in the play. But happily this is not one of those imported creations that overwhelm my uninstructed intelligence with exotic colour and exotic slang.
Mr.Edmund Gwenn, asMax Rosenbaum, impresario, was in irresistible form. MissMarie Löhr, in the part of the leading lady, was at her lightest and therefore her best; but LadyTree(her designing mother), though she played very hard and incisively, could scarcely have satisfied her own very nice sense of humour with what was to be got out of a character that resembled nothing on earth (or the Eastern hemisphere anyhow).
In the midst of all the mirth there was a pathetic passage between a couple of impecunious players,Johnny Brinkley(played by Mr.George Elton, who had many good things to say and said them well) andEffie, his wife, on the theme of the precariousness of their career. It must have melted the cynical heart of many a critic in the audience, and I for one was almost persuaded to confine myself for the future to encomium in these columns.
However, there is no flattery in the compliments I beg to offer to Mr.James Forbesfor a very diverting evening. Perhaps the last Act dragged a little, but in any case after the orgy he had given us we were ripe for reaction. With most imported plays one is apt to doubt whether the humour is novel in its essence or merely a matter of unfamiliar form, common enough in its place of origin. But the humour of Mr.Forbes, or at least the best of it, is something more than American.
O. S.
"She heard him blowing his nose on the hall mat, and she understood the major sufficiently to know that this portended something."—Home Chat.
"She heard him blowing his nose on the hall mat, and she understood the major sufficiently to know that this portended something."—Home Chat.
We have always regarded this behaviour as ominous, even in the case of civilians.
"Once you have a wife and are tied down to the world, she creates the necessity of a house and saves you from being a wanderer on the face of the earth. No wife, no house. Hence, say our Shastras, it is not the building called the house that is the wife, it is the wife who is the house. And even now, both among the high and the low, it is usual for a Hindu to speak of his wife as his house."N. G. Chandavarkarin"The Times of India."
"Once you have a wife and are tied down to the world, she creates the necessity of a house and saves you from being a wanderer on the face of the earth. No wife, no house. Hence, say our Shastras, it is not the building called the house that is the wife, it is the wife who is the house. And even now, both among the high and the low, it is usual for a Hindu to speak of his wife as his house."
N. G. Chandavarkarin"The Times of India."
We foresee domestic trouble when the Flat system reaches India.
Having alighted on strange ground at Chiswick Park Station, I was lost. My destination wasHogarth'sHouse—one of the few homes of the illustrious which are preserved for pious pilgrims, but whether to go this way or that I had no notion, nor was there anyone to ask. I therefore turned to the left and, just after being half-blinded by a dusty whirlwind, stopped an errand-boy and was told by him I had done right, and had but to keep on.
I therefore continued, but with so little confidence that a hundred yards further on I stopped another wayfarer, who, however, had no knowledge of any Hogarth but a local laundry of that name, and could not say where it was.
It was then that I fell into the arms of as admirable although peculiar a man as I ever hope to meet, and communicative too. He was one of those elderly men who keep their youth, largely by virtue of cheerful spirits. He was short and active and he wore a cap. He had sandy-grey hair and a touch of sandy-grey whisker; his eye was bright and his cheeks were ruddy. He beamed with contentment. He may not have been, as the diverting Mr.Berrysays inTina, "fearfully crisp," but he was crisp enough.
Did he know Chiswick? Why, he had known it for nearly sixty years. Then he knewHogarth'sHouse? No, he couldn't say he did, but, anyhow, it must be in the other direction, because this, strictly speaking, was Acton Green and not Chiswick at all. To get to Chiswick I ought to have gone the other way. "But a depraved errand-boy——" I began to say, and then realising that the recapitulation of other people's errors is perhaps the idlest form of speech, where nearly all lack necessity, I said instead that the natives did not seem to specialise much in knowledge of their locality; to which he replied that they ought to, for there was no more beautiful place in the world.
"I'm going in the direction you want, myself," he added. "The fact is we're moving, and I've got to get some new blinds, and the shop's on your way."
So we fell into step, I with great difficulty keeping up with his happy buoyancy.
Yes, he admitted, moving was a trial, but his new house was far more comfortable than the old one, and, after all, what's a little trouble?
This was a revolutionary enough remark, but when he went on to ask, Wasn't it a lovely spring morning? I felt shamed completely, for I was still angry with the gusts under thescudding sky. And it had been a lovely night, too, he added. Not a cloud all night. And a moon! such a moon! He never remembered a lovelier night. How did he know so much about the night? Why, he was a night watchman. In the General Omnibus Company. Had been for years. When then did he sleep? Oh, he would soon be in bed, but he liked a walk in the morning. Especially such a morning as this. In two hours' time he'd be fast asleep. Oh no, he didn't mind being on duty at night, and then, being in the General, he could have rides for nothing, and only the other day he'd been to Bushy Park to see the fallen trees. My, what a grand sight! He'd never seen so many fine trees on their sides. Wonderful it was.
Didn't Chiswick look grand in the Spring? he asked me. Such lovely blossom in the gardens. Chiswick had once been famous for its fruit orchards, and many trees still remained. Didn't I think it pretty?
As a matter of fact it was looking to me exactly like other suburbs; but I hadn't the heart to dash so enthusiastic and friendly a creature; so I said I thought Chiswick charming.
And healthy, he went on: there wasn't a healthier place anywhere—all sand. Wherever you dug you'd find sand.
I had a sudden vision of myself, spade in hand, testing this statement; but he allowed no time for such diversions of thought. The goodness of Chiswick and the importance of praising it were too urgent with him.
After passing the station we came to a block of peculiarly hideous flats on the right. There, he said, pointing to them, wasn't that convenient? What could a clerk want better than that? For himself he couldn't ask a better fate than to live at Chiswick. Such a fine High Street, and the biggest music-hall in the suburbs. The picture palaces too. But he was sorry to say that some Chiswick people had taken to going to a new one at Hammersmith. That was a pity, he thought. Had I ever seen such a nice Green?
By this time I was becoming stunned. I pinched myself to discover whether or not I dreamed. A Londoner, or Greater Londoner, pleased with his home; an Englishman of any description satisfied with anything English, and especially just now, when the rule is to cry stinking fish! What could be the matter?
I would try him, I thought, in his most sensitive spot, his pocket; and the opportunity came naturally enough for we were passing the shops in the High Street and he began to extol their merits.
"But isn't everything horribly dear nowadays?" I said.
"Yes," he replied, gaily "it is; but I can remember when it was dearer."
What is one to do with a man like that? Had we not now come to my turning, Duke's Avenue, where he bade me good-bye, I might have discovered that he did not think LordKitcheneran imbecile, Mr.Balfoura mere salary-hunter, and Mr.Asquitha traitor. To such an oddly constructed mind even those things were possible.
Tommy (to Jock, on leave)."What about the lingo? Suppose you want an egg over there, what do you say?"Jock."Ye juist say, 'Oof'."Tommy."But suppose you want two?"Jock."Ye say 'Twa Oofs,' and the silly auld fule wife gies ye three, and ye juist gie her back one. Man, it's an awfu' easy language."
Tommy (to Jock, on leave)."What about the lingo? Suppose you want an egg over there, what do you say?"
Jock."Ye juist say, 'Oof'."
Tommy."But suppose you want two?"
Jock."Ye say 'Twa Oofs,' and the silly auld fule wife gies ye three, and ye juist gie her back one. Man, it's an awfu' easy language."
Mr.Belloccan, I am sure, write entertainingly about any phase of the French Revolution on his head, and inThe Last Days of the French Monarchy(Chapman and Hall) he has apparently done so. I cannot think it will add to his reputation. It will be something if it doesn't hurt it. He has taken a short story, and by a process of dextrous padding and the practice of a method, which is becoming an obsession with him, of going deep into the obvious with much industry and circumstance, he has contrived, with the addition of a number of plates—some of singular irrelevance—a fattish book. Even ignorant persons like this Learned Clerk are apt to be chagrined by being so obviously written down to. On the other hand, naturally, an author who knows his intriguing subject so well and drives so forceful a pen cannot fail to be interesting. The historian seems most concerned to prove, by his familiar and plausible method of going over the ground "in the same season, in the same weather, after the same rains, in the same mist," that the Prussian charge by Valmy Mill miscarried only because the infantry got bogged in marsh that looked like stubble. So now we know!
From the list of books already published by Mr.Cecil Headlamit is easy to see that he is by choice a topographer rather than a novelist. Indeed the fact is made sufficiently obvious to the reader ofRed Screes(Smith, Elder). Its sub-title isA Romance of Lakeland, and so strongly developed is the place-spirit in its author that he is constantly breaking the rather tenuous thread of his story to introduce long descriptions of Cumberland scenery and people, and as this is most easily done by sending his chief characters for walks in the districts that Mr.Headlamwishes to talk about the result is that I seldom read a novel in which the protagonists were kept so sternly on the move. But I am far from saying that the result is not happy enough, especially for those readers who already know and love the neighbourhood that the author handles so well. As for the tale, that, as I have hinted, is nothing to keep you awake o' nights. There is a millionaire in it, with one daughter (whom he hates) and a very unpleasant secretary, who loves the daughter for her prospects and a country lass for her looks; and there is a great deal of the most unconvincing finance that ever I read, even in fiction. As for the secretary's end, it wouldn't be fair to give that away, as it is really the only point at which the plot quickens into sufficient vigour to hold its own with the setting. Mr.Headlamobviously both knows and loves the land of red screes; I am doubtful whether he is as much at home with the stock-manipulators of Wall Street or their emotional offspring. And I don't like his introduction of the second heroine—"The girl's head was bare, save for the crowning glory of womanhood." What I mean is, if it hadn't had that much covering——
The King's Men(Secker) are just our friends, yours and mine and Mr.John Palmer's, who have exchanged their tools and toys, their pens, wigs, brushes, books, spats and dreams for stars (one, two or three) and scars; all drawn into the Great Adventure which began on that 4th of August so many long years ago. DilettantePelham, prig and pacificist not from passion but from detachment, always so unbeatable in argument and always so wrong; sportsmanRivers, seeing simply and straight; crankSmith; comfortableBaddeleyin his snug Government berth; poserPonsonby, always doing the thing that's the thing to do; exquisiteGraham, with his fair lodge in the wilderness—all hallowed by the great consecration. There are, too, the King's women and an unhappy necessary stay-at-home or two, and a big and rather crude contractor, who will be master in his own works. But the young men are the folk Mr.Palmerbest understands and presents in turns of clever and vehement talk. I beg you to read this book for these good things and for a tender love of England which shines nobly between the lines of it.
PerhapsFauvette, the heroine ofThe Green Orchard(Cassell), was too modern to have much acquaintance with the works of the lateWilliam Black. Which was a pity, as a recollection ofA Daughter of Hethmight have withheld her from her impulsive marriage withMartin Wilderspin, or from feeling so much like a gold-fish out of water when he took her away from Paris to share a life that was a dreary contrast to all her previous experience. In any case I cannot hold her blameless for the resulting shipwreck. A bride who comes down late for a most critical little dinner to her husband's family, and attires herself (see cover) like a circus-rider, simply is not giving matrimony a fair chance. Moreover I seem to observe that Mr.Andrew Soutarthinks this was rather sporting in his heroine. He certainly loads the dice in her favour, for, when the inevitable had happened andMartinandFauvettehad separated, the lady sought the consolations of literature and became (as heroines will) the sensation of the hour. ThoughThe Green Orchardis a brisk easy-running tale fidelity to life is hardly its strong point. Of course it was not to be expected thatFauvettewould escape being adored byMartin'sbest friend; the real touch of originality is the final reward of this kind gentleman. For my own part I certainly expected—but to tell you that would be to betray what doesn't happen. The whole affair is a pleasant respite from actuality: more, I fear, it would be impossible to say.
Kind Old Lady."I see there is an urgent appeal for more literature for our fighting men. I thought some lonely soldier or sailor might like to revive memories of the dear homeland with this volume of the Post Office Directory for 1899."
Kind Old Lady."I see there is an urgent appeal for more literature for our fighting men. I thought some lonely soldier or sailor might like to revive memories of the dear homeland with this volume of the Post Office Directory for 1899."
From the description of a polar-bear's escapade in the Edinburgh "Zoo":—
"The keepers now appeared, and with the assistance of gun-firing and much noise the animal was quietly shepherded back to its accustomed place of confinement."North British Agriculturist.
"The keepers now appeared, and with the assistance of gun-firing and much noise the animal was quietly shepherded back to its accustomed place of confinement."
North British Agriculturist.
"Quietly" was a happy thought.