(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
Snapshots of certain Members who were not on their way to or from the Conference. Their expressions reflect the pessimistic view which they entertained from the first as to its chance of success in their absence.
(Sir William Byles, Mr. Hogge, Mr. Keir Hardie, Mr. John Ward, Mr. William O’Brien, Mr. Winston Churchill.)
House of Commons, Monday, July 20.—The T. R. Westminster is at least equal to the old T. R. Drury Lane in capacity for producing dramatic turns. When Members went off on Saturday for week-end holiday the Ulster attitude was pretty generally understood. Ulster demanded “a clean cut,” with the alternative, phrased by Carson, of “Come over and fight us.” The Cabinet after prolonged deliberation had resolved to meet demand with firm non possumus: Premier was expected on resumption of Sittings this afternoon to announce conclusion of matter, adding such offer of concession on matter of detail as, whilst providing golden bridge for Opposition, would avert revolt in his own camp, where “conversations” with leaders of Opposition are regarded with growing jealousy and suspicion.
New stage in long-drawn-out controversy sufficient to create profoundest interest in to-day’s proceedings. It would surely be the beginning of the end. What exactly the Premier would say about further concession to Ulster, and how the overtures would be received on Front Opposition Bench, were questions on which might hang the issue of peace or war.
Premier had a more startling message to deliver. From point of view of dramatic effect it was a thousand pities his secret had been prematurely disclosed. When he rose amid profound stillness of crowded House everyone knew what he was going to say. In ordinary circumstances his interposition at so critical a juncture would have been hailed by resounding applause from the multiform sections that contribute to making up of Ministerial majority. As matters turned out, a frigid cheer greeted his appearance at the Table. To the announcement that “in view of the grave situation the King has thought it right to summon representatives of Parties, both British and Irish, to a Conference in Buckingham Palace, with the object of discussing outstanding issues in relation to the problem of Irish government,” he had only one new thing to add. It was that the Speaker would preside over the Conference.
This was the only passage in the brief formal conversation, to which Leader of Opposition and Leader of Irish Nationalists contributed, that elicited general cheer. A high tribute to occupant of the Chair.
Ginnell saw his opportunity and seized it by the hair. He is one of three leaders of the Irish Nationalists. Understood that his Party consists of a single member, so shadowy that there are varied reports as to his identity. Member for N.W. Meath leaped on to pinnacle of enduring fame when the present Parliament met to elect a Speaker. Before Mr. Lowther was qualified to take the Chair, and whilst as yet no recognised authority existed, Ginnell, master of the situation, delivered a long harangue. Proposed now to offer a few remarks “as an independent Irish Nationalist.”
Speaker on point of order restricting him to putting a question, he “begged to ask the Prime Minister what precedent he had and what authority to advise the King to place himself at the head of a conspiracy to defeat the decision of this House?”
“Members desiring to take their seats will please come to the Table,” said the Speaker.
The observation did not appear relevant. It met the occasion. It brought up Leverton Harris, newly elected for East Worcestershire, who found his welcome the warmer by reason of the fact that he had been a passive instrument in avoiding what might under less adroit management have developed into a disorderly scene.
Business done.—Premier announces Conference upon Ulster question to meet at Buckingham Palace on the invitation of His Majesty.
Tuesday.—Dull sitting closed in lively conversation arising on motion for adjournment. Rupert Gwynne, jealous for due observance of traditions of House, has noticed with concern the departure for Canada for indefinite period of Member for East St. Pancras. At Question time asked Chancellor of Exchequer whether Mr. Martin had applied for Chiltern Hundreds. Answered in the negative, he put a further question to Premier, directing his attention to Act of 6 Henry VIII. c. 16, ordering that no Member of Parliament shall absent himself from attendance except he have licence of Mr. Speaker. This upon pain of having his wages docked. Premier brushed him aside with one of his brief answers.
Gwynne not the man to be shouldered off the path of duty when it lies straight before him. Here was a Member in receipt of £400 a year leaving the place of business where it was assumed to be earned, not even taking the trouble to follow example of the clerk who, left in sole charge of his master’s office, wrote in legible hand, “Back D’reckly,” affixed notice to front door and went forth to enjoyment of prolonged meal.
Since he could get no satisfaction at Question time he kept Members in, after hour of adjournment, in order to debate subject.
Unfortunately it turned out that he was not exactly the man to have undertaken the job. Amid laughter and hilarious cheering Home Secretary pointed out that here was a case of Satan reproving sin. Reference to the records showed that during the time payment of Members has been in vogue, of 687 divisions Gwynne was absent from 424. (Gwynne later corrected these figures.) During that time he had drawn from the Exchequer salary amounting to £1,000.
“On his own principle, that payment should be in proportion to attendance, the hon. Member,” said the Home Secretary, “is entitled to only £400. Being so conscientious no doubt he will repay to the Chancellor of the Exchequer the balance of £600.”
Helmsley, gallantly coming to assistance of friend in dire straits, himself fell into the bog. It appeared that of 1056 divisions taken in two Sessions he had been absent from 602. Here was another unexpected little windfall for the Exchequer.
At this stage it was found expedient to drop the subject; adjournment not further resisted.
Business done.—Budget Bill dealt with on Report stage.
Thursday.—With that austerity that since Stuart times has marked relations of House of Commons with royalty Mr. Hogge is known at Westminster simply as the Member for East Edinburgh, a position he with characteristic modesty accepts. But blood, especially royal blood, like murder, will out. Lineal descendant of one of the oldest dynasties in the world’s history, Mr. Hogge cannot be expected always and altogether to be free from ancestral influence. Something of the hauteur of ’ogge, King of Bashan (or, as some records have it, og) is discerned in his attitude and manner when, throned on corner seat below Gangway, he occasionally deigns to direct the Prime Minister in the way he should go.
Such opportunity presented itself in connection with meeting of Conference which through the Parliamentary week has centred upon Buckingham Palace the attention of mankind. With respect to palaces Mr. Hogge is by family association an expert.
“Why Rookery?” Miss Betsey Trotwood sharply asked David Copperfield when he casually mentioned his mother’s postal address.
“Why Buckingham Palace?” asked Mr. Hogge, bending severe glance on Treasury Bench whence the Premier had judiciously fled.
St. Stephen’s, which houses the Member for East Edinburgh, is also a royal palace. Why then was not the Conference held within its walls, instead of under the roof of what he loftily alluded to as “the domestic Palace”?
This and much more, with covert references to machinations of the two Front Benches, Mr. Hogge wanted to know.
The Prime Minister, uneasily conscious of the coming storm, had, as mentioned, discreetly disappeared. As an offering to righteous indignation he left behind him on the Treasury Bench the body of Attorney-General. That astute statesman avoided difficulty and personal disaster by meekly undertaking to lay before the Prime Minister the views so eloquently and pointedly set forth by the hon. Member.
Mr. Hogge graciously assented to this course, and what at the outset looked like threatening incident terminated.
Business done.—Budget Bill passed Third Reading without a division.
Waiter. “What sauce will you take wiz your fish, Sair?”
Polite Customer. “Well, what disinfectants have you?”
“Mr. Hogge: Can the Prime Minister say whether any of those taking part in the Conference attached any conditions to their entering the Conference?
‘I cannot sty,’ replied the Premier.”—Evening News.
Was this quite worthy of the Prime Minister? We ourselves do not care for these personal jokes on people’s names.
“Mr. Asquith’s statement was thus of sensational interest, because it represented the last effort at the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour to avert Civil War.”—Dublin Evening Mail.
No need to hurry. There are still forty-nine minutes left.
“Cumberland batted first and reached the total of £272, C. A. Hardcastle (87), R. B. Brown (41), and R. C. Saint (27) being the chief contributors.”—Daily News and Leader.
Suggested mottoes for the L.C.C.:—
“Progress Moderately.”
“Tram up a Child.”
Suggestion for developing a “White Hope” amongst our ’bus- and taxi-drivers.
Where Oriental calm derides
Our Occidental stress
And Ninety-seven E. collides
With Five-and-twenty S.,
You’ll find a product of the West,
A Bachelor of Arts,
Who blends a mind of youthful zest
With patriarchal parts.
Each morning mid his rubber trees
He rides an ancient hack,
A cassock girt above his knees,
A topee tilted back.
Now reining in his steed to preach
A parable on sap,
Now vaulting from his seat to teach
The proper way to tap.
His swart disciples knit their brows
O’er algebraic signs;
They build their byres, they milk their cows
On scientific lines.
They use his microscope and gaze
On strange bacterial risks;
They tuns their daily hymns of praise
To gramophonic discs.
And every evening after grace,
When converts clear the cloth,
He pins an orchid to its place
Or camphorates a moth.
Out of the world his path may run,
Yet still in worldly wise
He’ll talk of feats with rod or gun,
A twinkle in his eyes,
And tell of tiger-stalking nights,
Of mornings with the snipe,
With never a pause save when he lights
An antiquated pipe.
We others earn our pensioned ease,
The furlough of our kind;
We book our berths, we cross the seas,
But he shall stay behind,
Plodding his round of feast and fast,
Dreaming the dreams of yore,
Of England as he saw her last
In 1884.
“GREAT GALA NIGHT
when
JOSEPHINE DAVIS
will bid ‘Au Revoir’ to Bombay
By Special Request.”Bombay Chronicle.
“At the hour of six the Rev. S. F. Collier gave out the only possible hymn—
‘And are we yet alive
And see each other’s face!’”Yorkshire Post.
The supper-room was so full that I quite expected to find that, since I was so late, the harassed head-waiter had taken the liberty of presuming my death and letting someone else have my table; but there it was, empty and ready for me. I sank into a chair with a feeling of relief and, having ordered something to eat, began to examine the room. There was not a spare place; everyone was eating and talking and unusual excitement was in the air. From my remote corner I could not catch any words, but the odd thing was that at every table one at least of the men, who were all in evening-dress, was waving his arms. Now and then a man would stand up to do this better. It was as though they were all deaf and dumb, or cinema actors.
The next day at lunch I had a similar experience. I patronized another restaurant, which seemed to be equally popular, and again every man was gesticulating in a style totally foreign to the staid apathetic Londoner. What could it mean? What was the reason?
I asked the waiter. He laughed. “Ah,” he said, “I have notice it too. It is funny, is it not? Zey all show each other how Carpentier won on ze foul.”
People who know us both have often expressed a doubt as to whether Charles or myself is the more absent-minded and unobservant. I wish to set the matter at rest once and for all.
We were discussing William’s wedding, which had just taken place, romantically enough, in the very heart of Herts—one of those quaint little villages where no sound seems to disturb the silence of the long summer day but the gentle bleating of horn to horn and the murmur of innumerable tyres. Both of us had been there, and Charles came round to talk to me about it a few evenings afterwards.
“I do hope the poor dear fellow will be happy,” he said, lighting his fifth match and pulling away vigorously at an ugly-looking briar.
“It really goes much better with tobacco in it,” I said, passing him my pouch. “Why on earth shouldn’t William be happy? It seemed a very pretty wedding. Did you notice how the rays of the sun coming through the window lit up the best man’s boots?”
“I daresay, I daresay,” he replied. “As a matter of fact I couldn’t see the church part of it very well: I came late and was behind a pillar at the back.”
“Well, it all went beautifully,” I told him. “Everybody stood up and sat down in the wrong places as usual, and the friends of the bride looked with extreme hauteur at the friends of the bridegroom, and vice versâ. I suppose you went to the reception afterwards. I never saw you at all except for a moment on the platform going back. You must have shaken hands with the happy pair and examined the presents?”
“I went to the house,” said Charles. “I went in a motor-car on a seat that took two men to hold down, and that hit me hard when I tried to stand up. I caught a glimpse of William, but I couldn’t find the room where the presents were set out, so I went through almost at once into the garden, where the feasting was going on. Do tell me about the gifts. Was my little pepper-castor hung on the line?”
“I didn’t notice that,” I said, “but my butter-dish was doing itself proud. It had sneaked up to a magnificent toast-rack with stabling accommodation for about eight pieces, given by somebody with a title. And you ought to have seen the fish-slices. The fish-slices wore gorgeous. I expect William will spend a great part of his married life in slicing fish. It will be a great change from golf-balls. But I think you really ought to have said a few hearty and well-chosen words to the young people.”
“That’s just it,” replied Charles in a mournful voice. “I did. I talked to the bride.”
“Hang it, so did I!” I exclaimed rather indignantly. “Directly I got in I went up to William and her and said to her, ‘How glad you must be it’s all over!’ and then quite suddenly it struck me that that wasn’t really the best thing to say in the circumstances, so I blushed and trod on William’s toe and passed on. What did you do in the garden?”
“Well, I wandered about on the lawn where there were lots and lots of people,” said Charles. “I didn’t seem to meet anyone I knew, but the flower-beds were most beautifully kept. I have seldom seen such a display of cress sandwiches and champagne. After a bit I strolled down through the shrubberies, went through a little wooden gate and found myself amongst the raspberry canes. About a quarter of an hour later, after a little fruity refreshment, whom should I meet walking along a quiet shady path but the bride herself, all alone.”
“Stealing away to get one last raspberry at the dear old home,” I said. “How romantic! What did you do? Hide?”
“No,” answered Charles bitterly. “I only wish I had. I felt that now or never was the time. I went straight up to her, and, feeling that to talk about the weather or the theatres on such an occasion would be rather footling, in spite of the fact that we’d never been introduced, I plunged straight into it. ‘You’ve never seen me before in your life,’ I said earnestly, ‘because you haven’t got eyes in the back of your head, and I’ve never seen you because I can’t look through stone. What’s more, I’m only a little silver pepper-castor, an insignificant item in your cruet. But I must tell you how delighted I am to have a chance of speaking to you.’”
“What did she say to that?” I asked.
“Well, you’d never believe it, but the girl looked quite nervous and frightened, and positively began to walk away from me. I supposed I’d begun on the wrong tack, so I hurried after her and started again. ‘Marriage is a state full of the most serious responsibilities,’ I said, ‘but one glance at you shows me that you are fully competent to shoulder them all.’”
“That sounds as if you thought she looked a trifle statuesque,” I said. “Did she seem annoyed?”
“Worse,” replied Charles. “She hurried on again without speaking a word. ‘Stop,’ I cried, ‘stop! I am a friend of the fairy prince;’ and just then we came out on to a piece of lawn, and she gave a little shriek and actually ran away, leaving me standing where I was. I was so ashamed and exhausted that I slunk back through the little gate and had some more raspberries. When I had partially recovered I returned to the upper part of the garden again, had two cups of tea in the big tent, and made my way back to the station, where I saw you. If you hadn’t got into another carriage I should have told you about it at the time.”
“Then you never saw them going away at all?” I said.
“No,” replied Charles; “did you?”
“Did I not?” said I. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of rice I started their married life with. About two milk puddings’ worth, I should say. And so you are not quite satisfied with William’s choice?”
“Well, she seems to me to be rather an unresponsive and timid sort of person,” said Charles. “Not tactful, nor likely to make what the newspapers call a charming hostess. I should have liked dear William to marry someone who would be a social success.”
I smoked for some time in silence, and then I had an idea.
“How was the bride dressed when you saw her, Charles?” I asked.
“Do I know how women are dressed? She was in white, of course, and hadn’t a hat on.”
“But she had a train and a veil, I suppose. She hadn’t a short skirt by any chance?”
“Goodness, how do I know?” he replied. “I didn’t notice all that. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you only saw her once, you see,” I said, “and you went through that little gate at the bottom of the garden, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Charles. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing, nothing. Only I know that there were some people playing tennis at the next house, and very likely the two gardens are connected, and I’m wondering whether that girl——”
“Good heavens,” said Charles.... “You haven’t got such a thing as a hairpin about you, have you? This pipe’s stopped up.”
“The Nambudiri school is progressing with the French motto of ‘Festina lente!’”—The Malabar Herald.
More progress might be made with the old Latin tag, “Trop de zèle.”
“‘As long as I can play as good a game of golf as I did to-day I will never get any cider,’ was Mr. Rockefeller’s reply to one of the friends who called to congratulate him.”—New York Sun.
He may, however, get older, even then.
We are sorry to hear that, through the inconsiderate action of the antiquated people who still take dogs to the park, the pet rat of Lady Piper had a narrow escape from what might have been a serious accident.
(Suggested to a slightly Hibernian brain by the recent ebullition of generosity on the part of the popular press, which insures its readers against holiday accidents whilst boating and bathing.)
When I bolt from this city of vapour
To bite the salubrious breeze,
Do you know why I gambol and caper
And plunge with a shout in the seas
Twice the lad that I was
For a lark? It’s because
I subscribe to that bountiful paper,
The Blare, if you please.
For I know that if currents are shifty,
If cramp should arrive unaware,
I shall die, but my end will be thrifty,
And my host (being also my heir)
Will be amply consoled
By the thought of the gold
(Which amounts to two hundred and fifty)
He’ll get from The Blare.
“Pray take from your forehead those creases,”
I cry to my friend on the yacht,
“I admit that the mainsail’s in pieces
And most of the sheets in a knot;
But remember that if
We go ponk on that cliff
It’s The Blare will be paying your nieces
A nice little pot.”
But whatever may crash into cruisers
Or wherries when I am afloat,
When the waves have destroyed me like bruisers,
I call on my country to note,
If The Blare should pretend,
When I’ve passed to my end,
I was one of its constant perusers,
It lies in its throat.
To my tenantless rooms in the City
The rags have been sent, and it’s there
That I’ll burn them unopened and gritty
Or, if (and it’s little I care)
I am whelmed in the wave,
I shall laugh from my grave
At the blow that I’ve dealt the banditti
Who publish The Blare.
“With one accord they all say, ‘Welcome to Ireland!’ ‘No more delightful place,’ says Mr. Birrell; ‘A kindly welcome everywhere,’ says Mr. Devlin; ‘The most peaceful place in the world,’ says Mr. Redmond.”—Daily Graphic.
Mr. Redmond has overlooked the Balkans.
“So it’s ——’s birthday to-day,” said Fortescue (naming a very well-known politician) as he looked up from his newspaper. “You’ll call and wish him many happy returns, of course, Ferguson?”
We who travel up together each morning by this train are pretty well agreed about ——.
“Don’t mention that man to me!” cried Ferguson. “He’s absolutely the biggest liar on earth. I can’t imagine how he faces the world as he does after having been exposed so many times. You’d think he would want to crawl away into a hole somewhere. He can’t have the least sense of shame.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the burly stranger seated in the corner. “Pardon me; there is reason why he should. It is not his fault if he is addicted to inexactitude. He was predestined to it. It is the irresistible influence of the day on which he was born. Every man born on this day must inevitably grow up to be a liar; it is his fate, from which there can be no escape.”
“Oh, come!” protested Ferguson. “That sounds rather far-fetched, you know, for these days.”
“My dear Sir,” retorted the other, brushing up his moustache aggressively and glaring at Ferguson, “I happen to be President of the Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon Character, so I presume I may claim to know what I am talking about.”
So truculent was his demeanour that nobody ventured to speak.
“My Society,” he continued after a pause, “has conducted its researches over a period of many years. I am going to give you just a few examples out of thousands we have collected. Let us take a significant date, February 29th. A man born on that day is a coward. It is inevitable. Pusillanimity is born in him and can never be eradicated.
“We had before us a month or two ago the case of a gentleman living in a country town—a quiet, shy, studious recluse—born on this fatal day. By some mischance he happened to pick up a journal in which was an article on the Government by Mr. Arnold White. He read it. He was so terrified that he expired from heart failure. That sounds to you incredible, but real life is often incredible. That is one of the discoveries of our Society.
“I will give you a more remarkable instance still. A well-to-do gentleman with the same birthday, whose case we have recorded in our journals, is now, though perfectly healthy, bed-ridden under the following amazing circumstances. He accidentally discovered that his tailor, who had clothed him since boyhood, was an anarchist. After this he was afraid to have any further dealings with the man, while, on the other hand, he lacked sufficient courage to face the ordeal of being fitted by a fresh tailor. For some time he used to sit up at night and secretly sew patches into his trousers. Naturally this could not go on for ever, and at last, when his garments were dropping to pieces, he had to take to his bed.... You smile, Sir. Perhaps you think I am exaggerating?”
His eyes flashed and his voice vibrated with such anger that I jumped six inches out of my seat.
“Not at all—not at all,” I stammered. “Only it occurred to me—er—that he might have—er—b-bought them ready-made.”
“Your knowledge of human nature must be singularly slight,” replied the other icily, “if you imagine that a man without sufficient courage to be fitted by a tailor would be brave enough to wear ready-made clothes.”
“It seems to me, Sir,” said Dean, coming to the rescue, “that your two instances prove little, if anything. They may be mere coincidence.”
The stranger leaned forward, frowned heavily and wagged his forefinger at Dean, who wilted visibly.
“The Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon Character,” he said, “does not seek to build up a theory upon isolated and arbitrarily selected examples. We deal with the subject scientifically. To continue with this date, February 29th. After several cases similar to those I have recounted had come to our notice, we made out a list of two hundred and fifty men born on this day. To each of them we sent a representative to ask for a subscription to the Society. Though they had never heard of it before, every one of those two hundred and fifty was easily intimidated into subscribing.
“Now let us consider another date—March 3rd. Several striking instances had led us to suspect that a person born on March 3rd comes into the world with an ineradicable passion for gambling. I will give you just one of these. A gentleman one day imagined he was seriously ill and called in a doctor. The latter laughed at his fears and offered to bet him that he would live to be seventy. The temptation was too great. The gambler closed with the offer, and on the eve of his seventieth birthday drowned himself.”
At this point Empson sniggered audibly. The speaker turned his head and fixed his terrifying glance upon the delinquent. Poor Empson grew very red, and endeavoured to cover his lapse by coughing noisily. The other waited patiently till he had finished.
“Perhaps you wish to say something, Sir,” he remarked coldly.
“N-no,” said Empson. “Most interesting.”
The President made a gesture which indicated that Empson was beneath contempt and renewed his discourse.
“Continuing the same method of research,” he said, “we compiled a list of nearly four hundred persons born on March 3rd. To each of these we sent particulars of a Derby Sweepstake. Every one of them, gentlemen, applied for a ticket by return of post.”
There was an impressive pause. The President looked round the carriage defiantly as if challenging suspicion.
“One of our tests with regard to to-day’s date—liars’ day,” he continued presently, “was rather amusing. We hired a room in the City for a week and sent out over three hundred letters to persons born on that day. Our notepaper was headed, ‘Short, Stay and Hoppett, Solicitors,’ and the letters were in identical terms. They said that we had been endeavouring for some time to trace the relatives of one Davy Jones, who, after acquiring a large fortune in Australia, had died intestate, and we had that morning been given to understand that the gentleman with whom we wore corresponding was a nephew of the deceased, etc., etc. You guess what happened. Every one of them without exception claimed as his uncle this millionaire who never existed.”
The train began to slow down, and the President rose to his feet.
“I get out here,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should like to have discussed the subject further. You, Sir”—he pointed threateningly at Ferguson—“will doubtless in future refrain from blaming Mr. —— for a failing for which, as you see, he is in no way responsible.”
Ferguson quaked and said nothing.
The President brushed up his moustache still higher and looked round in triumph. All of us were completely cowed—all of us, except little Windsor.
“Just a moment, Sir,” said the latter gently. “Before you leave us will you kindly accept this?”
He took out his tie-pin and laid it in the other’s hand.
For the first time the burly one’s confidence deserted him. He reddened slightly and looked embarrassed.
“It’s very kind of you,” he said, “but really I—I don’t quite understand.”
“It’s a birthday present for you,” said Windsor sweetly.
Humorous Artist. “I’ve brought you an original funny joke this time. A friend of mine thought of it.”
Editor (after reading it). “Yes, it is funny; but I prefer the drawing that was published with it in the ’seventies!”
(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Three numbers of The South Polar Times were brought out at Cape Evans, the winter quarters of Captain Scott, during 1911. Mr. Apsley Cherry-Garrard, the editor, has now presented them to a wider circle under the auspices of Smith, Elder, hoping that they will prove “a source of interest and pleasure to the friends of the expedition.” He need have no fears. Of course a paper produced under such conditions is in its nature esoteric, and many of its jokes are lost if you “don’t know Jimson.” But if you have previously read Scott’s Last Expedition then you will “know Jimson”; you will feel that every man at Cape Evans in 1911 was a personal friend of yours, and you will be delighted with this facsimile reproduction of the paper which delighted them. Personally I cannot read or see too much of the men who are my heroes; and in a world where an ordinary school-girl is allowed twenty-seven photographs of Mr. Lewis Waller I shall not consider myself surfeited with two caricatures and a humorous character-sketch of Lieutenant Bowers. But there are contributions to The South Polar Times which have an interest other than the merely personal. Mr. Griffith Taylor, a tower of strength on the literary side, is really funny in The Bipes—a paper (on the wingless bipeds of Cape Evans) supposed to have been read by Oates’ escaped rabbit to the Royal Society of Rabbits. Mr. Taylor, as a recorder of history in Scott’s Last Expedition, was, I thought, a little too familiar; in these and other articles he is much more at home. But it is upon Dr. Wilson’s pictures (both serious and comic) that The South Polar Times can most justly pride itself. I envy Mr. Cherry-Garrard so prolific and brilliant a contributor. Still more I envy him (and all his colleagues at Cape Evans) the knowledge of such a man. The more I get to know of “Bill” Wilson, the more I understand that he was of the very salt of the earth—a man to love whom was indeed a liberal education, and to be loved by whom was a passport to the little company of the elect.
When John Barleycorn (Mills and Boon) came my way, I noticed that the publishers had shown a reticence, unusual in these days, on the outside paper cover; they didn’t say a word as to the quality or character of the contents. They had three good reasons: first, given the name of Jack London, there was no need of further advertisement or lure; second, if they had started describing the book they would have been unable to say with strict truth that it was or was not a novel, for it isn’t and it is; third, and best, they couldn’t, as honest men, have avoided mentioning that it is in a way a sermon on alcoholism, and that, being said, might have acted as a deterrent, unless they had explained (as they wouldn’t have had room to do) how and why, when they said “sermon,” they didn’t really mean “sermon.” So they lay low and said nothing, and I almost wish I had done the same, for no one who has the lightest interest, practical or theoretical, in John Barleycorn ought to be put off these alcoholic memoirs. The diarist purports to have been first drunk at the age of five, again at the age of seven, almost perpetually for a spell of years from the age of fifteen, and yet to have taken over a quarter of a century to acquire a liking for alcohol. That sounds odd, but is not unique. Not only in California and not only in the lower grades of society, is Youth, vigorous and unspoilt, bound to acquire the taste if it would foregather on lively and intimate terms with its fellows; and not only in the saloons of the Oakland water-front are fine youngsters drinking themselves permanently silly because it is their only way of being men among men, jolly good fellows among jolly good fellows. A sound enough text for any sermon; and, I may honestly add, a sound enough sermon for any text, with a strong smell of the sea and of adventure about it. But I ask myself for what purpose the photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Jack London is inserted as a frontispiece? As well, I think, have had a portrait of Mr. Mills, with Mr. Boon inset.
Isn’t The Youngest World (Bell) an engaging title for a book? It caught my interest at once. I am not altogether sure that the story itself is as good as its name, but that still leaves a margin of quality, and I for one have enjoyed it greatly—in patches. Let Mr. Robert Dunn not too hastily condemn me if I say that he has written a fatiguing tale. Partly I mean this as a high compliment. The descriptions of hardships borne and physical difficulties overcome by his hero are so vivid that they convey a sensation of actual bodily strain in a manner that only one other living writer can equal. There are chapters in the book that leave one aching all over. So long, in fact, as Mr. Dunn’s characters are content to do things, to climb mountains, to ford rivers, to endure hunger and cold and weariness, I am in close bodily sympathy with them; it is when they begin to talk and to explain their mental states that my keenness is threatened by another and less pleasing fatigue. It is not that the scope of the story—a man’s regeneration by love and hardship—isn’t a good one: quite the contrary. It is that I simply do not believe that human beings, especially those that figure in this book, would ever talk about themselves in this particular way. “In the name of our own blood,” she uttered softly, “of Love, the Future, and Victory....” That is a random sentence from the last page, and very typical of Mr. Dunn’s dialogue. It is full of gracious qualities, thoughtful, and throughout on a high literary level, but as a realistic transcription of frontier talk it leaves me incredulous. Still the setting, I repeat, is quite wonderful. You shall read the chapters that tell of Gail’s ascent of Mount Lincoln, and see if they don’t stir your blood, especially where he reaches the top, alone (and therefore unable to talk), and sees the world at his feet. You will exult in this.
Mr. Victor Bridges has a very versatile pen and in most of the twenty-one pieces of Jetsam (Mills and Boon) which he has recovered from the waves of monthly magazines and elsewhere there is a certain amount of material for mirth. I do not however find him a startlingly original humorist, whether on the river Thames, where he seems to follow in the wake of Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, or in a Chelsea “pub,” where his manners are reminiscent of the characters of Messrs. W. W. Jacobs and Morton Howard. Again, in the story called “The First Marathon” (where, by the way, he states that “It is true that the word ‘Marathon’ was first used in connection with the old Olympian games,” which seems a little unfair to Miltiades), the fun mainly depends on the use of such phrases as “Spoo-fer,” “King Kod,” and the “Can’t-stik-you-shun-all Club.” Other stories are of the adventurous or romantic type sacred to serial fiction, no fewer than three dealing with escaped convicts on Dartmoor, and one (the first in the book) describing the chance meeting of a man and a pretty girl on an uninhabited island off the West Coast of Scotland. Here, for some reason or other, the man insisted on calling his charming and unknown companion Astarte, a name which, if I had been in her place, I should have been inclined to resent. But Mr. Bridges’ dialogue is nearly always bright, and his knowledge of the machinery of yarn-spinning excellent. There is just one other point however which I should like to mention. The book includes a brand-new Russian wolf-story, in which the heroes protect themselves from the bites of these ferocious quadrupeds by putting on armour, which they find in a deserted house. I don’t object to that; but, when they leave the railway line along which they have been travelling and plunge into a forest-path they come to a place where the route forks and cannot make out which of the two roads will be more likely to lead them back to the railway. I do not feel that these men were the sort of people to be trusted to wander by themselves in a desolate Siberian anecdote.