Part 2
It is not generally known that a rigidly conscientious person can play single-handed Beaver with great content. One scores Beavers walking in the same direction as oneself to the server, Beavers coming from that direction, and so passing the player, to the striker and stationary Beavers in accordance with the direction in which their heads are turned, towards or away from the player. Beavers debouching suddenly from cross-roads, if one has not time, as on a swift omnibus, to observe their ultimate direction, are “no-balls.”
Objections to the Game.
It has been objected that the game is nonsensical, anti-social and essentially discourteous. Nonsensical it is, an it please you; but is not nonsense a rare and a precious thing? Is not the nonsense of Lewis Carroll quite entirely adorable? Is not Lear’s story of Violet, Slingsby, Guy and Lionel a thing of impressive beauty? The game is not anti-social, for it entails an increased interest in and admiration of one’s fellow-men and, as regards discourtesy, surely it is as much a compliment to a Red-King to cry on him, “Beaver, game, set, match,” as it is to comment upon some damsel’s handsome eyes.
The Beaver.
“Aristotle in his ethics takes up the conceit of the _Bever_,”[7] and, in general, one may assume that the bearded are proud of their adornments, love them, cherish them, even going so far in some cases as to enclose them in silken bags before retiring to rest. Controversy has long raged as to the propriety or otherwise of shaving. The Greek Church held strong views on the point, “... and also they say, that we sin deadly in shaving our beards, for the beard is token of a man, and gift of our Lord.”[8] The antient Greeks, as we have observed, for long clutched their hairiness, but finally succumbed to the Macedonian mode, and shaved clean; it is an interesting point that they did utterly abhor the Walrus. In England the matter has been entirely regulated by fashion, and I cannot trace the existence of any important body of opinion in favour of or against the practice of shaving. It would, nevertheless, be safe to say that an immature Beaver in the present year of grace is so rare as to be practically unknown--English specimens are seldom lighter than medium-brindle--which shows the trend of modern thought.
It may be accepted, then, that the Beaver indulges in efflorescence in order to gratify his vanity (or in a few cases, perhaps, to keep his throat warm and save the expense of cravats). Perhaps he remembers the dictum, “_l’habit long et la barbe imposent de respect_.”[9] In which connection it may be emphasised that the intense interest now taken in fine specimens should be (and probably is) a source of considerable gratification to them. I have even been told of one superb Red-King who invariably congratulates the fortunate player who scores him.
[Footnote 7: Browne. _Pseudodoxia_, I., c. ix.]
[Footnote 8: Mandeville, c. iii.]
[Footnote 9: Voltaire, _Dict. Phil._]
Characteristics of various Species.
It is interesting to observe the very marked personal characteristics of the various species. A Brindled-King-Beaver is commonly distinguished by a dignified port and an air of profound weightiness. In a Red-King something of wistful may be remarked, in a Xanthine a touch, maybe, of bewilderment. Parti-colours are usually rather bird-like (perhaps the unconscious influence of the wag-tail) and Yellows are always pugnacious in appearance. The Fringed-Georgic smacks of the soil, the Imperial of cafés with red velvet, the Bald-King of the Reading-Room of the British Museum, the Tufted of antimaccassars and bronze horrors wriggling under glass domes. But all, without exception, carry an indefinable air of _exotisme_, a something that raises them above the herd; they appear never natural products, always “sports.”
The Queen-Beaver.
Of the Queen-Beaver it may be safely said that “the female of the species is more deadly than the male.” A really fine Pink-Queen is awe-inspiring, and a Grey-Queen infinitely terrifying. The dainty Blonde-Queen (it is advisable to have two assessors, for the signs of her beaverhood are “_plus follets, plus doux, plus imperceptibles_”[10] than in any other species) has a sinister air; a Black-Queen suggests “Macbeth.” It is curious to read that “in Cyprus the Goddess of Love wore a beard.”[11] Queens are rare and no false gallantry should prevent a player from scoring them whenever possible. It is, however, the mark of the gentleman to claim them _sotto voce_, almost in a whisper.
[Footnote 10: Voltaire, _op. cit._]
[Footnote 11: Macrobius, _Saturn_, iii., 8.2.]
Personalia.
We have now examined the game briefly, investigated the characteristics of the Beaver family, cast a rapid and perfunctory glance at the Beaver in History (a subject deserving of a tome), and suggested explanations that may be offered, a defence that may be attempted, when a player is assailed by a non-player. “To beaver or not to beaver, that is the question.” The decision must be taken; paltering is no part of a man. Myself, I took it on the top of an omnibus outside the Ritz, and I played a most excellent game with myself as far as St. Mary Abbott’s.
Having set my hand to the plough I did not look back, but entered upon the game in all seriousness. When Fortune appeared I did not give her a chance to “present her bald noddle,” but I grabbed her firmly by the forelock. Being from town I chanced upon a small _coterie_ of learned enthusiasts, and much improved my game, as also my knowledge. The city was a very warren of Beavers; most of my finest specimens were secured there. Does not the mouth of every collector water on reading that I scored--with two witnesses, one of whom viséd the prey--a glorious Pink-Queen, leaning on a green bicycle outside the Post-Office? and, subsequently, an American Grey-Queen with young? The only rarity, roughly speaking, which eluded me was a fine Fringed-Georgic. I scored a somewhat moth-eaten specimen of uncertain colouration. Thus, “on stepping-stones of our dead” Beavers I attained to a certain skill. It would have been impossible to choose a better place for my little holiday, and my gratitude to my genial instructors and coaches knows no bounds.
Local rules were well-framed, simple and reasonable. There are two “local D. F.s,” easily recognisable, and a certain number of markedly fine specimens which have great repute in the district and bear a very high scoring-value. All unknowing I claimed and scored _the_ Ecclesiastical-King and was, instantly, awarded two games. It was, in very truth, a noble creature, a Pointed-Brindle, which is, of course, as rare and valuable as a pointed fox, in gorgeous coat and official robes of a searching scarlet. I had the good fortune to secure also the finest King in Full Winter-Coat that I have ever seen. The adornment was almost incredibly bushy and “white as the neck of Lalage,” while the specimen wore brown _suéde_ shoes. Heigh ho! for the brave days that are dead. Golly, what a garland I wove me in that dear place.
Conclusion.
To what point are we come? Is the game of Beaver the expression of a passionate mass-protest against the furred face, or is it the forerunner of a revival of beards, that is, do we see here the shadow of that antient custom which led peoples to sacrifice yearly the animals who else were deities, whom they adored?[12] In any case the Beard is again burgeoning. But a few years gone the bearded were not, _qua_ beards, of any importance, now they loom upon the social horizon considerably larger than a man’s hand. Of the importance of the Beard it may well be that the apogee is upon us. Perchance the Beard will again be invested with the dignity of ceremonial as in antient China. “After the coffining,” so we read of the obsequies of an officer, “the Master of the Ceremonies does away with his hair-tufts.”[13] Shall we live to see the Beard exalted as an horn on high? Will the game of Beaver re-instate the Beard as the Crimean campaign instituted the now almost extinct (but exquisite) moustache-whisker fitment, or will it drive the hairy to put off the whole armour of hairiness? _Quien sabe?_ These things remain, in the charming phrase of M. Cliché, “on the knees of the gods,” but it is safe to assert that, even now, we can as a people, we English, rebut the accusation of Samuel Butler, “we often do not notice that a man has grown a beard.”[14]
[Footnote 12: _See_ Herodotus, ii., 42.]
[Footnote 13: Chou Kung, _The I-Li_, c. xxxi.]
[Footnote 14: Butler, _The Notebooks_, p. 311.]
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+Barry Pains parody of “If Winter Comes”+ ---------------------------------------
If Summer Don’t
*A.B.C.D.E.F.G.H. NOTSOMUCHINSON*
BARRY PAIN
_Barry Pain’s Parody of “If Winter Comes”_--
“IF SUMMER DON’T”
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