Chapter 3

So, blind and deaf, I might perhaps recover A partial peace of mind, but all in vain, For memories pursue the luckless lover, And only death can ease him of his pain. Thus, having proved that I were better dead, I think I'll go and talk to her instead.

* * * * *

BALM FOR THE BRAINLESS.

["If one man has more brains than another, which enable him to outstrip his fellows, is not that good fortune? What had he got to do with it? If your brain is a bad one, it is not your responsibility. If your brain is a good one it is not your merit. Some men have greater physical, mental, moral strength than others that enables them to win in the race. That is their good fortune and they ought to be grateful for it; and the one way they can best show their gratitude is by helping those who are less fortunate than themselves. Men endowed with any, or most, or all of these fortunate conditions ought not to be stingy in helping others who have not been so fortunate as themselves."--Mr. _Lloyd George at Denmark Hill, June 30_.]

As a result of Mr. Lloyd George's vivid and convincing pronouncement on the responsibilities of the fortunate, we have been deluged with appeals from all sorts and conditions of unlucky correspondents. We select the following from among the most deserving cases in the hope that our opulent readers may avail themselves of the chances thus offered of redressing the partiality of fortune.

The Cry of the Cracksman.

_The Sanctuary, Crookhaven._

Sir,--Endowed by nature with an imperfect moral sense and a complete inability to discriminate between _meum_ and _tuum_, I was irresistibly impelled at an early age to adopt the precarious profession of housebreaker. I have just served a sentence of three years, and was on the point of resuming my career when I read Mr. Lloyd George's epoch-making speech at Denmark Hill, in which he clearly defines the duty of the State to redress the inequalities of moral as well as material endowment by which so large a proportion of the community is penalised. I am the master of a fine literary style and admirably suited to discharge any secretarial duties, but it is only right that I should clearly explain at the outset that it is no use offering me any post unless it is so well salaried that I should never feel it was worth while to explore or appropriate the contents of my employer's safe.

Respectfully yours,

Raphael Bunny.

The Luck of the Law.

_Railway Carriage Bungalow,

Shoreham, Sussex._

Sir,--It is precisely thirty years since I was called to the Bar, and several of my contemporaries have already been elevated to the Bench, while Sir John Simon, who is considerably my junior, is in the receipt of a salary probably double that drawn by an ordinary Judge. My earnings for the last ten years have exempted me from income-tax, but this is but a poor consolation when I consider that were it not for the caprice of fortune I should probably be returning £400 or £500 a year to the Exchequer in super-tax. But not only have I been badly treated in regard to mental equipment; I have been further handicapped by hereditary conscientious objection to pay any bills. An annuity of £500 a year, or only one-tenth of the salary of a Judge, is the minimum that my self-respect will allow me to accept in payment of the State's long-standing debt to

Yours faithfully,

William Weir.

The Cruelty of Competition.

Sir,--I confidently appeal for your support in the application for a grant which I am forwarding to the Prime Minister. My son, aged 14, has failed to win an entrance scholarship at Winchester and Charterhouse, not from any fault of his own, but simply owing to the unfair competition of other candidates more liberally endowed with brains. At a modest estimate I calculate that the extra drain on my resources for the next eight years in consequence of this undeserved hardship will amount to at least £600, which I can ill afford owing to unfortunate speculations in Patagonian ruby mines--another example of that bad luck which, in the noble words of the Chancellor Of the Exchequer, it is the privilege of the prosperous to remedy.

I am, Sir, yours expectantly,

(Rev.) J. Stonor Brooke.

_Vis inertiæ._

_Lotus Lodge, Limpsfield._

Sir,--A victim since birth to congenital lassitude, which has rendered all labour, whether manual or mental, distasteful, nay, intolerable to me, I find myself at the age of 41 so out of touch with the spirit of strenuous effort which has invaded every corner of our national life that I am anxious to confer on the State or, failing that, some meritorious millionaire the privilege of providing for my modest needs. A snug sinecure with a commodious residence and a good car--cheap American motors are of course barred--represent the indispensable minimum.

I am, Sir, yours faithfully,

Everleigh Slack.

* * * * *

Some day, says the President of the Aero Club, we shall be able to go into a shop and buy a pair of wings. But we can do that already; the only difficulty is to fly with them.

* * * * *

"Gentleman, middle aged, would be glad of a few correspondents (40 to 60)."

_T. P.'s Weekly._

Too Many.

* * * * *

THE SILENT CHARMER.

[Speaking of flowers a contemporary recently remarked:--"These careless-looking creatures filling the air with delight, robbing tired brains of tiredness, are a delicate texture of coloured effort that has prevailed out of a thousand chances, aided in all that effort by man. Without man they would be but weeds--a profusion of Nature's quantity."]

My dearest Thomas, I would not Deny the fact that you are clever; You've taught Dame Nature what is what At horticultural endeavour (She has not got that useful thing, The shilling book of gardening).

She has her merits, but, of course, Her wild attempts won't stand comparing With such a floral _tour de force_ As that geranium you are wearing; Yon chosen emblem of your skill Must surely make her wilder still.

But give me Nature; when we meet She does not prattle of her posies, Dull facts of what begonias eat, The dietetic fads of roses, And how she strove with spade and spud. Or nipped the green fly on the bud.

'Tis she that really soothes the brain, Spreading her weeds in bright profusion, And never troubling to explain How much they owe to her collusion, While, Thomas, _your_ achievements seem To be your one and only theme.

* * * * *

Mr. J. C. Parke, writing in _The Strand Magazine_ on the best way to beat Wilding, says:--

"Personally, after close observation and from playing against him, I would suggest a determined attack on the champion's forehead from the base-line."

That ought to learn him.

* * * * *

"His Majesty has been pleased to confer the dignity of an Earldom of the United Kingdom upon Field-Marshal the Viscount Kitchener of Khartoum, P.G.C., B.O.M.G.C., S.I.G.C.M., G.G.C.I.E."

_Newcastle Daily Journal._

The old orders change, yielding place to new.

* * * * *

From a magazine cover:--

"This magazine has been the turning point in many a man's career. Spend twopence and half-an-hour on it.... Price Threepence."

We would rather pay the threepence.

* * * * *

"In our report of the wedding of Mr. Lee Kwee Law to Miss Chan Siew Cheen we inadvertently left out the following, who also sent presents_:----"--Straits Echo._

And then they inadvertently left them out again.

* * * * *

THE CURE FOR CRICKET.

There is no longer any doubt that golf is threatening the supremacy of our national game. Judged by the only true standard--the amount of space allotted to it in the daily press--it is manifest that the encroachments of this insidious pastime have now reached a point where the cricket reformer must bestir himself before it is too late. We are convinced that so far we have been taking much too narrow a view. The time has come to look for light and leading outside the confines of our own Book of Rules. There are other games besides cricket. Let us call them to our councils.

In the first place a valuable hint may surely be found in the development of Rugby football. It is common knowledge what immense results have followed the introduction, some twenty years ago, of the Four Three-quarter System. No spectator (and we cannot exist without the spectator) would ever dream now of returning to the old formation. Very well. The same principle can be easily adapted to our requirements in the form of the Three Batsmen System. The pitch would become an equilateral triangle, and we should suggest that the bowler have the option of bowling (from his own corner) at either of the two outlying batsmen (at theirs). Lots of interesting developments would follow, as, for instance, the institution of a sort of silly-point-short-mid-on in the centre of the triangle. (Should he be allowed to wear gloves?)

Golf has also a lesson to teach us. We are all familiar with the huge strides that have been made by the introduction of the rubber-cored ball. We don't want to plagiarize, although a rubber-cored cricket ball is a nice idea. Why not aim at the opposite extreme and try a ball "reinforced" with concrete? The tingling of the batsman's fingers which might result could be neutralised by the use of a rubber-faced bat. This reform would, we believe, have one happy consequence. People wouldn't be so keen to play with their legs.

As to lawn tennis--another dangerous rival--we hear a good deal in these days about "foot-faults." That seems to show the trend of modern thought. If we are to be in the swim we shall have to reconsider our no-ball rule. Why not make it a no-ball every time unless the bowler has both feet in the air at the moment when the ball leaves his hand? One might put up a little hurdle--nothing obtrusive--only a matter of a few inches high.

We believe that something might even be done by borrowing from hockey the principle of the semi-circle, outside of which a goal may not be shot. The whole pitch might be enclosed in a circular crease--which would look uncommonly well in Press photographs. (We cannot exist without the Press.) No fielder inside the magic circle would be allowed to stop the ball with his feet.

Finally there is the case of billiards, not a game that is very closely allied to cricket, but one from which much may be learned. How has billiards brightened itself? By adopting the great principle of "barring" certain strokes. Here we have got on to something really valuable. We propose to go one better, and draw up a schedule of the different conditions of barring under which matches may be played. It will only remain for secretaries, when fixtures are made, to arrange the terms by negotiation. In time to come, should we be able to carry our point, we shall all be familiar with such announcements as the following:--

Notts. _v._ Surrey. (Cut-barred.) Gentlemen _v._ Players. (L.b.w.-barred.) England _v._ Australia. (Googly-and-yorker-barred.)

We do not pretend to have exhausted the subject, but we have made a start. We must look about us. Something may be learned, we firmly believe, even from skittles and ping-pong. Our national game cannot afford to exclude special features. It should have the best of everything.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Professional Candour.

"The sermon over, a collection was taken, and hardly a person present did not contribute. Mgr. Benson's sermon went to the hardest heart there. Even the journalists contributed."

_The Universe._

* * * * *

THE HERE, THERE AND LONDON LETTER.

_With apologies to "The Westminster_ Gazette."_

The Home of the South Saxons.

Sussex, the county for which Mr. C. B. Fry (who hurt his leg in the Lord's centenary match) used to play before he moved to Hampshire, is an attractive division of the country to the south of London with a long sea border. Mr. Kipling has praised it in some memorable verses, and among frequent visitors to its principal town, Brighton, is the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The word Sussex is a contraction of South Saxon. All will wish the old Oxonian a speedy recovery from his strain.

A Monetary Proverb.

The origin of the old saying, "Penny wise, pound foolish," which has come into vogue again in connection with the revised income tax--for who can deny that the saving of the penny is wise?--is lost in obscurity; but there is no doubt that it is very ancient. Many nations have the same proverb in different terms as applied to their own currency. In France the coins to which the saying best applies would be the sou and the louis; in America, the cent and the dollar; and so forth.

Cordiality before Party.

The circumstance of Mr. Lulu Harcourt's unveiling a memorial to Mr. Joseph Chamberlain and Mr. Austen Chamberlain at the Albert Dock Hospital is not without precedent. On more than one occasion party differences have been similarly forgotten. Thus several golf-players contributed to _The Daily Telegraph_ shilling fund in honour of the great W. G. Grace some few years ago. Such sinking of private shibboleths is a very excellent thing and goes far to show how thoroughly sound and healthy English public life really is _au fond_.

The Names of Colleges.

Exeter College, Oxford, which has just celebrated its six hundredth anniversary, is not the only college which bears the same name as that of a city. Pembroke is another. Keble is, of course, named after the hymn-writer and divine; and Balliol, where C. S. C. played the wag so divertingly, after Balliol. _À propos_ of Oxford, it is a question whether that extremely amusing book, _Verdant Green_, is still much read by freshers.

The Author of _The Little Minister._

Sir James Barrie, who is said to have written a revue for production this autumn at a West-End Theatre, must not be confounded with the French sculptor, Barye, in spite of the similarity of name. Barye is famous chiefly for his bronzes of lions; and fortunately, in making his studies of these dangerous animals, he escaped the fate which so often befalls the trainer of wild beasts whose animals suddenly turn upon him.

* * * * *

ONCE UPON A TIME.

The Alien.

Once upon a time a poet was sitting at his desk in his cottage near the woods, trying to write.

It was a hot summer day and great fat white clouds were sailing across the sky. He knew that he ought to be out, but still he sat on, pen in hand, trying to write.

Suddenly, among all the other sounds of busy urgent life that were filling the warm sweet air, he heard the new and unaccustomed song of a bird. At least not new and not unaccustomed, but new and unaccustomed there, in this sylvan retreat. The notes poured out, now shrill, now mellow, now bubbling like musical water, but always rich with the joy of life, the fulness of happiness. Where had he heard it before? What bird could it be?

Suddenly the poet's housekeeper hurried in. "Oh, Sir," she exclaimed, "isn't it a pity? Someone's canary has got free, and it's singing out here something beautiful."

"Of course," said the poet--"a canary;" and he hastened out to see it. But before he could get there the bird had flown to a clump of elms a little way off, from which proceeded sweeter and more tumultuously exultant song than they had ever known.

The poet walked to the elms with his field-glasses, and after a while he discerned among the million leaves, the little yellow bird, with its throat trembling with rapture.

But the poet and his housekeeper were not the only creatures who had heard the strange melody.

"I say," said one sparrow to another, "did you hear that?"

"What?" inquired the other sparrow, who was busy collecting food for a very greedy family.

"Why, listen," said the first sparrow.

"Bless my soul," said the second. "I never heard that before."

"That's a strange bird," said the first sparrow; "I've seen it. It's all yellow."

"All yellow?" said the other. "What awful cheek!"

"Yes, isn't it?" replied the first sparrow. "Can you understand what it says?"

"Not a note," said the second. "Another of those foreigners, I suppose. We shan't have a tree to call our own soon."

"That's so," said the first. "There's no end to them. Nightingales are bad enough, grumbling all night, and swallows, although there's not so many of them this year as usual; but when it comes to yellow birds--well."

"Hullo," said a passing tit, "what's the trouble now?"

"Listen," said the sparrows.

The tit was all attention for a minute while the gay triumphant song went on.

"Well," he said, "that's a rum go. That's new, that is. Novel, I call it. What is it?"

"It's a yellow foreigner," said the sparrows.

"What's to be done with it?" the tit asked.

"There's only one thing for self-respecting British birds to do," said the first sparrow. "Stop it. Teach it a lesson."

"Absolutely," said the tit. "I'll go and find some others."

"Yes, so will we," said the sparrows; and off they all flew, full of righteous purpose.

Meanwhile the canary sang on and on, and the poet at the foot of the tree listened with delight.

Suddenly, however, he was conscious of a new sound--a noisy chirping and harsh squeaking which seemed to fill the air, and a great cloud of small angry birds assailed the tree. For a while the uproar was immense, and the song ceased; and then, out of the heart of the tumult, pursued almost to the ground where the poet stood, fell the body of a little yellow bird, pecked to death by a thousand avenging furies.

Seeing the poet they made off in a pack, still shrilling and squawking, but conscious of the highest rectitude.

The poet picked up the poor mutilated body. It was still warm and it twitched a little, but never could its life and music return.

While he stood thoughtfully there an old woman, holding an open cage and followed by half-a-dozen children, hobbled along the path.

"My canary got away," she said. "Have you seen it? It flew in this direction."

"I'm afraid I have seen it," said the poet, and he opened his hand.

"My little pet!" said the old woman. "It sang so beautifully, and it used to feed from my fingers. My little pet."

The poet returned to his work. "'In tooth and claw,'" he muttered to himself, "'In tooth and claw.'"

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerics._)

_Tents of a Night_ (Smith, Elder) is a quite ordinary story, about entirely commonplace persons, which has however an original twist in it. I never met a story that conveyed so vividly the nastiness of a summer holiday that isn't nice. The holiday was in Brittany, just the common round, Cherbourg, Coutances, Mont St. Michel, and the rest of it; and the holiday-makers were _Mr._ and _Mrs. Hepburn_, their niece _Anne_, and a rather pleasant flapper named _Barbara_ whom they had taken in charge. _Anne_ is the heroine and central character of the holiday; and certainly whatever discomforts it contained she seems to have done her successful best to add to. "This is a beastly place!" was her written comment upon St. Michel; and it was typical of her attitude throughout. Of course the real trouble with _Anne_ was something deeper than drains or crowded hotels or the smell of too many omelettes: she was in love. Apparently she was more or less in love with two men, _Dragotin Voinovich_ (whose name was a constant worry to _Anne's_ aunt, and I am bound to say that I share her feelings about it) and _Jimmy Fordyce_, a pleasant young Englishman who pulls the girls out of quicksands and makes himself generally agreeable. In the end, however--but on second thoughts the end, emotionally speaking, of _Anne_ is just what I shall not tell you, as it is precisely the thing that redeems the book from being commonplace. This you will enjoy; and also those remarkably real descriptions of various plage-hotels in August, the noise, the crowds, the long hot meals, the sunshine and constant wind, the sand on the staircase, and the general atmosphere of wet bathing-gowns--all these are a luxurious delight to read about in a comfortable English room. Miss Mary Findlater evidently knows them.

* * * * *

Dippers who have given a new meaning to the classical motto, _Respice finem_, are so common amongst novel readers that Patricia Wentworth will only have herself to thank if many who are unfamiliar with her work fail to do justice to a book nine-tenths of which is thoroughly interesting and excellently well-written. As a boy, the hero of _Simon Heriot_ (Melrose) is misunderstood, and although _Mr. Martin_, his step-father, is a somewhat stagey specimen of the heavy and vulgar papa, the child's emotions (as, for instance, when he pretends that the storm of his parent's wrath is the ordeal of the Inquisition or some far-away battle of paladins in which he is contending) are finely conceived, and many of the later passages in _Simon's_ life--his unhappy love affair with _Maud Courtney_, his relations with his grandmother and with _William Forster_, the schoolmaster--are quite engrossing and give occasion for memorable sketches of character. It is when the natural end of the story is reached, and _Simon_ has come into his own and has just been wedded to his proper affinity, that the structure seems to me to fall with a crash. I might perhaps, though not without reluctance, have pardoned an impertinent railway accident which leaves the young man apparently crippled for life, but the last chapters, in which he finds spiritual comfort and (after the doctors have given up hope) complete anatomical readjustment through the ministrations of faith healing, alienated me entirely. From the outset the obvious scheme of the novel is to bring the hero back happily to the home and, if you will, the rustic church of his ancestors; and, though the science of Christian healing may do all that its adherents claim for it, it has about as much to do with the case of _Simon Heriot_ as the dancing dervishes or the rites of Voodoo.