Chapter 3

Some of the finest things Murgatroyd did are to be found in and around Tooting, a quarter which is becoming known as Murgatroyd's London; but there is scarcely a district which does not cherish some gem from his trowel. At Wanstead Flats, during some reparations to "Edelweiss Cottage," there was discovered under the plaster a party-wall which proved to be a genuine Murgatroyd. It is one of his early works, executed with his studied reserve of power, and is marred only by suggestions of the conventional haste of the early Georgian School, from which Murgatroyd had not in those days completely broken away. It is also worth while to make a pilgrimage to Walham Green, where all that is best and most typical of the Master--that effect he obtained of deliberate treatment of each individual brick--may be seen in a perfect little poem--an outhouse (unfinished).

The fame of Perce Murgatroyd is founded on the quality rather than the quantity of his output. To our eternal loss he suffered from a temperament. He worked only by fits and starts. He never overcame a superstition that "Monday was a bad day for good work." And he was too conscientious an artist to attempt anything on days when the sky was overcast and the light bad. Often too, when he had actually made a start, he would stand, smoking furiously, in front of his work waiting for an inspiration.

This habit of his was the primary cause of his premature end. Emerging from some such fit of abstraction he became aware that it was after twelve. Convivial spirit that he was, he hurried to join his colleagues at their dinner, displaying remarkable agility as he descended the scaffold. But the effort caused him to perspire, and he took a chill, from which he never recovered.

The keynote of Murgatroyd's character was simplicity. Unaided he rose to be pre-eminent as a bricklayer, but in private life he never became accustomed to the exclusive society to which by his genius he had won admittance. He never quite lost the mincing speech of the class from which he sprang, nor could he acquire facility in the vigorous mode of expression proper to his new and exalted station. "Not 'arf" and "'Strewf" ever came haltingly to his tongue, and to the last he struggled painfully with the double negative.

But the same indomitable courage which brought him to the top of his profession eventually served him in his adopted social sphere, and in the end he won through.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE BRAIN WAVE.

I hope William likes it, for he brought it on himself. As soon as the sad event was announced to me I discussed the matter most seriously with Araminta. "A situation of unparalleled gravity has arisen," I said, "with regard to the wedding of William. It is going to be carried out at Whittlehampton in top-hats. Picture to yourself the scene. Waterloo Station full of lithe young athletes of either sex arrayed for sports on flood and field, carrying their golf-clubs, their diabolo spools and their butterfly nets, and there, in the midst of them, me with my miserable coat-tails, the June sun glaring on my burnished topper, and in my hands the silver asparagus-server or whatever it is that I am going to buy for William. I tell you it isn't done. They will come round and mock me. They will titter at me through their tennis-racquets."

"Couldn't you wear a common or Homburg hat and carry your other in a hat-box?" she suggested in that bright helpful way they have.

"Amongst the severe economic consequences of the recent great war," I replied coldly, "was, if you will take the trouble to remember, the total loss of my top-hat box."

"Well, why not a white cardboard box, then?"

"No power on earth shall induce me to stand on Waterloo Station platform dandling a white cardboard box," I cried. "Waterloo indeed! It would be my Austerlitz, my Jena. I should never dare to read the works of 'Man about Town' again. Besides, what about my morning-coat?"

"Well, I could pin the tails of it up inside if you like. Or what about wearing an overcoat?"

"Your first suggestion makes me despair of women's future position in the economic sphere. The second I would consider if I could settle the hat problem."

And still thinking hard I rang up William.

"I suppose you couldn't possibly cancel this wedding of yours?" I asked when I had explained the _impasse_. Self-centred as usual, he flatly declined.

"Honestly, I don't see the difficulty at all," he went on. "I expect you'll look a bit of a mug anyhow, and probably there'll be lots of people on the platform dressed in morning-coats and top-hats."

"Nobody leaves London on a Saturday morning wearing top-hats," I assured him, "nobody. If I were coming _in_ to London it would be quite a different matter. I might be an officer in the Guards, or M. KRASSIN proceeding to a deputation in Downing Street; but going out--no. Look here, why not make it a simple country wedding--sports coats and hayseed in the hair, and all that sort of thing?"

"Spats and white vest-slips will be worn by all the more prominent guests," he replied firmly.

"Well, hang it, have the thing in London, then," I implored, "and I'll promise to add the price of the return-fare to the cost of your wedding present."

"The bride's parents reside at Whittlehampton, and the wedding will take place from the home of the bride," he answered.

"You got that little bit out of _The Morning Post_," I said. "Couldn't you persuade the bride's parents to take a house in London? There's one just opposite us at only about thirty pounds a week. Stands in its own grounds, it does, and there's a stag's head in the hall. There's nothing like a stag's head for hanging top-hats on."

It was no good. You know what these young lovers are. Immersed in their own petty affairs, they can pay no proper attention to the troubles of their friends.

William rang off and left me once more a prey to harrowing despair. There were only three nights before the calamity took place, and I had terrible nightmares on two of them. In one I attended the wedding in a bowler hat and pyjamas, with carpet slippers and spats. In the other my top-hat was on my head and my vest-slip was all right, but I tailed off into khaki breeches and trench boots. On the third day a gleam of light broke and I rang up William again.

"I haven't quite settled that little hat problem I was talking to you about," I told him. "Look here--can you lend me your old top-hat-box?"

"Haven't got one," he replied. "In the chaos consequent upon Armageddon it somehow disappeared."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Happily the morning of the wedding was cloudy and dull. I wore my oldest squash hat and coat and went to Whittlehampton carrying my present in my hand. As the train arrived the sun broke through the clouds, and I also emerged from my chrysalis and attended the ceremony in all the panoply that William's egotism had demanded. If it had not been too late to get into the list you would have seen this entry amongst the wedding gifts:--

"Mr. Herbert Robinson: Leather hat-box."

Perhaps if it had been a very full list it would have gone on:--

"Containing unique specimen of dappled fawn trilby headwear slightly moth-eaten in the crown."

As I explained to William, it is customary to give useful rather than ornamental gifts nowadays, but I could not refrain from adding a small sentimental tribute.

EVOE.

* * * * *

THE WESTERN LIGHTHOUSES.

Flashed Lizard to Bishop, "They're rounding the fish up Close under my cliffs where the cormorants nest; The lugger lamps glitter In hundreds and litter The sea-floor like spangles. What news from the West?"

Flashed he of the mitre, "The night's growing brighter, There's mist over Annet, but all's clear at sea; Lit up like a city, Her band playing pretty, A big liner's passing. Ay, all's well with me."

Flashed Wolf to Round Island, "Oh, you upon dry land, With wild rabbits cropping the pinks at your base, You lubber, you oughter Stand watch in salt water With tides tearing at you and spray in your face."

The gun of the Longships Boomed out like a gong, "Ships Are bleating around me like sheep gone astray; There's fog in my channel As thick as grey flannel-- Boom-rumble!--I'm busy; excuse me, I pray."

They winked at each other As brother to brother, Those red lights and white lights, the summer night through, And steered the stray tramps out Till dawn snuffed their lamps out And stained the sea-meadows all purple and blue.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

"Advertiser has Stole Skin, Russian Sables, for Sale."--_Daily Paper._

This is what comes of opening up trade relations with the Bolshevists.

* * * * *

A provincial firm announces that it supplies "distinctive clothing for men." And a very necessary thing, too, in these days of sex equality.

* * * * *

"EX-SOLDIER requires Loan of £100. What interest? No lenders."--_Daily Paper._

We should have thought "No interest! What lenders?" would have been more to the point.

* * * * *

[Among the Americans who will visit us this summer there may be some not familiar with our countryside types. Mr. Punch hopes the above will be useful.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOW TO PACIFY IRELAND.

(_By a Student of anti-Coalition Political Psycho-Analysis._)

The announcement that a child of ten years old, recently described by the Willesden magistrate as "a remarkable example of a child kleptomaniac," has been handed over to an eminent specialist in psycho-pathology, has not yet received the attention that it undoubtedly demands. It is true that, in the beautifully alliterative phrase of one of our contemporaries, "with the exception of a penchant for petty peculations" the young offender "has always been a model girl, industrious and truthful," thus justifying the belief of the eminent specialist, that he could "wipe out the original sin" in her. But the child is mother to the woman, and those of us who have been gradually and conscientiously convinced of the total inadequacy of the Government's policy towards Ireland, cannot but recognise in this experiment an example which might be profitably followed in dealing with what--with all due deference to Hibernian susceptibilities--we are reluctantly driven to call the irregular conduct of certain sections of Irish society.

With the exception of a penchant for petty pin-pricks at the expense of the police, Ireland's behaviour has been exemplary in its industry and humanity. So averse were a large number of her sons from the employment of violence in any form that they refused to participate in warlike operations against the enemy that threatened our common Empire. So magnanimous was their charity that they found it impossible to credit the harsh and unchristian allegations levelled at the KAISER and his countrymen. But it could hardly be expected that so high-spirited and energetic a race could indefinitely pursue a course of inaction. The relentless logic which has always been a distinguishing feature of the Celt has impelled them, since the cessation of formal hostilities, to express their disapproval of a war waged in their interests by indulging in demonstrations--if so harsh a term may be permitted--directed against the _régime_ which has secured them immunity from invasion, devastation and conscription, and at the same time afforded them exceptional opportunities for amassing wealth.

It must be reluctantly admitted that some of these ebullitions have bordered closely on what we may be forgiven for describing as indecorum. But the motive was undoubtedly a generous instinct of self-assertion. Ever since the days of CAIN, the first great self-expressionist, there have always been richly-organised natures to whom even fratricide is preferable to the dull routine of agricultural life.

None the less it is at least arguable that an indefinite extension and expansion of the conduct now prevalent in the Sister Isle might be fraught with consequences not altogether conducive to the longevity of the minority. And while sad experience has proved the futility of legislative panaceas there still remain the fruitful possibilities inherent in an application of the principles of psycho-pathological treatment based on the discoveries of FREUD. For our own part we are convinced that herein lies the only solution of Ireland's discontent.

Therefore let the Government at once withdraw all troops and munitions of war from Ireland, disband the R.I.C. and invite the leaders of the Sinn Fein movement and of the I.R.B. to submit to a course of psychiatric treatment conducted by an international board of specialists, from which all representatives of the belligerent Powers should be excluded, with possibly the exception of America. It seems incredible that such an offer should be refused. If it is we can only patiently acquiesce in the optimistic view of the famous Celtic chronicler, GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS, that Ireland will be ultimately pacified just before the Day of Judgment--_vix paulo ante diem judicii_.

* * * * *

THE ART OF POETRY.

SOLUTION TO PROBLEM ON PAGE 446.

"It comes of my having a sniff."

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

From what is known of the tastes of Sir IAN HAMILTON it might have been supposed that he wrote his _Gallipoli Diary_ (ARNOLD) lest his pen-hand should lose its cunning while wielding the sword. Indeed he tells us of a rumour among his officers "that I spend my time composing poetry, especially during our battles." But that he did not write for the sake of writing must be clear to anyone who reads the book, even if the author had not declared his motive in the preface. Here he admits that, though "soldiers think of nothing so little as failure," it was in fact the thought of possible failure that determined him, at the very start, to prepare from day to day his defence. Perhaps this is not quite the attitude of one who stakes all upon the great chance. In another significant passage of self-revelation he tells us how, on a tour of inspection in Egypt, he met RUPERT BROOKE, "the most distinguished of the Georgians." "He looked extraordinarily handsome ... stretched out there on the sand, with the only world that counts at his feet." Whether in ordinary times the world of art is or is not the "only world that counts," I cannot say, but I am certain that to a soldier entrusted with an enterprise of so great moment the only world that should have "counted" at that hour was the world of war. If the chapter which describes the failure that followed the landing in Suvla Bay exposes the incapacity of some of his officers to inspire their men with that little more energy which would have ensured a great victory, it seems also to expose a certain want of compelling personality in the High Command. But of the military questions here raised I make no pretence to judge, and in any case judgment has been passed on them already. The interest of the diary lies in its appeal as a human document. It is the _apologia_ of a man who, for all his criticism, often apparently justified, of the authorities at home (there are passages which he must surely have suppressed if Lord KITCHNER had still been living), sets down scarce a word in malice and but few in bitterness of spirit; who appreciates at its high worth the devotion and gallantry of his officers and men; who, whatever qualities he may have lacked for his difficult task, reveals himself as loyal at heart and generous by nature.

* * * * *

Miss RUTH HOLT BOUCICAULT (a name with a double theatrical association) has written, in _The Rose of Jericho_ (PUTNAM), a novel of American stage life which I should suppose comes as near to being a true picture as such stories can. She derives her title from the convenient habit of the desert rose of detaching itself from uncongenial or exhausted soil, subsiding into a compact mass and travelling before the wind to more profitable surroundings. It will be admitted that the author has at least hit upon a picturesque metaphor for a touring company, which on this analogy becomes a very garden of (Jericho) roses. Actually, however, she no doubt intended it to apply more to the disposition of her heroine, and in particular to her power of transferring her young affections, flower, leaf and root, from one object to another, with undiminished enthusiasm. _Sheelah's_ capacity for being off with the old and on with the new is almost preternatural; her progress from stage-child to leading lady is accompanied by such various essays in unconventional domesticity that the reader may well experience a sense of confusion, or at least feel some difficulty in sustaining the first freshness of his sympathy. The story is at times almost startlingly American, as when the original betrayer of the heroine is excused on the ground that, being English, his morality would naturally not rise to native level (I swear I'm not laughing--see page 168); and so full of the idiom of the Transatlantic stage as to be a perfect _vade mecum_ for visiting mimes from this side. For the rest, vivacious, wildly sentimental and obviously written from first-hand experience.

* * * * *

By calling her _Potterism_ (COLLINS) "a tragi-farcical tract" Miss ROSE MACAULAY disarms our criticism that she conducts too heavy a discussion from too light a platform. I don't think the author of _What Not_ is likely to write anything dull, anything I shan't be pleased to read. She has a keen eye, a candid soul, a sharp-pointed pen. She is deliciously modern. And she dislikes _Potterism_, which is sentimental lack of precision in thought. It is much more (or much less) than this, but I get the definition by inverting a phrase of her dedication. _Potter_, by the way, or _Lord Pinkerton_, as he is now, owns a series of newspapers "not so good as _The Times_ nor so bad as _The Weekly Dispatch_" (guileless piece of camouflage this!), and _Mrs. Potter_ ("_Leila Yorke_") is a novelist who might have written _The Rosary_. Two of the young _Potters, Jane_ and _Johnny_, though they both when up at Oxford joined the _Anti-Potter League_, do not thereby escape being Potterites. They cling to materialistic _Potter_ values. Whereas an aristocratic clergyman, a woman scientist, a Jew journalist (this last an admirable study) do in varying degrees contrive to avoid the deadly infection. This tract needed writing. I have a feeling that it could be better done and by ROSE MACAULAY. But it makes excellent reading as it is.... The pachyderm will wince, shake himself and be left grinning.

* * * * *

Mr. ARNOLD PALMER derives the title of _My Profitable Friends_ (SELWYN AND BLOUNT) from a verse, new to me, in which the poet, apparently when launching her wares, concludes,

"But who has pain has songs to sell; My Profitable Friends, farewell!"

which I take to be the pleasantest way in the world of calling them pot-boilers. But whether they were so intended or not, there can be no question of the very agreeable dexterity that Mr. PALMER brings to the composition of his tales. Save for a few experiments (which I should call the least successful in the collection) his formula is not the episodical "slice of life," with crumbly edges. His choice is for the well-made, with usually some ingenious little twist at the finish, and (so to speak) a neatly tied bow to end all. As an instance of this kind I commend to your notice the admirably shaped little yarn called "Two-penn'orth." Mr. PALMER has a pretty wit (perhaps here and there a trifle thin), shown nowhere to better advantage than in "A Picked Eleven," one of the most entertaining, and at the same time human, short stories that I have ever read. Further, his tales are essentially of the friendly order, and the public will be in fault if they do not also prove profitable, since we have none too many writers capable of getting such deft results with the same economy of means.

* * * * *

In most stories constructed on the _Enoch Arden_ principle one of the husbands or wives (whichever it may be of whom there are too many) is usually a very nasty person. Miss SOPHIE COLE, in _The Cypress Tree_ (MILLS AND BOON), makes all three of her entangled characters quite attractive; in fact, though I fear she would not wish me to say so, I really liked the unsuccessful competitor better than the winner. Books made up of the little homely things which might happen to anybody and distinguished by their pleasant atmosphere have been Miss COLE's speciality in the past; this time she has, without abating a jot of her pleasantness, added a touch of the occult in the shape of an old black-letter volume which infects everyone who gets possession of it with a mildly insane determination to keep it. An honourable man steals it and a nice woman smacks her baby for holding it, so you can see how really baleful its influence must have been when you consider that they were both Miss COLE'S characters. A very little of the occult will excuse a good deal of improbability, and the small amount that has crept into _The Cypress Tree_ does not spoil the effect of a truly "nice" tale.

* * * * *

As an admirer of the _Spud Tamson_ books it irks me to have to say that _Winnie McLeod_ (HUTCHINSON) contains too much solid sermon to appeal to me. I gather that R. W. CAMPBELL wants to show how dangerous life may be for a poor and beautiful girl, and as a warning _Winnie_ can be confidently recommended. But sound and wholesome as the preaching is it seems to me more suitable for a tract than for a novel. Moreover it is not easy to feel full sympathy with a hero who is frankly called an Adonis, who "played a good bat at cricket," and also in a strenuous rugger match "dropped a beauty through the Edinburgh sticks." Altogether the picture suffers from the prodigious amount of paint that has been spent on it; yet I am confident it will afford edification to many people whose tastes I respect but cannot share.

* * * * *

"Ninety-six per cent. of men employed in the gas undertakings voted in favour of a strike. Four per cent. were against such action and the neutrals formed an infinitesimal number,"--_Daily Paper._

A mere cipher, in fact.

* * * * *

"Required, immediately, man with intimate knowledge of colours to call on consumers with ochres from the French Alps."

_Daily Paper._

Personally, we always prefer to consume raw umbers from the Apennines.

* * * * *