Chapter 3

[Mr. CYRIL SCOTT, the musical composer, in his recently published volume on _The Philosophy of Modernism in its connection with Music_, states that the criterion of lofty music, the method of gauging the spiritual value of art, "is only possible to him who has awakened the latent faculties of the pineal gland and the pituitary body."]

Lately I've been reading CYRIL SCOTT'S Book on Music, modern and unmuzzled, And, though solving many toughish knots, By one statement I am sadly puzzled, Namely, that if we would understand What divides the noble from the shoddy We must cultivate "the pineal gland," Also "the pituitary body."

But unfortunately SCOTT refrains (Hence my present painful agitation) From elucidating how one gains This desiderated consummation. Must I fly to silken Samarcand, Or explore the distant Irrawaddy For the culture of my pineal gland And of my pituitary body?

Is the object gained by force of will Or some drastic vegetarian diet? Does it mean a compound radium pill Causing vast upheaval and disquiet? Do I need some special "Hidden Hand," Or the very strongest whisky toddy To arouse my dormant pineal gland, My unused pituitary body?

Should I read the works of Mr. YEATS, Or the lays of WILCOX (ELLA WHEELER)? Must I visit the United States And consult the newest occult "healer"? Is the tragedy of IBSEN'S _Brand_ Or the humour of _Poor Pillycoddy_ Better feeding for my pineal gland And for my pituitary body?

Vain the subtle art of HENRY JAMES, Vain the wealth of ROTHSCHILDS or of MORGANS, If I fail to satisfy the claims Of these mystic and momentous organs; I'm no better than a grain of sand Or a simple common polypody, With an undeveloped pineal gland, An inert pituitary body.

Blindly seeking for a helpful clue, Welcoming no matter what suggestion, I have lately sounded one or two Leading doctors on this vital question; But they think I'll have to be trepanned If I wish effectively to modify the structure of my pineal gland Or of my pituitary body.

MORAL.

_'Gin pituitary bodies, With awakened eye, Meet with humble hoddy-doddies-- Smaller human fry-- Cries and kissing both are missing When they're passing by, And the astral demi-god is Comin' thro' the rye_.

* * * * *

OUR COLLOQUIAL CONTEMPORARIES.

"Repeated charges by Turkish cavalry resulted in only a slight gain of ground at the expense of heavy osses."--_Daily News_.

* * * * *

FREE FOODERS.

"ROSYTH WORKERS AND THE COST OF LIVING.

"Mr. Douglas moved that they demand a reduction in the cost of living of 200 per cent. by abolishing profiteering and securing national control of food supplies. It was subsequently agreed to demand 100 per cent. decrease in the cost of food."--_Glasgow Herald_.

* * * * *

THE COMPLETE PLASHER.

"Francesca," I said, "listen to this."

"I will," she said, "if it's worth listening to."

"You can't tell that till you've heard it, can you?"

"Well, what is it, anyhow?"

"It's a letter," I said, "from Harry Penruddock."

"That doesn't sound very exciting."

"Ah, but wait a bit."

"Well, get a move on. I've got to see the cook."

"He sends me," I said, "a notice which has been served upon him about his cottage at Smoltham. He wants to have my opinion about it."

"Very well, give him your opinion, and let's get on with the War."

"Francesca," I said, "are you not more than a little peevish this morning?"

"I have no patience," she said, "with notices that have to be served. It's always done by sanitary inspectors and rate collectors, and people of that sort. Why can't they just post them and have done with it?"

"Who are you," I said, "that you should fly in the face of Providence in this way? Can't you see that if a notice is 'served,' it immediately becomes twice as important?"

"Oh, if it adds to the dignity of an inspector, well and good; but for my part I should have posted it."

"You are not a sanitary inspector, and cannot realise the feelings of one."

"They have no feelings, and that's why they're made inspectors."

"Hush!" I said, and began to read:--

"'In pursuance of the directions given in an Act passed in the fifth and sixth years of the reign of King William the Fourth, entitled "An Act to consolidate and amend the Laws relating to Highways in that part of Great Britain called England," I, T. Bradish, of the Town Hall, Smoltham, do hereby give you notice forthwith to cut, prune, plash or lop certain Trees and Hedges overhanging the highway immediately adjoining your premises, No. 15, East Gate, in the Parish of Smoltham, and which are causing an obstruction and annoyance to the said highway, so that the obstructions caused to the said highway shall be removed.

"'Dated this 19th day of October, 1917.'"

"Isn't it priceless?" I said.

"It is," said Francesca. "I never knew before that a road could be annoyed."

"Even a road has its feelings."

"Yes, perhaps it's a short lane, and everybody tramples on it, and it turns at last."

"So do borough engineers and surveyors, it seems."

"I bet this one's a Tartar."

"How can you tell that?"

"I can tell it by his style, which is very severe and uncompromising."

"His style," I said, "is as the statute made it, and mustn't be impugned by us."

"I particularly like that bit about plashing the trees. How in the name of all that's English do you plash a tree?"

"If," I said, "you were a fountain and wanted to be poetical, you would plash, instead of splashing."

"That's nonsense," she said.

"No," I said, "it's poetry."

"But you don't pour poetry on overhanging trees. It must mean something else."

"I'll tell you what; we'll get a dictionary."

"Yes," she said, "you get it. I'm no good at dictionaries. I always find such a lot of fascinating words that I never get to the one I want."

"I'm rather like that myself," I said. "However I'll exercise self-restraint. Here you are: Packthread, Pastime, Pin--there's a lot about Pin--Plash. Got it! It means 'to bend down and interweave the branches or twigs of.'"

"Now," she said, "we know what Mr. Bradish wants."

"He's a very arbitrary man," I said. "How can he expect Harry Penruddock to bend down and interweave the branches or twigs of?"

"Anyway, Harry's got to do it, whether he understands it or not."

"Yes," I said, "borough surveyors take no denials. And now that you've had your lesson in English, you can go and see the cook."

"Half a mo'," she said; "I'm acquiring a lot of useful information about 'Plaster.' I never knew--"

"Hurry up," I said, "or we shan't get any lunch."

R.C.L.

* * * * *

DERELICT.

_(Notices to Mariners. North Atlantic Ocean. Derelict reported.)_

"We left 'er 'eaded for Lord knows where, in latitude forty-nine, With a cargo o' deals from Puget Sound, an' 'er bows blown out by a mine; I seen 'er just as the dark come down--I seen 'er floatin' still, An' I 'ope them deals'd let her sink afore so long," said Bill.

"It warn't no use to stand by 'er--she could neither sail nor steer-- With the biggest part of a thousand mile between 'er and Cape Clear; The sea was up to 'er waterways an' gainin' fast below, But I'd like to know she went to 'er rest as a ship's a right to go.

"For it's bitter 'ard on a decent ship, look at it 'ow you may, That's worked her traverse an' stood 'er trick an' done 'er best in 'er day, To be driftin' around like a nine-days-drowned on the Western Ocean swell, With never a hand to reef an' furl an' steer an' strike the bell.

"No one to tend 'er binnacle lamps an' light 'er masthead light, Or scour 'er plankin' or scrape 'er seams when the days are sunny an' bright; No one to sit on the hatch an' yarn an' smoke when work is done, An' say, 'That gear wants reevin' new some fine dogwatch, my son.'

"No one to stand by tack an' sheet when it's comin' on to blow; Never the roar of 'Rio Grande' to the watch's stamp-an'-go; An' the seagulls settin' along the rail an' callin' the long day through, Like the souls of old dead sailor-men as used to be 'er crew.

"Never a port of all 'er ports for 'er to fetch again, Nothin' only the sea an' the sky, the sun, the wind an' the rain; It's cruel 'ard on a decent ship, an' so I tell you true, An' I wish I knew she 'ad gone to 'er rest as a good ship ought to do."

C.F.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Generally speaking, stories left unfinished because of the death of the writer in mid course can only be at best an uncomfortable, exasperating legacy to his admirers. But by a thrice happy chance this is not the case with the two novels upon which the late HENRY JAMES was engaged at the time of his fatal illness. This good fortune comes from the fact that it was the writer's habit "to test and explore," in a written or dictated sketch, the possible developments of any theme before embarking upon its treatment in detail. I get the phrase "test and explore," than which there could be no better, from the brief preface to the volume now before me, _The Ivory Tower_ (COLLINS). It exactly suggests the method of this preliminary study, doubly precious now, both as supplying the key by which we can understand the fragment that has been worked out, and as in itself giving us a glimpse, wonderfully fascinating, of its evolution. _The Ivory Tower_ (called so characteristically after an object whose bearing upon the intrigue is of the slightest) is a study of wealth in its effect upon the mutual relations of a small group of persons belonging to the plutocracy of pre-war America. Its special motive was to be a development of situation as between a young legatee, in whom the business instinct is entirely wanting, and his friend and adviser, whom he was presently to detect in dishonest dealing, yet refrain from any act of challenge that would mean exposure. "Refrain"--does this not give you in one word the whole secret of what would have been a study in character and emotion obviously to the taste of the writer? For itself, and still more for the glimpse of what it was to become, _The Ivory Tower_ must have a place in every collection where the unmatchable wit of HENRY JAMES is honoured as it should be.

* * * * *

Something less successful perhaps for itself, though even more absorbing technically, is the volume containing the unfinished fragment of another HENRY JAMES novel, to be called _The Sense of the Past_ (COLLINS). Here especially it is the preliminary study that furnishes the chief interest; the spectacle of this so-skilled craftsman struggling to master an idea that might well, I think, have been found later too unsubstantial, too subtly fantastic, for working out. Very briefly, the theme is to treat of a young American, in whom this "Sense of the Past" is all-powerful; whom the gift of an old London house and its furnishings enables to transport himself bodily into the life of 1820. More than this, he lives that life (and it is here that one suspects the idea of becoming unmanageable) in the person of an actual youth of that time, in whom a corresponding Sense of the Future has been so strong that he has answered the curiosity of his descendant by an exchange of personalities. Of course the dangers and confusions of the plan, a kind of psychological version of one often used in farce (except that it precisely wasn't to be any manner of dream), are such as might well alarm any writer--and, one might add, any reader also. It is a further misfortune that the style of what is actually written should be in the master's most remote and obscure manner, so much so that one is forced to wonder whether, without the notes as guide, it would be in any sort clear what the whole thing was about. The transition, for example, from the actual to the supernatural event is so abrupt that it might well have left the uninformed helplessly befogged. But this very fact again, as supposing some further treatment only now to be guessed at, helps to make the unique fascination of the book as revealing the difficulties and rewards of letters.

* * * * *

Whatever Mr. ERNEST THOMPSON SETON cares to write I am glad to read, but there were moments in _The Preacher of Cedar Mountain_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) when the great moral lesson of the story was as much as I could bear. The tale reveals the spiritual and moral development of _Jim Hartigan_. The author assures us that most of the characters are drawn from life, and that some of the main events are historical. All which I can easily believe, for Mr. SETON'S blunt method of describing _Jim Hartigan's_ evolution from an unhallowed stable-boy to a muscular Christian continually suggests reality. It is not a stylish method, but it gets home, and in a tale of this kind that is the main, if not the only, matter of importance. _Jim's_ besetting weaknesses were drink and an overwhelming love for horses. The former he conquered fairly soon, but the latter tripped him up more than once, and if he had not been guided by the wisest woman who ever came from the West his end would have been chaotic. The races at Fort Ryan are excellently described, and as a picture of the West of America some forty years ago you will find this story of _Jim's_ conversion both instructive and intriguing. All the same Mr. SETON has so often delighted me by his tales of the animal world that I hope this excursion is merely a holiday from the work for which he has a real genius.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Up to the present time the crop of German spy-stories has been distinguished by quantity rather than by quality. Possibly the authors, realising that the wildest flights of their highly-trained fancies could never match the actual machinations of the German Secret Service as revealed in the official news, have not put their hearts into the work. In _The Lost Naval Papers_ and other stories (MURRAY) Mr. BENNET COPPLESTONE has shown unusual boldness in connecting the activities of his super-policeman, _Dawson_, with the more prominent events of the War. Indeed, I am not sure that the terror he professes to feel in the presence of the Scotland Yard official (for he tells his stories _in propria persona_) is not to some extent justified. "Dora" is very sensitive and six months ago would never have permitted Mr. COPPLESTONE to reveal to our enemies either the bumptious egoism of a nameless First Lord or the platitudinous vacillations of an anonymous Premier, even in the interests of popular fiction. Though we concede his audacity in allowing his superlative sleuth to stop a general strike of engineers by threatening them with martial law and to tempt the German fleet to come out by sending it false news of our battleship strength, or to enable the battle of the Falkland Islands to be won by piling dummy battle cruisers up outside Plymouth harbour, the merit of Mr. COPPLESTONE'S book does not lie in the complexity or vitality of his plots. It lies in a keen sense of humour and clever character suggestion, and the recognition that the thing written about is of less importance than the manner of writing. We earnestly desire that Mr. COPPLESTONE should devote another volume--a whole one--to the inimitable _Madame Guilbert_; but whatever he writes about will be welcome, provided it be written in the vein of the volume before us.

* * * * *

Out of such workaday elements as the hypnotic fascinations of a sleek music-master, the follies of a runaway schoolgirl and the well-disciplined affections of a most superior young gentleman, Mr. W.E. NORRIS has contrived to create yet another new story, without infringement of his own or anyone else's copyright. Thanks to the incidence of War and the author's skilful manipulation of Europe's distresses (for once the KAISER'S intrusion into the middle of a peaceful--almost too peaceful--narrative is not unwelcome), the second half of _The Fond Fugitives_ (HUTCHINSON) is better than the first. Not, indeed, that such a wary hand as the writer has been so ill-advised as to follow his hero to Flanders, or even to let his heroine do so; but his wounded soldier, come home with sympathy and understanding grown big enough to realise that a girl, though indiscreet once, may yet be adorable ever after, is certainly more to one's taste than the philanderer about town, admiring other men's wives, in July, 1914. And so the story, slight though it is, ends on a strong note and with fair hope of happiness for two wiser and not much sadder people. Some of the minor characters are quite capitally drawn, particularly the old father and mother in pathetic flight before the shadow of their daughter's disgrace; but it is the freshness of the heroine herself, outraging all tradition by refusing, though without bravado, to remain for ever in the gloom of a childish error, that one likes to remember. Altogether, the author's friends will find this book not at all below the level of his best work.

* * * * *

_Small Craft_ (ELKIN MATTHEWS), by Miss C. FOX SMITH, contains several poems that have appeared in Punch over the initials "C.F.S." They should receive a fresh welcome from all who share her understanding of the ways of seafaring men, and from the larger public that is beginning to appreciate the gallantry and devotion of our Merchant Service.

* * * * *

Extract from a letter in _The Saturday Review_:--

"But posterity ought to share the burden, as it has always done in the past."

A tardy but complete answer to the old question, "What has posterity done to deserve our consideration?"