Chapter 3

I will call him "Snaggs"; that will save me the trouble of having to write "my right-hand man" every time I want to refer to him; but when he enters my service such economy of labour will not, of course, be necessary. Snaggs, then, will arrive punctually at nine every morning--no, on second thoughts he will sleep in, in case an inspiration that needs recording arrives after I have gone to bed. (I shrink from estimating how much wealth I have lost through going to sleep on my nocturnal inspirations, which the most thorough search next morning never avails to recapture; but a speaking-tube, with alarm attachment, running into Snaggs's room will alter all that.)

His first duty of the day will be to wade through all the newspapers and cut out any paragraphs that may serve as pegs for an article or a set of verses. My own difficulty in this respect has always been that I can never manage to get through more than one paper in a working morning, and not all of that; invariably my attention gets caught by some long and instructive but (for my purposes) hopelessly unsuggestive dissertation on Pedigree Pigs or The Co-operative Movement in Lower Papua, and I consequently overlook many of those inspiring little "stories" that inform us, for example, that a distinguished physician advocates the use of tomato-sauce as a hair-restorer.

By the time I have finished breakfast, I reckon, Snaggs will have found me subjects for at least a dozen effusions, neatly arranged with a few skeleton suggestions for the treatment of each. I shall first decide which are to be handled in prose and which in verse, and in the case of the latter shall jot down a few words and phrases that will obviously have to be dragged in as line-endings. Then I shall put Snaggs on to the purely mechanical drudgery of finding all the possible rhymes to these words (_e.g._, fascinate, assassinate, pro-Krassinate--you know the sort of thing that's called for), and by the time he has catalogued them all I shall have dashed off most of the prose articles, which Snaggs will then proceed to type while I am engaged in the comparatively simple task of piecing together the verse jigsaws. In this way I should easily be able to earn an ordinary week's takings in a morning.

The next task will be the placing of this material, and that is how Snaggs's afternoons will be spent. I have always had an unnecessarily tender feeling for editors, and often, after laboriously giving birth to an article, have concealed it in a drawer rather than run the risk of boring anyone with its perusal. Snaggs, however, will be fashioned of more pachydermatous material and will daily make himself such a nuisance that they'll give him an order, and possibly a long contract, to get rid of him. By a proper system of book-keeping he will also save me from the occasional blunder of sending the same article to the same paper twice.

My wife, to whom I have submitted this brain-wave, says that the first job to employ Snaggs on will be calling on the Bank Manager to arrange about the overdraft which neither of us has so far had the courage to moot. But that, I am afraid, would inspire him with foolish doubts as to the stability of his princely salary. Perhaps it will be best if, before actually engaging Snaggs, I convert myself into a limited company, "for the purpose of acquiring and enlarging the business and goodwill of the private enterprise known as Percival Trumpington-Jones, Esq." A sufficient number of shares will be issued to guarantee Snaggs at least his first year's screw; that done, the proposition should be practically gilt-edged. So who's coming in on the bargain-basement floor?

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"THE DAISY."

I imagine that the authors who founded this play on a Hungarian original regarded it as an ambitious piece of work. If so, they were right in the sense that they have attempted something very much beyond their powers. In the view of the gentleman who addressed us at the fall of the curtain (I understand that he was one of the authors) it offered magnificent opportunities (I think "magnificent" was the word) for the brilliant gifts of two of the actors. Certainly it covered a good bit of ground, what with this world and the next; for it started with roundabouts on the Heath, and got as far away as the Judgment Day (Hungarian style?)--and fourteen years after.

I may have a contemptibly weak stomach for this kind of thing, but I confess that I don't care much for a representation of the Judgment Day in a melodrama of low life. Of course low life has just as much right as any other sort of life to be represented in a Judgment Day scene; but it ought to behave itself there and not introduce back-chat.

I should explain that it was a special Suicide Court, and that the object of _The Magister_, as the Presiding Judge was named in the programme, was to inquire into the record of the delinquent and, if his answers were satisfactory, to allow him to revisit the scenes of his earthly life in order to repair any little omissions that he might have made in the hurry of departure. Unfortunately the leading case was a bad example of suicide. It had not been deliberate; he had simply killed himself impromptu in a tight corner to avoid arrest for intended murder.

Worse still, when he returned to earth after a lapse of fourteen years' purgatory (between the sixth and seventh scenes), for his record was a rotten one and he had shown no signs of penitence, the _revenant_ made very poor use of his hour. Returning to his wife whom he had brutalised, he found that she had taught their girl-child to regard him as a paragon of virtue, and most of his limited time was spent in correcting this beautiful legend. You see, at the time of his death he had had no chance of making the child realise how bad he was, for the excellent reason that she had not yet been born, so he seized this opportunity of making good that omission.

As a practical illustration of the kind of man he really had been, he struck the child violently on the arm. We all saw him do it and we all heard the smack, but the child assured us that she had not felt anything. This I suppose was the author's way, ingenuous enough, of reminding us that it was a case of spirit and not of flesh, whatever our eyes and ears might persuade us to think of it.

Already in a previous scene there had been the same old difficulty. While the man lay dead on his bed his spirit had been summoned by a Higher Power (indicated in a peep-show), and his corpse sat up, displacing the prostrate form of the widow, who had to take up a new position, without however appearing to notice anything. It was still sitting up when the curtain fell, and incidentally was caught in the act of resuming its recumbent position when the curtain rose again for the purpose of allowing the actors to receive our respectful plaudits.

Behind me I heard an American lady suggest that if they could somehow distinguish the spirit from the body it would be better for our illusions. To which her neighbour expressed the opinion that they would eventually manage to do that feat. I await, less hopefully, this development in stage mechanism. Meanwhile _Mary Rose_ has much to answer for.

The play began promisingly enough with a scene full of colour and humanity, of humour and pathos. We were among the roundabouts, whose florid and buxom manageress, _Mrs. Muscat_ (admirably played by Miss SUZANNE SHELDON), was having a quarrel of jealousy with her assistant and late lover, "_The Daisy_," who had been seen taking notice of Another. The dumb devotion of this child, _Julia_ (Miss MARY MERRALL), who could never find words for her love--she said little beyond "Yuss" and "I dunno"--was a very moving thing; and the patient stillness with which she bore his subsequent brutality held us always under a strange fascination.

For the rest it was an ugly and sordid business, relieved only by the coy confidences of the amorous _Maria_ (played by Miss GLADYS GORDON with a nice sense of fun). Mr. HENRY CAINE, as "_The Daisy_," presented very effectively the rough-and-ready humour and the frank brutality of his type; but he perhaps failed to convey the devastating attractions which he was alleged to have for the frail sex; and his sudden spasms of tragic emotion seemed a little out of the picture.

Apart from the painful crudity of the scene that was loosely described as "The Other Side," the play abounded in amateurisms. For one thing there was too much sermonising. It began with an obtrusive homily on the part of an inspector of police, who went out of his way to admonish _Julia_ about the danger of associating with "_The Daisy_." Another instance was that of the bank-messenger, a person of such self-possession and detachment that he contrived to deliver a moral address while holding one foiled villain at the point of his revolver and gripping the other's wrist as in a vice.

Nothing again could have been more naïve than the innocent home-coming of the domestic carving-knive, freshly sharpened, from the grinder's just in time to be diverted to the objects of a murderous enterprise.

Altogether, it was rather poor stuff, unworthy of the talent of many of its interpreters and of the trouble that Miss EDITH CRAIG had spent over its scenic effects. Perhaps the audience had been led to expect too much, for "_The Daisy_," far from being the "wee, modest" flower of ROBERT BURNS, had been at some pains to draw preliminary attention to its merits.

O.S.

* * * * *

=The Bedroom Shortage.=

"That a woman ought to dress quietly and practically in the street is unquestionable."

"_Times" Fashion article_.

* * * * *

"As the harvest season this year is late, sport will not be general for at least two weeks hence, when grain crops may be expected to be in stook. For some time to come sheep will be confined to the low hill-sides and pasture lands and turnip fields, and a few good bags were had there yesterday."--_Scotch Paper._

We still prefer the old-fashioned sport of partridge-shooting.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SPANISH LEDGES.

SCILLY.

The bells of Cadiz clashed for them When they sailed away; The Citadel guns, saluting, crashed for them Over the Bay; With banners of saints aloft unfolding, Their poops a glitter of golden moulding, Tambours throbbing and trumpets neighing, Into the sunset they went swaying. But the port they sought they wandered wide of, And they won't see Spain again this side of Judgment Day.

For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town, Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters. No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets, No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters; No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them, Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite, No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep-- Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight.

The bells of Cadiz tolled for them Mournful and glum; Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for them On the black drum; Priests had many a mass to handle, Nuestra Señora many a candle, And many a lass grew old in praying For a sight of those topsails homeward swaying-- But it's late to wait till a girl is bride of A Jack who won't be back this side of Kingdom Come.

But little they care down there, down there, Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters; They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty, Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters. At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports, A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white, While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songs And dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

"REMARKABLE OVAL SCORING." _Evening Paper Contents Bill._

We have made some remarkable scores of that shape ourselves in the past, but we never boast about them.

* * * * *

"He believed that the English pronounced in the streets of London in, say, 200 years' time, will be much different, if not unintelligible, to the man of to-day."--_Daily Paper._

Just like the English in some of our newspapers.

* * * * *

"The Secretary of State for India is not _persona grata_ either to the British House of Commons or to the British public. That is the old-fashioned English of it."--_Bangalore Daily Post._

It would be interesting to see the old-fashioned Latin of it.

* * * * *

"Will any Lady Recommend Country Home of the best where 2 precious Poms can be happy and would be looked after for 6 weeks? Surrey preferred."--_Morning Paper._

Think of their disgust at finding themselves boarded out in Sussex or Kent.

* * * * *

"Young Hungarian Lady with English and German knolidgement wants sob with English or American Organization."--_Pester Lloyd._

Laugh and the world laughs with you; Sob and you sob alone.

* * * * *

A WAY OUT OF THE PRESENT UNREST.

"A penny for your thoughts," I said to Kathleen.

"I like that," said Kathleen indignantly. "A penny was the market value of my thoughts in 1914. Why should butter and cheese and reels of cotton go up more than double and my thoughts stay the same?"

"Twopence," I offered.

"I said _more_ than double," she remarked coldly.

I plunged. "Sixpence," I said.

"Done!"

"I'll put it in the collection bag for you next Sunday," I added hastily.

"Well, I was thinking of Veronica's future. I was wondering what she was going to be."

"When we went to the Crystal Palace," I said gently, "I rather gathered that she wanted to be the proprietor of a merry-go-round. They were dragons with red-plush seats."

"She might go into Parliament," said Kathleen dreamily; "I expect women will be able to do everything by the time she's grown up. She might be a Cabinet Minister. I don't see why she shouldn't be Prime Minister."

"Her hair's just about the right length now," I said. "And perhaps she could give me congenial employment. I wouldn't mind being Minister of Transport. There's quite a good salary attached. But of course she may have ideas of her own on the subject."

Feeling curious, I went in search of Veronica. I found her at a private dance given by the butterflies and hollyhocks at the other end of the lawn. When she saw me she came to meet me and made her excuses very politely.

"We've just been wondering what you're going to be when you've stopped being a little girl," I said.

"Me?" said Veronica calmly. "Oh, I'm going to be a fairy. You don't want me to be anything else, do you?" she added anxiously.

Even the Prime Minister's post seemed suddenly quite flat.

"Oh, no," I said. "I think you've made a very good choice." But she was not quite satisfied.

"I shall hate going away from you," she said. "Couldn't you come too?"

"Where?"

"To Fairyland."

"Ah!" I said, "that takes some thinking about. Could we come back if we didn't like it?"

"N-no, I don't fink so. I've never heard of anyone doing that. But you'll love it," she went on earnestly. "You'll be ever so tiny and you can draw funny frost pictures wiv rainbows and fold up flowers into buds and splash dew-water over everyfing at night and ride on butterflies and help the birds to make nests. Fink what _fun_ to help a bird to make a nest! You'll _love_ it!"

"Is that all?" I said sternly. "Are you keeping nothing from me? What about witches and spells and being turned into frogs? I'm sure I remember that in my fairy tales."

"Oh, nothing that _matters_," she said quickly. "You can always _tell_ a witch, you know, and we'll keep out of their way. An' if a nasty fairy turns you into a frog a nice one will always turn you back quite soon. It's all right. You mustn't worry about _that_. There won't be any fun if you don't come too, darlin'," she ended shamelessly.

I considered.

"Veronica," I said at last, "is there such a thing as Ireland in Fairyland? Is there an exchange that won't keep steady? Is there any labour trouble?"

She shook her head.

"I've never heard of anyfing that sounded like those," she said; "I'm sure there isn't."

"That decides it," I said. "We'll all come. As soon as you can possibly arrange it."

She heaved a sigh of relief and ran off to tell the glad news to the butterflies and hollyhocks.

So that's settled.

I think we've made a wise decision.

After all, what's a witch or two, or even a temporary existence as a frog, compared with a coal strike?

* * * * *

THE WAIL OF THE WASP.

When that I was a tiny grub, And peevish and inclined to blub, Mother, my Queen, My infant grief you would assuage With promise of the ripe greengage And purple sheen Of luscious plums, "When Autumn comes."

The Autumn days are flying fast; Across the bleak skies overcast Scurries the wind; Where are those plums of purple hue, Mother? I only wish that you Had disciplined My pampered youth To face the truth.

The time for wasps is nearly done, And what is life without the sun, Mother, my Queen? Dull stupor numbs your royal head; Torpid my sisters lie--or dead; Come, let me lean Back on my sting And end the thing.

* * * * *

SUGGESTIONS FOR A GENERAL PAPER.

(_For the benefit of the Examiners in the Oxford School of English Literature._)

(1) Compare, in respect of pulpit oratory, (_a_) Dr. SOUTH with "WOODBINE WILLIE," and (_b_) Dr. MICHAEL FURSE (Bishop of St. Albans) with the JUDICIOUS HOOKER.

(2) Give reasons in support of Mr. BEVERLEY NICHOLLS' emendation of the lines in _The Ancient Mariner_--

The wedding guest he beat his breast, For he heard the proud SASSOON.

(3) Re-write "Tears, idle tears" in the style of (_a_) Dr. JOHNSON, (_b_) CALISTHENES, (_c_) the SITWELLS.

(4) What do you know of CASANOVA, KARSAVINA, CAGLIOSTRO, KENNEDY JONES, Captain PETER WRIGHT, EPSTEIN, ECKSTEIN and EINSTEIN? When did Sir OLIVER LODGE say that he would not leave _ein Stein_ unturned until he had upset the theory of Relativity?

(5) Give a complete list of all the poets, major and minor, at present residing on Boar's Hill, and trace their influence on the Baconian controversy.

(6) Distinguish by psycho-analysis between (_a_) SYDNEY SMITH and SIDNEY LEE, (_b_) GEORGE MEREDITH and GEORGE ROBEY, noting convergences as well as divergences of mentality, physique and sub-conscious uplift.

(7) Would Jason, who sailed in the _Argo_, have laid an embargo on MARGOT as passenger or supercargo? Estimate the probable results of her introduction to Medea, and its effect on the views and translations of Professor GILBERT MURRAY.

(8) What eminent Georgian critic said that TENNYSON's greatest work was his _Idols of the Queen_?

(9) Estimate the effect on Reconstruction if Mr. BOTTOMLEY were to devote himself exclusively to theological studies, and Mr. WELLS were to take up his abode permanently in Russia.

* * * * *

=Another Impending Apology.=

"FIRE AT CHILDREN'S HOME. LADY HENRY SOMERSET'S WORK."

_Daily Paper._

* * * * *

From a Pimlico shop window:--

"GENTLEMEN'S WAR ROBES BOUGHT."

Apparently not worth a "d."

* * * * * "Professor ----, the pianist, who is trying to complete 110 hours' continuous playing, completed fifty-five hours on the first day."

_Cologne Post._

That makes it too easy.

* * * * *

"Mme. Karsavina is taller than Pavlova, but has an equally perfect figure. The Greeks would have bracketted her with Venus and Aphrodite."--_Provincial Paper._

The two last have, of course, been constantly bracketed.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Not for a long time have I got so great a pleasure from any collection of short sketches as now from Miss ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK'S _Autumn Crocuses_ (SECKER). Not only has the whole book a pleasant title, but each of these stories is happily called after some flower that plays a part in its development. I am aware of the primly Victorian sound of such a description applied to art so modern as that of Miss SEDGWICK. You know already (I hope) how wonderfully delicate is her almost passionate sensibility to the finer shades of a situation. It is, I suppose, this quality in her writing that makes me still have reminiscent shivers when I think about that horrible little bogie-tale, _The Third Window_; and these "Flower Pieces" (as 1860 might have called them) are no whit less subtle. I wish I had space to give you the plots of some of them; "Daffodils," for instance, a quite unexpected and thrilling treatment of perhaps the oldest situation of literature; or "Staking a Larkspur," the only instance in which Miss Sedgwick's gently smiling humour crystallizes definitely into comedy; or "Carnations," the most brilliantly written of all. As this liberty is denied me you must accept a plain record of very rare enjoyment and take steps to share it.

* * * * *

Chief among the _Secrets of Crewe House_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), now divulged to the mere public, are the marvellous efficiency and superhuman success achieved by the British Enemy Propaganda Committee, which operated in Lord CREWE'S London house under the directorate of Lord NORTHCLIFFE. "What is propaganda?" the author asks himself on an early page, and the right answer could have been made in four letters: ADVT. It is endorsed by the eulogistic manner in which the Committee's work is written up by one of them, Sir CAMPBELL STUART, K.B.E., and illustrated by photographs of Lord NORTHCLIFFE (looking positively Napoleonic) and of the sub-supermen. As in all great achievements, the main principle was a simple one. A good article is best advertised by truth; and it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth which the Committee, with admirable conciseness and no little ingenuity, so promulgated that it could no longer escape notice even in the Central Empires. Not the least of the Committee's difficulties and achievements was to get the truth of our cause and policy so defined as to be susceptible of unequivocal statement by poster, leaflet, film and gramophone record. Sir CAMPBELL STUART perhaps tends to underrate the rival show, the German propaganda organization, whose work, if it did Germany little good, has done and is still doing colossal harm to us. Also he tends to forget that Lord HAIG and his little lot in France at any rate helped the Committee to effect the breakdown of the German _moral_ in 1918 and so to win the war.

* * * * *