Chapter 9
"I will now sing for you," announced a contralto to a woman's club meeting in the Copley-Plaza, "a composition by one of Boston's noted composers, Mr. Chadwick. 'He loves me.'" And of course everybody thought George wrote it for _her_.
* * *
"Grand opera is, above all others, the highbrow form of entertainment."--Chicago Journal.
Yes. In comparison, a concert of chamber music appears trifling and almost vulgar.
* * *
At a reception in San Francisco, Mrs. Wandazetta Fuller-Biers sang and Mrs. Mabel Boone-Sooey read. Cannot they be signed for an entertainment in the Academy?
* * *
We simply cannot understand why Dorothy Pound, pianist, and Isabelle Bellows, singer, of the American Conservatory, do not hitch up for a concert tour.
* * *
Richard Strauss has been defined as a musician who was once a genius. Now comes another felicitous definition--"Unitarian: a Retired Christian."
* * *
Dr. Hyslop, the psychical research man, says that the spirit world is full of cranks. These, we take it, are not on the spirit level.
* * *
The present physical training instructor in the Waterloo, Ia., Y. W. C. A. is Miss Armstrong. Paradoxically, the position was formerly held by Miss Goodenough. These things appear to interest many readers.
* * *
THE HUNTING OF THE PACIFIST SNARK.
(_With Mr. Ford as the Bellman._)
"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried, "Just the place for a Snark, I declare!" And he anchored the _Flivver_ a mile up the river, And landed his crew with care.
He had bought a large map representing the moon, Which he spread with a runcible hand; And the crew, you could see, were as pleased as could be With a map they could all understand.
"Now, listen, my friends, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wherever you go, The warranted pacifist Snarks.
The first is the taste, which is something like guff, Tho' with gammon 'twill also compare; The next is the sound, which is simple enough-- It resembles escaping hot air.
The third is the shape, which is somewhat absurd, And this you will understand When I tell you it looks like the African bird That buries its head in the sand.
The fourth is a want of the humorous sense, Of which it has hardly a hint. And last, but not least, this marvelous beast Is a glutton for getting in print.
Now, Pacifist Snarks do no manner of harm, Yet I deem it my duty to say, Some are Boojums----" The Bellman broke off in alarm, For Jane Addams had fainted away.
* * *
Concerning his reference to "Demosthenes' lantern," the distinguished culprit, Rupert Hughes, writes us that of course he meant Isosceles' lantern. The slip was pardonable, he urges, as he read proof on the line only seven times--in manuscript, in typescript, in proof for the magazine, in the copy for the book, in galley, in page-proof, and finally in the printed book. And heaven only knows how many proofreaders let it through. "Be that as it may," says Rupert, "I am like our famous humorist, Archibald Ward, who refused to be responsible for debts of his own contracting. And, anyway, I thank you for calling my attention to the blunder quietly and confidentially, instead of bawling me out in a public place where a lot of people might learn of it."
* * *
SORRY WE MISSED YOU.
Sir:... There were several things I wanted to say to you, and I proposed also to crack you over the sconce for what you have been saying about us Sinn Feiners. I suppose you're the sort that would laugh at this story:
He was Irish and badly wounded, unconscious when they got him back to the dressing station, in a ruined village. "Bad case," said the docs. "When he comes out of his swoon he'll need cheering up. Say something heartening to him, boys. Tell him he's in Ireland." When the lad came to he looked around (ruined church on one side, busted houses, etc., up stage, and all that): "Where am I?" sez he. "'S all right, Pat; you're in Ireland, boy." "Glory be to God!" sez he, looking around again. "How long have yez had Home Rule?"
Tom Daly.
* * *
OUR BOYS.
[From the Sheridan, Wyo., Enterprise.]
Our boys are off for the borders Awaiting further orders From our president to go Down into old Mexico, Where the Greaser, behind a cactus, Is waiting to attack us.
* * *
The skies they were ashen and sober, and the leaves they were crispèd and sere, as I sat in the porch chair and regarded our neighbor's patch of woodland; and I thought: The skies may be ashen and sober, and the leaves may be crispèd and sere, but in a maple wood we may dispense with the sun, such irradiation is there from the gold of the crispèd leaves. Jack Frost is as clever a wizard as the dwarf Rumpelstiltzkin, who taught the miller's daughter the trick of spinning straw into gold. This young ash, robed all in yellow--what can the sun add to its splendor? And those farther tree-tops, that show against the sky like a tapestry, the slenderer branches and twigs, unstirred by wind, having the similitude of threads in a pattern--can the sun gild their refinèd gold? How delicate is the tinting of that cherry, the green of which is fading into yellow, each leaf between the two colors: this should be described in paint.
No, I said; in a hardwood thicket, in October, though it were the misty mid region of Weir, one would not know the sun was lost in clouds. At that moment the sun adventured forth, in blazing denial. It was as if the woodland had burst into flame.
* * *
As a variation of the story about the merchant who couldn't keep a certain article because so many people asked for it, we submit the following: A lady entered the rural drugstore which we patronize and said, "Mr. Blank, I want a bath spray." "I'm sorry, Mrs. Jones," sezze, "but the bath spray is sold."
* * *
_IN A DEPARTMENT STORE._
_Customer--"I want to look at some tunics."_
_Irish Floorwalker--"We don't carry musical instruments."_
* * *
That Tennessee congressman who was arrested charged with operating an automobile while pifflicated, would reply that when he voted for prohibition he was representing his constituents, not his private thirst. Have we not, many times, in the good old days in Vermont, seen representatives rise with difficulty from their seats to cast their vote for prohibition? One can be pretty drunk and still be able to articulate "Ay."
* * *
A new drug, Dihydroxyphenylethylmethylamine, sounds as if all it needed was a raisin.
* * *
The Gluck aria, which Mme. Homer has made famous, was effectively cited by the critic Hanslick to show that in vocal music the subject is determined only by the words. He wrote:
"At a time when thousands (among whom there were men like Jean Jacques Rousseau) were moved to tears by the air from 'Orpheus'--
'J'ai perdu mon Eurydice, Rien n'égale mon malheur,'
Boyé, a contemporary of Gluck, observed that precisely the same melody would accord equally well, if not better, with words conveying exactly the reverse, thus--
'J'ai trouvé mon Eurydice, Rien n'égale mon bonheur.'
"We, for our part, are not of the opinion that in this case the composer is quite free from blame, inasmuch as music most assuredly possesses accents which more truly express a feeling of profound sorrow. If however, from among innumerable instances, we selected the one quoted, we have done so because, in the first place, it affects the composer who is credited with the greatest dramatic accuracy; and, secondly, because several generations hailed this very melody as most correctly rendering the supreme grief which the words express."
* * *
Arthur Shattuck sued for appreciation in Fond du Lac the other evening, playing, according to the Reporter, "a plaintiff melody with great tenderness." The jury returned a verdict in his favor without leaving their seats.
* * *
Reports of famine in China have recalled a remark about its excessive population. If the Chinese people were to file one by one past a given point the procession would never come to an end. Before the last man of those living to-day had gone by another generation would have grown up.
* * *
"Say it with handkerchiefs," advertises a merchant in Goshen, Ind. That is, if the idea you wish to convey is that you have a cold in your head.
* * *
THE SOIL OF KANSAS.
[From the Kansas Farmer.]
Formed by the polyps of a shallow, summer sea; fixed by the subtile chemistry of the air, and comminuted by the Æolian geology of the Great Plains, the soil of Kansas has been one of man's richest possessions.
Why prose? The soil of Kansas, the Creator's masterpiece, invites to song. Frinstance--
Formed by the polyps of a summer sea, Fixed by the subtile chemistry of air, Ground by Æolian geology, The soil of Kansas is beyond compare!
* * *
THE GOOD OLD DAYS.
Sir: An old stage hand at the Eau Claire opry house was talking. "No, sir, you don't see the actors to-day like we used to. Why, when Booth and Barrett played here you could hear them breathe way up in the fly gallery."
E. C. M.
* * *
"WHAT THE LA HELLE!"
[From the Kankakee Republican.]
He helped tramp the old Hindenburg line, but this time, beating it on the strains of "Allons enfant de la Patrie le Jour de Gloire est de Triomphe et Arrivee!"
* * *
Here is a characteristic bit of Vermontese that we picked up. A native was besought to saw some wood, but he declined. The owner of the wood offered double price for the sawing, and still the native declined. He was pressed for a reason, and this was it: "Damned if I'll humor a man."
* * *
"It is not moral. It is immoral," declared an editorial colleague; and a reader is reminded of Lex Iconles, the old Greek baker of Grammer's Gap, Ark., who used to display in his window the enticing sign: "Doughnuts. Different and yet not the same."
* * *
The mind of man is subject to many strange delusions, and one of these is that the stock market has a bottom.
* * *
The manufacturer of a certain automobile advertises that his vehicle "will hold five ordinary people." And, as a matter of fact, it usually does.
* * *
The Westminster Gazette headlines "The Intolerable Dullness of Country Life in Ireland." And Irene wonders what they would call excitement.
* * *
An advertisement of dolls mentions, superfluously, that "some may not last the day." One does not expect them to.
* * *
The London Mendicity Society estimates that £100,000 is given away haphazard every year to street beggars, and that the average beggar probably earns more than the average working man. There is talk of the beggars forming a union. A beggars' strike would be a fearsome thing.
* * *
I want to be a diplomat And with the envoys stand, A-wetting of my whistle in A desiccated land.
The London Busman Story.
_I.--As George Meredith might have related it._
"Stop!" she signalled.
The appeal was comprehensible, and the charioteer, assiduously obliging, fell to posture of checking none too volant steeds.
You are to suppose her past meridian, nearer the twilight of years, noteworthy rather for matter than manner; and her visage, comparable to the beef of England's glory, well you wot. This one's descent was mincing, hesitant, adumbrating dread of disclosures--these expectedly ample, columnar, massive. The day was gusty, the breeze prankant; petticoats, bandbox, umbrella were to be conciliated, managed if possible; no light task, you are to believe.
"'Urry, marm!"
The busman's tone was patiently admonitory, dispassionate. A veteran in his calling, who had observed the ascending and descending of a myriad matrons, in playful gales.
"'Urry, marm!"
The fellow was without illusions; he had reviewed more twinkling columns than a sergeant of drill. Indifference his note, leaning to ennui. He said so, bluntly, piquantly, in half a dozen memorable words, fetching yawn for period.
The lady jerked an indignant exclamation, and completed, rosily precipitate, her passage to the pave.
_II.--As Henry James might have written it._
We, let me ask, what are we, the choicer of spirits as well as the more frugal if not the undeservedly impoverished, what, I ask, are we to do now that the hansom has disappeared, as they say, from the London streets and the taxicab so wonderfully yet extravagantly taken its place? Is there, indeed, else left for us than the homely but hallowed 'bus, as we abbreviatedly yet all so affectionately term it--the 'bus of one's earlier days, when London was new to the unjaded sensorium and "Europe" was so wonderfully, so beautifully dawning on one's so avid and sensitive consciousness?
And fate, which has left us the 'bus--but oh, in what scant and shabby measure!--has left us, too, the weather that so densely yet so congruously "goes with it"--the weather adequately enough denoted by the thick atmosphere, the slimy pavements, the omnipresent unfurled umbrella and the stout, elderly woman intent upon gaining, at cost of whatever risk or struggle, her place and portion among the moist miscellany to whom the dear old 'bus-- But perhaps I have lost the thread of my sentence.
Ah, yes--that "stout, elderly woman"; so superabundant whether as a type or as an individual; so prone--or "liable"--to impinge tyrannously upon the consciousness of her fellow-traveller, and in no less a degree upon that of the public servant, who, from his place aloft, guides, as it is phrased, the destinies of the conveyance. It was, indeed, one of the most notable of these--a humble friend of my own--who had the fortune to make the acute, recorded, historic observation which, with the hearty, pungent, cursory brevity and point of his class and _métier_--the envy of the painstaking, voluminous analyst and artist of our period-- But again I stray.
She was climbing up, or climbing down, perplexed equally, as I gather, by the management of her _parapluie_ and of her--_enfin_, her petticoats. The candid anxiety of her round, underdone face, as she so wonderfully writhed to maintain the standard of pudicity dear--even vital--to the matron of the British Isles appealed--vividly, though mutely--to the forbearance that, seeing, would still seem _not_ to see, her foot, her ankle, her _mollet_--as I early learned to say in Paris, where, however, so exigent a modesty is scarcely ... well, scarcely.
"Madam," the gracious fellow said in effect, "_ne vous gênez pas_." Then he went on to assure her briefly that he was an elderly man; that he had "held the ribbons," as they phrase it, for several years; that many were the rainy days in London; that each of these placed numerous women--elderly or younger--in the same involuntary predicament as that from which she herself had suffered; and that so far as he personally was concerned he had long since ceased to take any extreme delight in the-- _Bref_, he was charming; he renewed my fading belief--fading, as I had thought, disastrously but immitigably--in the capacity of the Anglo-Saxon for _esprit_; and I am glad indeed to have taken a line or so to record his _mot_.
_III.--As finally elucidated by Arnold Bennett._
Maria Wickwyre, of the Five Towns, emerged from muddy Bombazine Lane and stood in the rain and wind at Pie Corner, eighty-four yards from the door of St. Jude's chapel, in the Strand. She was in London! Yes, she was on that spot, she and none other. It might have been somewhere else; it might have been somebody else. But it wasn't. Wonderful! The miracle of Life overcame her.
She had arms. Two of them. They were big and round, like herself. One held a large parcel ("package" for the American edition); the other, an umbrella. She also had two legs. She stood on them. If they had been absent, or if they had weakened, she would have collapsed. But they held her up. Ah, the mysteries of existence! More than ever was she conscious of her firm, strong underpinning. Maria waved her umbrella and her parcel and stopped a 'bus. The driver was elderly, wrinkled, weatherbeaten. Maria got in and rode six furlongs and some yards to Mooge Road, and then she stopped the 'bus to get out.
If she was conscious of her upper members and their charges, she was still more conscious of her lower ones. If she had her parcel and her umbrella to think about, she also had her stockings and petticoats to consider. The wind blew, the rain drizzled, the driver looked around, wondering why Maria didn't get out and have done with it.
"If he should see them!" she gasped. (You know what she meant by "them.") Her round, broad face mutely implored the 'busman to look the other way.
He wearily closed his eyes. He had been rumbling through the Strand for thirty years. "Lor', mum," he said, "legs ain't no treat to me!"
Maria collapsed, after all, and took the 4:29 for home that same afternoon.
A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO
_Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may._
APRILLY.
Whan that Aprillè with hise shourès soote The droghte of March had percèd to the roote, I druv a motor thro' Aprillè's bliz Somme forty mile, and dam neere lyke to friz.
* * *
Harriet reports the first trustworthy sign of spring: friend husband on the back porch Sunday morning removing last year's mud from his golf shoes.
* * *
Old Doc Oldfield of London prescribes dandelion leaves, eggs, lettuce, milk, and a few other things for people who would live long, and a Massachusetts centenarian offers, as her formula, "Don't worry and don't over-eat." But we, whose mission is to enlighten the world, rather than to ornament it, are more influenced by the experiment of Herbert Spencer. Persuaded to a vegetarian diet, he stuck at it for six months. Then reading over what he had written during that time, he thrust the manuscript into the fire and ordered a large steak with fried potatoes and mushrooms.
* * *
"SPRING HAS COME..."
The trees were rocked by April's blast; A frozen robin fell, And twittered, as he breathed his last, "Lykelle, lykelle, lykelle."
* * *
BYRON WROTE MOST OF THIS.
[From the Monticello Times.]
Julf Husman, who has been busy for the past several months, building a fine new house and barn, celebrated their completion with a barn dance Wednesday night. "The beauty and chivalry" of Wayne and adjoining townships attended, and did "chase the glowing hours with flying feet," with as much enthusiasm and pleasure as did the guests "When Belgium's capital had gathered then and bright the lamps shone over fair women and brave men."
* * *
A CANNERY DANCE.
[From the Iowa City Press.]
"Fair women and brave men" circled hither and thither in the maze of the stately waltz and the festal two-step, and the dainty slippers kept graceful time with the strains of the exceptionally fine music of the hour. Lovely young women, with roses in their cheeks and their hair, caught the reflection of the radiant electric lights and the glory of the superb decorations, and their natural pulchritude was enhanced in impressiveness thereby. The "frou frou" of silks and satins; the enchanting orchestral offerings; the brilliant illuminations; the alluring decorations, and the intoxication of the dance made the event one of the most markedly successful in the history of the university.
* * *
FOR THE LAST DAY OF MARCH.
Just before you go to bed, Push the clock an hour ahead.
Little Mary.
* * *
Don't forget to set the time locks on your safes ahead an hour. Otherwise you'll be all mixed up.
* * *
At Ye Olde Colonial Inn, according to the Aurora Beacon-News, a special "Table de Haute" dinner was served last Sunday. And the Gem restaurant in St. Louis tells the world: "Our famous steaks tripled our seating capacity."
* * *
CHANCES, 2; ERRORS, 2.
Sir: While in the Hotel Dyckman I noted a sign recommending the 85c dinner in the "Elizabethian Room." After a search I found the place, duly labeled "Elizabethean Room."
D. K. M.
* * *
Just what does the trade jargon mean, "Experience essential but not necessary"? We see it frequently in the advertising columns.
* * *
A variant of the form, "experience essential but not necessary," is used by the Racine Times-Call, as follows:
"Wanted, secretary-treasurer for a local music corporation; must also have a knowledge of music, but not essential."
* * *
As curious as the advertising form, "experience essential but not necessary," is the form used by the Daily News: "Responsible for no debts contracted by no other than myself."
* * *
The provincialism indicated by the title of the pop song, "Good bye, Broadway! Hello, France!" reminds us of the headline in a New York paper some years ago: "Halley's Comet Rushing on New York."
* * *
"The love, the worship of truth is the most essential thing in journalism," says the editor of Le Matin. Or, as the ads read, "love of truth essential but not necessary."
* * *
The Hopkinsville, Ky., News is a Negro paper, and its motto is: "Man is made of clay, and like a meerschaum pipe is more valuable when highly colored."
* * *
From the letter of a colored gentleman of leisure, apropos of his wife's suit for divorce: "P. S.: Also, honey, i hope while others have your company i may have your heart." Here is a refrain for a sentimental song.
* * *
SMACK! SMACK!
Sir: May I suggest that the matrimonial bureau of the Academy take steps to introduce Miss Irene V. Smackem of Washington, D.C., and Mr. Kissinger of Fergus Falls, Minn.? They would make a perfect pair.
Kaye.
* * *
_MARCH._
_With heart of gold and yellow frill, Arcturus, like a daffodil, Now dances in the field of gray Upon the East at close of day; A joyous harbinger to bring The many promises of spring!_
W.
* * *
If no one else cares, the compositor and proof reader will be interested to know that Ignacy Seczupakiewicz brought suit in Racine against Praxida Seczupakiewicz.
* * *
Referring to Beethoven's anniversary, Ernest Newman remarks that "a truly civilized community would probably celebrate a centenary by prohibiting all performances of the master's works for three or five years, so that the public's deadening familiarity with them might wear off. That would be the greatest service it could do him."
* * *
Newman, by the way, is a piano-player fan, contending that when the principles of beautiful tone production are understood, mechanical means will probably come nearer to perfection than the human hand. Mr. Arthur Whiting, considering the horseless pianoforte some time ago, was also enthusiastic. The h. p. is entirely self-possessed, and has even more platform imperturbability than the applauded virtuoso. "After a few introductory sounds, which have nothing to do with the music, and without relaxing the lines of its inscrutable face, the insensate artist proceeds to show its power. Its security puts all hand playing to shame; it never hesitates, it surmounts the highest difficulties without changing a clutch."
* * *
Dixon's Elks were entertained t'other evening by the Artists Trio, and the Telegraph observes that "one of the remarkable facts concerning this company is that while they are finished artists they nevertheless are delightful entertainers."
* * *
We seldom listen to a canned-music machine, but when we do we realize the great educational value of the discs. They advise us (especially the records of singing comedians) what to avoid.