Part 3

From the Equator to the Poles Thy fame in widening circles rolls; But once the audience leave the hall Thy pop-gun claims thee, or thy ball.

Imagination's wildest flight Pants far behind this wondrous mite, And ST. CECILIA and ST. VITUS Are vanquished by our Tiny Titus.

* * * * *

_The Evening News_ on the Crystal Palace ground:--

"The roof, back and sides of the stand have been taken away so that people standing on 'Spion Kop,' the hill at the back ... will have an uninterested view of the whole length of the field of play."

This, together with a nicely crowded journey both ways, makes up a pleasant afternoon.

* * * * *

PROFESSOR SPLURGESON ON PERSONALITY.

STRANGE CONDUCT OF FASHIONABLE AUDIENCE.

Professor Splurgeson delivered the first of his Claridge Lectures at the theatre of the Mayfair University yesterday. The auditorium was crowded to its utmost extent, ladies largely predominating.

Professor Peterson Prigwell, in a brief introductory speech, said that the achievements of Professor Splurgeson beggared the vocabulary of eulogy. More than any other thinker he had succeeded in reconciling high life with high thinking.

Professor Splurgeson, speaking in fluent American, began by alluding to the numerous links which bound together his country with that of his audience, and pointed out that nowhere was this affinity more pronounced than in their philosophies. Both showed a concrete cosmopolitanism indissolubly wedded to an idealistic particularism; both agreed that truth, no matter how abysmally profound, could be expressed in language sufficiently simple to attract large audiences of fashionable women; both, finally, made it clear that Pragmatism, unless allied with Feminism, was destined to be relegated to the limbo of the obsolete. (Cheers.)

Professor Splurgeson then went on to say that nowhere was this happy element of intellectual compromise more needful than in discussing the problem of personality. That problem comprised three questions: What are we? What do we think of ourselves? and What do others think of us? In regard to the first question, the philosophic pitch had been queered by the conflicting combinations of all thinkers from Corcorygus the Borborygmatic down to WILLIAM JAMES. (Applause.) Man had been defined as a gelastic apteryx, but in view of the attitude of women towards the Plumage Bill the definition could hardly be allowed to fit the requirements of the spindle side of creation. The danger of endeavouring to find some unifying concept in a multiplicity of conflicting details was only equalled by that of recognizing the essential diversity which underlay a superficial homogeneity. (Loud cheers.)

At this point the Professor paused for a few minutes while kümmel and caviare sandwiches were handed round.

Resuming, Professor Splurgeson discussed with great eloquence the secular duel between the Will and the Understanding. It was _ex hypothesi_ impossible for the super-man, _à fortiori_ the super-woman, to yield to the dictates of the understanding. The question arose whether we might not profitably invert metaphysic and, instead of trying to locate personality in totality, begin with personality and work outwards. (Applause.) Otherwise the process of endeavouring to effect a synthesis of centripetal and centrifugal tendencies would invariably result in an indefinite deadlock.

Professor Splurgeson then proceeded to give a brief outline of what we usually think of ourselves. It was true that the expression of the face held a great place in the idea we had of other personalities, but how was it that in the idea of ourselves it played so small a part? The reason was that we did not know our own countenances. (Sensation.) If we were to meet ourselves in the street we should infallibly pass without a recognition. More than that, we did not wish to know them. (Murmurs.) Whenever we looked at ourselves in the glass we systematically ignored the most individual features--(cries of dissent)--and that was why we never, or very seldom, agreed that a photograph resembled or rendered justice to us. The explanation was to be found in the fact that we thought it undesirable to have too individual features, just as we thought it undesirable to wear too individual clothes.

At this point a violent uproar broke out, many of those present protesting against these statements as involving a libel on the entire female sex. It being impossible to restore order, Professor Splurgeson had to be escorted to his hotel by policemen, the date of his second lecture being indefinitely postponed.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "REJECTED": ANOTHER MOVING PICTURE TRAGEDY.]

* * * * *

PANDEAN.

'Twas harvest time and close and warm, A day when tankards foam, But when there came the thunder-storm We'd got the last load home; We'd knocked off work--as custom is-- Though 'twern't but four o'clock, And turned in to Jim Stevens's, That keeps "The Fighting-Cock."

The rain roared down in thunder-thresh, And roared itself away, And left the earth as sweet and fresh As though 'twas only May; And from outside came stock and clove And half-a-dozen more; And then up steps a piping cove, A-piping at the door.

We tumbles out to hear him blow, _Tu-wit_, he blew, _tu-wee_, On rummy pipes o' reeds a-row Their likes I never see; And as he blew he shook a limb And capered like a goat, And us bold lads we looks at him Like rabbits at a stoat.

An oddly chap and russet red, He capered and he hopped, A bit o' sacking on his head Although the rain had stopped: _Tu-wee_ he blew, he blew _tu-wit_, All in the clean sunshine, And oh, the creepy charm of it Went crawling up my spine.

I don't know if the others dreamed-- 'Cos why, they never tell-- But in a little bit it seemed I knew the tune quite well; It seemed to me I'd heard it once In woods away and dim, Where someone with a hornéd sconce Came capering like him.

It held me tight, that tune o' his, It crawled on scalp and skin, Till sudden--'long o' choir-practice-- The belfry bells swung in; The piping cove he turned and passed, Till through the golden broom A mile along we saw him last Go lone-like up the coombe.

The belfry bells they rang--one--two; The spell was lift from me, The spell the oddly piper blew-- _Tu-wit_, he went, _tu-wee_; The spell was lift that he had laid, But still--_tu-wee_, _tu-wit_-- I can't forget the tune he played, And that's the truth of it.

* * * * *

ANOMALIES OF FEMININITY.

[Illustration: WHY IS IT THAT MISS BIRDIE MONTRESSOR (OF THE PALACEUM)

ATTENDS THE ARTISTS' BALL AT COVENT GARDEN LIKE THIS?

WHILE MRS. DUMPERLEY-BROWNE (OF WEST KENSINGTON)

APPEARS AS ABOVE?]

* * * * *

THE AUTHOR.

I was reading proofs in my corner of the compartment, as I often do, and every time that I looked up I noticed the little shabby pathetic man with his eyes fixed upon me.

After a while I finished and put the proofs away with a sigh of relief.

"So you're an author too?" he said.

"Yes," I said, though I didn't want to talk at all.

"You wouldn't have thought I was one," he went on, "would you? What would you have said I did for a living?"

I am too old to guess such things. One nearly always gives offence. Moreover, I have seen too many authors to show any surprise.

"I'm not only a writer," he said, "but I dare say I'm better known than you."

"That's not difficult," I said.

"I am read by thousands--very likely millions--every day."

"This is very strange," I said. "Millions? Who are you, then? Not--no, you can't be. You haven't a red beard; you are not in knickerbockers; you don't recall SHAKSPEARE. Nor can you be Mrs. BARCLAY. And yet, of course, I must have heard your name. Might I hear it again, now?"

"My name is unknown," he said. "All my work is anonymous."

"Not advertisements?" I said. "Not posters'? You didn't write the 'Brown Cat's thanks,' or 'Alas, my poor brother,' or----"

"Certainly not," he replied. "My line is literature. Do you ever go to cinemas?"

"Now and then," I said, "when it rains, or I have an unexpected hour, or it is too late for a play."

"Then you have read me," he said. "I write for cinemas."

"There isn't much writing there," I suggested.

"Oh, isn't there!" he answered. "Haven't you ever noticed in a cinema how letters are always being brought in on trays?"

"Yes, I have."

"And then the hero or the villain or the victim opens them and reads them?"

"Yes."

"And then the audience has to read them?"

"Yes; there's no doubt about that."

"Well, those are all written by me. I mean, of course, all those that a certain film company requires."

"Marvellous," I said.

"I not only compose them--and it requires thought and compression, I can tell you--but I copy them out for the photographer too."

"Is that why they're always in the same handwriting?" I asked.

"Yes, that's it," he said. "It's mine."

"Then you can tell me something I have always wanted to know," I said. "I have noticed that when a letter written, say, by the Duke of Pemmican is thrown on the screen it is always signed 'Duke of Pemmican.' Why is that? In real life wouldn't he sign it 'Pemmican'?"

"He might," said my companion. "I don't know; but what I do know is that the cinema public expects a duke to call himself a duke; and we pride ourselves on giving them what they want."

"If you were making KING GEORGE write a letter," I said, "would he sign himself 'KING GEORGE'?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Why not? That's a good idea, anyway. A film with a letter from the KING in it would go. As it is, his only place in a cinema has been to indicate--by the appearance of his portrait on the screen--that the show is over. It isn't fair that he should come to be looked upon as a spoil-sport like that. It has a bad effect on the young. Many thanks for your suggestion. I'll give him a show with a letter."

* * * * *

A QUESTION OF COURTESY.

"Permit me, Sir, to pass you the potatoes."

"After you," I inclined.

My fellow-passenger helped himself, shrugging his eyebrows. It was a provocative shrug--a shrug I could not leave at that.

"You shrug your eyebrows," I challenged.

"A thousand pardons," he answered; "but one never escapes it."

He courted interrogation. "What is it that one never escapes?" I asked.

"The elaborate unselfishness of the age," he replied a little petulantly. "I had two friends who starved to death of it."

"Indeed!" I offered him the salt.

"Observe," said my fellow-passenger, "that when you offer me the salt I accept it. Why should I deprive you of one of the little complacencies of unselfishness? You see, my dear Sir, either you are to feel smug all over, or I am. Now, if I take the salt--so--I perform a true act of courtesy; but, if I postpone the salt, saying 'After you,' I at once enter into the lists, jousting with you for the prize of self-satisfaction. With my two friends it was, if I remember, a matter of Lancashire relish. It appears to me one of the ironies of Fate that they should have starved to death for want of a sauce. I am reminded of an epicure who starved to death for want of seasoning in his Julienne. But doubtless you are more interested in my two friends. I bow to your impatience. Hugh said, 'Allow me to offer you the Lancashire relish.' Arthur said, 'After you.' Hugh was piqued at this attempt to cheat his conscience out of a good mark. 'By no means,' he insisted. But Arthur, with a firm smile of politeness, only repeated, 'After you.'

"Hugh stuck out, and Arthur remained adamant. The contest lasted for nine days. On the first day Hugh was studiedly courteous. It was, 'I could not dream, my dear Arthur,' et-cetera. On the second day he was visibly aggravated. It was, 'But, my dear Arthur, confess now, was it not I who offered you the Lancashire relish first?' On the third day he was ominously calm. It was, 'You had better help yourself to the Lancashire relish, Arthur.' On the fourth day he was frankly fierce. It was, 'By heaven, Arthur, if you don't take some Lancashire relish...." And the only words in Arthur's vocabulary all that time wore, 'After you! After you!' On the fifth day they came to grips on the floor, and through the sixth day and the seventh they swayed without separating. I suspect that the strain of this tussle assisted starvation to its victory. On the eighth day they were too weak for combat; they could only glare at each other passionately from opposite corners of the room; and on the ninth day came the end.

"Arthur held out the longer--he had, you see, wasted less breath. When he saw Hugh gasping in the penultimate throes of death, he mustered sufficient strength to clutch the bottle, and even to crawl over to his friend's side. Hugh saw him coming and shut his teeth. Arthur was too feeble to prize them open with his hands, but he had no difficulty in knocking out a couple with the butt end of the bottle, and with a faint groan of triumph he succeeded in pouring the contents down the cavity just before Hugh breathed his last.

"The exertion naturally hastened his own end. He made an effort to reach the well-stocked table of viands, but expired on the way, murmuring a final and, as it strikes me, rather too dramatic 'After you!'"

"When you have quite done with the cabbage," I rapped out....

* * * * *

Commercial Candour.

"Our illustration is of an exclusive model which we can fake in the latest fabrics for 3-1/2 guineas."

_Advt. in "Dewsbury District News._"

* * * * *

[Illustration: A FAIR WARNING.

_Barber_ (_turning sharply round, to the grave discomfiture of his client's nose_). "DON'T GO, SIR; IT'S YOUR TURN NEXT."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The consideration of Fear seems to have a special appeal for the BENSON Bros. Only the other day did ROBERT HUGH write a clever and hauntingly horrible story round it, and now here is ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER discoursing at large upon the same theme in _Where No Fear Was_ (SMITH, ELDER). It is a book that you will hardly expect me to criticise. One either likes those gentle monologues of Mr. BENSON or is impatient under them--and in any case the comments of a third party would be superfluous. Personally, I should call this one of the most charming of those many hortatory volumes that have come from his prolific pen; he has a subject that interests him, and is naturally therefore at his best in speaking of it. Many kinds of fear are treated in the book--those common to us all in childhood and youth and age; and there are chapters dedicated to men and women who have notably striven with and overcome the dragon--JOHNSON and CHARLOTTE BRONTË and CARLYLE, and that friend of his, JOHN STERLING, whose letter from his death-bed the author quotes and rightly calls "one of the finest human documents." So now you see what kind of book it is, and whether you yourself are likely to respond to its appeal. It will, I am firmly persuaded, bring encouragement to many and add to the already large numbers who owe a real debt of gratitude to the writer. Somewhere he has a passing reference to the time when first he began to receive letters from unknown correspondents. It set me thinking that it was no slight achievement to have said so many human and helpful things so unpriggishly. And certainly no one could call _Where No Fear Was_ a pedantic work; its qualities of gentle humour and, above all, of sincerity absolve it from this charge and should commend it even to those who, as a rule, suffer counsel unwillingly.

* * * * *

Forrard, so to speak, in Mr. CUTCLIFFE HYNE'S latest book you shall discover the three redoubtable stokers from whom it derives its title of _Firemen Hot_ (METHUEN). Combining the stedfast affection and loyalty of the _Three Musketeers_ or the imperishable soldiers of Mr. KIPLING with a faculty, when planning an escapade, for faultless English, only equalled by that of the flustered client explaining what has happened to the lynx-eyed sleuth, they are as stout a trio as ever thrust coal into a furnace or fist into a first mate's jaw. English, American and Scotch (and this would seem to be another injustice to the Green Island), in many ports and on many seas they have many wild yet not wicked adventures, knowing, with an instinctive delicacy born perhaps of the perusal of monthly magazines, where (even whilst crossing it) to draw the line. Aft, you shall come across once more the evergreen _Captain Kettle_, with his sartorial outfit unimpaired, his endless tobacco reserves not withered by a single leaf from their former glory. About wind-jammers and tramp-steamers and the harbours of all the world the author writes familiarly as usual, and has several ingenious plots to unfold, together with one or two that are not so good; and I suppose that the whisky drunk in the pages of _Firemen Hot_ would float a small battleship, and the men laid out with lefts to the jaw, if set end to end, stretch from Hull to Plymouth Docks. I sometimes wonder whether Mr. CUTCLIFFE HYNE ever in an idle hour picks up a book by Mr. CONRAD, and, if so, what he thinks of it.

* * * * *

I confess to being both weary and a little sceptical of heroines (in novels) who leap from the obscurity of mountain glens to fame and a five-figure income as dancers. The latest example is the young person who fills the title _rôle_ in _Belle Nairn_ (MELROSE), and of her I must say that she displays almost all the faults of her kind. She certainly did carry on! On the first page she ran away from the humble cot of her virtuous parents to seek the protection of an aunt whom she supposed (I could not discover on what grounds) to be wealthy. However, so far from this, the aunt turned out to be even worse-housed than the parents, and in point of fact to keep what you might call a gambling-cot on her side of the mountains, where a select circle met to drink smuggled spirits and entertain themselves in other ways that are at least sufficiently indicated in the text. So _Belle_ shook off the dust of the aunt also; and soon afterwards found herself in an open boat, which was run down by the yacht of some real live lords, to one of whom she made violent eyes; at the same time giving an estimate of her social position that went considerably beyond what was warranted by the facts. It was about here that I found that my credulity with regard to _Belle_ was becoming over-taxed, though it may be that Mr. ROY MELDRUM, her creator, believed in her; he has at least a solemnity and sincerity of style that carries him, apparently unwitting, through every peril of the grotesque. Of course _Belle_ comes to town, smashes all booking records at the Basilica, and establishes herself as the idol of society. Later on, I regret to add, she becomes, so to speak, tinged with wine. Perhaps this unfortunate failing is the most credible thing about her. So, while I envy those readers who will doubtless follow her progress with delicious thrills, I can only repeat that it left me entirely unconvinced.

* * * * *

If I had to classify _Oh, Mr. Bidgood_ (LANE), then I should call it a confused comedy, but I should want to add that Mr. PETER BLUNDELL writes with such delightful irresponsibility that the confusion does not make much difference. To explain exactly what occurred during the voyage of the _Susan Dale_ from Ceylon until she was "in distress" off the Borneo coast is not within my scope of intellect, but I can draw up a short list of her passengers (she was not supposed to carry any). I shall give _Mr. Todd_ pride of place, partly because he owned her, but chiefly because sea-sickness incited him to deeds of gallantry. Then there were two skittish nurses, who got on board because one of them knew the second engineer; there was _Colonel Tingle_ (swashbuckler); _Señor Canaba_ (scamp), who had bribed both the captain and the chief engineer (_Mr. Bidgood_); and lastly a brace of crafty Malays, who were the second mate's contribution to the batch, and made a very reluctant appearance upon the scene. Quite as important, however, as this human freight was _Susan's_ cargo of five hundred kegs of gunpowder, shipped as pickled pork, and a wonderful picture which at one time _Mr. Bidgood_ was induced to wear (it was unframed) as extra underclothing. This expedient was not devised to prevent him from catching cold, but to save the picture from being stolen. Indeed, if anyone or anything had to be protected, _Bidgood_, for better or worse, undertook the responsibility. A more engaging old ruffian I have seldom encountered; among all the philanderings, conspiracies and mutinies of this wild voyage he remains a master of volcanic versatility. And his humour is of the right JACOBS brand.

The really stupid thing about _Mr. Fergus Rowley_ was that he had never been to see _The Great Adventure_. That popular play must have been running for a considerable while (and the story appeared in book-form of course much earlier) before he decided to "fake" a suicide from the deck of the liner _Transella_ and leave his large possessions to an unknown and penniless nephew. _It Will Be All Right_ (HUTCHINSON) is the sanguine title which Mr. TOM GALLON has given to his latest novel; but whether he refers merely to _Mr. Rowley's_ optimism or to the further possibility of his readers sharing that gentleman's ignorance of current drama, is more than I can say. Anyhow, _Mr. Rowley_ disappeared, and his nephew succeeded to an estate largely impoverished by the depredations of _Gabriel Thurston_, a fraudulent solicitor and unmitigated rogue after Mr. GALLON'S own heart (and mine). Meanwhile, _Mr. Rowley_ was reduced to playing butler in his own house and thereby saving some of the most precious of his curios from the double waste of a spendthrift heir and an unscrupulous lawyer. There was also--need I mention it?--a Circe in the case. _It Will Be All Right_ is an exercise in the picaresque school, lacking none of the author's usual raciness and vigour; but, if at the end we find _Mr. Fergus Rowley_ still unable to reinstate himself, and left with no better consolation than the "Heigho" of his famous great-uncle _Anthony_, the fault, I feel, was his own. He ought to have looked in at the Kingsway Theatre and provided himself with the indispensable mole.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE SPREAD OF CUBISM.]

* * * * *

"ON."

(_A contemporary remarked recently how many names of famous men have ended in "on."_)

Call no man famous till you know his end. "On" is the most effective. Docked of "on," Who's MILT? or NELS? or NEWT? "On" nerves Anon To blush unseen in public. Say, who penn'd _Don Juan?_ Was it BYR? Could BURT befriend The humpstruck? So curtailed and put upon, Would CAXT or PAXT, would LIPT, would WINST have shone? No, they would not. Their "on"'s what we commend.