A Wodehouse Miscellany. Articles & Stories

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of AWodehouse Miscellany, by P. G.Wodehouse

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Title: A Wodehouse Miscellany Article

& Stories

Author: P. G. Wodehouse

Posting Date: August 27, 2012 [EBook


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#8190] Release Date: May, 2005 FirstPosted: June 29, 2003 Last Updated:January 15, 2005

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK AWODEHOUSE MISCELLANY ***

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A WODEHOUSE

MISCELLANYArticles & Stories

By P. G. WODEHOUSE

Transcriber's note: This collection ofearly Wodehouse writings wasassembled for Project Gutenberg.Original publication dates for the storie

are shown in square brackets in the


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Table of Contents.]


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CONTENTS

ARTICLES

SOME ASPECTS OF GAME-CAPTAINCY

AN UNFINISHED COLLECTION

THE NEW ADVERTISING

THE SECRET PLEASURES OF

REGINALD

MY BATTLE WITH DRINK


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N DEFENSE OF ASTIGMATISM

PHOTOGRAPHERS AND ME

A PLEA FOR INDOOR GOLF

THE ALARMING SPREAD OF POETRY

MY LIFE AS A DRAMATIC CRITIC

THE AGONIES OF WRITING A MUSICALCOMEDY

ON THE WRITING OF LYRICS

THE PAST THEATRICAL SEASON

POEMS


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DAMON AND PYTHIAS: A Romance

THE HAUNTED TRAM

STORIES

WHEN PAPA SWORE IN HINDUSTANI1901]

TOM, DICK, AND HARRY [1905]

JEEVES TAKES CHARGE [1916]

DISENTANGLING OLD DUGGIE [1912]


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ARTICLES


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SOME ASPECTS OF

GAME-CAPTAINCY

To the Game-Captain (of the footballvariety) the world is peopled by threeclasses, firstly the keen and regularplayer, next the partial slacker, thirdly,

and lastly, the entire, abject and absoluteslacker.

Of the first class, the keen and regularplayer, little need be said. A keen playes a gem of purest rays serene, and wheno his keenness he adds regularity and

punctuality, life ceases to become the


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mere hollow blank that it wouldotherwise become, and joy reignssupreme.

The absolute slacker (to take the worstat once, and have done with it) needs thepen of a Swift before adequate justice

can be done to his enormities. He is ablot, an excrescence. All those momentswhich are not spent in avoiding games

by means of that leave which isunanimously considered the peculiarproperty of the French nation) he uses inconcocting ingenious excuses. Armed

with these, he faces with calmness thedisgusting curiosity of the Game-Captain, who officiously desires toknow the reason of his non-appearance


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on the preceding day. These excuses areof the "had-to-go-and-see-a-man-about-a-dog" type, and rarely meet with that

success for which their author hopes. Inhe end he discovers that his chest is

weak, or his heart is subject topalpitations, and he forthwith produces document to this effect, signed by adoctor. This has the desirable result ofmuzzling the tyrannical Game-Captain,

whose sole solace is a look of intenseand withering scorn. But this is seldomfatal, and generally, we rejoice to say,neffectual.

The next type is the partial slacker. Hediffers from the absolute slacker in thatat rare intervals he actually turns up,


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changed withal into the garb of the gameand thirsting for the fray. At this pointbegins the time of trouble for the Game-

Captain. To begin with, he is forced bystress of ignorance to ask the newcomerhis name. This is, of course, an insult ofhe worst kind. "A being who does not

know my name," argues the partialslacker, "must be something not far froma criminal lunatic." The name is,

however, extracted, and the partialslacker strides to the arena. Now arisesnsult No. 2. He is wearing his cap. A

hint as to the advisability of removing

his pice de rsistance not being taken,he is ordered to assume a capless state,and by these means a coolness springsup between him and the G. C. Of this the


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Game-Captain is made aware when thegame commences. The partial slacker,scorning to insert his head in the scrum,

assumes a commanding position outsideand from this point criticises the Game-Captain's decisions with severity andpith. The last end of the partial slacker igenerally a sad one. Stung by somepungent home-thrust, the Game-Captains fain to try chastisement, and by these

means silences the enemy's battery.

Sometimes the classes overlap. As fornstance, a keen and regular player may,

by some more than usually gross bit ofbungling on the part of the G.-C., bemoved to a fervour and eloquenceworthy of Juvenal. Or, again, even the


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absolute slacker may for a time emulatehe keen player, provided an opponent

plant a shrewd kick on a tender spot.

But, broadly speaking, there are onlyhree classes.


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AN UNFINISHED

COLLECTION

A silence had fallen upon the smokingroom. The warrior just back from thefront had enquired after GeorgeVanderpoop, and we, who knew that

George's gentle spirit had, to use ametaphor after his own heart, long sincebeen withdrawn from circulation, were

feeling uncomfortable and wonderinghow to break the news.

Smithson is our specialist in tact, and w

ooked to him to be spokesman.


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"George," said Smithson at last, "the lateGeorge Vanderpoop"

"Late!" exclaimed the warrior; "is hedead?"

"As a doornail," replied Smithson sadly

"Perhaps you would care to hear thestory. It is sad, but interesting. You mayrecollect that, when you sailed, he wasstarting his journalistic career. For aoung writer he had done remarkably

well. TheDaily Telephone had printedwo of his contributions to their

correspondence column, and a bright pepicture of his, describing how Lee'sLozenges for the Liver had snatched himfrom almost certain death, had quite a

vogue. Lee, I believe, actually


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commissioned him to do a series on thesubject."

"Well?" said the warrior.

"Well, he was, as I say, prospering veryfairly, when in an unlucky moment he

began to make a collection of editorialrejection forms. He had always been asomewhat easy prey to scourges of that

description. But when he had passedsafely through a sharp attack ofPhilatelism and a rather nasty bout ofAutographomania, everyone hoped and

believed that he had turned the corner.The progress of his last illness was veryrapid. Within a year he wanted but onespecimen to make the complete set. This


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was the one published from the officesof the Scrutinizer. All the rest he hadobtained with the greatest ease. I

remember his telling me that a singleshort story of his, called 'The Vengeanceof Vera Dalrymple,' had beennstrumental in securing no less thanhirty perfect specimens. Poor George! I

was with him when he made his firstattempt on the Scrutinizer. He had

baited his hook with an essay onEvolution. He read me one or twopassages from it. I stopped him at thehird paragraph, and congratulated him

n advance, little thinking that it wassympathy rather than congratulations thahe needed. When I saw him a weekafterwards he was looking haggard. I


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questioned him, and by slow degreesdrew out the story. The article onEvolution had been printed.

"'Never say die, George,' I said. 'Sendhem "Vera Dalrymple." No paper canake that.'

"He sent it. The Scrutinizer, which hadbeen running for nearly a century withoupublishing a line of fiction, took it andasked for more. It was as if there werean editorial conspiracy against him."

"Well?" said the man of war.

"Then," said Smithson, "George pulledhimself together. He wrote a parody of

The Minstrel Boy.' I have seen a good


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many parodies, but never such a parodyas that. By return of post came a longenvelope bearing the crest of the

Scrutinizer. 'At last,' he said, as he toret open.

"'George, old man,' I said, 'your hand.'

"He looked at me a full minute. Thenwith a horrible, mirthless laugh he fell tohe ground, and expired almost instantly

You will readily guess what killed him.The poem had been returned, butwithout a rejection form!"


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THE NEW

ADVERTISING

"In Denmark," said the man of ideas,coming into the smoking room, "I seehat they have original ideas on the

subject of advertising. According to the

usually well-informed Daily Lyre, allbombastic' advertising is punished witha fine. The advertiser is expected to

describe his wares in restrained, modesanguage. In case this idea should bentroduced into England, I have drawn

up a few specimen advertisements

which, in my opinion, combine


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attractiveness with a shrinking modestyat which no censor could cavil."

And in spite of our protests, he began toread us his first effort, descriptive of apatent medicine.

"It runs like this," he said:

Timson's Tonic for DistractedDeadbeats

Has been known to cureWe Hate to Seem to Boast,but

Many Who have Tried It Are StillAlive

* * * * *


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Take a Dose or Two in Your SpareTime

It's Not Bad Stuff

* * * * *

Read what an outside stockbroker

says:"SirAfter three months' steady

absorption of your TonicI was no worse."

* * * * *

We do not wish to thrust ourselvesforward in any way. If you preferother medicines, by all means takethem. Only we just thought we'd

mention itcasually, as it were


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that TIMSON'S is PRETTYGOOD.

"How's that?" inquired the man of ideas"Attractive, I fancy, without beingbombastic. Now, one about a new novelReady?"

MR. LUCIEN LOGROLLER'S LATEST

The Dyspepsia of the SoulThe Dyspepsia of the SoulThe Dyspepsia of the Soul

Don't buy it if you don't want to, butust

listen to a few of the criticisms.


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THE DYSPEPSIA OF THE SOUL

"Rather rubbish."Spectator

"We advise all insomniacs to readMr. Logroller's soporificpages."Outlook

"Rot."Pelican

THE DYSPEPSIA OF THE SOULAlready in its first edition.

"What do you think of that?" asked the

man of ideas.

We told him.


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THE SECRET

PLEASURES OF

REGINALD

found Reggie in the club one Saturdayafternoon. He was reclining in a long

chair, motionless, his eyes fixed glassilyon the ceiling. He frowned a little when spoke. "You don't seem to be doing

anything," I said.

"It's not what I'm doing, it's what I amnotdoing that matters."


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t sounded like an epigram, but epigramsare so little associated withReggie that I ventured to ask what he

meant.

He sighed. "Ah well," he said. "Isuppose the sooner I tell you, the sooner

ou'll go. Do you know Bodfish?"

shuddered. "Wilkinson Bodfish? I do."

"Have you ever spent a weekend atBodfish's place in the country?"

shuddered again. "I have."

"Well, I'm notspending the weekend atBodfish's place in the country."


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"I see you're not. But"

"You don't understand. I do not mean tha

am simply absent from Bodfish's placen the country. I mean that I am

deliberately not spending the weekendhere. When you interrupted me just now

was not strolling down to Bodfish'sgarage, listening to his prattle about hisnew car."

glanced around uneasily.

"Reggie, old man, you'reyou're not

This hot weather"

"I am perfectly well, and in possessionof all my faculties. Now tell me. Can

ou imagine anything more awful than to


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spend a weekend with Bodfish?"

On the spur of the moment I could not.

"Can you imagine anything moredelightful, then, than notspending aweekend with Bodfish? Well, that's wha

'm doing now. Soon, when you havegoneif you have any otherengagements, please don't let me keepouI shall not go into the house and

not listen to Mrs. Bodfish on the subjectof young Willie Bodfish's prematurentelligence."

got his true meaning. "I see. You meanhat you will be thanking your stars thatou aren't with Bodfish."


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"That is it, put crudely. But I go further. don't indulge in a mere momentary self-congratulation, I do the thing thoroughly

f I were weekending at Bodfish's, Ishould have arrived there just half anhour ago. I therefore selected thatmoment for beginning not to weekendwith Bodfish. I settled myself in thischair and I did not have my back slappeat the station. A few minutes later I was

not whirling along the country roads,rying to balance the car with my legs

and an elbow. Time passed, and I wasnot shaking hands with Mrs. Bodfish. I

have just had the most corking half-hourand shortlywhen you haveremembered an appointmentI shall goon having it. What I am really looking


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forward to is the happy time after dinner shall pass it in not playing bridge with

Bodfish, Mrs. Bodfish, and a neighbor.

Sunday morning is the best part of thewhole weekend, though. That is when Ishall most enjoy myself. Do you know aman named Pringle? Next Saturday I amnot going to stay with Pringle. I forgetwho is not to be my host the Saturdayafter that. I have so many engagements o

his kind that I lose track of them."

"But, Reggie, this is genius. You have hion the greatest idea of the age. You

might extend this system of yours."

"I do. Some of the jolliest evenings Ihave spent have been not at the theatre."


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"I have often wondered what it was thatmade you look so fit and happy."

"Yes. These little non-visits of minepick me up and put life into me for thecoming week. I get up on Mondaymorning feeling like a lion. The reason I

selected Bodfish this week, though I wapractically engaged to a man namedStevenson who lives out in Connecticut,

was that I felt rundown and needed areal rest. I shall be all right on Monday.

"And so shall I," I said, sinking into the

chair beside him.

"You're not going to the country?" heasked regretfully.


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"I am not. I, too, need a tonic. I shall joinou at Bodfish's. I really feel a lot better

already."

closed my eyes, and relaxed, and agreat peace settled upon me.


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MY BATTLE WITH

DRINK

could tell my story in two wordsthewo words "I drank." But I was not

always a drinker. This is the story of mydownfalland of my risefor through

he influence of a good woman, I have,hank Heaven, risen from the depths.

The thing stole upon me gradually, as itdoes upon so many young men. As a boy remember taking a glass of root beer,

but it did not grip me then. I can recall

hat I even disliked the taste. I was a


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oung man before temptation really camupon me. My downfall began when Ioined the Yonkers Shorthand and

Typewriting College.

t was then that I first made acquaintancewith the awful power of ridicule. They

were a hard-living set at collegereckless youths. They frequented moviepalaces. They thought nothing of windin

up an evening with a couple of egg-phosphates and a chocolate fudge. Theyaughed at me when I refused to joinhem. I was only twenty. My character

was undeveloped. I could not endureheir scorn. The next time I was offered

a drink I accepted. They were pleased, Iremember. They called me "Good old


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Plum!" and a good sport and othercomplimentary names. I was intoxicatedwith sudden popularity.

How vividly I can recall that day! Theshining counter, the placards advertisingstrange mixtures with ice cream as their

basis, the busy men behind the counter,he half-cynical, half-pitying eyes of the

girl in the cage where you bought the

soda checks. She had seen so manyhappy, healthy boys through that littlehole in the wire netting, so manyhoughtless boys all eager for their first

soda, clamoring to set their foot on theprimrose path that leads to destruction.

t was an apple marshmallow sundae, I

recollect. I dug my spoon into it with an


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assumption of gaiety which I was farfrom feeling. The first mouthful almostnauseated me. It was like cold hair-oil.

But I stuck to it. I could not break downnow. I could not bear to forfeit thenewly-won esteem of my comrades.They were gulping their sundaes downwith the speed and enjoyment of oldhands. I set my teeth, and persevered,and by degrees a strange exhilaration

began to steal over me. I felt that I hadburnt my boats and bridges; that I hadcrossed the Rubicon. I was reckless. Iordered another round. I was the life and

soul of that party.

The next morning brought remorse. I didnot feel well. I had pains, physical and


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mental. But I could not go back now. Iwas too weak to dispense with mypopularity. I was only a boy, and on the

previous evening the captain of theCheckers Club, to whom I looked upwith an almost worshipping reverence,had slapped me on the back and told mehat I was a corker. I felt that nothing

could be excessive payment for such anhonor. That night I gave a party at which

orange phosphate flowed like water. Itwas the turning point.

had got the habit!

will pass briefly over the next fewears. I continued to sink deeper and

deeper into the slough. I knew all the

drugstore clerks in New York by their


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first names, and they called me by mine.no longer even had to specify the

abomination I desired. I simply handed

he man my ten cent check and said: "Thusual, Jimmy," and he understood.

At first, considerations of health did not

rouble me. I was young and strong, andmy constitution quickly threw off theeffects of my dissipation. Then,

gradually, I began to feel worse. I wasosing my grip. I found a difficulty inconcentrating my attention on my work. had dizzy spells. I became nervous and

distrait. Eventually I went to a doctor.He examined me thoroughly, and shookhis head.


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"If I am to do you any good," he said,"you must tell me all. You must hold nosecrets from me."

"Doctor," I said, covering my face withmy hands, "I am a confirmed soda-fiend."

He gave me a long lecture and a longerist of instructions. I must take air and

exercise and I must become a totalabstainer from sundaes of alldescriptions. I must avoid limeade likehe plague, and if anybody offered me a

Bulgarzoon I was to knock him downand shout for the nearest policeman.

learned then for the first time what a

bitterly hard thing it is for a man in a


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arge and wicked city to keep from sodawhen once he has got the habit.Everything was against me. The old

convivial circle began to shun me. Icould not join in their revels and theybegan to look on me as a grouch. In theend, I fell, and in one wild orgy undidall the good of a month's abstinence. Iwas desperate then. I felt that nothingcould save me, and I might as well give

up the struggle. I drank two pin-ap-o-ades, three grapefruit-olas and an egg-

zoolak, before pausing to take breath.

And then, the next day, I met May, thegirl who effected my reformation. Shewas a clergyman's daughter who, tosupport her widowed mother, had


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accepted a non-speaking part in amusical comedy production entitled "OhJoy! Oh Pep!" Our acquaintance ripened

and one night I asked her out to supper.

look on that moment as the happiest ofmy life. I met her at the stage door, and

conducted her to the nearest soda-fountain. We were inside and I wasbuying the checks before she realized

where she was, and I shall never forgether look of mingled pain and horror.

"And I thought you were a live one!" she

murmured.

t seemed that she had been lookingforward to a little lobster and

champagne. The idea was absolutely


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new to me. She quickly convinced me,however, that such was the onlyrefreshment which she would consider,

and she recoiled with unconcealedaversion from my suggestion of a MochaMalted and an Eva Tanguay. That night Iasted wine for the first time, and my

reformation began.

t was hard at first, desperately hard.

Something inside me was trying to pullme back to the sundaes for which Icraved, but I resisted the impulse.Always with her divinely sympathetic

encouragement, I gradually acquired aaste for alcohol. And suddenly, one

evening, like a flash it came upon mehat I had shaken off the cursed yoke that


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held me down: that I never wanted to sehe inside of a drugstore again.

Cocktails, at first repellent, have at last

become palatable to me. I drinkhighballs for breakfast. I am saved.


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IN DEFENSE OF

ASTIGMATISM

This is peculiarly an age wherenovelists pride themselves on thebreadth of their outlook and the couragewith which they refuse to ignore the

realities of life; and never before haveauthors had such scope in the matter ofhe selection of heroes. In the days of the

old-fashioned novel, when the hero wasautomatically Lord Blank or Sir RalphAsterisk, there were, of course, certainrules that had to be observed, but today

why, you can hardly hear yourself


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hink for the uproar of earnest youngnovelists proclaiming how free andunfettered they are. And yet, no writer

has had the pluck to make his hero wearglasses.

n the old days, as I say, this was all

very well. The hero was a youngordling, sprung from a line of ancestors

who had never done anything with their

eyes except wear a piercing glancebefore which lesser men quailed. Butnow novelists go into every class ofsociety for their heroes, and surely, at

east an occasional one of them musthave been astigmatic. Kipps undoubtedlwore glasses; so did Bunker Bean; sodid Mr. Polly, Clayhanger, Bibbs,


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Sheridan, and a score of others. Thenwhy not say so?

ovelists are moving with the times inevery other direction. Why not in this?

t is futile to advance the argument that

glasses are unromantic. They are not. Iknow, because I wear them myself, and am a singularly romantic figure, whethern my rimless, my Oxford gold-

bordered, or the plain gent's spectacleswhich I wear in the privacy of my study

Besides, everybody wears glassesnowadays. That is the point I wish tomake. For commercial reasons, if for noothers, authors ought to think seriously o

his matter of goggling their heroes. It is


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an admitted fact that the reader of anovel likes to put himself in the hero'splaceto imagine, while reading, that

he is the hero. What an audience thewriter of the first romance to star aspectacled hero will have. All over thecountry thousands of short-sighted menwill polish their glasses and plunge intohis pages. It is absurd to go on writing inhese days for a normal-sighted public.

The growing tenseness of life, with itssmall print, its newspapers read byartificial light, and its flickering motionpictures, is whittling down the section o

he populace which has perfect sight to amere handful.

seem to see that romance. In fact, I


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hink I shall write it myself. "'Evadne,'murmured Clarence, removing his pincenez and polishing them tenderly.'"

"'See,' cried Clarence, 'how clearlyevery leaf of yonder tree is mirrored inhe still water of the lake. I can't see

myself, unfortunately, for I have left myglasses on the parlor piano, but don'tworry about me: go ahead and see!" "Clarence adjusted his tortoiseshell-

rimmed spectacles with a carelessgesture, and faced the assassins withouta tremor." Hot stuff? Got the punch? Ishould say so. Do you imagine that there

will be a single man in this country withhe price of the book in his pocket and a

pair of pince-nez on his face who willnot scream and kick like an angry child


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f you withhold my novel from him?

And just pause for a moment to think of

he serial and dramatic rights of thestory. All editors wear glasses, so do alheatrical managers. My appeal will berresistible. All I shall have to do will

be to see that the check is for the rightfigure and to supervise the placing of theelectric sign

SPECTACLES OF FATE

BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

over the doors of whichever theatre Ihappen to select for the production of th

play.


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Have you ever considered the latentpossibilities for dramatic situations inshort sight? You know how your glasses

cloud over when you come into a warmroom out of the cold? Well, imagineour hero in such a position. He has

been waiting outside the murderer's denpreparatory to dashing in and saving theheroine. He dashes in. "Hands up, youscoundrels," he cries. And then his

glasses get all misty, and there he is,emporarily blind, with a full-size

desperado backing away and measuringhe distance in order to hand him one

with a pickaxe.

Or would you prefer something lesssensational, something more in the


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romantic line? Very well. Hero, on hisway to the Dowager Duchess's ball,slips on a banana-peel and smashes his

only pair of spectacles. He dare not failo attend the ball, for the dear Duchess

would never forgive him; so he goes inand proposes to a girl he particularlydislikes because she is dressed in pink,and the heroine told him that she wasgoing to wear pink. But the heroine's

pink dress was late in coming home frohe modiste's and she had to turn up in

blue. The heroine comes in just as theother girl is accepting him, and there you

have a nice, live, peppy, kick-off forour tale of passion and human interest.

But I have said enough to show that the


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ime has come when novelists, if they donot wish to be left behind in the race,must adapt themselves to modern

conditions. One does not wish tohreaten, but, as I say, we astigmatics arn a large minority and can, if we getogether, make our presence felt. Roused

by this article to a sense of the injusticeof their treatment, the great army ofglass-wearing citizens could very easily

make novelists see reason. A boycott ofnon-spectacled heroes would soonachieve the necessary reform. Perhapshere will be no need to let matters go as

far as that. I hope not. But, if thiswarning should be neglected, if we haveany more of these novels about men withkeen gray eyes or snapping black eyes o


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cheerful blue eyesany sort of eyes, infact, lacking some muscular affliction,we shall know what to do.


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PHOTOGRAPHERS

AND ME

look in my glass, dear reader, and whado I see? Nothing so frightfully hot,believe me. The face is slablike, the earare large and fastened on at right-angles

Above the eyebrows comes a stagnantsea of bald forehead, stretching awaynto the distance with nothing to relieve

t but a few wisps of lonely hair. Thenose is blobby, the eyes dull, like thoseof a fish not in the best of health. A facen short, taking it for all in all, which

should be reserved for the gaze of my


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nearest and dearest who, through longhabit, have got used to it and can seehrough to the pure white soul beneath.

At any rate, a face not to be scatteredabout at random and come uponsuddenly by nervous people andnvalids.

And yet, just because I am an author, Ihave to keep on being photographed. It i

he fault of publishers and editors, ofcourse, really, but it is the photographerwho comes in for the author's hate.

Something has got to be done about thispractice of publishing authors'photographs. We have to submit to it,because editors and publishers insist.

They have an extraordinary superstition


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hat it helps an author's sales. The idea ihat the public sees the photograph,

pauses spell-bound for an instant, and

hen with a cry of ecstasy rushes off tohe book-shop and buys copy after copy

of the gargoyle's latest novel.

Of course, in practice, it works out justhe other way. People read a review of

an author's book and are told that it

hrobs with a passion so intense asalmost to be painful, and are on the poinof digging seven-and-sixpence out ofheir child's money-box to secure a copy

when their eyes fall on the man'sphotograph at the side of the review, andhey find that he has a face like a rabbit

and wears spectacles and a low collar.


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And this man is the man who is said tohave laid bare the soul of a woman aswith a scalpel.

aturally their faith is shaken. They feelhat a man like that cannot possibly know

anything about Woman or any other

subject except where to go for avegetarian lunch, and the next momenthey have put down the hair-pin and the

child is seven-and-six in hand and theauthor his ten per cent., or whatever it iso the bad. And all because of a

photograph.

For the ordinary man, the recentntroduction of high-art methods into

photography has done much to diminish

he unpleasantness of the operation. In


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he old days of crude and direct posing,here was no escape for the sitter. He

had to stand up, backed by a rustic stile

and a flabby canvas sheet covered withexotic trees, glaring straight into thecamera. To prevent any eleventh-hourretreat, a sort of spiky thing was shovedfirmly into the back of his head leavinghim with the choice of being taken as hestood or having an inch of steel jabbed

nto his skull. Modern methods havechanged all that.

There are no photographs nowadays.

Only "camera portraits" and "lensmpressions." The full face has been

abolished. The ideal of the present-dayphotographer is to eliminate the sitter as


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far as possible and concentrate on ageneral cloudy effect. I have in mypossession two studies of my Uncle

Theodoreone taken in the earlynineties, the other in the present year.The first shows him, evidently in pain,staring before him with a fixedexpression. In his right hand he grasps ascroll. His left rests on a moss-coveredwall. Two sea-gulls are flying against a

stormy sky.

As a likeness, it is almost brutally exactMy uncle stands forever condemned as

he wearer of a made-up tie.

The second is different in every respectot only has the sitter been taken in the

popular modern "one-twentieth face,"


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showing only the back of the head, theeft ear and what is either a pimple or a

flaw in the print, but the whole thing is

plunged in the deepest shadow. It is as imy uncle had been surprised by thecamera while chasing a black cat in hiscoal-cellar on a moonlight night. Theres no question as to which of the two

makes the more attractive picture. Myfamily resemble me in that respect. The

ess you see of us, the better we look.


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A PLEA FOR

INDOOR GOLF

ndoor golf is that which is played in thehome. Whether you live in a palace or ahovel, an indoor golf-course, be it onlyof nine holes, is well within your reach.

A house offers greater facilities than anapartment, and I have found my gamegreatly improved since I went to live in

he country. I can, perhaps, scarcely dobetter than give a brief description of thsporting nine-hole course which I haverecently laid out in my present

residence.


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All authorities agree that the first hole oevery links should be moderately easy,n order to give the nervous player a

emporary and fictitious confidence.

At Wodehouse Manor, therefore, wedrive off from the front doorin order

o get the benefit of the door-matdownan entry fairway, carpeted with rugs andwithout traps. The holea loving-cup

s just under the stairs; and a good playeought to have no difficulty in doing it inwo.

The second hole, a short and simple oneakes you into the telephone booth.

Trouble begins with the third, a longdog-leg hole through the kitchen into the

dining-room. This hole is well trapped


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with table-legs, kitchen utensils, and amoving hazard in the person of Clarencehe cat, who is generally wandering

about the fairway. The hole is under theglass-and-china cupboard, where youare liable to be bunkered if you loft yourapproach-shot excessively.

The fourth and fifth holes call for nocomment. They are without traps, the

only danger being that you may lose astroke through hitting the maid if shehappens to be coming down the backstairs while you are taking a mashie-

shot. This is a penalty under the localrule.

The sixth is the indispensable water-


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hole. It is short, but tricky. Teeing offfrom just outside the bathroom door, youhave to loft the ball over the side of the

bath, holing out in the little vent pipe, athe end where the water runs out.

The seventh is the longest hole on the

course. Starting at the entrance of thebest bedroom, a full drive takes you tohe head of the stairs, whence you will

need at least two more strokes to put youdead on the pin in the drawing-room. Inhe drawing-room the fairway is trapped

with photograph frameswith glass,

completethese serving as casualwater: and anyone who can hole out onhe piano in five or under is a player of

class. Bogey is six, and I have known


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even such a capable exponent of thegame as my Uncle Reginald, who is pluswo on his home links on Park Avenue,

o take twenty-seven at the hole. But onhat occasion he had the misfortune to be

bunkered in a photograph of my AuntClara and took no fewer than elevenstrokes with his niblick to extricatehimself from it.

The eighth and ninth holes arestraightforward, and can be done in twoand three respectively, provided youswing easily and avoid the canary's

cage. Once trapped there, it is better togive up the hole without further effort. Its almost impossible to get out in lesshan fifty-six, and after you have taken


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about thirty the bird gets visiblyannoyed.


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THE ALARMING

SPREAD OF

POETRY

To the thinking man there are few thingsmore disturbing than the realization that

we are becoming a nation of minorpoets. In the good old days poets werefor the most part confined to garrets,which they left only for the purpose ofbeing ejected from the offices ofmagazines and papers to which theyattempted to sell their wares. Nobody

ever thought of reading a book of poems


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unless accompanied by a guarantee fromhe publisher that the author had been

dead at least a hundred years. Poetry,

ike wine, certain brands of cheese, andpublic buildings, was rightly consideredo improve with age; and no connoisseur

could have dreamed of filling himselfwith raw, indigestible verse, warm fromhe maker.

Today, however, editors are paying realmoney for poetry; publishers are makinga profit on books of verse; and many aoung man who, had he been born

earlier, would have sustained life on acrust of bread, is now sending for themanager to find out how the restaurantdares try to sell a fellow champagne like


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his as genuine Pommery Brut. Naturallyhis is having a marked effect on the life

of the community. Our children grow to

adolescence with the feeling that theycan become poets instead of working.Many an embryo bill clerk has beenruined by the heady knowledge thatpoems are paid for at the rate of a dollara line. All over the country promisingoung plasterers and rising young

motormen are throwing up steady jobs inorder to devote themselves to the newprofession. On a sunny afternoon downn Washington Square one's progress is

positively impeded by the swarms ofoung poets brought out by the warm

weather. It is a horrible sight to seehose unfortunate youths, who ought to b


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sitting happily at desks writing "DearSir, Your favor of the tenth inst. dulyreceived and contents noted. In reply we

beg to state." wandering about withheir fingers in their hair and theirfeatures distorted with the agony ofcomposition, as they try to find rhymeso "cosmic" and "symbolism."

And, as if matters were not bad enough

already, along comes Mr. Edgar LeeMasters and invents vers libre. It is tooearly yet to judge the full effects of thisman's horrid discovery, but there is no

doubt that he has taken the lid off andunleashed forces over which none canhave any control. All those decentrestrictions which used to check poets


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have vanished, and who shall say whatwill be the outcome?

Until Mr. Masters came on the scenehere was just one thing which, like a

salient fortress in the midst of anenemy's advancing army, acted as a

barrier to the youth of the country. Whenone's son came to one and said, "Father, shall not be able to fulfill your dearest

wish and start work in the fertilizerdepartment. I have decided to become apoet," although one could no longerfrighten him from his purpose by talking

of garrets and starvation, there was stillone weapon left. "What about therhymes, Willie?" you replied, and theeager light died out of the boy's face, as


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he perceived the catch in what he hadaken for a good thing. You pressed your

advantage. "Think of having to spend

our life making one line rhyme withanother! Think of the bleak future, whenou have used up 'moon' and 'June,'love' and 'dove,' 'May' and 'gay'! Thinkof the moment when you have ended theast line but one of your poem withwindows' or 'warmth' and have to

buckle to, trying to make the thing couplup in accordance with the rules! Whathen, Willie?"

ext day a new hand had signed on inhe fertilizer department.

But now all that has changed. Not only

are rhymes no longer necessary, but


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editors positively prefer them left out. IfLongfellow had been writing today hewould have had to revise "The Village

Blacksmith" if he wanted to pull in thatdollar a line. No editor would print stufike:

Under the spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands.

The smith a brawny man is he

With large and sinewy hands.

f Longfellow were living in thesehyphenated, free and versy days, he

would find himself compelled to take hipen in hand and dictate as follows:

In life I was the village smith,

I worked all day


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ButI retained the delicacy of my

complexion

BecauseI worked in the shade of the chestnut

reeInstead of in the sunLike Nicholas Blodgett, the

expressman.I was large and strong

BecauseI went in for physical cultureAnd deep breathingAnd all those stunts.

I had the biggest biceps in SpoonRiver.

Who can say where this thing will end?


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Vers libre is within the reach of all. Asleeping nation has wakened to therealization that there is money to be

made out of chopping its prose into bits.Something must be done shortly if thenation is to be saved from this menace.But what? It is no good shooting EdgarLee Masters, for the mischief has beendone, and even making an example ofhim could not undo it. Probably the only

hope lies in the fact that poets never buyother poets' stuff. When once we haveall become poets, the sale of verse willcease or be limited to the few copies

which individual poets will buy to giveo their friends.


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MY LIFE AS A

DRAMATIC CRITIC

had always wanted to be a dramaticcritic. A taste for sitting back andwatching other people work, so essentiao the make-up of this sub-species of

humanity, has always been one of theeading traits in my character.

have seldom missed a first night. Nosooner has one periodical got rid of mehan another has had the misfortune to

engage me, with the result that I am now

he foremost critic of the day, read


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assiduously by millions, fawned upon bymanagers, courted by stagehands. Myightest word can make or mar a new

production. If I say a piece is bad, itdies. It may not die instantly. Generallyt takes forty weeks in New York and a

couple of seasons on the road to do it,but it cannot escape its fate. Sooner orater it perishes. That is the sort of man

am.

Whatever else may be charged againstme, I have never deviated from thestandard which I set myself at the

beginning of my career. If I am calledupon to review a play produced by amanager who is considering one of myown works, I do not hesitate. I praise


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hat play.

f an actor has given me a lunch, I refuse

o bite the hand that has fed me. I praisehat actor's performance. I can only

recall one instance of my departing frommy principles. That was when the

champagne was corked, and the manrefused to buy me another bottle.

As is only natural, I have met manynteresting people since I embarked on

my career. I remember once lunchingwith rare Ben Jonson at the Mermaid

Tavernthis would be back in QueenElizabeth's time, when I was beginningo be known in the theatrical world

and seeing a young man with a nobby

forehead and about three inches of beard


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doing himself well at a neighboring tablat the expense of Burbage the manager.

"Ben," I asked my companion, "who ishat youth?" He told me that the fellow

was one Bacon, a new dramatist whohad learned his technique by holding

horses' heads in the Strand, and who, forsome reason or other, wrote under thename of Shakespeare. "You must see his

amlet," said Ben enthusiastically. "Heread me the script last night. They startrehearsals at the Globe next week. It's apippin. In the last act every blamed

character in the cast who isn't alreadydead jumps on everyone else's neck andslays him. It's a skit, you know, on thesefoolish tragedies which every manager


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s putting on just now. Personally, I thinkt's the best thing since The Prune-ater's Daughter."

was skeptical at the moment, but timeproved the correctness of my old friend'udgment; and, having been present after

he opening performance at a littlesupper given by Burbage at which sackran like water, and anybody who wanted

another malvoisie and seltzer simply hado beckon to the waiter, I was able toconscientiously praise it in the highesterms.

still treasure the faded newspaperclipping which contains theadvertisement of the play, with the

egend, "Shakespeare has put one over.


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A scream from start to finish."Wodehouse, in The Weekly Bear-Baiterwith which is incorporated The Scurvy

naves' Gazette).

The lot of a dramatic critic is, in manyrespects, an enviable one. Lately, there

has been the growing practice amongcritics of roasting a play on the morningafter production, and then having anothe

go at it in the Sunday edition under theitle of "Second Swats" or "The PastWeek in the Theatre," which has made ipretty rocky going for dramatists who

hus get it twice in the same place, andexperience the complex emotions of thecommuter who, coming home in the darkrips over the baby's cart and bumps his


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head against the hat stand.

There is also no purer pleasure than that

of getting into a theatre on what the poetMilton used to call "the nod." Iremember Brigham Young saying to meonce with not unnatural chagrin, "You're

a lucky man, Wodehouse. It doesn't costou a nickel to go to a theatre. When I

want to take in a show with the wife, I

have to buy up the whole of the orchestrfloor. And even then it's a tight fit."

My fellow critics and I escape this

financial trouble, and it gives us a gooddeal of pleasure, when the male star iscounting the house over the heroine'shead (during their big love scene) to see

him frown as he catches sight of us and


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hastily revise his original estimate.


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THE AGONIES OF

WRITING A

MUSICAL COMEDY

Which Shows Why Librettists Pick at thCoverlet

The trouble about musical comedy, andhe reason why a great many otherwise

kindly and broadminded persons lie inwait round the corner with suddenscowls, their whole being intent onbeating it with a brick the moment it

shows its head, is that, from outside, it


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ooks too easy.

You come into the crowded theatre and

consider that each occupant of anorchestra chair is contributing three orfour cents to the upkeep of a fellow whodid nothing but dash off the stuff that

keeps the numbers apart, and your bloodboils. A glow of honest resentment fillsou at the thought of anyone having such

an absolute snap. You little know whathe poor bird has suffered, and hownadequate a reward are his few yens

per week for what he has been through.

Musical comedy is not dashed off. Itgrowsslowly and painfully, and eachstep in its growth either bleaches anotheuft of the author's hair or removes it


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from the parent skull altogether.

The average musical comedy comes into

being because somebodynot thepublic, but a managerwants one. Wewill say that Mr. and Mrs. Whoosis, theeminent ballroom dancers, have decided

hat they require a different sphere forhe exhibition of their talents. They do

not demand a drama. They commission

somebody to write them a musicalcomedy. Some poor, misguided creatures wheedled into signing a contract: and

from that moment, his troubles begin.

An inspiration gives him a pleasing andngenious plot. Full of optimism, he

starts to write it. By the time he has

finished an excellent first act, he is


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nformed that Mr. and Mrs. Whoosispropose to sing three solos and twoduets in the first act and five in the

second, and will he kindly build hisscript accordingly? This baffles theauthor a little. He is aware that bothartistes, though extremely giftednorthward as far as the ankle-bone, goall to pieces above that level, with theresult that by the time you reach the zone

where the brains and voice are located,here is nothing stirring whatever. And

he had allowed for this in his originalconception of the play, by making Mrs.

Whoosis a deaf-mute and Mr. Whoosis aTrappist monk under the perpetual vowof silence. The unfolding of the plot hehad left to the other characters, with a


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few ingenious gaps where the two starscould come on and dance.

He takes a stiff bracer, ties a vinegar-soaked handkerchief round his foreheadand sets to work to remodel his piece.He is a trifle discouraged, but he

perseveres. With almost superhuman toihe contrives the only possible storywhich will fit the necessities of the case

He has wrapped up the script and isabout to stroll round the corner to mailt, when he learns from the manager whos acting as intermediary between the

parties concerned in the production thathere is a slight hitch. Instead of having

fifty thousand dollars deposited in thebank to back the play, it seems that the


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artistes merely said in their conversationhat it would be awfully jolly if they did

have that sum, or words to that effect.

By this time our author has got the thingnto his system: or, rather, he has

worked so hard that he feels he cannot

abandon the venture now. He hunts foranother manager who wants somethingmusical, and at length finds one. The

only proviso is that this manager doesnot need a piece built around two stars,but one suited to the needs of JasperCutup, the well-known comedian, whom

he has under contract. The personality oJasper is familiar to the author, so heworks for a month or two and remouldshe play to fit him. With the script under


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his arm he staggers to the manager'soffice. The manager reads the scriptsmileschucklesthoroughly enjoys it

Then a cloud passes athwart his brow."There's only one thing the matter withhis piece," he says. "You seem to have

written it to star a comedian." "But yousaid you wanted it for Jasper Cutup,"gasps the author, supporting himselfagainst the water-cooler. "Well, yes, tha

s so," replies the manager. "I remember did want a piece for him then, but he's

gone and signed up with K. and Lee.What I wish you would do is to take this

script and twist it to be a vehicle forPansy Glucose."

"Pansy Glucose?" moans the author.


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"The ingenue?" "Yes," says the manager"It won't take long. Just turn yourMilwaukee pickle manufacturer into a

debutante, and the thing is done. Get towork as soon as you can. I want thisrushed."

All this is but a portion of the musicalcomedy author's troubles. We willassume that he eventually finds a

manager who really does put the piecento rehearsal. We will even assume thahe encounters none of the trials to which have alluded. We will even go further

and assume that he is commissioned towrite a musical comedy without anydefinite stellar personality in mind, andhat when he has finished it the manager


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will do his share by providing a suitablecast. Is he in soft? No, dear reader, he isnot in soft. You have forgotten the

"Gurls." Critics are inclined to reproachderide, blame and generally hammer theauthor of a musical comedy because hisplot is not so consecutive and unbrokenas the plot of a farce or a comedy. Theydo not realize the conditions underwhich he is working. It is one of the

mmutable laws governing musical playhat at certain intervals during the

evening the audience demand to see thechorus. They may not be aware that they

so demand, but it is nevertheless a facthat, unless the chorus come on at these

fixed intervals, the audience's interestsags. The raciest farce-scenes cannot


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hold them, nor the most tender lovepassages. They want the gurls, the wholgurls, and nothing but the gurls.

Thus it comes about that the author,having at last finished his first act, isroused from his dream of content by a

horrid fear. He turns to the script, anddiscovers that his panic was wellgrounded. He has carelessly allowed

fully twenty pages to pass without oncebringing on the chorus.

This is where he begins to clutch his

forehead and to grow gray at theemples. He cannot possibly shift

musical number four, which is a chorusnumber, into the spot now occupied by

musical number three, which is a duet,


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because three is a "situation" number,rooted to its place by the exigencies ofhe story. The only thing to do is to pull

he act to pieces and start afresh. Andwhen you consider that this sort of thinghappens not once but a dozen timesbetween the start of a musical comedybook and its completion, can youwonder that this branch of writing isncluded among the dangerous trades an

hat librettists always end by picking athe coverlet?

Then there is the question of cast. The

author builds his hero in such a mannerhat he requires an actor who can sing,

dance, be funny, and carry a loventerest. When the time comes to cast the


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piece, he finds that the only possibleman in sight wants fifteen hundred aweek and, anyway, is signed up for the

next five years with the rival syndicate.He is then faced with the alternative ofrevising his play to suit either: a) Jones,who can sing and dance, but is not funnyb) Smith, who is funny, but cannot singand dance; c) Brown, who is funny andcan sing and dance, but who cannot carr

a love-interest and, through working inrevue, has developed a habit ofwandering down to the footlights andchatting with the audience. Whichever

actor is given the job, it means morerewriting.

Overcome this difficulty, and another


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arises. Certain scenes are constructed sohat A gets a laugh at the expense of B;

but B is a five-hundred-a-week

comedian and A is a two-hundred-a-week juvenile, and B refuses to "playstraight" even for an instant for a socialnferior. The original line is such that it

cannot be simply switched from one tohe other. The scene has to be entirely

reconstructed and further laugh lines

hought of. Multiply this by a hundred,and you will begin to understand why,when you see a librettist, he is generallyying on his back on the sidewalk with a

crowd standing round, saying, "Give himair."

So, do not grudge the librettist his


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housand a week or whatever it is.Remember what he has suffered andconsider his emotions on the morning

after the production when he sees lineswhich he invented at the cost ofpermanently straining his brain,attributed by the critics to the impromptunvention of the leading comedian. Of alhe saddest words of tongue or pen, the

saddestto a musical comedy author

are these in the morning paper: "Thebulk of the humor was sustained byWalter Wiffle, who gagged his waymerrily through the piece."


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ON THE WRITING

OF LYRICS

The musical comedy lyric is annteresting survival of the days, long

since departed, when poets worked. Aseveryone knows, the only real obstacle

n the way of turning out poetry by themile was the fact that you had to makehe darned stuff rhyme.

Many lyricists rhyme as they pronounceand their pronunciation is simplyhorrible. They can make "home" rhyme

with "alone," and "saw" with "more,"


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and go right off and look their innocentchildren in the eye without a touch ofshame.

But let us not blame the erring lyricistoo much. It isn't his fault that he doeshese things. It is the fault of the English

anguage. Whoever invented the Englishanguage must have been a prose-writer

not a versifier; for he has made meagre

provision for the poets. Indeed, the word"you" is almost the only decent chancehe has given them. You can do somethinwith a word like "you." It rhymes with

"sue," "eyes of blue," "woo," and allsorts of succulent things, easily fittednto the fabric of a lyric. And it has the

enormous advantage that it can be


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repeated thrice at the end of a refrainwhen the composer has given you thosehree long notes, which is about all a

composer ever thinks of. When acomposer hands a lyricist a "dummy" foa song, ending thus,

Tiddley-tum, tiddley-tum,Pom-pom-pom, pom-pom-pom,

Tum, tum, tum,

he lyricist just shoves down "You, you,ou" for the last line, and then sets to

work to fit the rest of the words to it. I

have dwelled on this, for it isnoteworthy as the only bright spot in ayricist's life, the only real cinch the

poor man has.


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But take the word "love."

When the board of directors, or whoeve

t was, was arranging the language, youwould have thought that, if they had hada spark of pity in their systems, theywould have tacked on to that emotion of

houghts of which the young man's fancyightly turns in spring, some word endinn an open vowel. They must have

known that lyricists would want to usewhatever word they selected as a labelfor the above-mentioned emotion farmore frequently than any other word in

he language. It wasn't much to ask ofhem to choose a word capable of

numerous rhymes. But no, they went andmade it "love," causing vast misery to


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millions.

"Love" rhymes with "dove," "glove,"

"above," and "shove." It is true thatpoets who print their stuff instead ofhaving it sung take a mean advantage byringing in words like "prove" and

"move"; but the lyricist is not allowed todo that. This is the wretched unfairnessof the lyricist's lot. The language gets

him both ways. It won't let him rhyme"love" with "move," and it won't let himrhyme "maternal" with "colonel." If heries the first course, he is told that the

rhyme, though all right for the eye, iswrong for the ear. If he tries the secondcourse, they say that the rhyme, thoughmore or less ninety-nine percent pure fo


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he ear, falls short when tested by theeye. And, when he is driven back on oneof the regular, guaranteed rhymes, he is

aunted with triteness of phrase.

o lyricist wants to keep linking "love"with "skies above" and "turtle dove," bu

what can he do? You can't do a thingwith "shove"; and "glove" is one ofhose aloof words which are not good

mixers. Andmark the brutality of thehingthere is no word you cansubstitute for "love." It is just as if theydid it on purpose.

"Home" is another example. It is theyricist's staff of life. But all he can do io roam across the foam, if he wants to

use it. He can put in "Nome," of course,


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as a pinch-hitter in special crises, butvery seldom; with the result that hispoetic soul, straining at its bonds, goes

and uses "alone," "bone," "tone," and"thrown," exciting hoots of derision.

But it is not only the paucity of rhymes

hat sours the lyricist's life. He isrestricted in his use of material, as wellf every audience to which a musical

comedy is destined to play were ametropolitan audience, all might bewell; but there is the "road" to consider.And even a metropolitan audience likes

ts lyrics as much as possible in theanguage of everyday. That is one of thehousand reasons why new Gilberts do

not arise. Gilbert had the advantage of


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being a genius, but he had the additionaladvantage of writing for a public whichpermitted him to use his full vocabulary

and even to drop into foreign languages,even Latin and a little Greek when hefelt like it. (I allude to that song in "TheGrand Duke.")

And yet the modern lyricist, to look onhe bright side, has advantages that

Gilbert never had. Gilbert neverrealised the possibilities of Hawaii,with its admirably named beaches,shores, and musical instruments. Hawaii

capable as it is of being rhymed with"higher"has done much to sweeten theotand increase the annual income of

an industrious and highly respectable bu


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down-trodden class of the community.


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THE PAST

THEATRICAL

SEASON

And the Six Best Performances byUnstarred Actors

What lessons do we draw from the pastheatrical season?

n the first place, the success ofTheWandererproves that the day of thesmall and intimate production is over

and that what the public wants is the


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arge spectacle. In the second place, thesuccess ofOh, Boy!(I hate to refer tot, as I am one of the trio who

perpetrated it; but, honestly, we'resimply turning them away in droves, andRockefeller has to touch Morgan for abit if he wants to buy a ticket from thespeculators)proves that the day of thearge spectacle is over and that what the

public wants is the small and intimate

production.

Then, the capacity business done by TheThirteenth Chairshows clearly that

what the proletariat demands nowadayss the plotty piece and that the sun of the

bright dialogue comedy has set; whilehe capacity business done byA


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Successful Calamity shows clearly thathe number of the plotty piece is up.

You will all feel better and more able toenjoy yourselves now that a trainedcritical mind has put you right on thissubtle point.

o review of a theatrical season wouldbe complete without a tabulated listoreven an untabulated oneof the six bestperformances by unstarred actors duringhe past season.

The present past seasonthat is to say,he past season which at present is theast seasonhas been peculiarly rich in

hot efforts by all sorts of performers. M

own choice would be: 1. Anna Wheaton


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n Oh, Boy! 2. Marie Carroll, in thepiece at the Princess Theatre. 3. EdnaMay Oliver, in Comstock and Elliott's

new musical comedy. 4. Tom Powers, inhe show on the south side of 39th Street

5. Hal Forde, in the successor to VeryGood, Eddie. 6. Stephen Maley, in Oh,

oy!

You would hardly credit the agony it

gives me to allude, even in passing, tohe above musical mlange, but one musbe honest to one's public. In case theremay be any who dissent from my

opinion, I append a supplementary list ohose entitled to honorable mention: 1.

The third sheep from the O. P. side inThe Wanderer. 2. The trick lamp in


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agic. 3. The pink pajamas in You're inove. 4. The knife in The Thirteenth

Chair. 5. The Confused Noise Without

n The Great Divide. 6. Jack Merritt'shair in Oh, Boy!

There were few discoveries among the

dramatists. Of the older playwrights,Barrie produced a new one and anancient one, but the Shakespeare boom,

so strong last year, petered out. Thereseems no doubt that the man, in spite of flashy start, had not the stuff. Iunderstand that some of his things are

doing fairly well on the road. ClareKummer, whose "Dearie" I have sofrequently sung in my bath, to theannoyance of all, suddenly turned right


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round, dropped song-writing, and rippeda couple of hot ones right over the plateMr. Somerset Maugham succeeded in

shocking Broadway so that thesidewalks were filled with blushingicket-speculators.

Most of the critics have done good workduring this season. As for myself, I haveguided the public mind in this magazine

soundly and with few errors. If it werenot for the fact that nearly all the plays Ipraised died before my reviewappeared, while the ones I said would

not run a week are still packing them in, could look back to a flawless season.

As you can see, I have had a very

pleasant theatrical season. The weather


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was uniformly fine on the nights when Iwent to the theatre. I was particularlyfortunate in having neighbors at most of

he plays who were not afflicted withcoughs or a desire to explain the plot toheir wives. I have shaken hands with A

L. Erlanger and been nodded to on thestreet by Lee Shubert. I have broadenedmy mind by travel on the road with aheatrical company, with the result that,

f you want to get me out of New York,ou will have to use dynamite.

Take it for all in all, a most satisfactory

season, full of pregnant possibilitiesand all that sort of thing.


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POEMS

DAMON AND PYTHIAS

A Romance

Since Earth was first created,

Since Time began to fly,No friends were e'er so mated,So firm as JONES and I.

Since primal Man was fashionedTo people ice and stones,

No pair, I ween, had ever beenSuch chums as I and JONES.


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In fair and foulest weather,Beginning when but boys,

We faced our woes together,

We shared each other's joys.Together, sad or merry,We acted hand in glove,

Until'twas careless, veryI chanced to fall in love.

The lady's points to touch on,

Her name was JULIA WHITE,Her lineage high, her scutcheonUntarnished; manners, bright;

Complexion, soft and creamy;

Her hair, of golden hue;Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy,In colour, greyish blue.

For her I sighed, I panted;


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I saw her in my dreams;I vowed, protested, ranted;I sent her chocolate creams.

Until methought one morningI seemed to hear a voice,

A still, small voice of warning."Does JONES approve your

choice?"

To JONES of my affection

I spoke that very night.If he had no objection,I said I'd wed Miss WHITE.

I asked him for his blessing,

But, turning rather blue,He said: "It's most distressing,ButIadore her, too."


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"Then, JONES," I answered, sobbing"My wooing's at an end,

I couldn't think of robbing

My best, my only friend.The notion makes me furiousI'd much prefer to die."

"Perhaps you'll think it curious,"Said JONES, "but so should I."

Nor he nor I would falter

In our resolve one jot.I bade him seek the altar,He vowed that he would not.

"She's yours, old fellow. Make her

As happy as you can.""Not so," said I, "you take herYou are the lucky man."

At lengththe situation


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Had lasted now a yearI had an inspiration,Which seemed to make things clear.

"Supposing," I suggested,"We ask Miss WHITE to choose?

I should be interestedTo hear her private views.

"Perhaps she has a preferenceI own it sounds absurd

But I submit, with deference,That she might well be heard.In clear, commercial dictionThe case in point we'll state,

Disclose the cause of friction,And leave the rest to Fate."

We did, and on the morrow


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The postman brought us news.Miss WHITE expressed her sorrowAt having to refuse.

Of all her many reasonsThis seemed to me the pith:

Six months before (or rather more)She'd married Mr. SMITH.


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THE HAUNTED

TRAM

Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange,

The Court,Ghosts of the Castle Keep.

Ghosts of the finicking, "high-life"

sort Are growing a trifle cheap.But here is a spook of another stamp,

No thin, theatrical sham,

But a spectre who fears not dirt nordamp:

He rides on a London tram.


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By the curious glance of a mortal eyeHe is not seen. He's heard.

His steps go a-creeping, creeping by,

He speaks but a single word.You may hear his feet: you may hear

hem plain,Forit's odd in a ghostthey

crunch.You may hear the whirr of his rattling

chain,

And the ting of his ringing punch.

The gathering shadows of night fallfast;

The lamps in the street are lit;To the roof have the eerie footsteps

passed,Where the outside passengers sit.


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To the passenger's side has thespectre paced;

For a moment he halts, they say,

Then a ring from the punch at theunseen waist,

And the footsteps pass away.

That is the tale of the haunted car;And if on that car you ride

You won't, believe me, have

ourneyed farEre the spectre seeks your side.Ay, all unseen by your seat he'll stand

And (unless it's a wig) your hair

Will rise at the touch of his icy hand,And the sound of his whispered

"Fare!"

At the end of the trip, when you're


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getting down(And you'll probably simply fly!)

Just give the conductor half-a-crown,

Ask who is the ghost and why.And the man will explain with bated

breath(And point you a moral) thus:

"'E's a pore young bloke wot woscrushed to death

By people as fought

As they didn't oughtFor seats on a crowded bus."


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STORIES


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WHEN PAPA

SWORE IN

HINDUSTANI

"Sylvia!"

"Yes, papa."

"That infernal dog of yours"

"Oh, papa!"

"Yes, that infernal dog of yours has beenat my carnations again!"


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Colonel Reynolds, V.C., glared sternlyacross the table at Miss SylviaReynolds, and Miss Sylvia Reynolds

ooked in a deprecatory manner back atColonel Reynolds, V.C.; while the dogn questiona foppish pughappeningo meet the colonel's eye in transit,

crawled unostentatiously under thesideboard, and began to wrestle with abad conscience.

"Oh, naughty Tommy!" said MissReynolds mildly, in the direction of thesideboard.

"Yes, my dear," assented the colonel;"and if you could convey to him thenformation that if he does it once more

yes, just once more!I shall shoot


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him on the spot you would be doing hima kindness." And the colonel bit a largecrescent out of his toast, with all the

energy and conviction of a man who hashoroughly made up his mind. "At six

o'clock this morning," continued he, in avoice of gentle melancholy, "I happenedo look out of my bedroom window, and

saw him. He had then destroyed two ofmy best plants, and was commencing on

a third, with every appearance of self-satisfaction. I threw two large brushesand a boot at him."

"Oh, papa! They didn't hit him?"

"No, my dear, they did not. The brushesmissed him by several yards, and the


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boot smashed a fourth carnation.However, I was so fortunate as to attrachis attention, and he left off."

"I can't think what makes him do it. Isuppose it's bones. He's got bonesburied all over the garden."

"Well, if he does it again, you'll find thahere will be a few more bones buried ihe garden!" said the colonel grimly; and

he subsided into his paper.

Sylvia loved the dog partly for its own

sake, but principally for that of the giverone Reginald Dallas, whom it had struckat an early period of their acquaintancehat he and Miss Sylvia Reynolds were

made for one another. On communicatin


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his discovery to Sylvia herself he hadfound that her views upon the subjectwere identical with his own; and all

would have gone well had it not been foa melancholy accident.

One day while out shooting with the

colonel, with whom he was doing hisbest to ingratiate himself, with a view toobtaining his consent to the match, he

had allowed his sporting instincts tocarry him away to such a degree that, insporting parlance, he wiped his eyebadly. Now, the colonel prided himself

with justice on his powers as a shot; buton this particular day he had a touch ofiver, which resulted in his shooting

over the birds, and under the birds, and


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on each side of the birds, but very rarelyat the birds. Dallas being in especiallygood form, it was found, when the bag

came to be counted, that, while he hadshot seventy brace, the colonel had onlymanaged to secure five and a half!

His bad marksmanship destroyed the lasremnant of his temper. He swore for halan hour in Hindustani, and for another

half-hour in English. After that he feltbetter. And when, at the end of dinner,Sylvia came to him with the absurdrequest that she might marry Mr.

Reginald Dallas he did not have a fit, bumerely signified in fairly moderate termhis entire and absolute refusal to think osuch a thing.


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This had happened a month before, andhe pug, which had changed hands in the

earlier days of the friendship, still

remained, at the imminent risk of its lifeo soothe Sylvia and madden her father.

t was generally felt that the way to find

favour in the eyes of Sylviawhichwere a charming blue, and well worthfinding favour inwas to show an

ntelligent and affectionate interest in hedog. This was so up to a certain point;but no farther, for the mournfulrecollection of Mr. Dallas prevented he

from meeting their advances in quite thespirit they could have wished.

However, they persevered, and scarcely

a week went by in which Thomas was


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not rescued from an artfully arrangedhorrible fate by somebody.

But all their energy was in realitywasted, for Sylvia remembered herfaithful Reggie, who correspondedvigorously every day, and refused to be

put off with worthless imitations. Theovesick swains, however, could not be

expected to know of this, and the

rescuing of Tommy proceeded briskly,now one, now another, playing the rleof hero.

The very day after the conversationabove recorded had taken place aerrible tragedy occurred.

The colonel, returning from a poor day's


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shooting, observed through the mist thatwas beginning to rise a small formbusily engaged in excavating in the

precious carnation-bed. Slipping in acartridge, he fired; and the skill whichhad deserted him during the day cameback to him. There was a yelp; thensilence. And Sylvia, rushing out from thehouse, found the luckless Thomasbreathing his last on a heap of uprooted

carnations.

The news was not long in spreading. Thcook told the postman, and the postman

houghtfully handed it on to the servantsat the rest of the houses on his round. Bynoon it was public property; and in theafternoon, at various times from two to


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five, nineteen young men were struck,quite independently of one another, witha brilliant idea.

The results of this idea were apparent ohe following day.

"Is this all?" asked the colonel of theservant, as she brought in a couple ofetters at breakfast-time.

"There's a hamper for Miss Sylvia, sir."

"A hamper, is there? Well, bring it in."

"If you please, sir, there's several ofhem."

"What? Several? How many are there?"


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"Nineteen, sir," said Mary, restrainingwith some difficulty an inclination togiggle.

"Eh? What? Nineteen? Nonsense! Whereare they?"

"We've put them in the coachhouse forhe present, sir. And if you please, sir,

cook says she thinks there's somethingalive in them."

"Something alive?"

"Yes, sir. And John says he thinks it'sdogs, sir!"

The colonel uttered a sound that was

almost a bark, and, followed by Sylvia,


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rushed to the coachhouse. There, sureenough, as far as the eye could reach,were the hampers; and, as they looked, a

sound proceeded from one of them thatwas unmistakably the plaintive note of adog that has been shut up, and is gettingired of it.

nstantly the other eighteen hampersoined in, until the whole coachhouse

rang with the noise.

The colonel subsided against a wall, andbegan to express himself softly in

Hindustani.

"Poor dears!" said Sylvia. "How stuffyhey must be feeling!"


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She ran to the house, and returned with abasin of water.

"Poor dears!" she said again. "You'llsoon have something to drink."

She knelt down by the nearest hamper,

and cut the cord that fastened it. A pugumped out like a jack-in-the-box, and

rushed to the water. Sylvia continued hework of mercy, and by the time thecolonel had recovered sufficiently to beable to express his views in English,eighteen more pugs had joined their

companion.

"Get out, you brute!" shouted thecolonel, as a dog insinuated itself

between his legs. "Sylvia, put them back


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again this minute! You had no businesso let them out. Put them back!"

"But I can't, papa. I can't catch them."

She looked helplessly from him to theseething mass of dogs, and back again.

"Where's my gun?" began the colonel.

"Papa, don't! You couldn't be so cruel!

They aren't doing any harm, poorhings!"

"If I knew who sent them"

"Perhaps there's something to show.Yes; here's a visiting-card in this

hamper."


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"Whose is it?" bellowed the colonelhrough the din.

"J. D'Arcy Henderson, The Firs," readSylvia, at the top of her voice.

"Young blackguard!" bawled the

colonel.

"I expect there's one in each of thehampers. Yes; here's another. W.K. Ross, The Elms."

The colonel came across, and began to

examine the hampers with his own handEach hamper contained a visiting-card,and each card bore the name of aneighbour. The colonel returned to the

breakfast-room, and laid the nineteen


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cards out in a row on the table.

"H'm!" he said, at last. "Mr. Reginald

Dallas does not seem to be represented.

Sylvia said nothing.

"No; he seems not to be represented. Idid not give him credit for so muchsense." Then he dropped the subject, andbreakfast proceeded in silence.

A young gentleman met the colonel onhis walk that morning.

"Morning, colonel!" said he.

"Good-morning!" said the colonel

grimly.


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"Ercolonel, Iersuppose MissReynolds got that dog all right?"

"To which dog do you refer?"

"It was a pug, you know. It ought to havearrived by this time."

"Yes. I am inclined to think it has. Had iany special characteristics?"

"No, I don't think so. Just an ordinarypug."

"Well, young man, if you will go to mycoachhouse, you will find nineteenordinary pugs; and if you would kindlyselect your beast, and shoot it, I should

be much obliged."


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"Nineteen?" said the other, inastonishment. "Why, are you setting upas a dog-fancier in your old age,

colonel?"

This was too much for the colonel. Heexploded.

"Old age! Confound your impudence!Dog-fancier! No, sir! I have not becomea dog-fancier in what you are pleased tocall my old age! But while there is noaw to prevent a lot of dashed young

puppies like yourself, sirlike yourself

sending your confounded pug-dogs tomy daughter, who ought to have knownbetter than to have let them out of theirdashed hampers, I have no defence.


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"Dog-fancier! Gad! Unless those dogsare removed by this time to-morrow, sirhey will go straight to the Battersea

Home, where I devoutly trust they willpoison them. Here are the cards of theother gentlemen who were kind enougho think that I might wish to set up for a

dog-fancier in my old age. Perhaps youwill kindly return them to their owners,and tell them what I have just said." And

he strode off, leaving the young man in aspecies of trance.

"Sylvia!" said the colonel, on arriving

home.

"Yes, papa."

"Do you still want to marry that Dallas


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fellow? Now, for Heaven's sake, don'tstart crying! Goodness knows I've beenworried enough this morning without

hat. Please answer a plain question in afairly sane manner. Do you, or do younot?"

"Of course I do, papa."

"Then you may. He's the furthest frombeing a fool of any of the young puppieswho live about here, and he knows oneend of a gun from the other. I'll write tohim now."

"Dear Dallas" (wrote the colonel),"I find, o

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A Wodehouse Miscellany. Articles & Stories