Mr. William Wood, grocer, of Acton, was very tired. And no wonder, for not
only had he lost his two assistants, both having been called up, but the
girls who had taken their places were frivolous and slow. Moreover his
errand boy had that day given notice. And, furthermore, the submarine
campaign was making it every day more difficult to keep up the stock, and
the rise in prices meant anything but the commensurate increase of profit
of which he was accused by indignant customers.
Mr. Wood, therefore, was not sorry when, the shutters up, he could retire
to his sitting-room upstairs and rest. His one hobby being reading, and his
favourite form of literature being Lives and Letters, he had normally no
difficulty in dismissing the shop from his mind. He would open the latest
memoir from the library and lose himself in whatever society it
reconstructed, political for choice. But to-night the solace could not so
easily be found. For one thing, he had no new books; for another, the cares
of business were too recent and too real.
He sank into his armchair, covered his eyes with his hand, and pondered.
Then suddenly he had an idea. If there were no letters of the Great to
read, he would himself write to the Great and thus escape grocerdom and
worry. If he were not a person of importance, he would at least pretend to
be, and thus be comforted.
Seating himself at the table and taking up his pen, he composed with
infinite care the following chapter from a biography of himself:--
The year 1916 was a comparatively uneventful one in the life of our hero.
The principal events were the marriage of his youngest daughter with the
son of the Bishop of Brighton and the rebuilding of The Towers after the
fire. Perhaps the most important of his new friends were the Archbishop of
CANTERBURY and Sir HEDWORTH MEUX, but unfortunately Sir HEDWORTH has not
kept any of the letters. Nor is there much correspondence; but a few
letters may be printed here, all testifying to the multifarious interests
of this remarkable man, who not only knew everyone worth knowing, but
projected himself into their careers with so much sympathy and keenness.
The first is to the then Prime Minister:--
_To the Right Hon. H.H. ASQUITH, M.P._
MY DEAR ASQUITH,--This is only a line to remind you that you lunch with me
at the Primrose Club on Monday at one o'clock. I have asked two or three
friends to meet you, all good fellows. With regard to that matter on which
you were asking my advice, I think that the wisest course at present is (to
use the phrase, now a little stale, which I invented for you) to wait and
see. Let me say that I thought your speech at the Guildhall a fine effort.
Kindly remember me to the wife and Miss ELIZABETH, and believe me,
Yours sincerely,
WILLIAM WOOD.
P.S.--I wish you would call me William. I always think of you as Herbert.
_To the Earl of ROSEBERY._
MY DEAR ROSEBERY,--It is a great grief to me to have to decline your kind
invite to Dalmeny, but there is an obstacle I cannot overcome. My youngest
daughter is to be married next week to the son of the Bishop of Brighton, a
most well-bred young fellow with perfect manners. Nothing but the necessity
of my presence at the feast of Hymen could deprive me of the pleasure of
seeing your country place. Do not stay away too long, I beg. The town is
dull without you.
I am, dear ROSEBERY,
Yours most affectionately,
WILLIAM WOOD.
_To Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING._
MY DEAR KIPLING,--Just a line to say how much I admire your poem in this
morning's _Times_. You have never voiced the feeling of the moment with
more force or keener insight. But you will, I am sure, pardon me when I say
that in the fifty-eighth stanza there is a regrettable flaw, which could
however quickly be put right. To me, that fine appeal to Monaco to give up
its neutrality is impaired by the use of the word "cope," which I have
always understood should be avoided by good writers. "Deal" has the same
meaning and is a truer word. You will, I am sure, agree with me in this
criticism when you have leisure to think it over.
Believe me, my dear KIPLING,
Yours sincerely,
WILLIAM WOOD.
_To His Grace the Archbishop of CANTERBURY._
MY DEAR ARCHBISHOP,--That was a very delightful dinner you gave me last
night, and I was glad to have the opportunity of meeting Lord MORLEY and
discussing with him the character of MARLBOROUGH. While not agreeing with
everything that Lord MORLEY said, I am bound to admit that his views
impressed me. Some day soon you must bring her Ladyship down to The Towers
for a dine and sleep.
I am, my dear Archbishop,
Yours cordially,
WILLIAM WOOD.
_To Lord NORTHCLIFFE._
MY DEAR ALFRED,--You cannot, I am sure, do better than continue in the
course you have chosen. What England needs is a vigilant observer from
without; and who, as I have so often told you, is better fitted for such a
part than you? You have all the qualities--high mobility, the courage to
abandon convictions, and extreme youth. If you lack anything it is perhaps
ballast, and here I might help you. Ring me up at any time, day or night,
and I will come to you, just as I used to do years ago when you were
beginning.
Think of me always as
Yours very sincerely,
WILLIAM WOOD.
_To Sir ARTHUR WING PINERO._
MY DEAR PINERO,--I am glad you liked my suggestion and are already at work
upon it. No one could handle it so well as you. I write now because it has
occurred to me that the proper place for Lord Scudamore to disown his
guilty wife and for her impassioned reply is not, as we had it, the spare
room, but the parlour.
I am, dear old fellow,
Always yours to command,
WILLIAM WOOD
Having written thus far, Mr. William Wood went to bed, perfectly at peace
with himself and the world.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Friend (to Professor, whose lecture, "How to Stop the War,"
has just concluded)_. "CONGRATULATE YOU, OLD MAN--WENT SPLENDIDLY, AT ONE
TIME DURING THE AFTERNOON I WAS RATHER ANXIOUS FOR YOU."
_Professor._ "THANKS. BUT I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN SO
CONCERNED ON MY BEHALF."
_Friend._ "WELL, A RUMOUR _DID_ GO ROUND THE ROOM THAT THE WAR WOULD BE
OVER BEFORE YOUR LECTURE." ]
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