One summer evening, when the moon was at the full, and cloud-shadows
glided imperceptibly over the chimney-pots, as curses that have found
no utterance and come dejectedly home to roost, I wandered into my
back-garden, and caught the God of the Period napping in the moonshine
on one of my celery-beds.
He rose up suddenly and reposed awhile in space, with his head resting
on the back of the Great Bear, and one foot on the arm of Cassiopeia's
Chair, while with the other he skimmed the cream off the Milky Way.
And he seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, and
he said nothing, and I was afraid to make a remark--and there was no
sound, save that of the boundless, inconceivable silence which was
rumbling round the corner.
Presently he came down to the celery-bed once more.
"What are you seeking for so late?" asked he; "your face looks so long
and solemn, and your eyes are hollow and full of woe. Have you been
having anything indigestible for supper?"
"I am in trouble about Humanity," I replied; "for, though I loathe and
despise them individually, collectively I love them dearly."
"What's the matter with Humanity?" asked the God, as he squatted amid
the celery.
"They are growing so deadly dull," I answered. "I am Young GARNAWAY,
the Pessimistic Prose Poet, and it pains me to see how utterly they
have lost their perception of the ridiculous, which is the backbone of
real enjoyment. So I came out to see if by any chance the backbone was
hidden under one of the flower-pots."
The Period-God once more pervaded the endless space that glittered in
darkling infinitude round about and right ahead of him. It seemed to
me, when he returned, that he had been laughing; but suddenly I saw
him pull himself together, and frown.
And from afar a gurgling rose through the gloom, and darkness fell
upon my back-garden, knocking a basilisk off the waterbutt, and above
the garden-walls there appeared a crowd of rude persons, in pot hats,
with red lolling tongues and wide grinning mouths, holding their sides
with inextinguishable mirth. All at once the giggles turned into the
booing of Philistines, and there was a fantastic shadowy horseplay,
which rolled nearer and nearer.
I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms, and unsubstantial egg
shapes rushing towards me through the air. Instinctively I ran indoors
and gripped the umbrella from its corner, and stood on guard.
[Illustration: "I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms and
unsubstantial egg-shapes."]
Then I heard someone chuckling quite close to me, chuckling softly,
but unmistakably. And the booing hushed, and the gloom lightened, and
the garden-roller glimmered faintly in the moonlit summer night,
and inside the lawn-mower lay the God of the Period crying with
uncontrollable laughter.
"When the time comes," he said, "when mankind gets weary of Paraded
Pessimism, and the Big Scandinavian Boom has burst, then I will
conjure forth the Great Guffaw; and _then_ it will be time for all
Dyspeptic Decadents to get under their umbrellas--just as you did
awhile ago, for mankind will have recovered its sense of humour, and
will decline to take them seriously. But you had much better leave off
bothering your head about that lost backbone, for you won't be happy
when they get it!"
And while I was taking off my goloshes indoors, I heard again the
sound of snapping celery sticks, as the Period-God rolled on the bed
in ecstasies of stifled merriment, and I wondered at intervals what it
was all about.
* * * * *
FOR OUTWARD APPLICATION.--"'A man may change his skies,' as the Roman
poet puts it," quoth the _Daily Telegraph_, "but he does not so easily
change his habits." The Academy is about to open. The pictures will
soon be hung. Varnishing day comes, with last chance for alteration.
Then comes in Latin poetic proverb, "A man may change his skies, but,
do what he will, he cannot alter that peculiar style that marks the
work as his, and nobody else's."
* * * * *
NEW PROVERB.--All "problem" and no "play" makes drama a dull joy.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHOCKING HEATHENISM.
_Rector._ "SO YOU GO UP TO TOWN NEXT MONTH, MISS MARY. HOW I ENVY YOU!
AND OF COURSE YOU'LL ATTEND THE MAY MEETINGS."
_Miss Mary._ "MAY MEETINGS? OH DEAR NO! THOUGH I ADORE HORSES, I QUITE
DISAPPROVE OF _RACING_, DON'T YOU KNOW!"]
* * * * *