I was immensely struck, a few days ago, by a passage in a speech
recently delivered by the Archbishop of CANTERBURY, in
which he explained his method of dispelling those passing fits of
ill-temper from which, alas! not even Archbishops are wholly free. "At
times," so ran the report of His Grace's words, "anger or irritation
came upon him, but on the table he kept a book of pleasant poems,
of which he would read a few lines, and the irritation would melt
away." Immediately I determined to follow this noble example. It was
unfortunate that the "book of pleasant poems" was not described more
specifically--could it be the verses of Mr. ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER
BENSON?--but I bought a pocket volume of _Selections from the
Great Poets_, which contained enough variety to suit every case, and
then looked out for an opportunity of trying the Archbishop's plan.
I had not long to wait. That very evening I came across my uncle
ROBERT at Clapham Junction, in a furious rage at having
just missed the last train to Slowborough, where he lives. At once
I produced my volume, and in slow and emphatic accents I read aloud
some three or four hundred lines from "Paradise Lost." I was about
to add one or two of WORDSWORTH'S sonnets, when I realised
that my uncle had long since disappeared, and that I was surrounded
by a jeering crowd, who evidently supposed me to be a member of the
Salvation Army.
On the following morning I received a visit from SNIPS, my
tailor. He was impolite enough to suggest a settlement of what he
termed my "small account," a demand, as I politely but plainly assured
him, which was altogether absurd. As he showed distinct symptoms of
irritation at this juncture, I began to read him a scene from _Measure
for Measure_. Strangely enough, this seemed only to irritate him
further, and I understand that he intends to take proceedings against
me in the County Court. This second unaccountable failure of the
Archbishop's remedy greatly surprised and pained me, but I decided to
give it another trial.
This morning I was playing golf with my friend MACFOOZLE.
At no time a skilful golfer, MACFOOZLE'S form to-day was
worse than ever; whenever he made a bad stroke--and he seldom made
a good one--he indulged in the most violent language. Fortunately
my volume of poetry was in my pocket. When he completely missed his
drive at the second hole, I read him COLERIDGE'S _Dejection_.
When he broke his mashie at the fourth, I treated him with copious
selections from _In Memoriam_. Finally, he got badly bunkered while
playing to the fourteenth hole. For some ten minutes he smote furiously
with his niblick, only raising prodigious clouds of sand as the
result of his efforts. This was clearly a golden opportunity for the
Archbishop's cure, "anger and irritation" but faintly represented
MACFOOZLE'S rage. Seating myself on the edge of the bunker,
I began to read aloud _The Ring and the Book_ with the utmost pathos.
Over what followed I prefer to draw a veil. It is enough to say that a
niblick is a very effective weapon, and that I write these lines in bed.
When I recover, I really must call at Lambeth for fuller directions.
The archiepiscopal remedy for angry passions does not seem invariably
happy in its results, as far as my experience goes.
* * * * *
THE MALT-LIQUOR-TIPPLER'S MAXIM.--_"Nihil ale-ienum a me
pewter":_--"Nothing in the shape of beer comes amiss to me if it's in a
pewter."
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN EYE TO EFFECT.
_Little Dives._ "OH, BY THE WAY, BELAIRS--AWFULLY SORRY TO CUT
YOU OUT, YOU KNOW--BUT I'VE JUST PROPOSED TO LADY BARBARA, AND SHE'S
ACCEPTED ME, AND WE'RE TO BE MARRIED IN SEPTEMBER. AND LOOK HERE, OLD
CHAPPIE; I WANT YOU TO BE MY BEST MAN. I WANT TO MAKE A GOOD SHOW AT
THE ALTAR, YOU KNOW!"
* * * * *
A Chip to the Champion.
[Mr. RANJITSINHJI is running Mr. W. G. GRACE very
close in the batting averages.]
_To the ancient air of "Cheer up Sam!"_
BUCK-UP, GRACE!
And don't let your average down!
For "RANJIT" seems running you hard for first place,
To collar your Cricketing Crown!
* * * * *
"PROUD O' THE TITLE."--Sir HENRY JAMES to be "Lord
JEAMES." How delighted W. M. THACKERAY would have
been!
* * * * *
By a Reasonable Rad.
_Why_ were we whipped? Rads wrangle round,
But to _the_ cause make scant allusion.
When all's summed up, it will be found,
"Fusion" has won against _Con_-fusion!
* * * * *
A SUGGESTION.--In latest _Observer_ is a capital article by
Mr. ESCOTT, whose text is that "smart" Society transplants to
London all Parisian fashions that will bear the process. The title is
"British Boulevardism;" but one still more suggestive of the mixture
would be "John-Bullvardism." Perhaps Mr. ESCOTT may adopt this
and give us another column.
* * * * *