[_The Times_ has announced, in two consecutive issues, that Mr. HUGH
CHISHOLM has retired from the control of its financial columns in
order to resume his editorship of the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_. One
seems here to catch a faint echo of the proprietary booming of the
10th Edition by _The Times_ and Mr. HOOPER. The present publishers are
the Cambridge University Press.]
It is a common object of remark
How many things in life are periodic,
Some punctual (like the nesting of the lark,
Or Derby-day), and others more spasmodic,
Recurring loosely when the hour is ripe;
And here I sing a sample of the latter type.
Nine years have coursed with their accustomed speed
Since England hailed its previous apparition,
Since every man and woman who could read,
Wanting the nearest way to erudition,
Bought as an ornament of her (or his) home
The monumental masterpiece of Mr. CHISHOLM.
Much has occurred meanwhile of new and strange;
_E.g._, in matters purely scientific
Great Thinkers, eager to enlarge our range,
Have (on the lethal side) been most prolific;
Ten tomes would scarce contain what might be said on
Their contributions to the recent Armageddon.
What wonder if the Editor forsakes
The conduct of _The Times'_ financial pages?
An even weightier task he undertakes
Than to report on bullion; he engages
To let us know, by 1922,
All things (or more) that anybody ever knew.
Why should he care if Oil-cakes fall or jump?
He has the Total Universe for oyster;
Yankees may yield a point or Rubbers slump,
Yet not for such things shall his eye grow moister,
Save when, by force of habit, he admits
"A heavy tendency to-day in Ency. Brits."
Could but _The Times_ revive its ancient part,
Repeat its famous turn of dollar-scooping!
O memories of the urgent boomster's art,
And that persistent noise of HOOPER whooping,
Down to the Last Chance and the Closing Door,
And then the Absolutely Last, and then some more!
Those shrill appeals to get the Work TO-DAY
(With the superb revolving fumed-oak garage)--
How well they followed up their fearful prey
Till the massed thunders of the final barrage
Such pressure on your tympanum would bring
That you could bear no more, and _had_ to buy the thing.