hoisted his tail and fared forth to catch a glimpse of Majesty would
create a vulgar scene in that adored presence? Is it credible that,
returning, he should boast of his boorishness, like a gutter-snipe
making a _pied de nez_? Nor can I think that what he saw at Court
turned our gallant to a cynic, coarsely sniggering out his disillusion.
No, I prefer to believe that a pedantic regard for mechanical accuracy
of metre has caused the printer to err. For “frightened” I believe we
should read “caught.”
“I _caught_ a little mouse under her chair.”
The astonishing thing is that no previous editor seems to have thought
of this. Of course, there will be some dissenters.
“What!” will exclaim the upholder of things as they are, instead of as
they might so much better be, “Would you have us sentimentalize the
cat, and by pathetic fallacy pretend that the young prig thought to
‘serve his Queen’?”
“Not at all,” I reply. I will tell you my idea. Having stepped softly
and daintily into the presence and slipped behind the tapestry and out
again near the throne, he gazed adoringly at the lovely Queen, at her
soft hair under the crown, at her rosy fingers, her silk-clad knee, the
graceful brocaded train with which his pussy-humour longed to play. And
then his eyes, big and black with the unaccustomed splendour, suddenly
espied the natural, homely mouse licking his whiskers impudently in
the fancied security of the royal throne. Pussycat was shocked and
interested (like a little boy with a dog in church), and he watched
and watched till he was all pussy, till the Court faded and Pussycat’s
strategic eye made him pounce before he thought.
And when the Ladies-in-Waiting fainted because they dared not scream,
and the Gentlemen-in-Waiting dashed forward because they thought
Pussycat might scrunch the mouse under the royal chair, Pussycat laid
back his ears and darted his eyes defensively, and with a laughing
growl laid it at the Queen’s own feet.
And so when, safe back at home over a saucer of milk, Pussycat told a
reproachful little boy where he had been, and the little boy screamed
with delight,
“Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?”
Pussycat, hugging himself for his naughty boldness, and smiling to
think how the Queen had smiled, and vastly enjoying the sensation he
was making, burst out with his answer (and that is the meaning of the
irregular metre, the long pause and stress):
“I _caught_ a little mouse under her chair!”
A Protest
I have long regretted the publicity accorded to the pieman
incident—solely on the pieman’s account.
“Simple Simon met a pieman,
Going to the fair.”
Our family has always been noted for its straightforward simplicity. I
was hungry, I was curious in pie-lore, and I made the request which I
conceive any youth, bred to gracious treatment, would have made.
“Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
Let me taste your ware.”
So might the Prince of Wales himself have spoken. O, sordid, oh
mercenary pieman! Where was thy pride of bakery, where thy manners?
Thou did’st neither feed the hungry nor wait with honest pride a meed
of praise. Thine not the artist soul, thine not the joy of giving;
thine, alas! but lust of pelf. What does the paltry fellow reply?
“Said the pieman to Simple Simon,
Show me first your penny.”
With sorrow and scorn I gave answer candidly:
“Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
For sure I haven’t any.”
My simple dignity speaks for itself. A more sophisticated youth would
have demanded the production of the hawker’s licence.
A “Lancet” Article
A subject on which I have several times reflected is tuberculosis, and
I believe that I can cure it. An account of my method and of how I hit
upon it will doubtless gratify my readers.
I have always held that Nature’s avenue of healing is the lips. In my
youth I studied physics, and passed the Senior—or was it the Junior?
Anyway, the idea came to me of disintegrating the molecules of which
the bacillus or germ is composed. To be precise, I meant to grab the
nitrogen out of them. Unfortunately, I recollected that there is
nitrogen in the tissues as well, and I did not feel certain that I
could disintegrate one without the other.
My present device is strictly scientific. Beginning with the principle
that cure is to be through the lips, and that the goal is to be the
elimination of the bacilli, I asked myself how they could be extracted.
Not with forceps, that was clear. Then, in the course of my extensive
reading I was much struck in “The English at the North Pole,” with
the adhesion of nails, knives, and other steel and iron ware to the
magnetic pole. “What,” thought I to myself, “if I were to magnetize
the bacilli?” Of course, the tubercle bacilli contain no iron, but
iron can be taken through the lips, and some of it would roost on the
germs in passing. I followed this procedure, and then, having opened
the patient’s mouth to its fullest extent, dangled a magnet down the
throat. On withdrawing the instrument it was found that 149,563,769
tubercles, or more than can dance on the point of a needle, adhered
to it. No other treatment is necessary, though the operation needs to
be performed daily (at a fee of £10 10s. per time) for twelve months.
The operator should wear a mask, and should boil his face and hands
thoroughly after each operation.
At the end of this time the patient will be in a very different
condition from what he was before.
I tried this treatment on T.B. He was 96 years old, with a previous
history of fractured skull and varicose veins. The epidermis of his
nose was found to be a good deal reddened. I administered three ounces
of iron, and applied the magnet. The operation was entirely successful.
There is no prognosis, because the patient choked. Through what?
_Through the flocking of the germs to the magnet._ This proves that
the dose of iron was too strong. Care must be taken to prevent the
magnetization of too many bacilli at the same operation.
I confidently look forward to receiving large sums for this treatment,
especially if well-advertised in gullible quarters.
An Application of Psychology to Medicine
The insistent demands of Psychology (too long regarded with jealousy)
to be called in to the aid of Medicine have at length been recognized.
_In corpore sano_ is an easy matter compared with _mens sana_. The
medical man soon learns to prescribe his nostrums, and to draw up a
diet which shall suit the palate of his patient; the very skilled can
even hit upon the exact vintage which shall be most acceptable. The
mentality is also diagnosed with as much insight as can be expected;
but now the treatment is less easy to decide. The book-list proves
harder than the wine-list, for here the doctor is on less familiar
ground. It is at this point that the psychologist’s work is of value.
Disciples of Æsculapius will be glad to receive the following typical
book-list communicated to us by a rising young physician of South
Australia (a remote province of our Empire in the outlying parts of the
Southern Hemisphere) who has used it with success.
First week of treatment.—Letting the mind down gently. Works by Ethel
Dell, Gertrude Page.
Second week.—Mind to be lulled. “Just David,” “Pollyanna.” (In very
obstinate cases, _e.g._, returned soldiers, “Jessica’s First Prayer”
and “Eric, or Little by Little” may be added.)
Third week.—Stage of acute self-pity, to be discharged by weeping over
woes of others. The “Elsie” books, “The Wide, Wide, World.” Confessions
(anybody’s).
Fourth week.—Patient needs rousing. This is a very critical period, and
the psychosis of the individual must be carefully studied. No general
prescription can be given, but the following suggestions are made:
For elderly Methodist spinster, Victoria Cross novel (preferably that
alleged to have set a bookstall alight); jaded divorcé (or divorcée),
“Golden Heart Novelettes”; case of delirium tremens, _Patriot_, or
other temperance organ. President of the Liberal Union: “_Direct
Action_,” “Sabotage.” (If these fail, get him to make up his income-tax
return.) Member of the I.W.W.: Probate lists; failing these, the
speeches of Irvine and Hughes will be found efficacious. Doctor
(difficult case, especially at night): works of Mrs. Baker-Eddy, or the
present article.
Fifth week.—Patient annoyed to hear he is looking better. Mild case:
Emerson’s Essays (one to be taken after each meal). Obstinate case:
Degree 1, the Bible; degree 2 (probably a lodge patient), advise to
make peace with God, and send for a clergyman.
Sixth week.—Patient returns to his wallowing: Hegel or Bertrand
Russell; Thompson or Lodge, and “Science from an Easy Chair”;
“Structure and Growth” or “Psychology for Little Tots”; Wells or
Charles Garvice; _London Punch_ or _The Pink ’Un_; “Horner’s Penny
Stories” and the _Sunday Circle_; all according to taste.
Our National Bulletin
At Fremantle the observant academic on his travels to the Antipodes
notes the rush of his Australian fellow-passengers for a large, bright
pink compendium. “Ah!” he thinks to himself, “that national paper of
theirs!” and at the first opportunity he purchases a copy in order to
study the manners and customs of the inhabitants.
“Bai Jove!” he gasps weakly, as he opens on a huge and brutal Norman
Lindsay cartoon, a quite unnecessarily unpleasant sketch by Mack or
Souter, or (as _The Bulletin_ itself might say) at the allegedly
humorous caricatures of “Poverty Point,” or “Sundry Shows.” On the Red
Page he is upset to find Looney’s Shakespeare theory taken seriously,
the sacred laws of punctuation explicitly and at length, but without
explanation, denied, and (in “A Satchel of Books”) a snub administered
to E. V. Lucas, while space is devoted to analysis and appreciation
of some unheard-of Australian writer. He considers the tone of the
Society gossip columns “most regrettable” (“vulgar” is his word if
no Australian is in earshot), and when he turns to Aboriginalities
for local colour, his refined literary palate is outraged at the—the
travesty on the English language which he finds. There is perhaps
the story of an egg-stealing crow, “whose black nibs” carries away
“bunches” of “this fruit.” And the whole paper is like that! Even
“Plain English!” From the number of abuses attacked, in provocative
captions like “Australia for the Asiatics,” “Murder at £4 11s. 3d. a
Time,” it appears that nothing, except perhaps an occasional piece of
work by a _Bulletin_ young man, goes right in Australia. Unless our
academic is a brave man, with sound missionary instincts, he writes
at once to resign his appointment. He really must refuse to herd with
these callow vulgarians.
Is _The Bulletin_ really characteristic of Australia? In the long run,
and with modifications, yes. It is the one paper which every good
Australian, at home or abroad, reads, and reads with gusto. It contains
argument, comment, or anecdote about nearly every subject on which
the Australian is interested. Its opinion may be wrong and its manner
blatant, but there is never any doubt that it has an opinion, and it
is never dull for a single sentence. But it is surely the _reductio
ad absurdum_ of some, as well as the highest power of other, of our
characteristics. Like the comic writers of the eighteenth century,
it holds the mirror up to nature—Australian nature—and its mirror is
always unsentimental and sometimes distorting.
Young nations are self-confident—and so is _The Bulletin_;
self-confident and bumptious and cock-sure. The Cheerful Cherub must
certainly have had this paper in mind when he wrote:
I always envy editors
With minds both deep and bright;
They always feel so positive
That what they think is right.
Whatever the subject, when the hail of argument ceases, the pulverized
reader wonders why he had not agreed to this before; or, if he still
has a doubt or objection, he keeps it to himself, because obviously
it is all his foolishness. Indeed that is _The Bulletin_ attitude
in every subject and in every paragraph. “It am It, and the other
fellow is a fool, most probably a damned fool.” _The Bulletin_ really
has convictions, too; its violence isn’t entirely explained, as the
psycho-analysts explain swearing, as an attempt to make up for the
defects of genius by the violence of style. No, _The Bulletin_ knows
its happy-go-to-football-match average Australian; it is perfectly
aware that to make him listen to reason you must (and this is the
reason both for our yellow press and our stump oratory) hold him by
the scruff of the neck while you shout your lesson in his ear. And so
_The Bulletin_ hits you in the eye with its red cover, and, having
caught your attention, rapidly emits a brisk succession of crisp
ideas, conveyed in a style of studied unexpectedness. It is terse and
trenchant and clear, though no one could call it nervous or sympathetic
or scholarly or refined. Those responsible have had extraordinary
success in achieving uniformity of manner through all their many
regular and paragraph writers. The essentials are something to say
(captious for preference), and trenchancy in saying it. Probably in no
other paper of its size are there fewer tiresome circumlocutions. Even
Death is briskly handled. “Died last week ...” begins the paragraph.
_De mortuis_, too, not _nil nisi bonum_, but whatever you like. _The
Bulletin_ doesn’t think much of classical learning, and perhaps it has
thrown a courteous precept or two overboard at the same time.
But the paper has a code of its own, an air of sea-green
incorruptibility and impartiality, and a fearlessness in defying the
conventional, which, even if it is sometimes only the aggressiveness
of crudity, makes its value more than that of a _succès de scandale_.
Politically it stands for two or three principles, which are rooted
(and which it assisted to root) in Australian conviction, and for two
or three others which will probably become so. It stands for a White
Australia and Protection and Self-Defence; it is anti-Imperial and
anti-Party and anti-Hughes, but no one can doubt that it is always
and wholly pro-Australian. It is the critic of all parties, with an
opinion as far removed from stick-in-the-mud Liberalism as it is from
the Party that Declines to Work. Its treatment of Royalty is probably
characteristic of the bulk of Australians. It wishes us to understand
that it holds no brief for Royalty, but that it likes and respects
“the Princelet” for himself, and wishes it could rescue him from the
pitiful efforts at entertainment of the vulgar Sassiety and official
classes. “Refer to us for information on Teddy’s tastes. Young Windsor
and we are pals,” it rather patronizingly suggests. Imagine H.R.H.
having a _Bulletin_ and Bohemian good time with Harrison O. and Henry
Horsecollar and Pat O’Maori and the rest! (Though occasionally one
wonders whether they live in so hectic a Bohemia as they would have us
believe.) For the pompous and the stupid they have no pity; to Gaud
Mayors and Gaud Mayoresses and Gent Helps they mete out treatment
savage or contemptuous, according to the degree of offence. Pitiless
publicity and offensive epithet are _The Bulletin’s_ ungenerous
treatment of inexperience and human weakness alike with incompetence
and considered roguery and political opposition.
The aspiring Australian inevitably submits his literary productions to
_The Bulletin_. Its frank and wholesome judgments are what he wants.
Its reviews of literary works are in accordance with the best typically
Australian opinion, though in its admiration for the vigorous and the
original and the characteristic it fails to appreciate some of the
fundamentally sound and admirable achievement which the conventional
often represents. The sound discipline it imposes upon writers of
verse is in striking contrast with this. In prose, too, of course,
it insists on grammatical English, but scholarship, and much that
scholarship implies, are alien to _The Bulletin_ (and to the young
Australian?) temperament. It is so much easier and more flattering
to ignorance to assume that mere common-sense can take precedence of
intelligence which is instructed and disciplined. In noticing a work on
sociology, ostentatiously to give its author—and one so well known—as
“a” Professor J. J. Findlay, is a perverse and provincial parade of
ignorance and detachment which discredit the writer. A reviewer should
at least know the literature and personnel of his subject.
_The Bulletin_ is full of energy and character and youth. Like youth,
in its horror of being Wowserish it assumes a bold bad air, but
fundamentally it has the wholesomeness as well as the intolerance of
youth. With the passage of years perhaps its intolerance and its slang
will wear off together, for most of us do not want to see the rise of
a mongrel Australian tongue akin to the worst kind of Americanese.
It deals with everything from sport to business, from literature to
politics, and all with an absence of qualm as to its ability that of
itself inspires confidence. That it excludes certain types of writer
is no reproach, for unity requires selection. Despite the following
imaginary list, the present writer is graciously pleased to admit that
he for one would not like to do without his weekly _Bulletin_.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Elia: Using “Roast Pig”; returning “Dream Children” and “Poor
Relations” for decent burial.... R.L.S.: Yarn has the right stuff in
it. Keep on.... “Paradise Lost”: Send a couple of bullock drays for
the M.S. What’s it all about, anyway?... Walt Whitman: You can’t get
away with that verse, not in this paper.... A.A.M.: Joke feeble. You
might try it on London _Punch_.... Alice Meynell: What do we care
about your blooming kids?... Sage of Chelsea: Got a grouch about
something, haven’t you? Work it off on the woodheap.... Walter Pater:
Take it away.... Robert B.: Just misses being a shocking example....
Bagehot: Laodicean stuff not in our line. For Gawsake lose your temper
sometimes.... Bernard Partridge: Drawing accurate, but not enough kick
in the figures. So the holy lady with the wings is Peace, is she?...
W.W.:
“A primrose by the river’s brim,
A simple primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.”
Beats us what more it ought to have been—two primroses? Our Temperance
Editor protests.
Nigger
I.
Master was away all the afternoon; it was very dull. He did not come
back in the evening. Nigger was uneasy. Once during the night he
slipped his chain and went in search.
“Perhaps he’ll be in when I get back,” he thought hopefully.
And later: “He’s sure to be here for breakfast.”
But he wasn’t.
Nigger searched every room and sniffed the furniture. No master.
Nigger was lonely. He cuddled up on the forbidden cushions of the
garden-seat with Simonette, waiting for master to come whizzing round
the corner. He opened an eye at a noisy cycle, and cocked his ear for
a motor. He trotted up the drive, he wheeled sharply round to the
stables, he cut back, barking, to master’s room. No master.
After a little dejected self-examination Nigger paid a rapid visit to
several rabbit-holes. Whatever the strain, duty must be done. He came
back to be comforted.
“I know,” he yapped joyously, “he’s afraid to come home; he’s hiding
behind a tree.”
But he wasn’t.
“Then I darn well hope,” snapped Nigger, “that they’ll shut him up for
a day when he does turn up.” He sighed heavily.
But they didn’t. They shut Nigger up instead.
II.
The sun shone on the pale sodden summer grass, and the raindrops on the
trees glistened. The clouds were rolling back over the plain and the
sea. Nigger wanted a walk. He danced down the drive, and looked back to
see if anyone were following. No one. Nigger wagged his tail and tried
again. The invitation was ignored. Nigger drooped his tail (what there
was of it) and came back.
Simonette got her coat; Nigger wagged; an umbrella; Nigger sprang into
the air and spun round and round and barked. Simonette would indicate
the general direction of the walk, and he, Nigger, could introduce all
the variety. Simonette went over the hill; so did Nigger—and right and
left, too; he knew all the _best_ rabbit-holes.
But Simonette heard him tell little kennel-bound Kiwi, “Oh, just a
middling walk. Better than nothing, of course. But if only a man had
been here...!”
And since master came back Nigger hasn’t even spoken to Simonette.
Miscellaneous
The Queen City of the South
Writers about the Old World can take so much for granted. Even the
Colonial knows what to expect when the scene is laid in Tooting,
Maida Vale, or the _Boul’ Mich’_. He is intimate with some of the
geographical details, and with the social atmosphere of very different
parts of London and Paris. Regent Street, Clapham Junction, and the
Edgeware Road are as atmospheric for him as the Domain and Toorak.
The writer of the New World has no such advantage. He cannot be
certain that even the names of his capital cities will be recognized,
and he knows that few readers abroad (abroad, for him, is the
Northern Hemisphere) will care to learn even the general outlines
of God-knows-what insignificant citylet. Yet Australian States and
cities, nay, the very suburbs, are almost as broadly distinct and as
superficially varied as anything in the Old World, even though they are
not as mellow or as complex; and our citizens are as much moulded by
their surroundings.
Some years ago Foster Fraser tried to help us out as he whizzed through
each capital. Thus he labelled Sydney “for pleasure,” Melbourne “for
business,” and Adelaide “for culture.” But Adelaide is the only city
that is satisfied with his judgment. All six capitals bridle with
pleasure when “the Queen City of the South” is mentioned, which, as any
South Australian will tell you, is absurd; every unbiassed person knows
that the phrase is only a descriptive variant for Adelaide.
The only superiority freely accorded to Adelaide by her sister cities
is that of piety. The reason is partly the number of her churches, but
far more, I think, a malicious disinclination to let drop the legend
of our mayor who veiled with decent calico our Venus and our Hercules.
Some of our many later statues more rightly bring a blush to the
aesthetic cheek of the young person, but not, alas, because they are
unclad.
South Australia is a long, narrow State running down the middle of
the continent from the centre to the sea, from which, and her port,
Adelaide is not seven miles distant. The cattle tracks of the dry, hot
(and cold) Far North, and all the railways through the wheat and sheep
and copper areas, and all good roads everywhere, lead towards Adelaide.
That Queen City herself lies like a jewel on the broad and beautiful
plain, in the bend of the arm of hills which sweep inland from the
shore. The heart of it is a square mile of broad streets intersecting
at right angles, bound by gardened terraces, and secured from the rough
jostling and elbowing of the suburbs by broad belts of park land sacred
to browsing cows and horses, cricket, tennis, football, and bowls. East
Terrace has specialized in markets, for it lies nearest the hills and
the vegetable gardens; West Terrace faces the monuments and the sad
little mounds of a cemetery. Within these confines are five tree-shaded
lawns where children may play, and seats for those who choose to watch
the gay flower-beds. To the south are crowded streets and populous
lanes, lined mainly with dwellings; to the middle and north business
has developed.
Three or four shopping streets for womenkind, ten or twelve streets
of offices for men, and some of warehouses and factories, are so far
enough for this hub of the State. King William Street bisects it from
north to south, lined with banks and shops and huge hotels (huge for
us, you know), and cutting it at right angles is Rundle Street, a
kind of Drapers’ Row. Next to Rundle Street, and parallel with it, is
North Terrace, where the chambers of doctors and dentists intermingle
with warehouses. The Terrace is broad and treed and gardened like a
boulevard, and even along its garden and pedestrian side buildings have
been allowed. Here are the Railway Station and Parliament House, and,
east of King William Street, Government House behind its palm trees
and lawns, the Public Reading Rooms and Library, the Art Gallery, the
University, and the big Exhibition Building, which forms one entrance
to an Oval and Showground. Still further east is the long red-bricked
General Hospital, with its wide, shady lawn, and the ironwork entrance
to the lovely Botanic Gardens.