The So-called Human Race

Sir: An old stage hand at the Eau Claire opry house was talking. “No, sir, you don’t see the actors to-day like we used to. Why, when Booth and Barrett played here you could hear them breathe way up in the fly gallery.” E. C. M.

“WHAT THE LA HELLE!”

[From the Kankakee Republican.]

He helped tramp the old Hindenburg line, but this time, beating it on the strains of “Allons enfant de la Patrie le Jour de Gloire est de Triomphe et Arrivee!”

Here is a characteristic bit of Vermontese that we picked up. A native was besought to saw some wood, but he declined. The owner of the wood offered double price for the sawing, and still the native declined. He was pressed for a reason, and this was it: “Damned if I’ll humor a man.”

“It is not moral. It is immoral,” declared an editorial colleague; and a reader is reminded of Lex Iconles, the old Greek baker of Grammer’s Gap, Ark., who used to display in his window the enticing sign: “Doughnuts. Different and yet not the same.”

The mind of man is subject to many strange delusions, and one of these is that the stock market has a bottom.

The manufacturer of a certain automobile advertises that his vehicle “will hold five ordinary people.” And, as a matter of fact, it usually does.

The Westminster Gazette headlines “The Intolerable Dullness of Country Life in Ireland.” And Irene wonders what they would call excitement.

An advertisement of dolls mentions, superfluously, that “some may not last the day.” One does not expect them to.

The London Mendicity Society estimates that £100,000 is given away haphazard every year to street beggars, and that the average beggar probably earns more than the average working man. There is talk of the beggars forming a union. A beggars’ strike would be a fearsome thing.

I want to be a diplomat
And with the envoys stand,
A-wetting of my whistle in
A desiccated land.

The London Busman Story

I. – As George Meredith might have related it

“Stop!” she signalled.

The appeal was comprehensible, and the charioteer, assiduously obliging, fell to posture of checking none too volant steeds.

You are to suppose her past meridian, nearer the twilight of years, noteworthy rather for matter than manner; and her visage, comparable to the beef of England’s glory, well you wot. This one’s descent was mincing, hesitant, adumbrating dread of disclosures – these expectedly ample, columnar, massive. The day was gusty, the breeze prankant; petticoats, bandbox, umbrella were to be conciliated, managed if possible; no light task, you are to believe.

“’Urry, marm!”

The busman’s tone was patiently admonitory, dispassionate. A veteran in his calling, who had observed the ascending and descending of a myriad matrons, in playful gales.

“’Urry, marm!”

The fellow was without illusions; he had reviewed more twinkling columns than a sergeant of drill. Indifference his note, leaning to ennui. He said so, bluntly, piquantly, in half a dozen memorable words, fetching yawn for period.

The lady jerked an indignant exclamation, and completed, rosily precipitate, her passage to the pave.

II. – As Henry James might have written it

We, let me ask, what are we, the choicer of spirits as well as the more frugal if not the undeservedly impoverished, what, I ask, are we to do now that the hansom has disappeared, as they say, from the London streets and the taxicab so wonderfully yet extravagantly taken its place? Is there, indeed, else left for us than the homely but hallowed ’bus, as we abbreviatedly yet all so affectionately term it – the ’bus of one’s earlier days, when London was new to the unjaded sensorium and “Europe” was so wonderfully, so beautifully dawning on one’s so avid and sensitive consciousness?

And fate, which has left us the ’bus – but oh, in what scant and shabby measure! – has left us, too, the weather that so densely yet so congruously “goes with it” – the weather adequately enough denoted by the thick atmosphere, the slimy pavements, the omnipresent unfurled umbrella and the stout, elderly woman intent upon gaining, at cost of whatever risk or struggle, her place and portion among the moist miscellany to whom the dear old ’bus – But perhaps I have lost the thread of my sentence.

Ah, yes – that “stout, elderly woman”; so superabundant whether as a type or as an individual; so prone – or “liable” – to impinge tyrannously upon the consciousness of her fellow-traveller, and in no less a degree upon that of the public servant, who, from his place aloft, guides, as it is phrased, the destinies of the conveyance. It was, indeed, one of the most notable of these – a humble friend of my own – who had the fortune to make the acute, recorded, historic observation which, with the hearty, pungent, cursory brevity and point of his class and métier– the envy of the painstaking, voluminous analyst and artist of our period – But again I stray.

She was climbing up, or climbing down, perplexed equally, as I gather, by the management of her parapluie and of her —enfin, her petticoats. The candid anxiety of her round, underdone face, as she so wonderfully writhed to maintain the standard of pudicity dear – even vital – to the matron of the British Isles appealed – vividly, though mutely – to the forbearance that, seeing, would still seem not to see, her foot, her ankle, her mollet– as I early learned to say in Paris, where, however, so exigent a modesty is scarcely … well, scarcely.

“Madam,” the gracious fellow said in effect, “ne vous gênez pas.” Then he went on to assure her briefly that he was an elderly man; that he had “held the ribbons,” as they phrase it, for several years; that many were the rainy days in London; that each of these placed numerous women – elderly or younger – in the same involuntary predicament as that from which she herself had suffered; and that so far as he personally was concerned he had long since ceased to take any extreme delight in the – Bref, he was charming; he renewed my fading belief – fading, as I had thought, disastrously but immitigably – in the capacity of the Anglo-Saxon for esprit; and I am glad indeed to have taken a line or so to record his mot.

III. – As finally elucidated by Arnold Bennett

Maria Wickwyre, of the Five Towns, emerged from muddy Bombazine Lane and stood in the rain and wind at Pie Corner, eighty-four yards from the door of St. Jude’s chapel, in the Strand. She was in London! Yes, she was on that spot, she and none other. It might have been somewhere else; it might have been somebody else. But it wasn’t. Wonderful! The miracle of Life overcame her.

She had arms. Two of them. They were big and round, like herself. One held a large parcel (“package” for the American edition); the other, an umbrella. She also had two legs. She stood on them. If they had been absent, or if they had weakened, she would have collapsed. But they held her up. Ah, the mysteries of existence! More than ever was she conscious of her firm, strong underpinning. Maria waved her umbrella and her parcel and stopped a ’bus. The driver was elderly, wrinkled, weatherbeaten. Maria got in and rode six furlongs and some yards to Mooge Road, and then she stopped the ’bus to get out.

If she was conscious of her upper members and their charges, she was still more conscious of her lower ones. If she had her parcel and her umbrella to think about, she also had her stockings and petticoats to consider. The wind blew, the rain drizzled, the driver looked around, wondering why Maria didn’t get out and have done with it.

“If he should see them!” she gasped. (You know what she meant by “them.”) Her round, broad face mutely implored the ’busman to look the other way.

He wearily closed his eyes. He had been rumbling through the Strand for thirty years. “Lor’, mum,” he said, “legs ain’t no treat to me!”

Maria collapsed, after all, and took the 4:29 for home that same afternoon.

A LINE-O’-TYPE OR TWO

Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may.

APRILLY

Whan that Aprillè with hise shourès soote
The droghte of March had percèd to the roote,
I druv a motor thro’ Aprillè’s bliz
Somme forty mile, and dam neere lyke to friz.

Harriet reports the first trustworthy sign of spring: friend husband on the back porch Sunday morning removing last year’s mud from his golf shoes.

Old Doc Oldfield of London prescribes dandelion leaves, eggs, lettuce, milk, and a few other things for people who would live long, and a Massachusetts centenarian offers, as her formula, “Don’t worry and don’t over-eat.” But we, whose mission is to enlighten the world, rather than to ornament it, are more influenced by the experiment of Herbert Spencer. Persuaded to a vegetarian diet, he stuck at it for six months. Then reading over what he had written during that time, he thrust the manuscript into the fire and ordered a large steak with fried potatoes and mushrooms.

“SPRING HAS COME …”

The trees were rocked by April’s blast;
A frozen robin fell,
And twittered, as he breathed his last,
“Lykelle, lykelle, lykelle.”

BYRON WROTE MOST OF THIS

[From the Monticello Times.]

Julf Husman, who has been busy for the past several months, building a fine new house and barn, celebrated their completion with a barn dance Wednesday night. “The beauty and chivalry” of Wayne and adjoining townships attended, and did “chase the glowing hours with flying feet,” with as much enthusiasm and pleasure as did the guests “When Belgium’s capital had gathered then and bright the lamps shone over fair women and brave men.”