The So-called Human Race

“Rime, that exquisite echo which in the Muse’s hollow hill creates and answers its own voice; rime, which in the hands of the real artist becomes not merely a material element of material beauty, but a spiritual element of thought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had knocked in vain; rime which can turn man’s utterance to the speech of gods” —

We promised Miss Wyatt that the next time we happened on the parody of Housman’s “Lad,” we would reprint it; and yesterday we stumbled on it. Voila! —

THE BELLS OF FROGNAL LANE

They sound for early Service
The bells of Frognal Lane;
And I am thinking of the day
I shot my cousin Jane.

At Frognal Lane the Service
Begins at half-past eight,
And some folk get there early
While others turn up late.

But, come they late or early,
I ne’er shall be again
The careless chap of days gone by
Before I murdered Jane.

We have been looking over “Forms Suggested for Telegraph Messages,” issued by the Western Union. While more humorous than perhaps was intended, they fall short of the forms suggested by Max Beerbohm, in “How Shall I Word It?” As for example:

LETTER IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF WEDDING PRESENT

Dear Lady Amblesham,

Who gives quickly, says the old proverb, gives twice. For this reason I have purposely delayed writing to you, lest I should appear to thank you more than once for the small, cheap, hideous present you sent me on the occasion of my recent wedding. Were you a poor woman, that little bowl of ill-imitated Dresden china would convict you of tastelessness merely; were you a blind woman, of nothing but an odious parsimony. As you have normal eyesight and more than normal wealth, your gift to me proclaims you at once a Philistine and a miser (or rather did so proclaim you until, less than ten seconds after I had unpacked it from its wrappings of tissue paper, I took it to the open window and had the satisfaction of seeing it shattered to atoms on the pavement). But stay! I perceive a flaw in my argument. Perhaps you were guided in your choice by a definite wish to insult me. I am sure, on reflection, that this is so. I shall not forget.

Yours, etc.

Cynthia Beaumarsh.

PS. My husband asks me to tell you to warn Lord Amblesham to keep out of his way or to assume some disguise so complete that he will not be recognized by him and horsewhipped.

PPS. I am sending copies of this letter to the principal London and provincial newspapers.

We hope that Max Beerbohm read far enough in Bergson to appreciate what Mr. Santayana says of that philosopher. He seems to feel, wrote G. S. (we quote from memory), that all systems of philosophy existed in order to pour into him, which is hardly true, and that all future systems would flow out of him, which is hardly necessary.

To a great number of people all reasoning and comment is superficial that is not expressed in the jargon of sociology and political economy. Expand a three-line paragraph in that manner and it becomes profound.

SING A SONG OF SPRINGTIME

Sing a song of springtime, things begin to grow;
Four and twenty bluebirds darting to and fro;
When the morning opened the birds began to sing.
Wasn’t that a pretty day to set before a king!
The King was on the golf links, chopping up the ground;
The Queen was in the garden, planting seeds around.
When the King returned, after many wasted hours,
“Don’t ever say,” the Queen exclaimed, “that you are fond of flowers.”

Mike Neckyoke drives a taxi in Rhinelander, Wis., and you have only one guess at what he used to drive.

From Philadelphia comes word of the nuptials of Mr. Tunis and Miss Fisch. Tunis, we leapingly conclude, is the masculine form!

We have the card of another chimney sweep, who is “sole agent for wind in chimneys and furnaces.” His name is MacDraft, which may be another nom de flume.

The anti-fat brigade may be intrigued to learn that Mr. George Squibb of Wareham, Eng., sought death in the sea at Swanage, but was unable to stay under the water because of his corpulence.

Not long ago a mule broke a leg by kicking a man in the head, and this week a horse broke a leg in the same way; in each case the man was not seriously injured. Is this merely luck, or is evolution modifying the human coco?

More building is the solution of the unemployment problem. The unemployed are never so occupied and contented as when watching the construction of a sky-scraper.

Her publishers having announced that Ellen Glasgow has “gone into leather,” Keith Preston explains that going into leather is “like receiving the accolade, taking the veil, or joining the American Academy of Arts and Letters.” And we suppose that when one goes into ooze leather, or is padded, one may be said to be fini.

A FEW MORE “BEST BAD LINES.”

Why leapest thou,
Why leapest thou
So high within my breast?
Oh, stay thee now,
Oh, stay thee now,
Thou little bounder, rest!
– Ruskin (at 12).

Something had happened wrong about a bill,
Which was not drawn with true mercantile skill,
So to amend it I was told to go
To seek the firm of Clutterbuck & Co.
– George Crabbe.

But let me not entirely overlook
The pleasure gathered from the rudiments
Of geometric science.
– Wordsworth.

Israel in ancient days
Not only had a view
Of Sinai in a blaze,
But heard the Gospel too.
– Cowper.

Flashed from his bed the electric message came;
He is no better; he is much the same.
– A Cambridge prize poem.

A household hinter advises that “if the thin white curtains blow into the gas and catch fire sew small lead weights into the seams.” Before doing this, however, it would be wise to turn in an alarm.

The orchestra was playing too loud to suit the manager, so he complained to the leader. “The passage is written in forte,” said the latter. “Well, make it about thirty-five.”