Men who Missed their own Weddings by P G Wodehouse

8/3/2019 Men who Missed their own Weddings by P G Wodehouse

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Men who Missed their own Weddings by P G Wodehouse

THE AGE, MELBOURNE. SATURDAY JANUARY 19, 1901

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ABSENT MINDED BRIDE GROOMS.MEN WHO MISSED THEIR OWN WEDDINGS.

At Ipswich recently, says a London contemporary, a marriage was about to take place when it was discovered that the bridegroom was not present. Nobody had seenor heard anything of him, and the greatest confusion reigned until, some twenty

minutes after the hour appointed for the service, his brother appeared on a bicycle, with the news that the missing gentleman was too busy to come, but would present himself at church on the following day.

When the wedding party reassembled at the tune mentioned the bridegroom was present, but this time the bride had absented herself. A search was instituted, andshe was found at her home, arrayed in wedding dress, but evidently determined topay her fianc back in his own coin. She yielded, however, at last, and this eccentric pair were successfully united.

Most men are apt to be nervous on the last evening of their bachelor life, and aman living in a town near Bristol was no exception. So agitated, indeed, was lie that he had to take a powerful opiate before he could get to sleep.

The draught proved instantly successful, and he was soon asleep. But, unfortunately, in his nervousness he had mixed so strong a dose that, when the appointed hour arrived, he was still in a deep stupor. Nor did he awake until late in the following afternoon, when he found everybody in the greatest consternation, thinking that he was in a cataleptic trance, from which he would never awake. Luckilyfor all concerned the drug left no bad effects, and the marriage was celebratedat the earliest possible moment.

A ludicrous ease occurred recently where both bride and bridegroom missed the wedding. On the wedding morning the bridegroom received a letter from the bride informing him that she had changed her mind and had married a more favored rival a

t a registry office that morning. Curiously enough, the bridegroom had himself sent a letter the night before begging her to release him from his engagement, ashe was certain that they could never be really happy together.

Cases of either the man or the woman saving No when the marriage service requiresthem to say Yes, though rare, have been known to happen. Several years ago a man lost his intended wife in this way owing to his irritable temper. On the marriageday he had been the victim of a number of small accidents, and, thinking himself alone, he had indulged in some strong language, which the lady happened to overhear, and thinking that life with a man of such bad temper would be most unpleasant, caused a unique sensation by saying No instead of Yes, and walking out of thechurch. Nor could all the arguments of the bridegroom induce her to relent.


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THE LANGUAGE OFFLOWERS.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------TO the literature of the streets a small volume has recently been added, which at first sight induces the purchaser to think the charge of a penny an excessiveone. This feeling, however, disappears after a thoughtful perusal of the work in

question.

It is a comprehensive dictionary of flowers, containing also a preface which isa prose poem, thirty lines of verse from the pen of an anonymous writer, and full information as to how neuralgia, tic, rheumatism, toothache, and gout may be cured simultaneously at the extremely moderate cost of one and threepence. Few will be found so grasping as to demand more for their penny.

Each blossom, says the writer of the preface, has its odour, its mission, its message. The violet will never cease to speak of humility, or the marigold of vulgarjealousy. (A little hard, this, on the marigold.) And their odours! Who can forget the delicacy of the violets breath, the sweet perfume of the rose, or the plea

sant scented lavender. Oh! the measure of sweetness that comes from the silent children of the sod to the speaking and thinking ones of earth! Like the hero of one of Mr. Quiller-Couchs poems, the writer certainly has a neat poetic vein whenhe is fairly started.

A few more preliminary remarks on the subject of the arrangement of flowers, andthe reader is brought to the vocabulary itself. From this it is an easy task, especially if one is a member of the class referred to as the speaking and thinking ones of earth, to weave romantic situations. It is, for instance, the mauvaisquart dheure preceding dinner. Our hero has been told off to take down the heroine, with whom he has for many a long month been secretly in love. He, being of an intensely shy nature, feels himself unequal to the task of framing his opinions in words. She being the very soul of maidenly reserve, cannot bring herself to

lend him the helping hand he so sorely needs. He remarks that the weather is fine, especially for the time of year. She agrees. Then there is an awkward silence. This is where a knowledge of the language of flowers is of such vital importance. Assuming that the hero has brought with him a basketful of assorted blossoms, he commences by selecting an arbutusnot a whole tree, presumably, though our author says nothing on the subject, but a portion of one. This he presents to thelady, thereby indicating to her, if she is also a speaking and thinking one ofearth, Thee only do I love. Though naturally taken aback somewhat by this sudden declaration of passion, she follows suit according to her mood. She may select adouble China aster, I partake of your sentiments, or perhaps, if she wishes to keep him a little longer in suspense, she substitutes a single China aster, that flower expressing the cold but eminently proper words, I will think of it.

This urges the hero on to further efforts. He thinks for a while. Then he presents her with a Dianthus. Make haste is the exact meaning of the Dianthus. To such afloral remark a floral snub is the only reply. She withers him with a Dipladenia Crassinoda, You are too bold. His observations then become sharp and abrupt, after the fashion of Mr. Alfred Jingle. He produces in rapid succession a parti-coloured daisy, a damask rose, an eschscholtzia, and a jonquil. In effect he says :Beauty! Brilliant complexion! Do not refuse me! I desire a return of affection!

She wavers and exhibits a marjoram, to show that she is blushing. His eloquencenow gets the best of him in impassioned entreaties. He bends down, and begins topull flower after flower from the basket. Having obtained as many as he requires, he arranges them before her in the following order. Hortensia. (You are cold.)

Purple hyacinth. (I admit my imperfections.) Henbane. (And I am sorry for them.) Green locust tree. (My love will last beyond the grave.) Moving plant. (Observe my agitation.) Pine-apple. (You are perfect!) Pink. (And I know that I am taki


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ng a great liberty), but Christmas Rose. (Put me out of my misery.) White Rose.(I am on the whole quite worthy of you), for Wheat stalk, white mullen, and variegated tulip. (I am rich, good-natured, and have beautiful eyes.) Reversed vine.(No, I do not drink.) In a word stephanotis, and oxlip. (Will you accompany meto the East. Speak out!)

The effect of this speech is instantaneous. A red tulip, or in other words a dec

laration of love follows, and the two proceed to dinnerthe gong having just soundedan engaged couple.

Other uses for the language of flowers readily present themselves. Biting sarcasm may be employed by presenting an unwelcome guest with a reversed sweet pea, which signifies Dont go. Delicate satire could be effected by a judge presenting a criminal after sentence with a sweet-scented tussilago, which, being interpreted,means Justice shall be done you, a charming present for a gentleman shortly to embark on a ten years visit, sweetened by toil and simple fare, at Portland or Dartmoor.

Soon, too, the sight may be familiar in London of an army of rejected contributo

rs blocking the streets opposite the various editorial offices, each wearing inhis button-hole a simple red primrose, the sign of unpatronised merit. Undoubtedly, the language of flowers has many uses.

The Pugilist in Fiction.

By P. G. WODEHOUSE.

THERE are two novels in the library of pugilistic fiction which stand alone, Dr.Conan Doyles Rodney Stone and Bernard Shaws Cashel Byrons Profession. In most booke hero is a pugilist because he is a hero. In these two he is a hero because heis a pugilist. Probably everybody who takes an interest in sport has read RodneyStone, and has revelled in the fight between Berks and Boy Jim in the coachhouse,and the great battle on Crawley Downs between the smith and the West-countryman. He has waited in suspense with Sir Charles Tregellis when the last minutes areflying past, and still his man has not put in an appearance; and a thrill has run through him as the crowd swirls and eddies, and an old black hat flickers upfrom their midst, and falls in the centre of the ring. It is a great scene, that. However often one may have read the book, and however much one may be preparedfor the surprise, that magnificent climax comes as fresh as ever. Rodney Stone isan epic of the ring.

Cashel Byrons Profession is perhaps less well-known. Mr. Shaw has chosen for his hero the best type of professional pugilist, a gentleman born, clever at few things, but as straight as a die, and possessing a genius for fighting. In his preface the author makes a few remarks on the subject of pugilistic genius. By geniushe means something higher than mere skill. Many boxers are skillful, but not onein a thousand possesses that peculiar gift, amounting almost to divination, which enables him to foretell his opponents actions, and reduce the art of timing toa second nature. Jem Belcher is the best instance of genius in the history of the ring. Mace was a genius. So was Sayers. So perhaps were John Jackson and Mendoza. But Belcher was the greatest of them all, and possibly it is Belcher who has been the authors model for Cashel Byron. And I should be inclined to say that M

r. Shaw had heard of the Tipton Slasher when he created William Paradise, his heros opponent.


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Cashel runs away from school, and goes to Melbourne, where he meets Ned Skene, the retired champion of the world. This is the beginning of his career in the ring. He retires in the end unbeaten. Cashel Byrons Profession differs from Rodney Stone in two important particulars. In the first place, there is far less actual description in Mr. Shaws book. Conan Doyle loves to follow a fight from start to finish, round by round, omitting details that might offend, and emphasizing only the finer features of the battle. Bernard Shaw treats the subject in a less partis

an spirit, while of straightforward description there is only one passage, the glove-fight between Cashel and William Paradise at the Agricultural Hall. In thesecond place, Cashel Byrons Profession is full of that quaint humour for which itsauthor is celebrated. In Rodney Stone the hero, Boy Jim, is evidently an object ofadmiration to his literary parent, but Mr. Shaw gives one the impression of laughing in his sleeve at Cashel Byron. This, however, may be purely a matter of style.

Nobody can help liking Cashel Byron. His frank self-confidence would win over the keenest opponent of the manly art. His speech at the soiree in chapter six shows him at his best. He sees a picture of St. George alighting from his horse tofight an enemy on foot, and it offends his professional eye. Theres a posture for

a man to fight in! he says. His weight isnt resting on his legs; one touch of a childs finger would upset him. You can all see hes as weak and nervous as a cat, andthat he doesnt know how to fight. And why does he give you that idea? Just because hes all strain and stretch; because he isnt at his ease; because he carries theweight of his body as awkwardly as one of the ladies here would carry a hod of bricks. If the painter of that picture had known his business, he would never have sent his man up to the scratch in such a figure and condition as that. As the artist himself was among the audience, this address naturally created something of a sensation. It is Cashel, too, who observes that a champion is a lonely man,and who was afraid of nothing except burglars, big dogs, doctors, dentists, and street-crossings. When an accident through any of these occurred, he would read the report of it very seriously to Lydia, and preserved the newspaper for quite two days as a document in favour of his favourite assertion that the only place a

man was safe in was the prize-ring. On another occasion he rises at a dinner party, during dinner, in order to show one of the guests, an eminent bishop, how tobreak a burglars back in the act of grappling with him.

And yet, in spite of the fact that in Cashel Byrons Profession he presents the best drawn pugilist in fiction, Mr. Shaw, in the preface to the book, expresses a hope that the effect of the story may be to eliminate from modern fiction the element of what he calls romantic fisticuffs. Perish the thought! Many novels are only worth reading for the scene where the hero, with a half smile on his handsome face, shows what he really can do, and to quote Mr. Shaws own words in their original blank verse:

Ducking to the left.Cross-counters like a hundredweight of bricks.

That is an extract from The Admirable Bashville, a dramatic and shameless burlesque of his own novel by Mr. Shaw himself. The following passage testifies to his merits as a romantic bard:

No time was lostIn getting to the business of the day,The Dutchman led at once and seemed to landOn Byrons dice-box; but the seamans reach.Too short for execution at long shots,Did not get fairly home upon the ivory.

And Byron had the best of the exchange.

These two books, as I have said, stand alone. But the name of the novels in whic


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h pugilism plays a part is legion. Charles Dickens himself drew a boxer in Dombeyand Son, but a poor, weak-kneed caricature of his class he was. The Chicken washis name. The great Henry Pearce was also called the Chicken. But there the resemblance stops. Dickenss Chicken cannot by any stretch of imagination be taken torepresent his profession as a whole. Some few of the scum of the boxing world may have been like him, but not many, while the best, and even the average pugilist, was a different man altogether.

Kenelm Chillingly represents the art in Bulwer Lyttons works, but his science isnot that of the present time, and it is doubtful if he could have stood up for long before a boxer of to-day. Personally, I would back the Public School middle-weight champion (to exclude professionals altogether) of this or any other yearagainst him to the fullest extent of my attenuated purse. There is a certain blow yclept the funny punch, which would, I fancy, upset Kenelm badly.

With Rodney Stone must, of course, be classed the short story The Master of Croxley, a fine specimen of Conan Doyles descriptive style in matters of the ring. In thenovel, strength and dogged endurance in the person of Jack Harrison triumph over science as exemplified by Crab Wilson; but in the short story, the Mastera toug

h, hard-hitting fighter of the old schoolfalls before the quickness of the youngdoctor, Montgomery, who brings off a dramatic knock-out blow in the nick of time.

There is an excellent fight in The Witchs Head, by Rider Haggard, between one Jeremy Jones and a Boer giant called Van Zyl. Jeremys only hope is to avoid the Dutchmans blows, that gentleman being able to tap a large hole in the wooden panel of awagon with the utmost ease. He therefore confines himself to long-range fighting. But in the end the Dutchman closes with him, and attempts to strangle him. Jeremy, however, remembering an old wrestling trick, tries it, with the result that Van Zyl flies over his shoulder and cripples himself for life, and all is joyand peace.

Two of Mr. Jacobss best short stories, The Peacemaker and The Bully of the Cavendish, deal with fighting. In the latter mention is made of a certain Sinker Pitt, a professor of the art, who when in need of practice used to improve on the conventional ball-punching by going the round of the public-houses dressed as a Methodist clergyman and insulting hot-tempered sailor-men. A prizefighter also appearsin A Harbour of Refuge, no less a celebrity than the Battersea Bruiser, eulogistically described by his commanding officer as a man who could be champion of England, if he would only take the trouble to train. And yet the Bruiser, instead of being flattered, offers to put sich a ed on im that when he wants to blow his nose hell have to get a glass to see where to go to. Such is human gratitude.

To conclude, Mr. Bernard Shaw observes sadly that the popular English novel is nothing less than a gospel of pugilism. And why not? All fights are good reading,and if the hero invariably wins, well, what does it matter? The villain is, asa rule, a most disreputable character, and fully deserves all he gets. And the hero, whatever his faults, is certainly entitled to an occasional treat. Let thegood work go forward!

LAUNCHING A POPULAR SONG.How Britain Gets Its Favourite Melodies.


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(Pearson

s Weekly, October 25, 1906)

[Note: The editors are indebted to Arthur Robinson for providing a scan of thisrare item and Parthasarathy Uppili Srinivasan for the transcription.]

The work of the producer of a modern musical comedy is never finished. Unlike anordinary play, a musical piece cannot be left to run by itself, however successfully the first-night performance may have gone off.

Even after its hundredth night its producers vigilance does not relax. There arelines which are too long, and must be cut down; other lines which must be cut out altogether, because they kill some repartee of the comedians. Perhaps a scene which was well received early in the run of the piece no longer gets its proper amount of applause.

But it is the musical numbers which make or mar a play of this kind, and it is o

n these that the management keeps its eye most carefully. After the first week of the run of a musical comedy it is easy to see which songs are winners. They stand out from the general music. People remember them, and talk about them.

To name only a few instances, Sammy, in The Earl and the Girl; Mr. Chamberlain, in The Beauty of Bath; and The Church Parade, in The Catch of the Season, were obviously numbers which would not need replacing during the run. They were always certain to make a hit.

KEEPING THE BEST FOR ACT 2.The producer accordingly turns his attention to the weaker spots. It is nearly always for the second act that he keeps his best. By that time the audience has got the story of the piece into its head, and numbers can be introduced with litt

le or no connection with the main thread of the plot.

The producer sees a gap between two scenes where there is room for an importantnew number. He proceeds to try and find one.

To decide the position of a new song is never easy. If it comes too near anotherbig song, each will kill the other, and, instead of two great successes, the piece will have two comparative failures.

Almost always the new number is at first a tune and nothing more. The composer of the piece may have written it; or, more probably, it is the work of one of thenumerous band of free-lance composers, who call at the theatre from time to time, and play over their latest compositions.

Perhaps it comes all the way from America, in which case it will probably have words attached to it which are unsuitable for the piece in which in is to appear.

OBTAINING A GOOD CATCH-PHRASE.The tune is played over to the management. It is approved of.

The next thing is to hit on a good central idea or a good catch-phrase for a popular song. This is the most difficult part of the whole business. In some casesas many as twenty lyrics are written before the right one comes along.

For O Mimosa Sans first song in the Geisha as many as twenty-five tentative versi

ons were written before the management was satisfied.

But sooner or later a suitable idea is discovered, and the lyrist is told off to


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write words to fit the tune. At some theatres, where more than one lyrist is employed, a number of lyrics are sent in, and the best of these, or a combinationof what is best in them, is used.

The lyric written and approved of, the stage-managers very difficult work begins.The success of a big song depends very much on the way in which it is produced,and the stage-manager who can hit on new ideas is worth his weight in gold to a

theatre.

Here again, Sammy may be quoted as a model of stage-management. It was the unexpectedly direct appeal to one particular box, quite as much for the haunting melody, which made the song such a hit.

THE STAGE-MANAGERS BUSY TIME.For days the stage-manager spends his time apparently working out mathematical problems on a large sheet of paper. What he is really doing is arranging the positions and movements of the chorus.

Taking into consideration the smallness of the stage and the number of the choru

s, and the fact that one false move will spoil the picture and possibly ruin thesong, the work of a stage-manager of musical comedy may be looked on as almostas arduous as that of a general in war time.

At last the theoretical work is over. The stage-manager has his plans firmly fixed in his mind, and now begins to handle his material practically.

The singer of the song does not appear yet, his or her place being supplied by the pianist, who sits at the piano on the O.P. side of the stage, well out of theway.

Rehearsals for the chorus are called at twelve oclock each morning, and last, asa rule, till two.

The first few rehearsals are very laborious. Everything goes wrong. Stupid mistakes are made. Tempers grow short.

Then almost imperceptibly order emerges from chaos. The chorus go through theirmanuvres without a hitch. The singer joins the rehearsals. The orchestra takes the place of the pianist. One or two new bits of business are arranged at the last moment.

And then the night of performance comes, and London has another new song to whistle.

WHAT DO THEY ALL DO?

An English Writers Impressions and Queries After WitnessingNew York Rush-HourAsks What TheseCasual, Careless Millions Do

By P. G. WODEHOUSE


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ForewordWho, coming into any great city for the first time, or who, after a longabsence from the turmoil of a metropolis, has not asked himself the question, What do they all dothese hurrying millions? Who has not been impressed with the extraordinary activity of the city that throngs during the hours in which the peoplego to or hasten away from work?Editor.

Jam them in, ram them in,People still a-coming!

Slam them in, cram them in,Keep the thing a-humming.

Millionaires and carpenters,Office boys, stenographers,Workingmen and fakirs,Doctors, undertakers,Brokers, musicians,Writers, politicians,Clergymen and plumbers,

Entry clerks and drummers,Pack them in, whack them in,People still a-coming!

From Grenville Kleisers Humorous Hits.

WHEN the giant in Mr. H. G. Wells Food of the Gods came to London and saw the crowds hurrying to and fro in the streets, he asked, Whats it all for? He might have said, What do they all do? That is the mystery of every great city. What do these hur

rying millions do? How are they employed? How can any city, however vast, find work for them all?

The thought occurs to every stranger in every large city, but it is in New Yorkthat the problem is most vivid. There is no rush-hour in London as there is in New York. In London there are times during the day when the Tube, the suburban trains, and the omnibuses are always full, but there is no solid avalanche of humanity such as is to be seen every day at Brooklyn Bridge and the Subway stationsat Fourteenth Street, the Grand Central station, and one or two other points.

London stops work gradually. New York stops with a jerk.

Standing on the corner of East Fourteenth Street at almost any time between fiveand six in the evening, you will see an endless stream of men and women movingswiftly towards you. It means the workers of New York are bound for home. Everyunit in that stream is going up or down town, and is impatient of a seconds delay. It is a race, with seats in the uptown express as prizes for the swiftest, straps for the runners-up, and the privilege of being crushed and trodden on in therear of the car as a sort of consolation prize for the last to arrive. To the casual spectator there does not seem a great deal to choose between the three modes of traveling. But possibly the man who secures a seat feels a certain glow ofhonest pride, as the victor in an athletic contest.

Along the subway platform runs a stout iron rail. At intervals along the rail, on the further side, are stationed policemen and guards. The crowd surges on to t

he platform, pressing against the rail. Presently the policemen step forward andthrow back a few feet of the rail. Like water breaking a dam, the crowd pours through the opening. Meanwhile the passengers leaving the train are pouring thoug


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h another opening a yard or so lower down. All this may be said to be the beginning of the game.

It is a game which at first sight appears to be played without rules. A sort ofTitanic shove-as-shove-can. Men and women jostle each other indiscriminately. There is a total absence of irritation and ill-feeling. The seat-seeker feels no more annoyance with the rival through whose body he is apparently trying to push

a hole than does the pioneer with the tough piece of undergrowth which he is cutting away. Both are obstructions and must be removed, but there is no animus. Asharp elbow in the ribs is painful, but it is the fortune of war. To receive thefull weight of a fellow-struggler on ones foot is unpleasant, but not to be resented. Perfect good humor prevails.

But the game has its rules, despite appearances. The seats are all occupied now,and one man, determined at least to secure a strap, ignores Subway etiquette and endeavors to pass in through the lower opening, sacred to those going out. Themove succeeds. He makes the perilous passage. But Nemesis is waiting on the other side. The tall, blue-clad policeman, his face calm, and wearing a look of abstract speculation, his jaws moving rhythmically as he chews his gum, steps to me

et him, seizes him by the shoulders, and forces him back. He is not annoyed, butduty is duty. The trespasser, passionately obsessed with his dream of securinga strap, tries again. This time Nemesis loses a little of his abstracted air, infuses a little personal feeling into the matter. The trespasser, scientificallygripped, is whirled out of the forbidden area, as if he had been shot from a gun. His hat falls off and is trodden on. He retires from the contest. Next time hewill play fair.

By now the vanguard of the in-going crowd has filled the cars, and the uninitiated would say that the train was ready for its journey. No, the packing processhas only just begun. Up to this point it has been left to the amateur. So far the crowd has packed itself. It is here that the expert begins to display his skill. The policemen take an active hand in the packing. The guards all along the tr

ain are working strenuously. Pile em on, Willie, cries one earnest laborer. And Willie piles. So do Sam and Jim, not to mention Ted and Jack and Michael. All downthe platform men and women are being wedged into the apparently solid mass of humanity on the cars. There always seems room for one more. Pile em on, Willie!

At last even the guards are satisfied. With one final effort they pull to the gates. A shout to the conductor, and the train moves off.

And unless the eye deceives, the crowd left on the platform is just as dense asit was before a soul entered that human sardine box.

What do they all do? Where do they all find work? Are there enough offices in the world to provide employment for this vast mass of men and women?

Vast mass? They are only a section of New Yorks workers. These are merely the dwellers uptown. What of the rush-hour at Brooklyn Bridge, at the South Ferry, on the elevated? It is a wonderful sight to see the never-ending mass of men and women winding its way like a black serpent through Park Row during the rush-hour and streaming over the Brooklyn Bridge. It is a quieter, more leisurely crowd, this, than that of the Subway. In its day it was active enough, but recent additions to Brooklyn rapid transit have relieved the pressure. As a spectacle it is impressive still, but it lacks the militant character which makes the Subway crowdunique. There is more room. There are more outlets. It is not a question of Giveme a strap or give me death.

But, as a crowd, as a parade, it is perhaps even more striking than the gathering in the Subway. Where do they all come from? Who can possibly employ this almost countless throng? How did they come to select their various jobs in life? What


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do they all do?

Into the offices of a popular magazine, for instance, there come from day to daymen and women with unique stories of fact and adventure from all quarters of the globe. In walks an ex-Chief of Police from the Congo, an American Consul fromZanzibar, home on vacation; an adventurer who has been buying Furs from the Siberian natives at a price which, he is prepared to demonstrate maybe, shall make t

he New York customer turn pale with a desire to possess; a surveyor from the Northwest of Australia, or from New Guinea, with tales of mining camps and lumber areas where even as yet the white man does not dwellall men with of note in theirparticular sphere; men who do big things in a big but undemonstrative way. Theseare among the many with whom we bump elbows on the pavement, and who from the wilds of undeveloped lands enter momentarily and casually into the great struggleof the New York Subway or the Brooklyn Elevated. Is it not true that we know not whom we pass in the street or by whom we stand on ferryboat or platform? Someunknown Milton, maybe, some undiscovered genius in one sphere or another.

One thing the visitor from abroad is ready to say all New Yorkers, if not all Americans, do; and that is they put up with more inconveniences in everyday life t

han any other people in the world. Jump onto a trolley bus, and before you havegone ten blocks, the driver will have done his best to jerk the very life out ofyou. The same on the Elevated and on the Subway. I asked a German engineer theother day how he accounted for this, and he asserted very positively that it wasthe unfortunate habit of most of the big traction companies to put men in charge of electrically-driven cars before they (the drivers) were properly trained; that is, the drivers here are recognized as efficient on reaching a standard of knowledge which in Europe would not be considered sufficient. There must be something in that, because one of the first things to be remarked by an American whenhe goes to Europe for the first time, is that in London, Paris and Berlin, especially, he does not have to hold on to straps and door handles to keep himself at the proper perpendicular, or if he be seated, does not have to sway his body in order to cope with the jerks and starts of shockingly-driven conveyances.

Truly, these New Yorkers are a long-suffering and good-natured crowd. They bumpyou in the street as they negotiate even the broadest pavements, but they expectto be bumped in return, and they move on. How is it, however, that so many of them are to be found in the streets at all times of the day and night, when mostof us believe that ordinary office hours keep the average employee within doorsfor the greater part of his or her time? Be sure it is not difficult to find a crowd at any time during the night if there is anything doing in New York. Mr. Bryan, during his last campaign, addressed a meeting in City Hall Park at three oclock in the morning, and there was just as big a crowd attending the meeting then as there had been at any daytime gathering at the same place and they were just as enthusiastic. Where do they all come from? What do they do?

Providence and the ButlerBy P. G. Wodehouse

Editor

s note: This story is transcribed from The Washington Herald Literary Magazine dated February 27, 1910. It was discovered by John Dawson. The archives atthe Library of Congress had the first page, but unfortunately whoever had scann


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ed the paper had missed the rest of the story which appeared on a different page. In what is now probably a well known story, the group members swung into action, and Lynn Vesley-Gross and others were instrumental in tracking down the missing page and bringing the whole story to light. It was printed in the Sunday Times on December 28, 2008. It has also appeared in The Strand Magazine (Feb-May 2009).

HIS lordship wishes to see you, Mr. Keeling.

Keeling, butler to the Earl of Drexdale, rose slowly from the chair in which hehad been enjoying his afternoon sleep, and toddled off down the passage. The footman who had brought the message watched him pass through the red-barge door which marked the boundary of the servants quarters.

Jane, he said to one of the housemaids who had appeared from nowhere, ow old is oldKeeling?

Blessed if I know, said Jane, Ive been here since I was a little bit of a slip of athing, and he was just the same then.

Poor old feller.

Why poor old feller?

Cos hes got to go see his lordship.

Is his lordship in one of his moods, Tom?

His lordship, said Tom with emphasis, is in about eighteen of em at once.

The guidebooks were wont to assert that the most interesting sight to be seen atDrexdale Castle was the thirteenth-century crypt. They were wrong. To the really thoughtful visitor the chief object of interest was Keeling. As a matter of fact Keeling looked a good deal older than the crypt. His air of antiquity and permanence was more marked. Nobody not even James, the head gardener, who had beenat the castle for twenty-five years, knew when he had first come to the place. When James was a sprightly young gardeners boy, Keeling had been exactly the same,so James asserted, as he was now. Keeling was not a mere butler. He was an heirloom, a part of the estate. It was believed that he knew more about the historyof the Drexdale family than any man living. It was his hobby. He worshipped theDrexdale blood. He knew the family history back to the days of Edward the Confessor. He dated events by the length of time that had elapsed since the present earl had fallen downstairs and broken his ankle or the eleventh earl had fought furiously with his small brother in the stable loft over a disputed guinea-pig. The faithful old servant of the melodramas was a parvenu compared to Keeling. Footmen might come and footmen might go, but he went on forever.

Having negotiated the distance to his lordships study at his best pace for a summons to the presence in the afternoon meant that important matters were toward Keeling tapped upon the door. A querulous bellow from within bade him enter.

John, twelfth earl of Drexdale, was seated in an armchair by the window. He wasa short, red-faced man, inclined to stoutness. He wore a ragged grey beard. Those who knew Keelings devotion to the proud name of the Drexdales often wondered what his opinion of the present earl might be. Both as regarded manners and appear

ance Lord Drexdale would have made an excellent bookkeeper or publican. In his youth his position and the blameless reputation of his father, a cabinet ministerand famous philanthropist, had led society to welcome him with a friendly smile


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. The friendly smile had changed to a blank stare within the space of four years, and now the best the society papers could find to call him was that well knownsporting peer. Which was a polite way of intimating that his friends and associates today were the scum of the race course.

BUT whatever Keelings views may have been, he confided them to none. A Drexdale,however far he might have fallen from the Drexdale standard, as a sacred subject, is immune to criticism.

Come in, cant you? Shut the door. Dont stand there half in and half out, gaping atme like a fish. Ah!

The last remark was elicited by a sudden twinge of pain in the foot which rested, swathed in bandages, on a pile of cushions, for his lordship was suffering from one of his frequent attacks of gout.

Your lordship wished to see me?

Of course I wished to see you. For Heavens sake man, cant you close your mouth? Isit absolutely necessary for you to gape at me like that? Thats better. Keeling, Iwant you to go up to London by the first train tomorrow.

To London, your lordship?

Yes, London. Youve heard of the place, I suppose? Here, read this letter. This will explain. Curse the young fool. I might have known he would be making an idiotof himself if I left him out of my sight. Read it. Its from Colonel Brant, who was here for the shooting last year.

Keeling took the letter, and fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles. Lord Drex

dale watchin his maneuvers with growing impatience.

Damn it, man, he broke out, I cant wait all day. Give me the letter. Ill read it to you. Its about Lionel.

KEELING bowed. The Hon. Lionel, only son of the earl, was a pale, nervous youngman who had been bullied through a sickly boyhood by his father and was now drifting aimlessly about London. Keeling, who had known him from his cradle, had anaffection for him apart from the fact that he was a Drexdale. Lionel was quiet and diffident, and quiet and diffidence were a welcome change from the common runof manners at the castle.

This is what it says, said Lord Drexdale, taking the letter. Ill skip the inquiriesafter my gout. Here is the part I want you to hear. I think, if you feel well enough for the trip, I should run up to town for a day or two, if I were you. It might be just as well if you kept an eye on the hope of the Drexdales right now. Last night, after we had dined together at the club, Lionel, in a communicative mood, unbosomed himself to me. Not to break it gently, the young fool has fallenhead over ears with a lady who, however attractive, is hardly in the rank of society, from which, I fancy, you would prefer the future Lady Drexdale to be drawn. To be exact, she is one of the performers in a sort of circus-spectacle whichis now drawing the youth to the suburbs of Olympia. Lionel showed me her photograph. She seems to be deucedly good-looking, and I gather from Lionel that she ri

des magnificently. If these qualities are all you demand from your daughter-in-law, well and good. If not, youd better come and stop the thing. I cant help you. Isail tomorrow for Egypt. That is how the matter stands. The next move is with y


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ou. I hope your gout oh, Never mind my gout. Thats all. And about enough. I cant stir myself, with this infernal gout, and youre the only man I know I can trust tolook after the interests of the family. You may be a fool dont gape, man! but I know youve got our interests at heart.

If I might suggest, your lordship

Well?

Perhaps a telegram, directing Master Lionel to return - ?

Lord Drexdale jerked his head toward to table.

Do you imagine I didnt think of that? I wired the moment I got this letter. Thereshis answer. He says he is very sorry, but he is in bed with a severe attack of tonsilitis, and his doctor forbids him to move. Tonsolitis! Bah! I expect hes sitting in the six-penny gallery, cracking nuts and making sheeps-eyes at the girl as she jumps though paper hoops.

Keeling received this vivid piece of imagery in respectful silence.

Catch the first train tomorrow, Keeling. Do you see? Do you see, man? Very well.Do what you think best. Use your discretion, if you have any. If the girl has tobe bought off, buy her off. Never mind the figure. Thats all. I shall dine up here.

Keeling bowed, and left the room.

THE atmosphere at the castle was always a trifle electric when his lordship hadone of his attacks of gout, but the oldest inhabitant could not recall a more ex

citing hour than that which followed breakfast on the third day after Keelings departure. It was his lordships custom to read his Sporting Life (he subscribed to the Times but he read his Sporting Life immediately after the meal). On this morning,Tom, the footman, removing the breakfast things, was surprised to hear a sort ofcombination roar and groan proceed from his lordship. Looking up, he saw that the latters face was a rich purple, and that his eyes were bulging apoplectically.He was moving to offer assistance when the bulging eyes suddenly met his, and the earl, becoming aware of his presence, ordered him from the room with a streamof forceful words. Tom stood not upon the order of his going.

The paragraph which had disturbed his lordship so extremely was headed, Interesting Wedding. And, in his lordships opinion, that did not overstate the case. The paragraph ran as follows:

A wedding of great interest to lovers of sport was solemnized yesterday at St. Andrews church, Walthamstow, when the Hon. Lionel Carr, only son of the earl of Drexdale, the well known sporting peer, was quietly married to Margaret, daughter of Nathaniel J. Trenton of Austinville, Texas, U.S.A. Mr. Keeling, a friend of the bridegroom, acted as best man. The bride was given away by her father. Both Mr. Trenton and the Hon. Mrs. Carr are members of Colonel Wilberforces Prairie Days company, now performing at Olympia, where the brides wonderful feats in the saddlehave been attracting so much attention. After the ceremony the happy pair leftin an automobile for Wales, where the honeymoon will be spent.

At eleven oclock precisely Lord Drexdale made a coherent remark his first. That r

emark was When Keeling returns, send him to me.

In rehearsing scenes in our minds before they take place, we are apt to err chie


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fly as regards the attitude of the other party. We assign to him a certain deportment and allow our imaginations to run accordingly. Such scenes, as a rule, turn out otherwise than we had anticipated, owing to the other actors treatment of his role. Lord Drexdale made this mistake. Even when he had a clear conscience Keelings demeanor was wont to be humble. With this frightful burden on his soul, Lord Drexdale expected him to cringe. And he did not cringe.

The Keeling who entered the room at five-thirty that evening was subtly different from the Keeling who had left the castle three days before. His back seemed straighter. There was a curious light in his mild eye. Almost the eye of battle. No good butler is ever perky. If he were perky, he would not be a good butler. But truth compels one to admit that Keeling, as he met the Basilick stare in his lordships protruding eyes, came as near to being perky as it is possible for a good butler to come.

Well? said Lord Drexdale in a calm-before-the-storm voice, which might have occasioned the boldest a tremor.

Your lordship has read the announcement?

Lord Drexdales feelings burst their dam. He spoke his mind. Years of acquaintancewith turf circles had given him the power of expressing himself with a certaingenerous strength.

You old fool! he shouted. You moth-eaten monument of imbecility. You stand there and calmly You mummy! You dodderer! You !

If your lordship

What did you get out of it? What did they pay you? Eh? No? Youre too great a foolto be a knave. They twisted you round their fingers. They

If your lordship will allow me.

Well, go on. If you have anything to say which will make your bungling seem better say it. I shall be glad to listen. Pon my soul it will be worth hearing. Go on.

I acted for the best, your lordship.

You what?

Your lordship instructed me to use my discretion. Have I your lordships permissionto explain?

Lord Drexdale tugged at his grey beard. The action seemed to afford him a temporary relief. He nodded.

I delivered your lordships wishes to Master Lionel immediately upon my arrival. Master Lionel declined to express an opinion. He took me to the place where the young lady was performing, and I am bound to say, your lordship, that I was greatly struck by her command of her horse. After the performance, Master Lionel did me the honor of presenting me to her. I can assure your lordship that this younglady is most satisfactory in every respect. I feel confident that your lordshipwill have no reason to complain of the manner in which she fits her position.

Damn it, you talk as if you had been engaging a scullery-maid. Do you realize tha

t this bounding, bronco jumping female will be Lady Drexdale one day?

They are extremely fond of each other, your lordship. The young lady seems devote


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d to Master Lionel.

Devoted! A strand of the grey beard came away in Lord Drexdales hand.

She is an extremely sensible, good-hearted young lady, your lordship. She was opposed all the time to marrying Master Lionel without your lordships consent. She had even persuaded Master Lionel on this point.

But apparently they changed their minds.

I induced them to do so, your lordship.

What!

I induced them to do so.

Then then. His lordship stammered. Then it was you

Keeling bowed gravely; and the storm broke out again. It was generally conceded

at the castle that his lordship, when he started to deliver one of his militantharangues, did not leave out much. On this occasion he eclipsed himself. He rentKeeling. He savaged Keeling. He tore Keeling to shreds. The butler waited patiently for him to finish.

And you can get out of here tonight, concluded Lord Drexdale. I dont care if you hadbeen with us for half a century. Out you go. Thats all. Shut the door after you.

Am I to leave his lordships service?

You left it a minute ago. Get out.

The light of battle shone in the butlers eyes. The years rolled away from him. Hi

s voice shook.

Master Jack

LORD Drexdale started at the once familiar address. How many years had slipped by since Keeling had last called him Master Jack? And he looked just the same waynow as he had looked then. Something he could not say what kept Lord Drexdale silent at that moment; and the butler went on, his voice growing stronger and fiercer as he spoke.

Master Jack, listen to me. Its sixty years, just sixty years next October since Ientered the service of the Drexdales. I was a bit of a boy then, and I helped inthe stables. And my father, he was butler to his lordship your grandfather, he used to keep telling me how the Drexdales were the greatest family in England andhow, now I was in service at the castle, I must be a credit to them. He taughtme to look up to the Drexdale name as if it was own and be proud of their history and their future as if they belonged to me. And when he died, I took his place, his lordship your father was the earl then, Master Jack. He was a proper Drexdale! Hed ha cut his right hand off, he would, for the sake of the name. Then he died, and you became master of the castle. You! his voice rose higher. You dragged the name down, Master Jack! You filled the castle with men who werent fit to chopwood for its fires. Do you think I didnt feel it, seeing that scum sitting roundthe table and waiting on em? Waiting on em! Do you think I didnt feel it, reading o

f Lord Drexdale this and Lord Drexdale that in the papers and seeing the name dragged in the mud? And then, you marrying that cold, bloodless woman, caring forher no more than the name. And Master Lionel born, all delicate and all. And his


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lordship your father a man who could hunt all day and come in fresh as paint! Hestopped, shaking; then went on in a weaker voice. When Master Lionel showed me this girl hes married, I says to myself Youll do! I says it isnt rank the Drexdales want, nor is it money. Its health. Body and mind. Then maybe the next Drexdale willbe a Drexdale. Shes not one of your London society girls. Shes a woman, she is. Shes got blood in her, she has. She

His voice trailed away into a whisper. His hand went up to his throat. He turnedhalf round, groping for the door, and fell with a crash.

Lord Drexdale, gouty foot and all, flew from his chair and tugged at the bell.

THE concluding passage, the postscript as it were, to this episode in the history of the ancient family may be said to be dated at about five oclock on a springevening some eighteen months later, when Keeling, still butler to the Earl of Drexdale, might have been observed to toddle along the corridor and knock on the door of his lordships study. He knocked again. There was no answer. He went in.

Lord Drexdales back was turned to the door.

Shall I remove Master John, your lordship?

Lord Drexdale looked up.

Cant you see hes got hold of my finger? he said. Youre a perfect nuisance sometimes,eeling.

The butler inspected the infant gravely.

A fine boy, your lordship.

A sudden yell rent the air. The baby had taken a dislike to the pattern of the carpet. Keeling stooped and lifted the malcontent.

Those, said Lord Drexdale complacently, eyeing the roaring bundle in the butlers arms, are lungs. Keeling, you were right. The next Drexdale will be a Drexdale.

~~~ The End ~~~

PERSONAL DETAILS

BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

IN a second-hand bookshop the other day I came across a volume of articles and essays written by Israel Zangwill and published in the year 1896. The contents dealt with a variety of subjects, but treated chiefly of life as it strikes an author: and one of the essays was entitled The Penalties of Fame. It began as follows

:

There is one form of persecution to which celebrity or notoriety is subject,


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which Onida has omitted in her impassioned protest. (Apparently Onida had beenkicking about something.) It is interviewing carried one step further. The auto-interview, one might christen it, if the officiating purist would pass the hybrid name. You are asked to supply information about yourself by post. The ordinaryinterview, whatever may be said against it, is at least painless; and, annoyingas it is to after-reflection to have had your brain picked of its ideas by a stranger who gets paid for them, still the mechanical vexations of literature are

entirely taken over by the journalist who hangs on your lips. But when you are asked to contribute particulars about yourself to a newspaper, it is difficult, however equable your temperament, not to feel a modicum of irritation.

The emotion I, personally, feel in such circumstances is not irritation, but a sort of dazed helplessness. As far as any temptation to irritation goes, that isovercome by the implied compliment. To a retiring individual it is not unpleasant to be given the impression that a vast public is waiting eagerly for information about himself, his life story, and his personality. It is, at any rate, evidence that a certain number of people read his stuff. No, I am not annoyed, but Icertainly do feel embarrassed and rattled, as if I had been asked to recite GungaDin at the church sociable and had forgotten how it began. Or as if, in response

to calls of Author! on the night of the opening performance of a play, I had comebefore the curtain and when it was too late to withdraw, had found that I was expected to make a speech.

Two recent events, happening almost simultaneously, have given me this embarrassed and helpless feeling. I have just been interviewed, and the Strenuous Life Publishing Company of a certain western city has made a request for some picturesque personal details about me. This practically amounts to a Boom. Wodehouse stock is shooting up. Pelham is going to par. In a word, Great Necks favorite son hasbegun to make his presence felt.

All this is splendid. It makes me glow. I sing in my bath. But there is always acatch in these good things, and in my case it is the fact that, until this happ

ened, it had never even crossed my mind that I was about the dullest chunk of dough that ever went through life without doing a thing except eat and sleep and tremble at the sight of a job of work. These calls upon me to stand and deliver something personal and picturesque in my past, have revealed me to myself for what I am. Previously, I had always gone about under the impression that I was a pretty likely sort of individual, removed by many parasangs from the common herd or bourgeoisie. Even now I hate to believe that I am really as dull as I seem, and yet what other explanation is there of the fact that I have lived all these years without doing anything of the slightest interest to anybody?

The interview was the worst. The man got out his note-book and sharpened his pencil and moistened the point and looked at me with a bright, trusting look in hiseyes. This, he seemed to say, is going to be good. This will be something to tellthe boys at the corner drug-store. And he asked me about my career.

I let my mind wander back over the past. It was like taking a stroll through theMojave desert.

I came to America from England, I said at last, in 1904.

Yes? he said excitedly. And then?

Oh, then I went back again.

And when did you return to America?

In 1909.


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And what happened then?

I stayed there.

And that was all. There were other questions and other answers, but the answerswere all just as startling as the above, no more, no less. My interviewer went away with rather a wan expression on his face, murmuring something about writing

it all up as a personal feature story. Well, unless he puts a bit of jazz into it on his own account, it will read like a personal feature story of the wart-hogat the Bronx zoo. It looks to me as if the only man who could handle my life story right would be the author in George Ades fable who wrote The Simple Annals ofJohn Gardensass, in which the outstanding events were when John sold the cow and,later, sat on the fence and whittled.

Other authors are not like that. I know at least three who contributed their first story to a magazine from prison. The average author, as far as I can make out, is a fellow who ran away from home at the age of ten, sailed seven times roundthe world on a sailing-ship, did a bit of pearl-poaching, was a prominent figure in the Homestead Riots and the Spanish War, went on the stage, tramped for a f

ew years, and then, when he was good and ready, took his pen in hand and startedto turn out wholesome fiction for the young girl. There is something to a man like that. He stands out. You feel he has established his right to live. But as for mewell, the only interesting thing that ever happened to me was when I drank the liniment in the dark by mistake for the sherry.

There is nothing to catch hold of even in my methods of writing. Hobbes, who wrote The Leviathan, mused as he walked; and he had in the head of his cane a pen andink- horn. That would make a paragraph in any Sunday paper. Thackeray, when he got a good idea, would jump out of bed and run round and round his room, shouting.Balzac used to wander through the streets bareheaded, clad in a dressing-gown and slippers. I just curse a bit and sit down at the typewriter.

Now, what I am driving at is this. Unless something is done about it eftsoones or right speedily, my biography is going to be a washout of the worst description. And, of course, there will be a biography. Everybody has one nowadays. Every day, when you open the literary supplement of your paper, you see among Books Received the announcement of the publication of The Life and Letters of George W. Gubbs, or The Real Otis Boole, or Elmer Quackenboss Phipps as I Knew Him. Nobody has ever heard of these people before, and nobody wants to hear about them now, but the biographer has gone grimly about his work just the same. And the chances are that, if you go to the length of reading one of these volumes, you will find thatall Otis or George or Elmer did was to graduate at the Lemuel Sigsbee TechnicalUniversity of Southern Carolina and, in after years, to contribute to the papers of the Schenectady Mutual Improvement Association a pamphlet on Some Vagaries in the Fin Development of the Common Sardine.

So that one may be certain that, since these modest comforts are within the reach of all, I shall have my biography all right: and the thought makes me sorry for my biographer. He will begin, no doubt, by looking through such diaries as I have kept. For the chapter on Early Days he will consult the one I started as a boy, and will build up his chapter on such entries as the following:

Jan. 1. Have resolved to keep a diary and to set down every day all the important and interesting events which happen to myself and my friends. In this wayI shall have a complete record of my life. It will be interesting to read in after years and Uncle John says it will form a useful mental discipline. Wet day today. Nothing happened.

Jan. 2 Wet day. Nothing happened.Jan. 3 Still cloudy. Nothing happened.


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Jan. 4 Fine. Nothing happened.Aug. 9 Nothing happened.Nov. 8 Nothing happened.

That, except for an entry on December 4Met J. B. Asked him about T. It isnt true about D. W., is all he will have to go upon when writing up my life to the age of twenty-seven.

He will not even be able to pad the thing out with anecdotes. Most biographers,when their material runs thin, are able to carry on for a page or so with stories about the celebrities whom their hero met and the good things they said. We read, for instance, that Blank never wearied of telling the story of the Bishop ofToledo, under whose influence he came at this period and whose powerful personality exercised so marked an effect on his character at the most plastic stage ofhis life. The Bishop, it seems,then a young and nervous clergyman,was invited to breakfast by a high dignitary of the church. I am afraid, said his host, as the meal progressed, that your egg is bad. Oh, no, my lord, replied the future bishop withthe ingratiating smile that was to win him so many converts in his missionary work in the Far East, parts of it are excellent! This was always one of Blanks favori

te stories.

You can spin this sort of thing out for pagesbut not in my biography. None of thecelebrities I have met have ever said a good thing. As a matter of fact, celebrities have rather kept out of my wayI dont know why. I am perfectly ready to meetthem, but there seems to be no enthusiasm at their end.

Not only does nothing ever happen to me: it does not even happen to my animals.The cat that rouses the household during a fire in the night and saves nine, isnever my cat. The hen that kills garter-snakes in defense of its young is neverpart of the personnel of my poultry yard. Even the dog that goes mad and has tobe shot by a policeman has had its license paid by someone else. I seem to sheda miasma of dulness around me, which afflicts even the animal kingdom.

I dont want to seem to be complaining. After all, it is nobodys fault but my own.It was perfectly open to me to run away to sea if I had wanted to, and every state in the union maintains a police force that would have been charmed to insertme in the cooler had I shown any signs of meeting them half-way. I am not grumbling. I have set forth these personal defects of mine simply because I see a wayof remedying them. I am merely leading up to the suggestion that it would be anexcellent thing for myself and others in my position if someone were to start abureau for supplying incidents to uneventful lives. Chesterton had the right idea in his Club of Queer Trades. One of his stories, if you remember, dealt with the strange adventures of a certain Major Brown. The major, looking over his wallone day into the next garden, saw a man planting pansies to form the words Deathto Major Brown! Later, just outside his door, a manhole opened, a head emerged,and a sinister voice cried, Major Brown, how did the jackal die? Still later, in his own cellar, a massive brute grappled with him and nearly strangled him. Inquiries revealed the fact that the innocent major had been supplied with the adventures ordered by another man of the same name from a firm that supplied serial stories in real life to their clients.

There is surely an opening for such a firm outside fiction. Nobody wants his existence to be one long movie-serial, but still a touch of the stuff that made Pauline famous would help a lot. I dont want actually to be sitting in a room underwhich somebody has stored dynamite at the moment when the stuff is touched off,but I do feel it would give my biographer a better chance if someone would arrange that an explosion should happen just after I had gone out. Nothing could be s

impler for a properly organized firm than to supply material of this kind: and the moment has arrived for such a firm to come into being. Biographers need it.


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The incident-supplying firm would, of course, have to run an anecdotal department as a side-line, with which would be incorporated a department for supplying biographers with letters. The public that reads biographies insists upon plenty ofletters, and the average letter is so dull. You cannot hold your reader in these days of rush and hurry with a lot of letters like the strong one you wrote tothe grocer about the bacon, or the one in which you accepted the Joneses invitation to dinner and progressive whist.

Photographs, again. If there is one thing that is always demanded by people whowant to write stuff about you, it is a photograph: and the trouble about most authors is that nature never really intended them to be photographed. I am no Adonis myself, but you should see some of the others. During the recent actors strike, I attended meetings of playwrights, and was enabled to see these men of brainin the mass. An appalling sight! And yet every one of them was doubtless calledupon to supply his photograph to the papers several times a year. It is not fairto the writer or to the public. One of the principal departments of the bureauwhich I should like to see come into existence would be the one which looked after authors photographs. There would be on the staff a number of young and handsome men whose duty it would be to be photographed instead of their clients. When s

ome human gargoyle with a large head but an ingrowing face had put over a best seller, and the papers were clamoring for pictures of him, he would simply call up the bureau and put the matter in their hands. The consequences would be that,instead of wondering how on earth the picture of Amos, the educated ape from theHippodrome, had managed to get itself onto the Books and Headers page, you would see something that really looked like something.

The more I think of this bureau, the more clearly do I see that it must be founded, and founded quick. I need it in my business. In a day or two those StrenuousLife people will be growing impatient for the personal details of a picturesquenature, which they requested in such an optimistic spirit. I want about three good, snappy adventures for my early manhood, a couple of straight comic anecdotes, and something really interesting about what the Kaiser said to me in 1912.

Men who Missed their own Weddings by P G Wodehouse

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