UNAUTHENTIC IMPRESSIONS.
V.—The Sizzles.
I cannot help it, but this article has got to begin with a short historical disquisition. Many people are puzzled to know why Lord Hugh Cecil wears that worried look, and why Lord Robert also looks so sad. Yet the explanation is simple enough. It is because nobody can pronounce their surname. "Cessil," says the man in the street (and being in a street is a thing that may happen to anybody) as he sees the gaunt careworn figures going by. And when they hear it the sensitive ear of the Cecils is wrung with torture at the sound. They wince. They would like to buttonhole the man in the street and explain to him, like the Ancient Mariner, all about David Cyssell, the founder of their line. David Cyssell, it seems, though he didn't quite catch the Norman Conquest and missed the Crusades, and was a little bit late for the Wars of the Roses, was nicely in time to get a place in the train of Henry VIII., which was quite early enough for a young man who firmly intended to be an ancestor. When he died his last words were, "Rule England, my boys, but never never, never let the people call you 'Cessil,'" and his sons obeyed him dutifully by becoming Earls and Marquises and all that kind of thing, so that the trouble did not arise.
But, of course, if you don't happen to be the eldest son, the danger is still there. And it is this danger which has led Lord Hugh Cecil to withdraw himself more and more into the company of ecclesiastical dignitaries, who are accustomed to pronounce quite hard words, like chrysoprasus and Abednego without turning a hair, if they have one, and Lord Robert Cecil to confine his attention to the League of Nations, where all the people are foreigners and much too ignorant to pronounce any English name at all.
Personally I hold that, if it were not for this trouble about hearing their name said all wrong by people on omnibuses and even shouted all wrong by newspaper sellers, one of the Cecils might become Prime Minister some day. As it is they wear a look of sorrowful martyrdom, as if they were perfectly ready for the nearest stake; and this look, combined with their peculiar surname, has caused them to be not in-aptly known as The Sizzles. How very much better would it have been, my dear reader, if their great ancestor had been simply called "David," so that they could have had a sunny smile and not so many convictions.
It is customary in speaking of the Sizzles to include some mention of their more famous relative, Mr. Arthur Balfour. Very well, then.
Mr. Arthur Balfour.
Born in 1873 the future Vice-President of the Sheffield Chamber of Commerce, Master Cutler and Chairman of the High-Speed Alloys Company, Limited, Widnes——
[Editor. What the deuce are you talking about?
Author. I like that. It comes straight out of What's Which?
Editor. Well, you must have got the wrong page.
Author. Why, you don't mean to say there are two Arthur Balfours, do you?
Editor. I do.
Author. Aren't you thinking of the two Winston Churchills?
Editor. No, I'm not.
Author. Well, perhaps I'd better begin again.
Mr. Arthur Balfour.
Born, as one might say, with a silver niblick in his mouth and possessed of phenomenal intellectual attainments, Mr. Arthur Balfour (the one on the other page) was not long in settling down to his main life-work, which has been the laying out of University golf curricula.
[Is that better?—Editor. Much.]
In spite of this preoccupation he has found time for a remarkable number of hobbies, such as politics, music and the study of refrigerating machines, though the effect of all these various activities is sometimes a little confusing for those with whom he works. When consulted on a burning topic of the hour he may, for instance, be on the point of inventing a new type of ice-bucket, so that the interviewer is forced to go out quickly and fetch his fur overcoat before he can talk in comfort. Or he may be playing, like Sherlock Holmes, on his violin, and say, "Just wait till I've finished this sonata." And by the time it's finished the bother about Persia or Free Trade is quite forgotten. Or, again, Mr. Balfour may be closeted with Professor Vardon, Doctor Ray or Vice-Chancellor Mitchell at the very moment when the Nicaraguan envoy is clamouring at the door.
It is for this reason that Mr. Arthur Balfour has sometimes been called Mr. Arthur Baffler. Puzzling, however, though he may be in many of his political manifestations, his writings are like a beacon in the gloom, and some day these simple chatty little booklets will surely gain the wide public which they deserve. "The Foundation of Bunkers," "A Defence of Philosophic Divots" and "Wood-wind and Brassies" should be read by all who are interested in belles lettres. And his latest volume of essays deals, I believe, with subjects so widely diverse and yet so enthralling as "Booty and the Criticism of Booty," "Trotsky's View of Russian World Policy," "Quizzical Research" and "The Freedom of the Tees."
The real pity is that with all his many and wonderful gifts Mr. Arthur Balfour has never felt the fiery enthusiasm of his Hatfield cousins. He remains, in fact, a salamander among the Sizzles.
K.
Retired Dealer in Pork. "How much do you want for it?"
Artist. "Fifty pounds."
Retired Dealer. "Right-o. Now could you do one of me in a reclining position, to match?"