PASSION AND POETRY.
Sir W. V. H-rc-rt (on Opposition Bench). "How hot and uncomfortable they must be over there! So crowded!"
AN EYE TO EFFECT.
Little Dives. "Oh, by the way, Belairs—awfully sorry to cut you out, you know—but I've just proposed to Lady Barbara, and she's accepted me, and we're to be married in September. And look here, Old Chappie; I want you to be my Best Man. I want to make a good Show at the Altar, you know!"
I was immensely struck, a few days ago, by a passage in a speech recently delivered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which he explained his method of dispelling those passing fits of ill-temper from which, alas! not even Archbishops are wholly free. "At times," so ran the report of His Grace's words, "anger or irritation came upon him, but on the table he kept a book of pleasant poems, of which he would read a few lines, and the irritation would melt away." Immediately I determined to follow this noble example. It was unfortunate that the "book of pleasant poems" was not described more specifically—could it be the verses of Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson?—but I bought a pocket volume of Selections from the Great Poets, which contained enough variety to suit every case, and then looked out for an opportunity of trying the Archbishop's plan.
I had not long to wait. That very evening I came across my uncle Robert at Clapham Junction, in a furious rage at having just missed the last train to Slowborough, where he lives. At once I produced my volume, and in slow and emphatic accents I read aloud some three or four hundred lines from "Paradise Lost." I was about to add one or two of Wordsworth's sonnets, when I realised that my uncle had long since disappeared, and that I was surrounded by a jeering crowd, who evidently supposed me to be a member of the Salvation Army.
On the following morning I received a visit from Snips, my tailor. He was impolite enough to suggest a settlement of what he termed my "small account," a demand, as I politely but plainly assured him, which was altogether absurd. As he showed distinct symptoms of irritation at this juncture, I began to read him a scene from Measure for Measure. Strangely enough, this seemed only to irritate him further, and I understand that he intends to take proceedings against me in the County Court. This second unaccountable failure of the Archbishop's remedy greatly surprised and pained me, but I decided to give it another trial.
This morning I was playing golf with my friend Macfoozle. At no time a skilful golfer, Macfoozle's form to-day was worse than ever; whenever he made a bad stroke—and he seldom made a good one—he indulged in the most violent language. Fortunately my volume of poetry was in my pocket. When he completely missed his drive at the second hole, I read him Coleridge's Dejection. When he broke his mashie at the fourth, I treated him with copious selections from In Memoriam. Finally, he got badly bunkered while playing to the fourteenth hole. For some ten minutes he smote furiously with his niblick, only raising prodigious clouds of sand as the result of his efforts. This was clearly a golden opportunity for the Archbishop's cure, "anger and irritation" but faintly represented Macfoozle's rage. Seating myself on the edge of the bunker, I began to read aloud The Ring and the Book with the utmost pathos. Over what followed I prefer to draw a veil. It is enough to say that a niblick is a very effective weapon, and that I write these lines in bed.