Chapter III (5)

Complaints are rife and bitter concerning the tough, indigestible, and injurious mixture permitted to the taxpaying public as “war bread.” General condemnation of Government flour has been expressed at a meeting of the London Master Bakers’ Protection Society, where a resolution was passed asking for an interview with the Prime Minister to point out the “ineptitude” of the Ministry of Food. Thousands of us are of the same mind with the Master Bakers! Thousands of us affirm the “ineptitude” of which they speak. Thousands of us know that a more lamentable display of ignorance concerning the “things that matter” could hardly be seen between now and the next world. Furthermore, the Master Bakers (God bless them!) have actually declared that if the Bread Order is not revoked or amended they, to safeguard the health of consumers, will be compelled to take “drastic action.” Well done, Master Bakers! The sooner this drastic action is effected the better for many ailing, suffering human creatures. The faddists and health specialists may talk as they will, nothing can satisfy the appetite or suit the palate of the average man and woman so well and so safely as bread made with _pure white flour_. The raw germ of wheat, though in a sense nutritious, exercises a “very deleterious effect,” so say the bakers, on the colour and keeping qualities of the loaf. In many cases “war bread” causes internal hæmorrhage, to say nothing of fermentative dyspepsia and severe inflammation of the delicate coating of one’s interior mechanism, and it would be easy to compile a volume of statistics proving the poisonous effect produced by this coarse stuff on our soldiers in hospital who are slowly recovering from gunshot wounds or shell shock, and who are peculiarly sensitive to the quality of their food. The distinguished muddlers who are muddling with the grain and the “milling” thereof, seem to judge the fine and complex human organism as somewhat tougher than shoe-leather and less liable to injury than pig-iron. But they are not the first of their class by any means! There were muddlers before them, as senseless, as callous, and as deaf to reason as they--men who, like themselves, were “dressed in a little brief authority” during that terrific upheaval of which the very name is ominous--the great French Revolution. Here is what Carlyle writes of the bread trouble in those days:--

“Complaints there are that the food is spoiled and produces an effect on the intestines, as well as ‘a smarting in the thoat and palate,’ which a municipal proclamation warns you to disregard or even to consider as drastic--beneficial! But ... the Mayor of Saint Denis, so black was his bread, has, by a dyspeptic populace, been hanged on ‘La Lanterne’ there!”

“La Lanterne” is not a pleasant theme to dwell upon, and we may be deeply thankful that we have something nowadays less ferocious than such a form of settling disputes between the people and their rulers--the great trade unions and protection societies, consolidated bodies of reasoning and reasonable men, who can, when necessity calls, take concerted action against Sentimental Cant and wilful Ignorance. For, to quote Carlyle again, “Is not Cant the _materia prima_ of the Devil, from which all falsehoods, imbecilities, and abnominations body themselves, from which no true thing _can_ come?” And are not the Master Bakers, as well as the Seamen’s and Firemen’s Union, conscious of this Cant somewhere? Whether in pacifism or food-controlling, matters little, so long as they can put an exterminating finger on the spot!

Ours is a land of cranks; we produce cranks as quickly as untended grass grows plantains. We have peace cranks, food cranks, health cranks; and, without doubt, plenty of these will dash wildly into the open with hysterical hymns of praise for the utterly detestable “war bread,” more vigorously possibly when they think their fellow-creatures are being made ill by it. But “let ’em gnash as can,” as the toothless old dame blandly observed after hearing a sermon on hell where “there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Happily deprived of all ability to “gnash,” hell offered no alarms for her. Similarly, those whose powers of digestion cannot tolerate “war bread” will support the screams of whole-meal faddists with equanimity, saying, “Let ’em masticate as can.” If “whole-meal” gives strength and sustenance with hæmorrhage, most of us will prefer to be a little less strong and well-nourished, without internal bleedings. The complaints of the bread sold in Paris during the fateful months preceding the French Revolution are precisely the same as now; but, whatever the rising tide of discontent may be, we have bulwarks against it in our own people’s organisations, which bind the members of every trade together against any possible injustice or tyranny. This Empire has cause to be thankful for its vast network of trade unions; they are in very truth a governing body whose weight and importance cannot be over-estimated. And so it may be that the Master Bakers will be the saviours of the country’s health, despite Food Controllers and their ideas of “milling.” We are losing enough life, Heaven knows, on the fields of battle; we do not want illness and the spread of disease at home. We can be sparing and careful of grain and precious with our “white flour,” but we need not debilitate or poison our people with food which they cannot digest or which in any way proves injurious to women and children. Waste is encouraged by the making of bread which the people dislike. They would rather throw it away than suffer illness--which is very natural. The Food Controller is safe from “La Lanterne” in these days; but everybody will be glad if the London Master Bakers’ Society will take the matter well in hand and see to it that we need not “live on the husks which the swine did eat.” The country will not starve because we prefer to be well on white flour rather than dyspeptic on brown!

“SHODDY CHIVALRY”

A NAVAL CHADBAND

(_Published in the “Pall-Mall Gazette”_)

So now we know! No longer need we denounce the “submarine menace”; no longer need we (as the German Press suggests) “grow pallid with fear,” for we are in “brave and gallant hands!” “Brave and gallant” are the noble creatures who sink hospital ships; “brave and gallant” are the sharers of dividends in the corpse-fat factory; “brave and gallant” are the raiders who sought to intercept the Prime Minister on his way back from France across Channel in order to make short work of him and his escort--“brave and gallant” are they all! Our own Vice-Admiral at Dover implied as much when, with all the unctuousness of Dickens’s immortal Mr. Chadband, he laid a wreath of flowers on the coffin of one of the Hun raiders with the inscription: “To a brave and gallant enemy!” He spared no wreath and offered no tribute to any of the dead among our own bluejackets, whose “brave and gallant” conduct had succeeded in beating off and sinking the enemy’s ships; they were “only” British sailors. But for the dead Huns, this British Vice-Admiral publicly displayed the tenderness of a twin brother. One wonders what Nelson would have said to such an action? How does it accord with the Defence of the Realm? One can imagine the noble dust of the victor of Trafalgar stirring for very shame at such a lack of dignity at the very time when British ships are being wickedly sunk and British lives wickedly lost by the nefarious “brave and gallant” brutality of an enemy with whom honour is a mere straw. It may perhaps be easier now to understand the rumours that these “brave and gallant” Huns are allowed to work with our men in British docks, where they watch our ships loaded with millions of munitions, and count up our troops leaving for the front, and then, without doubt, communicate with their kinsmen of the submarines, letting them know the hour and moment of departure! No wonder that our ships are sunk! Such methods prepare the way for their sinking. No action is taken by the authorities to put a stop to the inroad of German labour in the docks alongside of the British--a state of things which, on the face of it, invites and encourages spying and treachery. Such scandals are “an offence that’s rank, And smells to Heaven”; and the powers in office who allow them to go on without check are nearly as guilty of the loss of torpedoed ships and lives as the Huns themselves. And when a British Vice-Admiral sets the hall-mark of “brave and gallant” on even a dead specimen of the most treacherous, inhuman, and barbaric foe his country has ever had to contend with, we can hardly wonder at anything except the amazing excess of patience, wellnigh lethargy, with which the British people tolerate such an exhibition of Chadbandism in the Navy. One is thankful for the plain speaking of Admiral Lord Charles Beresford, who, in the House of Lords, designated this action as one of “maudlin sentimentality and shoddy chivalry.” There spoke the sturdy seaman and loyal Britisher, untainted by the pro-German measles, which infect only the degenerates of our race. The Vice-Admiral at Dover, by his openly displayed admiration for the Hun, would seem to wish us to understand that he is something neither British nor of the sea--“neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring.” We can almost hear him soliloquising over the flower-strewn coffin of the “brave and gallant” Hun: “My friend, you are to me a pearl, you are to me a diamond, you are to me a gem, you are to me a jewel! And why, my friend? Are you a beast of the field? No. A bird of the air? No. A fish of the sea or river? No. You are a Hun, my friend! You are much worse than any beast of the field; more voracious than any bird of the air; more slippery than any fish of the sea or river! Oh, how glorious to be a Hun! And if I went forth as far as the Southampton Docks and there saw a ‘brave and gallant’ fellow-countryman of yours taking stock of troops and munitions, and I was to come back and call unto me Sir Edward Carson and say unto him, ‘Lo the docks are barred against Huns,’ would that be terewth?”

No; it would not be “terewth”--unless, as the original Chadband propounded, such terewth, or truth, were another form of deception. Until we have loyal men “above suspicion” in authority at home we shall never satisfy our Allies abroad. America will be unable to understand a British Vice-Admiral laying flowers on the coffin of an enemy whose intent was, without doubt, to sink and slay a valuable life on which much of Britain’s welfare depends, any more than she will understand the collection of a large sum of money for the assistance of Germans in England (more than £17,000) to which liberal subscriptions have been made by two German members of the Privy Council. As Mark Twain observed during his tour in Palestine, “Blessed if I believe a turtle can sing!”

“HINDENBURG’S EYE!”

THE BABIES’ BOGEY

(_Published in the “Pall-Mall Gazette”_)

There are several objections raised to the merry-go-round “National Service” whirl devised by Mr. Neville Chamberlain. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown” nowadays, even if it only be the crown of a temporary Director of Service or of Food Production. Even Lord Devonport comes in for his share of contumely, especially since he assumed that a 5-oz. chop was sufficient for a busy City man’s luncheon. Lord Devonport has evidently never tried his hand at cooking, and is blissfully unaware how soon 5 oz. may be reduced to 3 oz. on the fiery grill! The public resent this ignorance; but nothing excites their indignation more than the blatant, vulgar, and positively offensive advertisements which have been spread broadcast to call them forth to voluntary enrolment. Whoever it may be that is the inventor, designer, or word-weaver of these newspaper roarers, he serves his country ill, and is guilty of the worst possible taste. Instead of a dignified, effective appeal to Labour, these wretched advertisements are mere gibes and insults flung in the face of a brave, patiently enduring people, whose homes have, in many thousands of cases, been invaded by Death, and whose hearts are wrung by sudden and bitter bereavements, none the less hard to bear because borne with such noble and uncomplaining fortitude.

“Are You Fiddling While Rome Burns?” asks one of these idiotic newspaper Fat Letters, a question met with the silent scorn of many tired eyes grown dim with weeping, or strained and anxious with watching and waiting for the beloved ones who may never return. Is it impossible to expect from these Government Press agents (if they are Government Press agents) a little thought for the people they seek to attract, a little decency and respect? At present their loud, even coarse, advertisements represent--

“The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes.”

The last form of their coster-like shouting is perhaps the worst.

“HINDENBURG’S EYE IS UPON YOU!”

Now, what in the name of all that is British, do we care about “Hindenburg’s Eye”? Are we a whimpering troop of babies to be frighted with the eye of a Hun? or to be told “Hush-oh! Mind its little P’s and Q’s! Go and do its little National Service properly, or ‘Hindenburg’s eye’ will be on you!” Was ever such arrant, open, disgraceful nonsense! What have we to do with “Hindenburg’s eye,” except bomb it out if we can? What terrors can it have for us? Does it roll or squint, blink or wink? Nobody cares, but if it is to be “on” anywhere, it had better be fixed to Berlin! It’s an old eye and a filmy one--probably, as Hamlet pointedly remarked, “purging thick amber and plumtree gum”--it’s a false eye and a brutal one, but just now it has enough to do to see its own surroundings without dropping out of its socket. The tactless, witless individual who dares to write and circulate would-be “scare” lines about this bloodthirsty old eye being “on” the brave men and women of Britain, watching (as if such a brute had authority to watch!) to see how many of them work (and weep!) willingly enough in their country’s service, should be at once convinced of his unfortunate lack of intelligence and discernment. Any one with the smallest spark of imagination must almost see and hear the loud German guffaw of mockery and delight at this fool’s placard for the British:--

“HINDENBURG HAS HIS EYE UPON YOU!”

“Ha, ha! Dot is goot!” says Hans to Fritz. “Unser Hindenburg! Dot is fright for Gott strafe England!--and de English _demselves_ say it!”

Weird inventor of megaphone press-roarings, whoever you are, don’t do it! You may be a Bernard Shaw in the bud for all we know, but we have enough already of the perfect flower. National Service demands your brilliancy elsewhere. Offer yourself as a substitute for the bootblack who may be glad to go “on the land.” The Cause is injured by these unwarrantable music-hall methods. Call up the people with a friend’s cheerful and inspiring voice--a silver trumpet-blast if you will--but not with a donkey’s bray!

(_The above little article had the fortunate effect of causing
several of these placards, so offensive to the British spirit, to
be removed._)

“HOARDING”

A MODERN SETTING OF AN OLD PLAY AND A LITTLE STORY OF THE Y.M.C.A.

“_Man, proud man,
Dress’d in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,
His ghostly essence like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep!_”
_Measure for Measure._

Nothing in all the various confused and contradictory orders issued by the capricious and neurotic “Dora” gave such unalloyed festive delight as the edict against “hoarding.” It opened the door to all the little spies and scandal-mongers of every neighbourhood, especially to the provincial types of these gentry, who are always of a more inquisitive and slanderous disposition than the same class found in large cities, for the reason that they have little other excitement beyond the gratifying stimulus of inquiring into their neighbours’ affairs and meddling with them if they can. The “Hoarding” order suited them down to the ground and set them all on the alert, peering into windows and peeping through open doors--following their “dear friends” into shops and taking eager notes of their purchases, till every eye grew hard and sharp as a gimlet, and every nose as pointed as the beak of a crow. It was astonishing and amusing to watch the alteration for the worse in the looks of men and women during this period; the theory of “psycho-suggestion” was amply verified in the visible fact that people who were previously open-faced and good-natured were almost unrecognisable in the sudden “squeezing-in” of their features to the ugly furrows of suspicion and meanness.

“Some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them,” says the sapient Malvolio; and I frankly admit that I felt myself to be entirely in the latter category when I became a sort of modern heroine in a new version of _Much Ado About Nothing_, in the precincts of Stratford-on-Avon itself, under the sacred ægis of the Immortal Bard. A real stage was set for me, with the real “city officers Dogberry and Verges”--in fact “the whole dissembly appeared.” I was summoned for “hoarding” sugar. In plain truth I have never “hoarded” anything--not even money, as the town of Stratford-on-Avon has sufficient reason to know. I have never even had the careful housekeeper’s habit of a “store-cupboard”--my house being destitute of such lock-up conveniences, wherefore we have found it best always to order what is wanted from week to week, paying for it likewise from week to week and incurring no debts. In the affair of the sugar I could not procure enough to obey the commands set upon me by the Food Production and other Government Departments. Correspondence with Mr. Prothero had impressed upon me that there was a shortage of all foodstuffs, especially butter, and it was represented to me that every householder growing their own fruit should make as much jam as possible to replace the butter. That year (1917) was a wonderful fruit year; in my own garden, not an “orchard” by any means or abundantly stocked, there was gathered nearly a thousand pounds dead-weight of fruit. Some of it we sold--much of it we gave away--the rest had either to be wasted or preserved. “Shortage of foodstuffs” necessitated its preservation. Our local surveyor, though obliging, could not supply his customers with enough sugar to go round. The “Hoarding Act” distinctly stated that the order did not apply itself to “sugar obtained for the preservation of homegrown produce”--so I appealed to my old friend, Sir Thomas Lipton, not only because he was a friend, but because he was a grocer, and as such, would be sure to know what quantity of sugar he might or might not sell to any customer. But----! Here comes in another story!

A short time previous to the Sugar-Comedy of “Much Ado,” I had been approached by two gentlemen from Birmingham on behalf of the Y.M.C.A. and Sir Arthur Yapp (then Director of Food Economy) to help the Society by a subscription. I gave a hundred pounds; and a generous friend of mine, on hearing what I had subscribed, gave another hundred. In the warmth of this success I wrote to Sir Thomas Lipton and asked him boldly for another hundred. I received a truly heart-rending reply to the effect that he was a “poor man,” and “could not afford so large a sum,” but that if I had asked him for ten or fifteen pounds he would have gladly subscribed. I at once seized the opportunity and begged him to send the fifteen. He did so, and I wrote my acknowledgments, assuring him that when he went to heaven that Fifteen Pounds given to the Y.M.C.A. would be an extra feather in his Angel-Wing! (I do hope he will one day show that letter to Sir Arthur Yapp!) Then, feeling I had not yet done enough for the Y.M.C.A. Huts, I agreed that the Cinema company, then running some stories of mine on the “film,” should give a few “shows” of them in Stratford for the sole benefit of the Y.M.C.A., and I am glad to say that they drew packed houses and brought a substantial result. For this and such assistance as I had freely given to help on the good cause I had a note from Sir Arthur Yapp expressing his “most grateful thanks.” And now we can _revenons à nos moutons_--that is to say, I can return to the Sugar version of “Much Ado”--but I would earnestly request my readers to “mark, learn, and inwardly digest” what we may call “The Y.M.C.A.-Yapp Interlude.”

As I have already stated, I could not get sufficient sugar from the local grocer to preserve the fruit in hand, and as fruit is perishable, and there was no time to be lost, I rang up Sir Thomas Lipton on the telephone and asked him what he could do for me. The familiar “Glasgie” accent came harmoniously along the wire--“Ye’ll never want for sugar so long as Tom Lipton’s on the ‘phone!”

So it was settled. I and my friend (a lady who has been my companion throughout my life since my childhood, and who has generously and kindly undertaken all my household cares) set happily to work to preserve our fruit; whole in jars where we could do so, but made into jam for the most part. I would here remark, with all diffidence, that I do not revel in jam myself; but I like having it for others--such as schoolboys, for instance, before whom whole pots vanish like snow in the sun when they come to tea with me, bless their frank appetites! We had nearly completed our labours, all except the transmutation of apples into jelly and “apple cheese” (the best possible substitute for butter), when one afternoon, while I was out, a police constable called and said he must search the house for “hoards.” He brought no authority, but stated that if he were refused he would procure a search warrant. My friend, who received the intruder, was naturally rather surprised, but having nothing to hide she cordially invited the official to go all over the house wherever he would. Accordingly he tramped into the dining-room, opened cupboards and drawers, even peering into an unobtrusive little tea-caddy, and went down into the cellar and inspected the larder. He found nothing but a large flour-bin, into which for convenience had been put fifteen pounds of sugar (duly weighed) left for use with the apples yet to be preserved. While he was still on the prowl, I returned home, and though I am never much taken aback at anything Stratford-on-Avon “authorities” do, I was, I think, justifiably annoyed at having my private rooms searched on such a ridiculous charge of which I was absolutely guiltless. Moreover, the “hofficer” who had thus broken into my house without warning, was a man who had often had supper in our kitchen with beer _galore_, which he had greatly relished--while another detail of the matter was that for some years, since the intrusion of an unhappy lunatic-tramp into my garden, the police had been given by myself a private key to the premises, so that they could enter at any time. Therefore, if they had sought to keep me under “observation” there was nothing to hinder their surveillance, which indeed I had personally requested and was grateful for. But--as the official informed me the “hoarding” accusation came “from London”--“on account of Sir Thomas Lipton.” This rather amazed me, and for a moment I thought it must be that “feather in the Angel-Wing”! My doubts were soon set at rest by a visit from my solicitor who told me Sir Thomas was “much distressed and could not sleep” for thinking about the threatened trouble. Some one at certain Stratford-on-Avon Stores had noted the arrival at the railway station of the Lipton supplies of sugar--quite openly sent, and openly marked “Sugar,” for we were under the impression that all was in due observance of the Food Production rules, and that there was nothing to hide or to “hoard.” Naturally I wrote at once to the Lipton office requesting these supplies to be stopped, without, however, at once succeeding, as, notwithstanding my expressed desire, a fresh package was transmitted, which I promptly returned. I then wrote to Sir Arthur Yapp, feeling quite sure that his recent experience of my conduct in respect to the Y.M.C.A. would convince him that there was some “official blundering” (to quote a press term) in the absurd notion that I, whose work throughout the war had been to help, not to hinder all patriotic aims, could possibly sink to the “hoarding” level. I had written to him long before, pleading that the poor working women should not be compelled to stand in “queues,” waiting to get food for themselves and their children, on which subject he wrote me the following letter:--

“December 17, 1917.

“DEAR MISS CORELLI,--Thank you very much indeed for your further
letter and enclosure, and I hope to be able to arrange for the
workers to get things for their children. All the points you
mention shall receive careful attention and I am consulting some
of my colleagues forthwith. Again thanking you,

“Yours faithfully,
“A. K. YAPP,
“_Director of Food Economy_.”

This does not look as if I had sought to “rob the poor by hoarding,” as one accuser in the “gutter” press made out later on! When I wrote, explaining the position which had so wrongfully arisen, Sir Arthur wrote regretting it and saying: “I will make all inquiries and am more than sorry you should be worried.”

However, the “case” instigated “from London,” went on remorselessly and I asserted my innocence in vain. A second appeal to Sir Arthur Yapp, strengthened by a personal visit to him from my solicitor who urgently pointed out the absurdity of the “hoarding” charge in my regard, brought the following:--

“NATIONAL COUNCIL, Y.M.C.A.
December 26, 1917.

“DEAR MISS CORELLI,--Thanks for your letters. I was glad to see
your solicitor, but am not sure that I can help you. I will gladly
do so if I can. Unfortunately all the people are away for a few
days. I will try to get in touch with the Chairman of the Sugar
Commission to-morrow, Friday or Saturday. I will write again. I am
so sorry you are having this worry. In haste,

“Yours sincerely,
”A. K. YAPP.”

Nevertheless, with all this amiable “Yapp-ing” he did _not_ “get in touch” with the Chairman of the Sugar Commission, then Sir Charles Bathurst, who wrote himself and told me he had never heard a word of the affair till he saw it in the newspapers. On this point my solicitor wrote as follows: “I am glad to hear that you have a letter from Sir Charles Bathurst, expressing sympathy. I cannot, however, overlook the fact that whereas Sir Arthur Yapp had no power apart from Sir Charles to take cognisance of facts which I brought to his notice with a view to stopping an unjustifiable prosecution calculated to do you an injury, Sir Charles Bathurst had ample power and did not exercise it, although approached by Sir Arthur Yapp. I do not think the Food Control Department even troubled to send the case to their counsel, but merely seized the opportunity to accept a statement which was not in conformity with the evidence, was a violation of the highest principles of justice, and a slur upon the summary jurisdiction of the land.”

And so the case went on. Yapp meantime addressed a crowd on Tower Hill and assured them “Marie Corelli’s sugar had been taken from her”--which was a flaring fiction as there was no excess of sugar to take. He failed to mention that the victim he thus pilloried had given far more than the sugar’s worth to the Y.M.C.A., of which he posed as the pious and conscientious Head! But “that’s another story”! He felt perfectly justified, however, in handing over my personal letters to him (marked “Private”) to a Mr. Wise, his secretary, I believe, whom my solicitor found reading them to his lady clerks by way of a little entertainment--and so altogether I rank Sir Arthur Yapp with Shakespeare’s Brutus, and here express my profound acknowledgments.

On the 2nd of January, 1918, the case for my “hoarding” was tried by the eminent “bench” of Stratford-on-Avon. My servants were subpœnaed--they sat patiently in court, but nobody asked them a single question! A legal representative of Sir Thomas Lipton’s, glib as Sergeant Buzfuz, managed things for his principal in such a way as to leave Sir Thomas scot-free, though in other similar cases the supplier was fined in the same sum as the supplied. I was not in court. My friend, who has all the responsibility of housekeeping, went into the witness-box and answered all questions plainly and honestly--but plainness and honesty do not count for much in law. The point which Dogberry and Verges adhered to was that they did not believe we had used the sugar for jam! Was ever anything more absurdly humorous! We were ready and willing to make public exhibition of the jam; we offered those amazing “city officers” free permission to inspect it--but _they would not_! They preferred to doubt the word of a lady through whose hands many hundreds of pounds had been spent in the town and whose well-known straightforward character makes her incapable of truckling to falsehood or hypocrisy. I must not forget to mention that the worthy Dogberrys had been much bamboozled by the constant delivery of large wooden boxes at my house labelled “Maypole Tea,” “Tate’s Sugar,” “Nestle’s Milk,” etc., etc.; it looked very like “hoarding,” surely? A constable followed the packages up through an open passage leading to out-houses, and there to his immense chagrin discovered that these cases contained nothing but material for electric-wiring and lighting, sent by Messrs. Tredegars of Brook Street, who had undertaken the installation of the electric light in my house. They were compelled to pack their goods in any boxes they could secure, there being a “shortage” in packing-cases as in everything else, and when the “hoarding” trial came on, the director of the firm offered most kindly and courteously to attend the court and explain the share his boxes had in the silly accusation. But there was no need; Dogberry and Verges had already made up their minds. My chief assailants were the Superintendent of Police in Stratford and the Town Clerk--and after the case was over and they had “convicted” me of what I had never committed (though the “bench” disagreed among themselves), all the clues were placed in my hands in such a remarkable way as would remind one of Sherlock Holmes if there were time or space to tell it! Perhaps the following sentence from a legal document may put the matter clearly:--

“The root of the whole evil is your local bench, and bias is self-evident by the action of the Acting Clerk, _when he withheld information from us as to the findings of the Justices until after the time to appeal to Quarter Sessions had elapsed_.”

I have often wondered why this malignity? Why, too, on the part of the “Acting Clerk,” whom I have always beheld with respectful admiration in his curly white wig marching in the Shakespeare Sunday or Mayoral processions to Church? He is my beau-ideal of a cultured Dogberry--his very look and movement express--“I am a wise fellow; and which is more an officer; and which is more a householder; and which is more as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina (Stratford) and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him! O that I had been writ down----” No--I will not finish the quotation; suffice it to say that I have never intentionally or to my knowledge caused offence to this excellent man. But both Church and State were in the persecution of my quite innocent personality; two dismissed outdoor employés of my own first started the mischief, and as one had found a temporary job on the local “food control,” it was easy to trace the work of hands guided by personal spite and desire to give me trouble. Afraid to start the accusation in Stratford itself, they quite ingenuously managed to transfer it through a mutual friend to London, from whence the “summons” was “arranged” to come--and since then, having found out the whole petty plot, I have been full of amused compassion for the miserable plotters. They must surely feel that the game was hardly worth the candle! Of course, press-reporters rushed down like hounds in full cry directly they scented possible injury to me--they would never have troubled themselves to note anything I did of good--but anything that savoured of meanness and disloyalty on my part was “nuts” to them! As they never saw me, and I made no appearance in court, these poor untidy pressmen were reduced to their usual fictions, and wired all over the world that I had “made a scene in court,” “attacked Lloyd George,” etc., etc.! (And yet, just before this comedy started, and â propos of sugar, I had sent Miss Megan Lloyd George some chocolate “eclairs” made at home, with which this charming little friend of mine was much delighted!) Yes--these chivalrous press-men labelled me from England to furthest Ind as a hoarder and hypocrite and I was left without remedy. I was assailed by the lowest anonymous letters and post cards; of course one knows how to take such off-scourings of depraved human minds, as no one but a villain, male or female, would write an anonymous letter. But with all the pain I felt at the misjudgment, amounting almost to cruelty, of the press, which deliberately did its best to injure me with my reading public, I had my compensations. I had hundreds of letters from our men at the front indignantly protesting against the wrong done to me--and a wonderful document signed by the officers and men of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada came to hearten me up by its generous testimony as follows:--

“We, the undersigned Officers, Non-Commissioned Officers, and Men
of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada desire to take this
opportunity of expressing to you our gratitude for the many acts of
kindness and hospitality that you have shown to the members of the
Canadian Forces since they arrived in this country.

“We also wish to express to you our sympathies in the recent cruel
and unjust charge of ‘hoarding’ which was brought against you, and
we feel sure that when the true facts are brought to the knowledge
of the public they will realise that the spirit of patriotism you
have shown throughout the war, and the generosity with which you
have contributed articles to the various periodicals published for
the benefit of the troops do not coincide with the possibility of
any contravention of war measures.

“We also wish to add the expression of our admiration for the
pre-eminent position you have attained in the world of literature
and art, and to assure you that none appreciate your works more
than the people of Canada.

“We trust that this assurance of our admiration for your genius,
and our sympathy in the worry to which you have been so unjustly
subjected, will prove to you that we are not unmindful of the
kindness and warm interest you have invariably shown towards
Canadian soldiers.

“We beg to remain,
”Sincerely yours,”

Here followed a long list of officers’ and men’s names; the kind and generous testimonial of their friendship was dated from Bramshott Camp, Hants, April 16th, 1918.

I make no comment on this most valued “vote of confidence” voluntarily given by brave and chivalrous men. I publish it just as it is--one of my most precious possessions. I can endure even dear Dogberry’s malice with such a battalion of fighting friends!

One other thing may be mentioned as showing the curious cross-purposes of the Stratford-on-Avon “justices” in the prosecution against me, and that is the letter written to me by the Deputy-Mayor on the eve of the trial--thus:--

“December 31, 1917.

“DEAR MISS CORELLI,--Allow me to offer you my sincere wishes
that the year 1918 may prove to you and yours one of unalloyed
happiness. In these days such a wish may seem impossible of
achievement. Amidst the strife of nations and the world-wide clash
of arms there must be anxiety and care for all who love their
country, and the ‘petty pin-pricks’ which come to all who try to
do their duty will no doubt try the temper and patience; but amidst
all life’s worries the consciousness of duty done, of love for
others, and the desire to do always what is right will bring _you_
that real peace and happiness which the world cannot give. That you
may have this in 1918 and the years to follow is my earnest wish.
With kind regards,

“Yours sincerely,
“FRED WINTER.”

So was the “Winter of my discontent” moved to try making a bit of “glorious summer” on the eve of the “Hoarding” case! I was grateful, of course--and I did not allow myself to dwell on the thought that perhaps, only perhaps, he was thus moved because long before the “hoarding” case, my “hoarding” tendencies had prominently displayed themselves in agreeing to pay £60 towards the restoration of his ancient house in the High Street, a sum which no one else volunteered! I did it for love and honour of the town’s antique beauty--not for any self-laudation or advantage; and I am glad to have been of some use in this direction. It is a quaint coincidence that this same Deputy-Mayor, when I previously aided the restoration of the now famous “Tudor” House opposite the Town Hall, accused me in the local press of doing it for “self-advertisement.” I am sure he must regret this temporary misjudgment now that his own house shows its Henry VIIth timbers to the light of day.

Briefly to sum up, I am and always have been absolutely guiltless of “hoarding” anything. I would rather give than receive, and am quite an adept at “doing without.” And if I may presume to quote finally from the original _Much Ado About Nothing_ I can say that while I am perfectly aware of the local “Conrade” and “Borachio” who vented their spite against me, I think there are many now in Stratford-on-Avon itself who would say with the original Dogberry:--

“Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily they are slanderers; sixth and lastly they have belied a lady; thirdly they have verified unjust things.”

As for the excellent Sir Thomas Lipton, who was much more troubled in his mind about this little affair than I was, and who, though he supplied the contested sugar, escaped all fine and also escaped the contumely of the press which was heaped upon me like a cartload of bricks, without rhyme or reason, without honesty or justice, and without a single word of truth in the various reports cabled all over the world to do me as much injury as possible; he was so relieved and happy to think nothing was said about his own share in the matter that he was more genial and delightsome than ever. And I have reason to believe that he is “flattered to death,” as our American cousins sometimes say, by the parody I wrote for him “after Robert Burns,” which I call--

A New Version of
“A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT”

_Cordially Inscribed to Sir Thomas Lipton_

Fair fa’ our bouncin’ braggart Tam,
Wha perks his heid an’ a’ that,
The Prince o’ Pickles and o’ Jam,
Wha daurs be rich on a’ that!
For a’ that an’ a’ that,
His Butter, Tea, an’ a’ that,
He’s found his Bank the way to rank,
An’ Tam is Tam for a’ that!

What though wi’ Royalty he’ll dine,
’Mid sleekit Jews an’ a’ that,
Tam disna drink their best o’ wine,
He’s wide awake an’ a’ that!
For a’ that an’ a’ that,
Their duds an’ shows an’ a’ that,
The “Lipton Shares” are worth them a’
An’ Tam is Tam for a’ that!

Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
Wha struts an’ stares an’ a’ that,
When tradesmen winna tak’ his word,
Tam rules his roast an’ a’ that!
For a’ that an’ a’ that,
His ribbon, stars an’ a’ that,
Tam kens his man baith oot an’ in,
An’ looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

The Premier maks a belted knight,
A duke, an earl an’ a’ that,
But a “Lipton’s Stores” aboon his might,
Gude faith! he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that an’ a’ that,
Their pride o’ place an’ a’ that,
Monopolies o’ Ham and Tea
Mak’ louder fame than a’ that!

An’ Tam has gi’en Y.M.C.A.
A muckle cheque an’ a’ that,
An’ angels waft him on his way
To Paradise an’ a’ that!
For a’ that an’ a’ that,
For that’s the end o’ a’ that;
His lavish hand’s its own reward,
An’ Tam is Tam for a’ that!

THREE HUNDRED YEARS OF FAME

AVE SHAKESPEARE!

Three hundred years ago, on April 23, 1616, William Shakespeare, of whom Carlyle wrote as “the pink and flower of remembered Englishmen--the greatest thing we have yet done and managed to produce in this world,” drew his last breath at “New Place,” the home he had earned for himself in his native town of Stratford-on-Avon. The great bell of the Guild Chapel facing the garden side of his “pretty house of brick and timber” tolled for his passing; but the great voice of the world which acclaims him so loudly to-day was dumb.

In those Puritan times he was but little considered; and no hint or whisper of his coming renown stirred the sleepy quietude of the little country place where he was born and where he died. His fellow-townsmen of that period kept no particular record of him, nor did they dream of him as the future King of English Literature. He was laid to rest in the chancel of the Parish Church--an honoured place allowed to him, not because of his genius as a Poet, for this was as indifferent a matter then to the good bucolic folk of Stratford-on-Avon as it is now, but because he had, by purchase, become part owner of the tithes and as a lay-rector had right of interment there.

In his lifetime he assumed to be nothing but a simple industrious man of business who “adapted” and rearranged old plays to suit the requirements of the Globe Theatre; and he flung out the splendid rays of his dazzling poetic genius over these dry bones of romance and history as freely and with as grand an absence of self-consciousness as the sun which shines alike on the just and the unjust.

Nothing probably would have surprised him more or moved him to such incredulous smiling as to have been told that in three hundred years his fame would surpass that of any other Englishman ever born! He would have put aside the prophecy with good-humoured laughter and would never have given it another thought. For his wordly aims were perfectly straightforward and simple; they were, plainly--to earn a sufficient competence and to stand on an independent footing with his fellows, to live with his family in ease and comfort, and to end his days in peace in the town where he was born. No ideal could be more free from arrogance. His whole career is an object lesson of infinite Greatness to the infinitely Little!

The vital centre of Shakespeare’s marvellous power is surely his impersonality. His creative spirit moved behind the passing show of kings and queens and historic events, moulding them to his mood, but never displaying itself. Like light it shed colour on whatsoever it illumined. So little may we guess of Shakespeare’s personality from his writings that he has made of himself an Enigma. We cannot even tell what form of creed he professed, though we know and feel that the devout worship of an invisible and intelligent Force behind Nature filled him with highest faith and purest service towards God. We cannot find out his special likes or dislikes, save in slight indications here and there, such as his plainly indicated abhorrence of Jews--and Germans! Great as is the professed admiration of the Teuton for our English Master-Mind, we wonder how he can get over such lines as these:--

“A German from the waist downward, all slops!”
_Much Ado About Nothing._

“Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one.”--_Cymbeline._

“Three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses.”
_Merry Wives of Windsor._

“Holding in disdain the German women
For some dishonest manners.”
_Henry V._

“Like a German clock,
Still a’repairing, ever out of frame.”
_Love’s Labour’s Lost_.

While the discussion between Portia and Nerissa in the _Merchant of Venice_ caps all:--

NERISSA: How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew?

PORTIA: Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most
vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk; when he is best, he is a
little worse than a man; and when he is worst, he is little better
than a beast.

One other thing we may perceive, and that is our Poet’s scorn of pettiness and treachery. Individual deceit--public or private hypocrisy--these seem to Shakespeare’s mind unforgivable. The “black-handed” hit--the cruel slander--the malicious lie--against these he delivers his most trenchant blows; but farther than this we are unable to penetrate into the kingdom of his heart or sentiment.

To woman he assigns the highest place as inspirer and saviour of man; when he shows her other than this, as in Lady Macbeth, he makes remorse half condone her sins and death conclude them. He seemed to be absolutely unconscious of any superiority in himself to others of his own calling. His poetic gift was like song to a nightingale that warbles for sheer delight and amorousness, in delicious ignorance of the entrancing beauty of its melody.

What affects, or _should_ affect, us most deeply to-day is the deplorable fact that for three hundred years we have had no poet, no dramatist, to approach Shakespeare in any sense--neither in beauty of language, loftiness of thought, nor simple naturalness of expression. He towers among us as a veritable giant among pigmies--for the men of letters in all parts of the world at this epoch, men who are scrambling and pushing themselves forward to offer a very poor and inadequate “homage” to this mightiest genius of all time, are of such microscopic attainment when compared with him that one needs a mental lens to perceive them at all.

These are they for whom Self is not only the keynote, but the whole tune. Some of them take pride in their “style”; whereas Shakespeare had no “style” save his own, which has become a living part of the English language. He defied laws and conventions and dramatic “unities”; he dared to be his own master; and fortunately there were no newspapers in his day to publish venomous criticisms which might have daunted or discouraged his efforts.

The earliest newspaper, or _News Packet_, as it was called, was issued in 1619, three years after Shakespeare’s death. Shakespeare’s critics were the public--in fact, the “gallery.” He “played to the gallery,” and played “up”--never “down.” Moreover, he was apparently so indifferent to his own literary reputation that he made no effort to publish any of his works, and allowed them to be pirated wholesale. Only in the case of the two poems dedicated to the Earl of Southampton--“Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece”--does he seem to have taken any personal interest in his own productions.

One may perhaps venture to suggest that probably he attached no importance to what he knew were “adaptations” of old plays, and thought nothing of the rich poesy wherewith he had endowed them. The most of his work was this of industrious “adaptation”; so that he might have modestly considered it to be scarcely his own and that the magnificent speeches he put in the mouths of his stage puppets were only a part of what is called “business.” The superb indifference he thus displayed to his own place in the estimation of others was a striking proof of his sub-conscious power. That his contemporaries mentioned him but little would not have troubled a mind like Shakespeare’s and Robert Green’s jealous attack upon him as “an upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers, with his Tyger’s heart wrapt in a Player’s hide,” would but have moved him to a compassionate smile at such an outburst of malice and envy.

The chief lesson we may learn from Shakespeare’s unapproachable fame is of that greatness which is “impersonal.” The literary men of our day are all painfully personal and are seldom satisfied unless they are elbowing each other out of the way or scrambling over each other to the front; and some of them are never happier than when they can fasten themselves, like barnacles, to the splendid ship of Shakespeare’s immortal genius, which sails serenely onward over the seas of the infinite. _As_ barnacles they do no particular harm; for, cling as they will, the great waves of time generally sweep them off in the progress of the voyage, while the great Ship goes on, carrying its messages of truth, honour, and strong patriotism to all the world! And it will still sail on, till the English language shall be no more. For if, in centuries to come, nothing should be left of England but Shakespeare, his name would be sufficient to prove that England once had lived!

SHAKESPEARE’S WAR BIRTHDAY IN 1917

NEGLECTED HONOURS

Many of our newspapers devoted columns of matter to “St. George’s Day”; and the writers of the various articles on this subject “gushed” in special and particular fashion over a purely mythical knight, whom legendary lore supposes to have killed a purely mythical dragon. But a very general omission was made of a real and a far greater personage than St. George, whose day of birth and death coincides with that of the dragon-slayer, namely, William Shakespeare, “the beautifullest English soul this England confesses to have made, the pink and flower of remembered Englishmen, the greatest thing, it appears, that we have yet done and managed to produce in this world,” according to right-thinking Thomas Carlyle. America, too, bears witness to the same truth through the golden voice of her noble teacher Emerson, who thus writes: “All the sweets and all the terrors of human lot lay in his mind as truly, but as softly, as the landscape lies on the eye.” He was, and is, our greatest Englishman--our finest patriot--and, when all is said and done, he will be our chief claim to remembrance in history. Very strange has it seemed to thousands of us, especially Americans, that during the present crisis and stress of war the Press of Great Britain should have apparently forgotten to mention the name of perhaps the greatest Maker of England on his natal day. Some one tells us, “It has never occurred before.” Then why has it occurred now?