The Plain People of Ireland: And your men out in motor boats pottin at them with tommy guns!
Myself: Yes faith.
PROBABLY A MISTAKE
I was looking into an English Dictionary (yes—the other day) and came across this mistake:
‘Intelligentzia: the part of a nation (esp. the Russian) that aspires to independent thinking.’
Now why the assumption that every nation has two parts, one being Russian? I know it so happens that it’s true of this country—you know that introspective crowd from Cork—but I see complaints in the newspapers regarding the position in England. Incidentally, what sort of thinking is dependent thinking? And look at the mess you get into if you apply this definition to Russia itself.
A bad business, opening dictionaries; a thing I very rarely do. I try to make it a rule never to open my mouth, dictionaries or hucksters’ shops.
OUR SAD COUNTRY
I had an unfortunate and indeed chastening experience (well, yes—the other day). I ran into a characteristic Irishman and before I had time to run out again, he had taken me nappertandywise by the hand and started to talk. How were we to-day? And wasn’t there a great stretch in the evenings? Playing desperately for time I switched the talk to theatre matters. Would he like to see a show? Certainly he would, there was nothing he loved better than to be sitting down quietly in the theatre of an evening. I had a few free passes which a theatre manager had given me to keep me from talking aloud about his theatre whiskey and I gave one of these to my ‘friend’. Profuse thanks. He’d rush off now and be in time for the first curtain. Thanks thanks thanks. We parted but I was shocked to see this worm again in another place ten minutes later. He was deep in a persuasive conversation. Need I say that like his fathers before him, he was trying to sell the pass?
HER FACE was radiant. She looked up, sensing the passion that was written in every line of the taut, lean face. Their eyes met.
‘Mary!’ he cried.
He bent down and took her in his arms. How strong he was, how masterful! How utterly he crushed her frail body against his pounding heart!
‘Mary!’ he cried again, huskily this time.
Their lips met. Heaven and earth seemed to—
The Plain People of Ireland: What in the name of goodness is all this about?
Myself: It is a scene from my new serial, which commences in this column next week.
The Plain People of Ireland: But surely that isn’t the beginning of it? That’s no way to begin a story.
Myself: No, it’s not the beginning.
The Plain People of Ireland: Then what—
Myself: Were you never at the pictures? This is the trailer. The trailer shows the high spots of the story.
The Plain People of Ireland (interested): O, a trailer? Well, go on.
Myself: In a minute, when you cool down.
A BOUNDER PUNISHED
Derek closed the door and stood very still. The silence was ominous. It did not bode aught that was good to the cringing Carruthers, who rose from the sofa with a sickly smile.
‘Hello, Sternleigh, glad to see you,’ he stammered.
Derek did not answer. Mary’s quiet sobbing made the muscles of his face stand out like whipcords. He went to her, assisted her to her feet and gently guided her faltering footsteps towards the door.
‘Please wait in the next room,’ he said softly. ‘I have business to settle here.’
When she was gone he turned with steely menace to Carruthers, whose freshly-lit cigarette betokened a nonchalance that was belied by the shaking hand that held it.
‘Now, Carruthers,’ he rapped out, ‘stand up! Surprised to see me here, eh? Thought I was killed when your hirelings threw me down that old well, eh? Thought it was safe at last to press your slimy attentions on Miss Shunk, eh? Stand up, you cad, and take what’s coming to you!’
Carruthers made as if to rise but in a trice had bounded towards the fender where a massive old-world poker was reclining with the other fire-irons.
‘O no, you don’t!’
Derek’s quick eye had sensed the manoeuvre. He cleared the intervening space in one athletic spring and with a well-aimed kick had knocked the deadly weapon flying from his adversary’s hand. Pale with anger, Carruthers wheeled round. With deadly timing Derek stopped in his tracks. Then his famed left shot out like a piston, caught Carruthers on the point of the chin. Out cold, he crashed to the floor like a piece of stone or some inanimate thing.
The Plain People of Ireland: O, good man, good man! Good enough for the dirty dog!
Myself: Shut up! There’s more.
AN UNSAVOURY ACCOMPLICE
Carruthers lay quite still. Derek stood looking down at him, contempt written on every line of the taut, lean face. Behind him the door opened noiselessly, to reveal the sinister form of Sloane, the rascally, yellow-faced billiard-marker, suspected to be a hireling of Carruthers. In his hand was a loaded cue. Noiselessly he stole across the carpet until he was behind the unheeding form of Derek Sternleigh. Without a sound the loaded cue was raised—
The Plain People of Ireland: Turn round! TURN ROUND!
Myself: Shut up! Don’t you understand that that’s the end of that? If you want to know what happened, you will have to wait and read the story. Did Derek know? Did he call into force his famed back-somersault, to confound and unnerve his cowardly assailant? Did Mary, perturbed by the ominous silence, return to open the door just in time to warn her lover?
The Plain People of Ireland: Well; did she?
Myself: Wait and see, wait and see. Order your copy in advance.
THE BALL climbs high into the air. It seems to pause, then to fall, falling slowly in the hot blue sky. Jamstutter races from Square Two, his inferior cotton ‘flannels’ pinned by the wind to his fleet thighs—a white smear of speed on the bright June grass. Will he catch the ball? He will. HE DOES! He reaches for it with clean avid fingers. HE HAS IT! Good man, good man. Good old Jamstutter!
Again it rises in a long gentle lob. Observe the glint of sun on the gold-faced lace-holes. Now it falls with a soft elegance of descent. Jamstutter races from Square Two and again—YES—again he has caught it with prim peerless ease.
Up again, higher this time, its soft brown hue of baby hogskin blotted to a blackness against the hard glare of the heavens. Again Jamstutter moves lithely to his task. Will he catch it this time? Will he make Square Two in time? He is flitting across the grass like a hare—
The Plain People of Ireland: What is this game and who is this man Jamstutter? It doesn’t sound like an Irish name.
Myself: The game is—WAIT! He’s got it! He’s caught it again! O good man, good man! Good old Jamstutter!
The Plain People of Ireland: Whoever he is he is not as goodas Patsy, the Tipp goalie that stopped 52 sure scores in the 1937 hurling final.
Myself: But Jamstutter has a wooden leg.
The Plain People of Ireland: O, that’s different. If he has a wooden leg, fair enough. He must be good so. Certainly that’s very smart work for a man with wan leg. He’s O.K.
UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY
The other day at dusk on the outskirts of the Naul I caught a small verse-speaker. Myself and a friend stalked the little creature with nets for three hours. It was very exhausted when caught and offered hardly any resistance. We have it at present in the Irish Times office in a cage. It is nicely marked and would be a most acceptable gift for a member of WAAMA if you happen to be stuck for a wedding present. It may be inspected daily between the hours of 11 and 5. Ask for Miss Concordia Slush, my private secretary, who is in charge of the cage. There is no warranty, of course, as to the quality of the recitation or indeed that it will recite at all. If we fail to get a decent price the thing will be raffled.
I was once acquainted with a man who found himself present by some ill chance at a verse speaking bout. Without a word he hurried outside and tore his face off. Just that. He inserted three fingers into his mouth, caught his left cheek in a fre
nzied grip and ripped the whole thing off. When it was found, flung in a corner under an old sink, it bore the simple dignified expression of the honest man who finds self-extinction the only course compatible with honour.
CHAT
Does Proust affect you terribly? Emotionally, I mean?
Nao, not rahlly. His prose does have that sort of … glittering texture, rather like the feeling one gets from the best émaux Limousins. But nao … his peepul … thin, yeou knaow, thin … dull, stupeed.
But surely … surely Swann …?
Ah yes … If all his geese were Swanns.…
* * *
* A war-time coach service was started in the village of Adare.
Research Bureau
A HANDY INSTRUMENT
THE ARTICLE illustrated to-day (did you guess?) is a snow-gauge. There are very few of them in Ireland at present. It is made of copper, and consists of a funnel or catch-pipe for the snow, which widens inwardly, then drops eighteen inches, allowing the snow to fall into a pan beneath. A casing which can be heated with hot water surrounds the gauge and is used to melt the snow. By this arrangement the snow cannot escape; it melts and runs into the bucket beneath, where it is accurately gauged.
So what, you say. I will tell you what. There is one great advantage in having a snow gauge on your premises. Supposing some moon-faced young man who reads Proust happens to be loitering about your house, blathering out of him about art, life, love, and so on. He is sure to have a few cant French phrases, which he will produce carefully at suitable intervals as one produces coins from a purse. Inevitably the day will come (even if you have to wait for it for many years) when he will sigh and murmur:
‘Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?’
Here is your chance. This is where you go to town. Seize the nitwit by the scruff of the neck, march him out to the snow gauge, and shout:
‘Right in that bucket, you fool!’
I’ll bet you’ll feel pretty good after that.
HOME HINTS
DO YOU often think you are going to die in the middle of the night? Are your feet swollen? Is your blood choked with every manner of toxic rubbish? Are you looking your ‘old self’? (‘I seen him on the Monday, he was lookin’ his old self, you’d have sworn …’)
I have pleasure in illustrating to-day my patent Valetudinarian’s Vademecum. This ingenious little instrument may look like a greyhound hoodlum’s stop-watch, but if you examine the dial closely you will realise that it is an ordinary thermometer. You wear it in an inside pocket, as near your skin as possible. No matter where you are it enables you to take your temperature without the least fuss 200 times a day. No matter whether you are in the mart, the dram-shop, glorious Killiney, or even Ballylickey, you just take out your ‘watch’. Your temperature is already registered.
If you are absent-minded funny things can happen.
‘What time is it, mister?’
‘I am very ill. Excuse me. I must go home at once!’
The Vade-mecum costs from £2 to £7, depending on the metal it is made of.
‘WANTED, WIFE, copper-faced, any length, capable of being bent. Box—’
This is an advertisement that appeared recently in an evening paper. It is obvious, of course, that ‘wife’ is a misprint for ‘wire’.
To be honest for a change, I invented this advertisement out of my head. It did not appear in any paper. But, if any reader thinks that any special merit attaches to notices of this kind because they have actually appeared in print, what is to stop me having them inserted and then quoting them?
Nothing, except the prohibitive cost.
MYSELF AND THE EMERGENCY
I have been looking further into the problem of maintaining efficient railway services in these days of inferior fuel. My latest solution is expensive, but highly ingenious. My plan is that all the lines should be re-laid to traverse bogland only, and that the locomotives should be fitted with a patent scoop apparatus which would dig into the bog underneath the moving train and supply an endless stream of turf to the furnace. Naturally, it would be dried in the furnace before being burned. This principle is at present recognised in taking up water when the train is at speed, and must, therefore, be quite feasible.
Of course, there are difficulties—nobody sees them more clearly than myself. For example, unless care were taken, an express careering across a bog at full tilt might encounter a quagmire and disappear into the bowels of the earth, passengers and all. To prevent this, it would be necessary to precede every heavy train by a light engine fitted with a prodding apparatus. This would consist of a battery of steel poles, which would be fitted to the front of the engine. The poles would rise and fall as the engine proceeded, probing carefully into the nature of the bog strata and ringing bells in the driver’s cabin where the resistance encountered was less than a given limit. When the bells are heard, the driver would press a button and set in motion another machine at the engine’s rear. This rear machine would consist of mammoth pounders, which would descend on the bog, feed builder’s rubble into it and pulverise it to a suitable firmness. Thus, by application and perseverance, our difficulties are surmounted.
FURTHERMORE
Another snag is the difficulty of finding continued bogland between, say, Dublin and Galway. Here, again, failure to recognise defeat will be invaluable. Our plan will be to follow the bog wherever we find it and get to Galway one way or another, even if we have to spend weeks in the train and wander through every county in Ireland. The unrelieved bogland scenery on such a journey would be a bit tedious to the eye, but telescopes could be supplied for viewing the more distant vistas.
Then there is another snag: After the train has been scooping along for a week or so, the trench between the rails will become gradually deeper, and there will be a tendency for water to drain into it, Nature being what she is. If the engine encounters a damp patch the scoop will deliver gallons of water to the firebox and put the fire out. Our obvious remedy here is an army of men equipped with giant sponges. Night and day these sponges must be used to drain the scoop-trench. If these men are facetiously called ‘spongers’ it cannot be helped. I am often called the same thing myself. (‘I say, old man, you’re living beyond my means!’)
DANGER!
Then, supposing the train ploughs into some of our bogland poteen deposits. A keg of the drastic brew is scooped into the fire and a blinding blue flash is seen to envelope the engine. The train pulls up and the passengers dismount to root madly in the bog with their nails, like the beasts of the field. When they have found any other kegs that may be buried in the vicinity and duly refreshed themselves they resume their journey amid brazen shouts from the engine crew that they are going to ‘show a thing or two in the line of speed!’
The Great Northern Railway Company have courteously informed me that they are unlikely to operate my scheme, owing to the scarcity of bogland in their territory. The Great Southern Company, however, are experimenting somewhere in Kildare. I almost feel justified in inviting the reader to watch this newspaper for an important announcement.
AN EMERGENCY PROBLEM
SOME SHORT TIME ago the Dublin City Manager, the Managing Director of the Gas Company, and the Chairman of the Electricity Supply Board asked me would I meet them to discuss the problem of conserving fuel. They did not know me personally, but a friend, etc., etc. Admiration for my ingenious inventions, and great resourcefulness of intellect had prompted them, etc., etc. Necessity for all to pull together, etc., etc. Civic, not to say national, emergency, etc., etc. Take liberty of enlisting aid of great brain, etc., etc. Hoping for the favour of an early and favourable reply etc., etc. Beg to subscribe themselves, etc., etc.
Well, I had them in one evening. We went into the whole thing, facts and figures, pencil and paper. The public would not cut down their lights. Nobody in Dublin had the courage to take a bath in the dark. Everybody insisted on having an unnecessary light showing in the hall in case the neighbours should think that the su
pply had been turned off at the main for non-payment of the last quarter’s bill. Light burning for two hours in Lizzie’s room when she is going to bed. Papa up half the night tippling in the sittingroom. So on and so on. Could I find some way to make a large saving on public lighting to offset this? Dislike touching on money matters, but directors prepared to authorise generous fee, etc., etc.
MY SOLUTION
I told the gentlemen that money did not interest me, but that such small talents as I possessed were at their disposal, and, through them, at the disposal of the plain people of Ireland (from whom all authority is derived). I asked them to look in again in a week’s time.
In a word, it is a plan for lighting the streets by sewer-gas. The mechanism shown on the right, built into the lamp-post, refines, vaporises and ignites the sewer-gas, which is then transmitted to incandescent mantles in the globe higher up. It burns with a brilliant orange flame which is practically odourless.
I never saw three men go out with a lighter step.
THE MYLES na gCopaleen Central Research Bureau is working night and day on an invention that may mean the end of civilisation as we know it. Again, it is a new kind of ink, but nothing so footling as the other kind that disappears off cheques a few hours after you have written your signature with it. No, sir, this is something bigger, and when perfected will lead to a world-wide revolution, the end of which no man can foresee. It is provisionally called ‘Trink’, and looks for all the world like the ordinary black ink you can buy for twopence. ‘Trink’, however, is a very special job. When put on paper and dried, it emits a subtle alcoholic vapour which will hang over the document in an invisible odourless cloud for several days. A person perusing such a document is surrounded by this cloud. The vapour is drawn in with the breath, condenses on the mucous tract, gradually finds its way to the stomach and is absorbed in the blood. Intoxication ensues, mild or acute, according to how much reading is done.
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