Best of Myles Page 9

  Myself: It is unthinkable that you should be very much mistaken, but if you take the trouble to look up any dictionary, you will find that either form is admissible, you smug, self-righteous swine.

  (Half to Myself: The ignorant self-opinionated sod-minded suet-brained ham-faced mealy-mouthed streptococcus-ridden gang of natural gobdaws!)

  A FEW WEEKS ago I was interrupted when about to give the public my long-awaited description of my own face. Several anxious readers have written in asking when they might expect it. My answer is that they may expect it to-day. Let us take the features one by one and then stand back, as one stands back from a majestic Titian or Van Gogh, and view the whole magnificent—

  The Plain People of Ireland: Is this going to be long?

  Myself: Not very.

  The Plain People of Ireland: How long roughly?

  Myself: Well, say ten lines for the vast Homeric brow, the kingly brow that is yet human wise and mild. Then the eyes, peerless wine-green opal of rare hue, brittle and ebullient against the whiteness of Himalayan snow—

  The Plain People of Ireland: Another ten lines?

  Myself: Say seven each. That’s fourteen altogether.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Seven each! You don’t say there’s any difference between them?

  Myself: Well, there’s not exactly any difference, nothing that could be said to be repugnant or incompatible. Nevertheless, there is some slight divergence of vivre, some indefinable yet charming indépendance, some enchanting drôlerie de la paupière—

  The Plain People of Ireland: And how about the gob and the snot?

  Myself: If you mean the finely-moulded masterful—

  The Plain People of Ireland: Did you ever hear this one: As a beauty I am not a star. There are others more handsome by far—

  Myself: I did, I did. Stop!

  The Plain People of Ireland: But my face I don’t mind it, For I am behind it, It’s the people in front get the jar!

  Myself: Lord save us!

  The Plain People of Ireland: Could we not leave the whole thing over to another time?

  Myself: Very well. But heaven knows whom we are disappointing in this matter.

  A SOLICITOR well known in the west—I do have jars with him on me holidays when the circus is in town—

  The Plain People of Ireland: The circus?

  Myself: Sorry. The circuit. But there’s not much difference, really, when it gets on to midnight in the bar.

  Well, this distinguished jurist has written to me asking whether an estate with remainders to the first and fourth sons in tail can be alienated without reversionary codicils terminating pro tanto all seignory advowsons in gross, the assumption being that appendant copyholds can be extinguished at will under the Land Transfer Act 1897.

  Alas, the answer must be no. Any estate held as between coparceners without the inseisinment of freebench copyholds must stand in foeffment pending escheat of all incorporeal rent-charge bars, subinfeudations in frankalmoign aperte, mesne rights, copycharges presented à prendre, or devises held by chartered copybrokers possessio fratris, pur autre vie, or even quousque.

  We have close analogy in the right of socage where it ranks for beneficial apportionment of any chattel-warrants engrossed with interfeudal droit in fee. The undercopy-holder has the advowson absolutely, with uncommuted scutage and burgage rights where the estate subsists in petty serjaunty. All engrossments must be registered, with the privity of the Lord Lieutenant; similarly with instruments of attornment, frankalcheign, seisinfoimaunt, cesser of cestui qui caveats en graund playsaunce du roi, interfeudalated copywrit of cave, and recovenanted socage-bills subsisting part in petty serjaunty and part in foeff-frankalseignory majeur.

  There, possibly, I might crave permission to leave the matter.

  KEATSIANA

  It is a considerable time since I related an anecdote from the life of John Keats. Here is one at last.

  When the poet was eighteen he decided to make a journey to the American continent to pick up some of the potatoes that even the brazenest fraud can garner by lecture-touring. In Boston he met a pretty lady, fat and forty, but beautiful with the bloom of cash and collateral. The poet instantly laid siege, praised her expensive fancy hats, and called her his Dark Lady of the Bonnets. She accepted his advances after a fashion, but made no move to buy him a pair-in-hand, and would not consent to meet him anywhere but in the local park by day. Desperate with greed, he decided to stake all on a bogus offer of marriage. The lady’s reply was peculiar.

  ‘Have you ever read the works of our great writer, Thoreau?’ she asked.

  ‘Never heard of the lad,’ Keats said.

  ‘Well, you are hearing about him now,’ said the lady. ‘I happen to be his wife.’

  ‘So what?’ asked the poet.

  ‘How could I marry you if I already have a husband?’

  ‘Easy,’ replied the great wit. ‘Why not get a divorce a mensa et thoreau?’

  OBJECTION

  The Plain People of Ireland: Lord save us!

  Myself: That’s nothing. Listen to this.

  Some years before the present war I met a lady called Lottie and fell deeply, even exquisitely, in love. We used to keep nightly tryst near the house of Dr Mahr, who was in charge of the National Museum before he returned to Germany a few years ago.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Where is the joke? What’s funny in that?

  Myself: Do you not see it? ‘Pale hands I loved beside the Chalet Mahr.’

  The Plain People of Ireland: Well—

  Myself: Shut up, shut up. I’d give you another puck in the wind if I had the space.

  WITH THE ever-hastening approach of winter there is a proportionate increase in speculation as to the outcome of the titanic struggle which is taking place in Russia. In that strange but distant land vast masses of men and metal are locked together in a battle-front which ranges from the Black Sea to the far-off Karelian isthmus, a span that embraces a great variety of terrain and even climate. When the Fuehrer first threw his Panzerdivisionen against Smolensk and embarked on the vast pincer operation which culminated in the bloody battle for the Dnieper, many observers predicted a long war. General Koniev, whose masterly strategy for the Allied successes in Moravia, has moved up considerable forces from the middle front, where the pincer ‘claw’, turning south, has brought the Sturm und Drang of battle to new and unexpected quarters. The—

  The Plain People of Ireland: Isn’t there some mistake. Surely, this is the leading article.

  Myself: It is.

  The Plain People of Ireland: But—

  Myself: Yes, I am sorry, there is something wrong. My stuff is in the wrong place. Some fool has blundered.

  The Plain People of Ireland: You don’t mean to say you write the leading article?

  Myself: I do, usually. We have another man who comes in when I am ‘indisposed’, if you know what that means. And there is no reason why you shouldn’t, red-snouts.

  The Plain People of Ireland: But—Well, dear knows. How do you find time to do the two things?

  Myself: It’s no trouble to me. In both cases it is the same old stuff all the time. You just change it round a bit.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Do they pay you much for the leader? A couple of bar a knock, maybe?

  Myself: I get half a guinea for the leading article and I throw in the other funny stuff for nothing because I enjoy publishing jibes at the expense of people I dislike. I also write a lot of the For-Ireland-Boys-Hurrah stuff that appears in The Leader every week.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Well, honestly! You’re a wonderful man altogether. Don’t you write plays for the Abbey, too?

  Myself: Certainly.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Well, Lord save us!

  NEVER FORGET that tenure by sochemaunce seisined by feodo copyholds in gross and reseisined through covenants of foeffseignory in frankal-puissaunce—

  The Plain People of Ireland: This sounds like dirty water being s
quirted out of a hole in a burst rubber ball.

  —is alienable only by droit of bonfeasaunce subsisting in free-bench coigny or in re-vested copywrits of seisina facit stipidem, a fair copy bearing a 2d. stamp to be entered at the Court of Star Chamber.

  Furthermore, a rent seck indentured with such frankalseignory or chartamoign charges as may be, and re-empted in Market Overt, subsists thereafter in graund serjaunty du roi, eighteen fishing smacks being deemed sufficient to transport the stuff from Lisbon.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Where do the fishing smacks come in?

  Myself: Howth, usually.

  The Plain People of Ireland: No, but what have they got to do with what you were saying?

  Myself: It’s all right. I was only trying to find out whether ye were still reading on. By the way, I came across something very funny the other night in a public-house.

  The Plain People of Ireland (chuckling): What was it?

  Myself: It was a notice on the wall. It read: ‘We have come to an arrangement with our bankers. They have agreed not to sell drink. We, on our part, have agreed not to cash cheques.’

  The Plain People of Ireland: O, Ha Ha Ha! Ho Ho Ho! (Sounds of thousands of thighs being slapped in paroxysms of mirth.)

  Myself: Good. I knew that would amuse you.

  COME ON, LADS

  SURE THERE’S nothing like it. It’s the best idea of the lot for keeping us all out of the pubs and off the streets. Good clean healthy amusement. Come on, what’s all the delay. Don’t keep me waiting all day. Hurry up!

  The Plain People of Ireland: What do you mean? What’s all this about?

  Myself: A game of snooker. We’ll make it a foursome if you like. And I’ll give you twenty-five.

  The Plain People of Ireland (doubtfully): Where are the cues?

  Myself: I’m afraid I forgot about them.

  The Plain People of Ireland: And the colours?

  Myself: Well what a head I have on me. Smart boy wanted.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Anyway, how could we play a game with them things? Maybe this is a joke. Those aren’t real balls.

  Myself: I swear I’m serious.

  The Plain People of Ireland: And they’re not red.

  Myself: Lend me a red pencil.

  The Plain People of Ireland: This is some class of a fancy joke. If you’re serious come down to Tommie’s some night and we’ll see who’ll give twenty-five, there’s a lad there called Rooney that’ll show you something.

  Myself: Fair enough.

  I WISH to take the opportunity of wishing all and sundry a happy new year and many happy returns.

  The Plain People of Ireland: It’s a bit late in the day.

  Myself: If my simple and heartfelt greeting is to be questioned or discussed, I’ll withdraw it.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Go ahead and withdraw it.

  Myself: It is now withdrawn.

  The Plain People of Ireland: The cheek of some people.

  A DEVISE of incorporeal rent secks which subsist in subwrit of coignybar, I do not mind telling you may rank for apportionment with appendant seignmoigns du petit playsaunce, quit-writs of cestui que cave and re-entered copy-warrants of grand attainder.

  It was once urged (v. Bract, fo. 87a, 207a, Vinogradoff Hist. E. L. xvii Reg. v Shaughnessy et al.) that the devise of a rent-charged easement held in frankalchaise-a-moins with mesne bars inquoted was a lawful devise having regard to fraundpuissaunce of charterfee. Held by Pallas C. B. that

  ‘… devises charged with consolidated quodwrits of quit-bar or seigny-poke subsist thereafter in fee of grossplaysaunce, notwithstanding all copyholds of mesnemanor, socagemoign, interfee, mort-lease, grand bastardy in copygross, sub-escheats of scutage quousque, refeoffed disseisor of sub-seisin in seignyfrankalpuis and vivmain of copycharged serjaunty.’

  To-day, this may seem a somewhat staid—even a technical—pronouncement. Yet when it was made it was regarded by the Irish people as the most stirring vindication of their immemorial right to quit-scutage and sochemaunce—indeed, a wider charter of democratic self-determination than the Local Government Act of 1898.

  The Press Association managed to get the judgment down to Mitchelstown the day it was made. The excitement it caused was enormous. Great bonfires were kindled by willing hands, and patriotic speeches were delivered to the politics-demented people in the square.

  Late the same night a corrupt peeler called Monk was presented by persons unknown with the father and the mother of a haymaker in the pit of the stomach.

  The Plain People of Ireland: And good enough for him, too.

  HINTS FOR SOTS

  Day after day I receive letters calling for stuff that is more ‘popular’, ‘more in touch with the ordinary people’. ‘Give us,’ a reader says, ‘something that may interest and help us in our daily lives.’

  Very well. Let us admit openly that it is almost your nightly experience either to be brought home or to be saddled with the task of ‘seeing’ an inebriated friend ‘right’.

  Look at my picture. Your ‘friend’ has consumed forty-eight pints and has now fallen down on the broad of his back. To-day’s Hint is this: DON’T lift his head as is being done in the illustration. Keep his body completely horizontal. If you lift his head and shoulders, you’ll probably spill some.

  GUFF

  The Plain People of Ireland:

  Myself: Stop pointing. It’s rude.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Who in heaven’s name is that?

  Myself: That’s my pal, Mr Claude ffoney. He’s a painter.

  The Plain People of Ireland: A house painter?

  Myself: O, indeed, no. ‘The Poddle at Blessington’, ‘Market Place, Tours’, and so on.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Then why is he wearing a workman’s pants?

  Myself: Them’s corduroys, and luscious purple articles they are, too.

  The Plain People of Ireland (doubtfully): It’s very hard to be up to you intellectual lads.

  Myself (venomously): I think I am going mad! (Getting pale with passion, the voice rising to a scream). Do you hear me? Mad, mad, MAD!

  IN NEW YORK’S swank Manhattan lives blond, smiling, plump James Keats, descendant of famous poet John. No lover of poetry, James Keats is director of the million-dollar dairy combine Manhattan Cheeses and ranked Number Three in the Gallup quiz to find America’s Ten Ablest Executives. James lives quietly with slim dark attractive wife, Anna, knows all there is about cheeses, likes a joke like his distinguished forbear. Wife Anna likes to tell of the time he brought her to see the Louis-Baer fight.

  ‘He just sat there roaring “Camembert, Camembert!”’

  If the joke doesn’t interest you, do you derive amusement from this funny way of writing English? It is very smart and up-to-date. It was invented by America’s slick glossy Time and copied by hacks in every land. For two pins I will write like that every day, in Irish as well as English. Because that sort of writing is taut, meaningful, hard, sinewy, compact, newsy, factual, muscular, meaty, smart, modern, brittle, chromium, bright, flexible, omnispectric.

  ANOTHER PROBLEM SOLVED

  I am happy to announce that I have discovered a remedy for the cigarette and tobacco famine. No longer need you slink from shop to shop like a criminal.

  It is simple. All you need is a pack of cards. Summon four or five friends to your house, seat them around you and deal out the cards for poker. First, though, make sure that the cards are arranged so that each person gets a ‘full’ hand, i.e. a straight, full house, and so on. Each player, when he sees what he has got, will have no alternative but to ‘smoke’. If the cards are not re-dealt but each player permitted to retain his original hand all night, he can sit there and ‘smoke’ quietly until bed-time. With your own permission, he may even bring his hand home with him and ‘smoke’ in bed until he falls asleep.

  If you have any odd playing cards, send them along to the Myles na gCopaleen Social Club. Our Ladies’ Committee will arrange the
m into flushes, straights and full houses and send them to the troops, who are as much in need of a smoke as anybody.

  The Plain People of Ireland: Talking of cards, there is nothing to beat a good game of solo, best game of the whole lot, hear young slips of girls talking about their bridge and all the rest of it make you sick.

  Myself: Pray continue, you interest me strangely.

  The Plain People of Ireland: To be stuck inside there in the back room of an evenin’ with a few of the lads, a couple of dozen stout in the corner and ten or fifteen bob in the middle of the table, Lord save us, what more could a man ask?

  Myself: Personally, I am never happy when I am away from my beloved books.

  The Plain People of Ireland: And not a word spoken, every man for himself, every card counted, a trump down on the ace of spades as often as you like.

  Myself: Ay indeed.

  HAIRS WANTED

  My Patent Beard Food is enjoying a considerable vogue. A well-known humbug (I am advised that I cannot mention his name because of some legal technicality) has ordered three of my special presentation Christmas cases of the stuff and is due to appear on the streets any day now bearded himself and accompanied by four bearded children. He insists that his children have ‘talent’ and show it early.

  Some souls have written to ask whether the Food takes long to work. Not at all. My special illustration below shows what happens in the space of one hour.

  Just think of it! Communism, Art, Poetry, even Submarine Experience, all in one hour! Why be smooth?

  I SEE that the collected letters of Cézanne have been published. Believe me, they are not half as interesting as the letters of Manet, which I am editing for publication at present. The title of the volume will be ‘Littera Scripta Manet’. Limited edition of 25 copies printed on steam-rolled pig’s liver and bound with Irish thongs in desiccated goat-hide quilting, a book to treasure for all time but to lock away in hot weather.