MY HEROES.
Reading edition
Every day of my life I am more and more impressed by the genius of two men. These men are Gutenberg and Morse. Gutenberg invented printing and Morse was more or less in at the birth of telegraphy. What should we do without either?
It is morning and I turn to the paper. It happens to be The Daily Graphic. What do I find? I find Gutenberg and Morse once more in collaboration. Thus:—
"MR. BALFOUR LOSES HIS WAY.
Cannes, Monday.
Mr. Balfour paid a visit yesterday in pouring rain to Mr. Chamberlain at the Villa Victoria. Mr. Balfour lost his way, and passing the house strolled along the Fréjus road, scanning the name of every house until he found a chauffeur who directed him to the Villa Victoria. Subsequently Mr. Balfour returned to the Hotel Continental and motored out to dinner.—Central News."
What, privileges we enjoy, we moderns! Five hundred years ago, four hundred, the world would have been in ignorance of any event of this kind. Statesmen would have lost their way in foreign towns and no one at home would have known. Think of the privation! But now, not only, thanks to Gutenberg, do we know it and think accordingly, but, thanks to Morse, we know it the next day and our thrills are not delayed.
So much for the morning.
It is a few minutes later—evening. Not really evening, because it is before lunch, but evening enough for the Tenth Muse, bless her! I open The Evening News and what do I find? Gutenberg alone; but how full of matter! Thus:—
"SEVEN.
The mystic number seven is curiously associated with the baby daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Knight, of Old Swinford, Worcestershire.
She was born at the Seven Stars Hotel at the seventh hour of the seventh day of the seventh month.
There were seven customers in the bar when her birth was announced, seven persons were present at the christening, and there are seven letters in her Christian name.
Her father is the eldest of seven children and her mother the youngest of seven. She has seven uncles."
There's for you! But of course this is not enough. The chronicler, try as he might, is but a scamper after all. Not only were there seven customers in the bar, but each had had seven drinks. Whiskey (there are seven letters in whiskey, spelt my way) punch. Each had a slice of lemon and there were seven pips in the lemon. Of the seven uncles each had a watch, making seven watches, and a cigar case, making seven cigar-cases. So it might go on for ever.
Similarly the nine deported Labour leaders arrived in the Thames nine minutes after somebody else and nine minutes before somebody else. The term "dock-berth" has nine letters in it, and Nine Elms is on the Thames too. Whew!
"We find ourselves generally in agreement with the writer Dr. Figgis, so our enjoyment of his books is the keener and less critical. When we do criticise it is as though we found faults in a friend whom we know very well and regard very highly. This position Dr. Figgis has won for himself by the thoroughness as well as the cleverness of his literary work."—Athenæum.
Dr. Figgis must be a proud man to-day.