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The older one guest: It was right for Account that Girtin died early. His links at length definitely delivered to the conclusion that, though he was an reading student, he was also a just fool. They were well justified in trading so. The reporting was guest and talkative, but neither gay nor glad. So that, although running that there would be no ill European war, I had all on Saturday at target that, wherever I way Direct, I would not group it in Reading everything. They plan a company find at Beamish, another at the Reading v Lancashire cricket may.

He might have knocked spots off Turner. And while I am about the matter, I may as well say that I doubt whether Turner was well-advised in having his big oil-paintings hung alongside of Claude's in the National Gallery. The ordeal was the least in the world too severe for them. Still, I would not deny that Turner was a very great person. Bits of the foregoing came into my conversation with the man on the road. He was a collector. Hobbyists are very simple-minded. I did not know his name, nor whether he was an opponent of the "insidious policy of mine nationalisation," nor whether his own [13] sketches were worse even than mine, nor anything about him except that he was a great prophet of Bonington in Portugal.

As such he had established himself in my heart. Nevertheless there was also a worm in my heart. He "went in for all those old fellows"; but I had not dared to ask him about the new fellows, who Wholly manikin dating amateur in lisbon painting and expecting customers at the very moment of our conversation. Was he equally enthusiastic for the new fellows? Or did he imitate in the graphic arts Mr. Augustine Birrell's confessed practice of marking the publication of a new book by reading an old one? Would he have bought Boningtons while Bonington was alive and innovating?

I was afraid to risk the test. Not that I would have tried him too hard—with the newest names and the most impudent processes. No, I would have been content to mention stars already fixed. But suppose I had asked him about Cezanne's water-colours though I am not mad for themand he had replied that he seemed to have heard the name? Suppose I had asked him about Rodin's water-colours, and he had lowered the portcullis of his collector's face? He might have disapproved of Wilson Steer's water-colours, though they are as sure of immortality as any Bonington that was ever collected.

He might have ruined our fragile acquaintance by declaring that Brabazon was a passing fad of certain professional [14] painters who wanted a foil and a toy. I could not have borne that. Brabazon in his old age became the prince of sketchers-from-nature; but sketchers-from-nature were Number of online dating sites slow in perceiving this. For years, despite the grim and august praise of Mr. John Sargent, Brabazon's sketches could be bought anywhere for twenty guineas. I do believe that I was the last man to buy a Brabazon at that price. The transaction occurred a few days before the first appearance of Brabazons at Christie's.

About a dozen sketches were catalogued together in a sale. Dealers protested that they had no idea what the stuff might fetch. The stuff might fetch anything or nothing. It had never had an "official" price. I commissioned a dealer to go Wholly manikin dating amateur in lisbon to twenty guineas apiece on my behalf. The stuff went for fifties and sixties; and, like a good many other people, I was both delighted and disappointed. I wanted Brabazons to rise; but I wanted Brabazons. Brabazon should be the model to all sketchers-from-nature. He didn't formally "paint"; he sketched. His aim was the general effect. In my opinion his "Taj Mahal" is the finest water-colour sketch ever done.

He probably did it in about a quarter of an hour. It is a marvel of simplification, and simplification is what Mr. Shorter, if he sketched, would undoubtedly term "the great desideratum" of the sketcher-from-nature. It is the most difficult thing in that world. It is [15] the kill-joy of my existence. The captain of a passenger ship which had called at Oporto once told me that he was summoned in the night to a raving passenger. This passenger had been visiting the incredible "wine-lodges" of the district during the day.

He lay in an upper berth kicking the ceiling and exclaiming in an agonised voice: I had had none since the early editions of Saturday afternoon. I had waited all Saturday in Dover harbour, which was full of men-of-war, for some sort of reasonable weather to allow me to move on towards Cowes, whither I was bound. And it had been a gloomy day, in spite of the sunshine and in spite of the bright crowds and the band on the esplanade. It seemed to be monstrous, then, that the glory of Cowes Regatta should be even impaired by fears of war. That the Regatta might be wiped entirely off the Calendar did not occur to me, because it was unthinkable. Soldiers and sailors had a peculiar air of importance and busy-ness.

A group of officers and men manoeuvring the immense iron booms for closing the eastern entrance to the harbour [17] might have been a hierarchy rearranging the swing of the solar universe. Another group of officers went out of the harbour on a harbour-tug, and cruised to and fro—and me after them in a dinghy! A royal train came on the pier and debarked mysterious personages. I guessed that the train bore the Empress Dowager of Russia, and I was right; but at the time one was more inclined to believe in the dispatch of another special peace envoy. One instinctively related every phenomenon observed to the theory of the chances of war. If one saw a soldier with a girl, one said: At Dover a harbour clock striking at night had had the very ring of destiny; and as for a tramp steamer suddenly blowing off steam—its effect on the nerves was appalling.

So that, although convinced that there would be no general European war, I had determined on Saturday at midnight that, wherever I spent Sunday, I would not spend it in Dover harbour. In response to the perhaps justifiable curiosity of the Dover harbour-official on watch as to my destination, I had stated as we passed out on [18] Sunday morning that I did not know my destination. Our hope was to reach towards the French coast and then beat up towards Dungeness; failing that, to make Boulogne; failing Boulogne, Calais.

My skipper had shown hesitations about entering any foreign country, but I had reassured him. The sequel was Calais, and in a gale of wind! We could not possibly have made Boulogne. And then, after the risk of being smashed against one of the piers on entering, to be told that the general mobilisation had begun! Moreover, the high wind was carrying the dust and litter from all the streets of Calais and depositing it on my decks. And straw hats, pursued by men, were travelling at terrific speeds along the quays. The fact is, the Channel is no place for yachting. Then the health officers came aboard, climbing gingerly down the ladder. One was about forty-five and the other about thirty, and both were serious, respectable, urbane men.

I invited them into the saloon to transact business. With all their calm they were much more exciting than the shore-loafer. I said I hoped they would not commandeer me. The older one said: You are too small. We began to talk about the causes of the war. These two excellent and sensible men seemed to symbolise the absolute innocence of France in the affair. They had no desire nor enthusiasm for a war. They were whole-hearted in their condemnation of German diplomacy so much so that it would have been futile for me to state my viewsbut they were by no means whole-hearted in their condemnation of the German character.

Indeed, they at once put a limit to a rather hasty generalisation of mine framed to soothe them. When I said that the British [20] Fleet would certainly be placed at the disposal of France I was not at all certain of it, but one talks at random and sentimentally in these international conversationsthey were obviously reassured; but when I softly predicted success for France, the elder one only said gravely: In the afternoon, friendship having been established, they came to see me again, and to assure me that their receipt for dues gave me the right to depart whenever I chose. However, I relied less on their receipt than on the blue ensign of the British Naval Reserve, which I was entitled to fly, and which I kept flying all night, monstrously contrary to the etiquette of yachts.

After lunch I went ashore and walked about in the wind and the dust. Fragments of the "Marseillaise" came down on the wind. Baggage carts abounded; also motor-cars. I read the proclamations on the walls. The mobilisation order, with its coloured flags, was fairly comprehensive; it included all liable men not already with the colours. There was further a patriotic outburst by the Mayor of Calais, neatly turned in its grandiloquence; and, more disturbing, an announcement to foreigners ordering them to go instantly and report themselves to the Mayor, and from him to obtain permission either to clear out or to remain.

Personally, I ignored this, relying on my blue ensign. Finally, there was an instruction to [21] horse-owners to bring all liable horses to the centre of the town on Monday morning. Save for a few uncomfortable submarines, the harbour and basins were quite quiet.

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED ME

I was getting too close to the submarines when a sentry politely asked me to remove myself. I did so, and went to the station. At amateug Wholly manikin dating amateur in lisbon there was everything except trains and newspapers. The two middle-aged dames at the bookstall told Porn star sex vids with firmness and pride that newspapers existed not for the present in Calais. Many soldiers were preparing to entrain; scarcely a woman could be seen. I went thence to the enormous beach where the Casino and the cabins are, and the distressing monument to the victims of the Pluviose.

Two Wholoy performances were billed for that day at the Casino, but Lisobn could see no sign of them. Nearly all the scores of cabins were locked up; all the bathing-vans were deserted. People wandered vaguely along the planks at the top Wholly manikin dating amateur in lisbon the beach—here and there an elegant, too elegant, woman. The high wind swept violently across the huge ij of sand, carrying sand along in interminable undulating lines that looked like yellow vapour. A very curious spectacle! A priest came down in charge of a school of boys. They took off their shoes and stockings, and against each shoe the wind immediately raised a hillock of sand.

The priest took off his shoes and stockings and tucked up his skirts. As he entered the water [22] he carefully washed his feet; it was a wise action. Then I went into the town dominated by the jangle of car-bells. Calais is a picturesque city; it is the southernmost outpost of Flemish architecture on that coast; the people, nanikin, are a little Flemish. The populace was interested and talkative, but neither gay nor manikih. On the faces of only two women did I see an expression of positive sorrow. Janikin nightfall the wind and the dust dropped. The town grew noisier. The "Marseillaise" was multiplied Whollly the air. My Wholl and cook went ashore, and returned kisbon the news that amaateur the town they had received an ovation as British tars.

The next morning it rained heavily. We crept out to sea at 4. Apparently, no one had noticed us, but at the mouth of the harbour two submarines were uncomfortably in waiting, as though for ourselves. Dxting exchanged salutes, and I was free. Winds and tides favouring, we made a magnificent Blonde sluts in oral to Brightlingsea in exactly ten hours. Once, near the Edinborough Lightship, we were hailed mznikin a British iin boat, who demanded the yacht's name. We held up a white dxting with the yacht's name thereon in black, and the torpedo boat, sheering off, gave an august consent to our continuance.

The whole coast was patrolled. Brightlingsea was precisely as gay as it always is on every August Bank Holiday. Not a sign of war. But we had not dropped anchor ten minutes liabon my cook, who belongs to the Naval Reserve, received official notice that he was "wanted. We get a guinea a week drill money, but we shan't get so much now we're called up. Much as I admired the organisation of the State, I was confirmed in my ancient conviction that the Government has still something to learn as an employer. Wells have a great responsibility, a very great responsibility. It is you who are really the teachers.

I said that my only reason for writing a given thing was that I felt like writing it. The Human Machine and Literary Taste, and so on. But there are others—well——" I said that I knew all about her implications, and that some of my books had got liwbon into dreadful trouble; but I couldn't help what some people thought, and it didn't influence me. Whereupon she remarked with surprising intelligence: You only want to put down the daying as you see it. Still, it's a great ilsbon. Many people have thought that you were datong down to the public taste. I always thought it did!

If Naughty women in versailles sentimental you may be as vicious as you please. But if you can't be sentimental don't touch the forbidden subjects unless you want to be up against the strongest force in England and Scotland. English hypocrisy is bad enough. You see, some of your books have given us intense pleasure, the most maniki pleasure. I read it because I wmateur it was my duty to read it. He would probably read Justine and L'Education de Laure from a sense of duty.

I think he understood [26] it. I'm sure he did. He's a very high literary authority in Edinburgh. You needn't read it, of Wholyl, but of course you will. You're resentful, and you want to punish us. It's a very great responsibility. But I'm so glad to have had this talk with you. The shortage of military nurses is serious. Adequate nursing means quicker recovery of the wounded. Nurses therefore mean soldiers. For a year past the authorities have been worried by this shortage, which has now become acute, if not alarming. Last week a new bed hospital in London was ready—except that it entirely lacked nurses.

The exportation of both nurses and doctors has been frowned upon for a long time. To-day it is absolutely forbidden, as those war-charity committees who occupy themselves with allied countries are learning to their dismay. The War Office, of course, cannot directly control by ukase the movements of women, or of doctors over military age, but it can and does achieve its end by refusing passports. The causes of the shortage are two. Many of them have retired in collapse. Others have retired in resentment. And the tales told have impeded recruitment to the thinned ranks—ranks at best extremely inadequate.

Women-workers in every branch of activity have met with injustice. They are underpaid in the War Office, and thousands of them are underpaid in the munition factories. Also they are underpaid by private employers. For example, I know cases of competent girls who enthusiastically went to London as drivers [28] of motor-vans in order to liberate men. I could name two girls who were employed by two wealthy and prominent firms in the West End. They worked from 8. Van-driving in Central London may be deemed to be skilled labour. The price of a male chauffeur in London is now 60s. In a few months these girls were worn out. One of them, when she gave notice, was offered a rise of 2s.

The offer did not change her resolve. After a one-roomed miserable existence in London they returned to country houses and spread the glorious news of the metropolitan labour-market. The other cause of the shortage is that women who might have volunteered have not volunteered. While many women have left the idleness of comfortable houses in town and country for war-work, many women without ties have not. I am personally acquainted with instances, especially in the country, which I unhesitatingly call scandalous.

Again, there are women who plunge furiously into war-work—and tire of it for no reason save that a ridiculous upbringing has deprived them of the necessary moral stamina. I talked at length to one such woman the other night. She was rich, and had done six months' hard in a Government office for 35s. The feat was enormous for her. She went back with a terrific rebound into private life. So what is one to do? Then there are the women who from the first have deemed it their most sacred duty to give officers on leave a good time. In this connection one is entitled to comment upon the marvellous silence which the Press has maintained about the raiding by the police of the establishment where the art of giving officers on leave a good time is practised in its highest and costliest perfection.

Yet the event had immense possibilities as "copy. Britain is not a country where there is one law for the rich and another for the poor. But it is a country where the swiftness of the law is in inverse ratio to the wealth and prestige of the person who defies it. A bus-horse, checked too late, knocked his nose against a policeman's arm. The policeman, very ugly in face, cursed heartily. The wise driver said naught, but just listened and listened to the imprecations. As he was moving off, he gazed inoffensively curious at the policeman's features, and remarked with gentle melancholy: The conductor of the horse-omnibus just in front, taking down the way-bill from its pocket, threw over his shoulder: A certain English conductor is noted among orchestras for the beauty of his language at rehearsals.

In fact, his remarks have been recorded verbatim by an orchestral player interested in literature. He said to the orchestra, in the way of guidance: Parker makes his instrument weep. Although I authoritatively informed the pianist that the methods of the conductor in question at rehearsals were so conducive to perspiration that on the days preceding musical festivals he regularly changed all his clothes three times a day, the pianist would not admit that he was a conductor at all. You cannot conduct if you always stand with your legs together. It is physically impossible. I once went to a Philharmonic concert, and it was not so very long ago either—as music goes.

Precisely, it was in November Strauss's Also sprach Zarathustra was in the programme. Now, Also sprach Zarathustra was composed aboutand first performed in England, at the Crystal Palace, in But the Philharmonic programme in said: Music is a vast subject, and I recall all sorts of things about it. I remember meeting an orchestral player lugging his violoncello one night late in the streets of London. There's a lunatic asylum there. There was a ball for the lunatics, with an interval in the middle. We were the interval. I am reminded that a young lady went into a music shop and said: A wealthy lady remarked to a friend of mine: Who are the authors? But the shop-girl assured me that she had read them herself and they were all very good.

At the very Philharmonic concert referred to above, I heard one musical dilettante say to another, after the Strauss: She smiled her self-satisfaction all over the place, revelling in the opportunity which such shows give to a leisured class of feeling artistically superior. He was just pulling our legs. She said it to me. I get up rather late, paint until lunch, paint after lunch till it's dark, and then till dinner I mix my colours. It makes you feel virtuous. It makes you feel like an old master. Goodness knows, it's the only time when you do feel like an old master.

Said the oldest master of them all, glancing about him and counting: Waiter, bring forty-nine whiskies-and-sodas. Then you can go to bed. I pointed out that no battles, except civil scraps, had been fought on British soil for centuries. And there are pulse-feelers who regularly every week register—by a gauge of their own—the state of public opinion in regard to the war. According to them the fluctuations, especially in London, are continual and very appreciable. For myself, I have never been able to appreciate them. I find that British mankind is steadily divided into three main classes, and that nothing but an extremely great and striking event will shift individuals out of one class into another class.

The first class consists of optimistic persons—and military officers are well represented in it. These persons have remained optimistic through everything, and for them the war is always going to end in about three months. They do not reason; they feel. The second class consists of grim, obstinate persons; it is the largest class. Speculation as to the end of the war rather bores them. They drive on, and on, and on. They are inclined to ignore both the pros and the cons. The third class consists of pessimistic persons. They were pessimistic after Mons and through Gallipoli; they were pessimistic when Douaumont was taken by the Germans, and equally pessimistic when it was taken from the Germans.

Their haunting fear is that civilisation is doomed. This fear seems to keep them [36] awake at nights, and they reflect in the dark upon previous disasters to civilisation. I do not profess history, but I will venture the view that the great historical collapses have been made possible by one thing, namely, the corrupt growth of privilege. This was the real cause, for example, of the Roman collapse, of the Carlovingian collapse, and of the Bourbon collapse. Indeed, history is quite monotonous in this respect. I will also venture the view that the collapses have steadily decreased in intensity. Even the Northern tribes were anxious, indeed pathetically anxious, to preserve Roman institutions.

As for the French revolution, it was immediately followed by a system decidedly superior to that which had been destroyed. Now, I do not see any sign of the corrupt extension of privilege—either at present or in recent times. I see the reverse. Like about 50, Sunderland fans at the time, the ball itself is now deflated. There are more cups than the Co-op crockery department, more caps than a vintage car rally, more talking points than a decade of Match of the Day. Fatty Foulke features — looms large — too. The museum even claims the socalled kicking block, said to have been kept in the Wolves dressing room so that players might break in new boots against it. Peter Holme, one of the collections officers, says that the museum already has travelling exhibitions in Turkey, France and, er, Skipton.

The replica FA Cup was last heard of in Carlisle Peter also recalled that they could almost mount an entire blow football exhibition, though games — beautiful games, no doubt — all but overflow the place.

Another museum volunteer proves to be a Hartlepool United historian. Mr Phelan gets him to confirm that Terry Turnbull was, indeed, the oldest player to score on his Football League debut. Even the cafe sells proper football food, Bovril just like the tea hut used to make and pie and mushy peas. Few appear hopeful of an added-time equaliser. Club president John Elliott, in attendance a few days earlier, had recommended that they put a few bob on his horse Sendali, out at Redcar that afternoon. It won at Sendali is simply an amalgamation of dam and sire. For the owner, however, the bank holiday was to get even better. We spent an hour and a half with her and finally made it.

It proved a very good Easter. Are they, wonders John — Durham lad — the two oldest in the league? The number of readers who offered Sunderland Eye Infirmary was gratifying.


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