“When Violet and Denys finally get married, after Vita decides just before the wedding not to go through with the plan for the two women to elope (she had heard from Harold, and ‘something snapped in my mind’), the honeymooners and Vita all find themselves in Paris together, and Vita takes Violet away from Denys (‘I wanted to say “Don’t you know, you stupid fool, she is mine in every sense of the word?”), then Denys takes her back from Vita (‘That night I dined at the Ritz, and from the open window of her room Violet watched me, and Denys sobbed in the room behind her’, and the general conclusion is that ‘That day seems to have made a great impression upon him’ – well, I suppose it would) after which ‘they went away to St Jean de Luz, and I went to Switzerland with Harold’, and then they all go back to England, but soon the girls are off again, to Paris (‘I used to sit in cafés drinking coffee, and watching people go by’ – fancy!) and Monte Carlo (‘divine’), where ‘a complication arose over Denys announcing his arrival at Cannes’ (by now his blue eyes must have been damned near falling out of his head, never mind starting), and they all form twos again and go back to London, but then Violet goes off to Amiens, where Vita is to join her, for ever this time, only when Vita follows she takes Denys along, which complicates the situation until Denys says he will leave them and never come back (‘Denys cried the whole way’), but he does come back, this time travelling with Harold and only a couple of lengths behind Violet’s father, and then Harold actually suggests that Violet may have slept with her own husband (‘I thought I should have gone mad when she said that’) so Vita makes a scene and goes off with Harold from Amiens to Paris, and Violet’s father catches the same train, but no sooner do they get to Paris than Violet turns up (maybe she was at the other end of the train), and the two girls go up to Harold’s and Vita’s room, whereupon Harold bursts in with Denys (how many people were on that train, for God’s sake?), and Denys swears that he has never done anything unbecoming with his own wife (‘I promise you there has never been anything of that kind between Violet and me’), which mollifies Vita a little, ‘but still it was bad enough that she should have deceived me even to a certain extent’, and then it all gets rather confused, except that at one point Vita goes to Paris, Violet goes to Bordighera and Denys goes to Cornwall (no mention of Harold – perhaps he’s just gone to bed), and among other places visited by the various parties are Avignon, San Remo and Venice – oh, now I remember where Harold was – he says he has been ‘spending his time with rather low people, the demi-monde’, and he sums up by saying ‘my heart feels like a pêche melba’, and then Violet fades away and Harold and Vita live happily ever after, apart from Vita’s having an affair with Virginia Woolf, and another one, just to vary things, with Geoffrey Scott, while Harold…

“The long and the short of the matter is that practically everybody in this ludicrous story has a nice comfortable income, apart from the charwoman whom Vita steps across when visiting Violet early one morning, and of whom she says ‘There was a dreary slut scrubbing the doorstep’. When you have plenty of money you can not only afford to rush about between London and Amiens and Paris (where you stay at the Ritz, of course – well, I mean, doesn’t everybody?) and San Remo and Bordighera and Monte Carlo and Avignon and Venice; you can also afford (if you are silly enough to want to) to spend your time striking grotesque poses, keening over your own emotions, and saying things like ‘I had been vouchsafed insight, as one sometimes is’. The ‘dreary slut’ scrubbing the doorstep could no more afford the poses than she could afford the travel, and I would dearly like to read her diary, particularly if it contained a passage about some stupid, snobbish, affected woman who stepped right on to her nice clean doorstep the minute after she had just whitewashed the bleedin’ thing.”

Bernard Levin, reviewing Portrait Of A Marriage by Nigel Nicolson in The Observer, 28 October 1973, collected in Taking Sides (1979).

ADDENDUM : Elsewhere in the collection, Levin writes thus of Yoko Ono’s husband (in 1974): “There is nothing wrong with Mr Lennon that could not be cured by standing him upside down and shaking him gently until whatever is inside his head falls out.”

Could it be that the shade of Christopher Smart is haunting the corridors of a large and important municipal building in far away Oregon? This unlikely question is prompted by a discovery made by Brit over at Think Of England. In the course of his valuable research into the Official State Crustaceans of the USA, Brit unearthed House Joint Resolution 37 from the Oregon Legislative Assembly, adopted in 2009.

There is nobody called Smart among the Representatives and Senators who passed the Resolution, but it is clear to me that the mad poet’s spirit hovered over whomsoever drafted it. Granted, it uses “Whereas” rather than Christopher Smart’s favoured “Let”s and “For”s in Jubilate Agno, but otherwise this could be a lost fragment of that great poem:

Whereas the Dungeness crab fishery is the most valuable single-species fishery in Oregon, making Dungeness crab an important part of Oregon’s economy; and

Whereas the Dungeness crab is an iconic Oregon symbol; and

Whereas the Dungeness crab is the most delicious of the crab species; and

Whereas the Dungeness crab annual harvest begins each year on December 1, when Dungeness crabs are hard-shelled, full of meat and in their prime; and

Whereas the Dungeness crab harvest ends on August 14 to minimize handling, so that post-molt, soft-shelled crabs can fill out undisturbed; and

Whereas this management method has served the resource well for decades and ensures that the Dungeness crab fishery is truly sustainable; now, therefore,

Be It Resolved by the Legislative Assembly of the State of Oregon:

That the Dungeness crab is the official crustacean of the State of Oregon.

More at Agence Eureka

One can truncate it slightly, and omit the inverted commas, without altering the essential meaning. This is the best headline since that business about Blunkett and the cow:

Norman Tebbit attacks child in dragon outfit

NOTE : Hmm. The Daily Mail has changed the headline on its story, thus making my truncation and omission comments meaningless. All I can say is that it’s a good job I posted this version before it was lost.

Here are two things I learned today, which, taken together, have planted in my brain the idea of writing A Dictionary Of Great Composers. These would be the complete entries for those named, and dozens, nay, hundreds of others would be similarly brief:

Schubert, Franz. Upon his deathbed, his final wish was that someone would bring him some books by James Fenimore Cooper.

Tippett, Michael. He referred to the refrigerator in his kitchen as “Bernard Levin”.

John F Ptak at the invaluable Ptak Science Books blog has a superb post on Ranter and anti-Ranter pamphlets of the 17th century, in which he celebrates their way with titles, like this one:

Hell broke loose: or, the notorious design of the wicked Ranters, discovered on Sunday last at Black-Fryers Being a true relation of the strange proceedings of Mr. Vaughan, and his wicked proselytes; and their entring of Black-Fryers church in sermon time, like so many spirits from hell, with four damnable papers in the hands, containing such horrible, audacious, and abominable songs, the like not to be parallel’d in former ages. With the manner how this onsolent Ranter traced the streets from Black-Fryers to Saint Paul’s Church-yard, in his Holland shirt, without doublet or breeches, a treble cap, like the Pope’s miter, with silk fring, and white shooes, and stockings. With their damnable plots, and conspiracies against the ministers of the gospel: their examination before the right honourable the Lord Mayor of London; the sad and woful speeched, made by the ringleader of the Ranters, concerning the city magistrates, and golden chains: and the committing of them to Bridewell till the next sessions. 1650

“Snow! Gor had traveled far, but never had he seen a storm like this with white cold in the air. Again a shiver that was part fear rippled through his muscles and gripped with invisible fingers at his knotted arms.

“‘The Beast of the North is angry!’ he told himself.

“Through the dark and storm, animals drifted past before the blasts of cold. They were fleeing; they were full of fear – fear of something that the dull mind of Gor could not picture. But in that mind was the same wordless panic.

“Gor, the man-animal of that pre-glacial day, stared wondering, stupidly, into the storm with eyes like those of the wild pig. His arms were long, almost to his knees; his hair, coarse and matted, hung in greasy locks about his savage face. Behind his low, retreating forehead was place for little of thought or reason. Yet Gor was a man…”

From Two Thousand Miles Below : A Four-Part Novel by Charles Willard Diffin, published in Astounding Stories between June 1932 and January 1933. New research suggests Diffin may have been writing about a fictionalised version of the Grunty Man who is, as we know, older than the Earth itself.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that, in this country at least, the cultural tastes of top sportspersons are irredeemably bland and lowbrow. Our native footballers, for example, when asked to name their favourite books, will invariably mention Harry Potter or Andy McNab, if, that is, they have ever read any books at all. (This is not the case with foreign footballers, particularly the French, who are intellectual titans by comparison.) Similarly, the default music choice for sporting champs seems to be smooth jazz, or jazz funk, or, in the world o’ rock, U2, Coldplay, and Phil Collins.

The great exception to this has always been snookerist Steve Davis. The carefully-crafted public image of a man who, away from a snooker table, is a boring mediocrity disguises the truth that Mr Davis is a fanatical and knowledgeable enthusiast of prog and related musics. Indeed, I seem to recall that some years ago he used his wealth to persuade Teutonic nutcases Magma to reform for a series of concerts, and has expressed a desire to do the same with Henry Cow, so far in vain.

So I am extremely grateful to reader Alasdair Dickson for drawing my attention to PhoenixFM, Brentwood and Billericay’s community radio station, where Mr Davis has a regular show called The Interesting Alternative. Look at those playlists! As Mr Dickson says, there is a fair amount of witless prog noodling, but also early Soft Machine, the 5UU’s, Camberwell Now, Univers Zero, and many other Recommended or Recommendedish records.

I know that Hooting Yard readers never listen to any other radio station than ResonanceFM, but until the powers-that-be at Borough High Street snap up Steve Davis, you will all be forgiven for tuning in online to PhoenixFM for his show, wherever you are in the world.

“The first volume in the series, The Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol, was necessarily confined to the activities of the young organization; but Rob and his mates met and overcame many difficulties that are well worth reading about.

“In the second volume, The Boy Scouts on the Range, were recounted a series of strange adventures that befell some of the Eagles during a visit to the Far Southwest, where they took part in the wild life of a cattle ranch.

“Through the pages of The Boy Scouts and the Army Airship the reader will find that Rob and his comrades always bore themselves manfully, no matter the emergency; and that they scrupulously observed ‘scout law’ under any and every occasion, as every true wearer of the khaki makes it a point to do.

“After this, followed an account of many remarkable happenings that befell the Eagles when under canvas. The Boy Scouts’ Mountain Camp has deservedly been reckoned one of the very best scout books ever published for boys, and those who own a copy are likely to read it many times.

“Once more, chance allowed some of the leading characters in the Hampton Troop to come in touch with Government officers who were experimenting with a wonderfully designed submarine. It happened that Rob and his friends were enabled to assist Uncle Sam’s agents in defeating the plans of foreign spies who tried to steal the design of the new invention. In the pages of The Boy Scouts for Uncle Sam are recorded the adventures that accompanied their service, as well as mention of the reward following their victory.

“It was a happy chance that allowed some of the boys to pay a visit to the then uncompleted Panama Canal. While in the Canal Zone they again demonstrated that they were always wide-awake and devoted to the service of their country. Much useful information will also be found between the covers of this volume, called The Boy Scouts at the Panama Canal.

“Once more, Rob and several of his close adherents were unexpectedly allowed to take a trip. Andy Bowles, the bugler of the troop, had an uncle who owned a cattle ranch down in Chihuahua, in Mexico. He was sick, and unable to go down himself to dispose of the stock before the fighting forces of rebels and Federals drove the herds away. Accordingly, he sent his nephew and several of his chums to seek General Villa, whom he had once befriended, and gain his assistance in selling the valuable stock. The wonderful things they saw, and the peculiar adventures that came their way, have all been described in the seventh volume, just preceding this, under the title of The Boy Scouts Under Fire in Mexico.

“That, telling briefly some of the remarkable things that happened in their career as Boy Scouts, will have to suffice to introduce Rob and his two chums to the reader.”

From The Boy Scouts On Belgian Battlefields by Lieutenant Howard Payson (1915)

“Few men, no matter what their calling, can have been the object of so many different descriptions as were applied to him… [Edward George Hemmerde, K.C., the Recorder for Liverpool] was variously depicted as ‘a profligate’, ‘a wastrel’, ‘a martyr to the establishment’, ‘a stormy petrel’, ‘a soured man’, ‘a good-time Charlie’, and ‘a man who was much maligned and misunderstood’; he was also… ‘an irrepressible, loud-mouthed, honourable and outspoken braggart’… His physical perfection was marred by only one thing – or rather, two things: his feet. They were enormous. In profile, straight-backed and vastly-booted, Hemmerde was shaped like the letter L… He was conscious, too, of the unloveliness of his speaking voice, which, when he was at all excited, rose to a high-pitched screech. Since it took very little to get him excited, his voice, almost as often as not, was up in the higher registers, causing distress to sensitive ear-drums…”

From The Killing Of Julia Wallace by Jonathan Goodman (1969)

I have just started to read The Killing Of Julia Wallace, Jonathan Goodman’s account of one of the twentieth century’s most intriguing murder mysteries. The events took place in 1931, in Liverpool. Thirty-odd pages in, I have been struck by the following:

One of the key locations is Menlove Avenue, the road where John Lennon grew up. The evening before the murder of his wife, William Herbert Wallace played chess with a man named McCartney, and on the day of the killing itself, he paid a visit to a Mrs Harrison. Alas, the index shows no sign of anyone called Starkey, or Starr. Still, three out of four loveable moptops is a pretty good tally so far as meaningless yet interesting coincidences go.

“The folklore of the plant is meagre, considering its wide distribution, but there are a number of curious superstitions connected with it. In some parts there is a belief that it thrives best if planted on Maundy Thursday; in others, that if planted under certain stars it will become watery. In Devonshire the people believe that the potato is a certain cure for the toothache – not taken internally, but carried about in the pocket. It is by several writers mentioned as a reputed cure for rheumatism in the same way; only it is prescribed that, in order to be an effective cure in such cases, the potato should be stolen. Mr. Andrew Lang mentions an instance of faith in the practice of this cure, which he came across in a London drawing-room. He regards this belief as a survival of the old superstitions about mandrake, and as analogous to the habit of African tribes who wear roots round the neck as protection against wild animals.”

Benjamin Taylor, Storyology : Essays In Folk-Lore, Sea-Lore, And Plant-Lore (1900)

ADDENDUM : It may be worth noting here that, if you were suffering from rheumatism in Aveyron, and, in attempting a cure, stole a potato from the Wild Boy of that place, he would begin to scream. Not unlike a mandrake root pulled from the soil.

In 1946, Jorge Luis Borges was appointed as poultry inspector for the Buenos Aires municipal market. He resigned immediately. Thus it was J W Gwin, rather than Borges, who went on to write Experiences Of A Poultry Literature Collector.

Thanks to My Ear-Trumpet Has Been Struck By Lightning for illustrative matter.

“It is the sublime inconsequence of a farm that I like, the confusion of noises, the sense of unreality that is given as a great and heavenly gift to human beings who live among thudding, moaning cattle, and tumbling milk-cans, and hens screeching underfoot and who, no matter how they try, can never coerce their lives into routine, but must always wait on the weather and market prices and the temperamental vagaries of their stock, and at one time spend idle weeks in the rain, and at another toil both day and night, and at yet another time waste precious hours chasing a cow which has got into the wrong field and which, in running away, impales itself eventually on the railings, or in segregating cock chickens of three weeks old who suddenly discover their sex and in one afternoon reduce each other to bleeding wisps of tow. That is what I like about a farm.”

Rayner Heppenstall, The Blaze Of Noon (1939)

As we know, tiny John Ruskin was allowed to jump off his favourite box on Sunday afternoons. Things were not nearly so idyllic for Augustus Hare:

“I remember that one day when we went to visit the curate, a lady very innocently gave me a lollypop, which I ate. This crime was discovered when I came home by the smell of peppermint, and a large dose of rhubarb and soda was at once administered with a forcing-spoon, though I was in robust health at that time, to teach me to avoid such carnal indulgences as lollypops for the future. For two years, also, I was obliged to swallow a dose of rhubarb every morning and every evening because – according to old-fashioned ideas – it was supposed to ‘strengthen the stomach’! I am sure it did me a great deal of harm, and had much to do with accounting for my after sickliness.”

From The Years With Mother : Being an abridgement of the first three volumes of The Story Of My Life by Augustus J C Hare (1952)