The Times Great Letters: A century of notable correspondence

Is it not a contradiction in terms to say that we offer degrees to politicians qua politicians, yet without reference to their politics? At least, this is contrary both to reason and to practice in normal cases, where the scholar, the littérateur, and the artist are chosen with the directest and most explicit reference to the value of their performances in scholarship, literature, or art. There are men here who joined in a similar public protest against Lord Randolph Churchill’s degree; this did not prevent Lord Randolph from receiving his degree on a majority vote. It is as certain as anything can be that Mr MacDonald would have had a sweeping majority; to doubt this would be to suggest, by that very doubt, the strongest possible justification for the opposers’ action. In the absence of absolutely clear understandings and precedents, this matter could not possibly have been emptied of all political significance. Some people (as things are at this moment) would have found political significance in the unopposed grant of a degree; even more will find political significance in the fact that it was opposed. Therefore (to repeat my earliest question in a different form), must not a politician be always ready to face a politician’s chances?

If universities deliberately intend that a certain studied gesture, when made to a politician, should mean something essentially different from that identical gesture towards a scientist, then ought it not to be understood beforehand, beyond any possibility of misconception, that this offer of a degree is simply an automatic sequel to the King’s offer of the Premiership?

Yours, &c.,

G. G. COULTON

Cambridge University had been debating whether to award the customary honorary degree to Ramsay MacDonald, the Labour leader, after he became Prime Minister.

Some dons took issue with his opposition to the First World War and his recent encouraging of the General Strike. MacDonald eventually let it be known he did not want the honour. Nearly 60 years later, Oxford would find itself in the same position – see page

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The Yale’s Horns

15 June 1926

Sir, A few years ago, when the King’s Beasts were placed on the bridge over the moat leading to the gateway at Hampton Court Palace, I was distressed beyond measure at the effigy of the Yale1. Both its horns were directed backwards! I drew the attention of the late Lord Harcourt to this on more than one occasion, and he was genuinely vexed and said that something must be done. But judging by a picture postcard I have recently received, nothing has been done.

My distress and grief have been increased by the action of those who are responsible for restoring the King’s Beasts on the outside of the Royal Chapel at Windsor, for here again the Yale has both horns pointing backwards. The Dean of Windsor kindly lent me for a day or two a little book which clearly shows this appalling lack of appreciation of what a Yale really is. For it is in the very essence of a Yale to have one horn pointing forward over the nose and the other horn pointing backwards. I have traced the history of the Yale back to the fourth or fifth Egyptian dynasty, back to the old kingdom, nearly 3,000 years bc. One finds them repeatedly throughout Egyptian art. Herodotus describes them as ỏπισθονóμοί, because their horns curve forward in front of their heads so that it is not possible for them when grazing to move forward, as in that case their horns would become fixed in the ground. Aristotle gives a similar account. Pliny describes their horns as mobile, so that should the front horn be injured in a contest the horns are swivelled round and the hinder horn now comes into action. But in spite of Pliny’s uncritical mind and unbridled fancy, he could hardly have invented the Yale. At the present time certain of the domesticated cattle in the great territory of the Bahr-el-Ghazal, to the south of the White Nile, have their horns trained by the natives, one to project forward and one to project backwards.

One of the Canons of Windsor states that the new King’s Beast on the outside of the Royal Chapel was copied from one in the interior of the chapel. Should this be the case, those who have been or are responsible for the King’s Beasts at Windsor are doubly guilty, for they are misleading the public not only without but within the walls of the sacred edifice. It is impossible to test the accuracy of this statement owing to the present reparations to the building. A distinguished archaeologist in the neighbourhood of Windsor who has been kind enough to inspect for me the false Yales on the outside of the chapel, writes that “we can do little but mourn.” But surely that is a counsel of despair. At Hampton Court Palace, and still more on or in the Royal Chapel at Windsor, under the very shadow of Royalty, we might at least expect a certain degree of historical and heraldic accuracy in such matters as the King’s Beasts, and the horns of the Yales should be set right.

I am, Sir, yours faithfully,

A. E. SHIPLEY

1 A mythical beast akin to an ibex used in heraldry and associated with the arms of the Royal Family since Tudor times. It also figures in those of Christ’s College, Cambridge, of which Shipley was Master.

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Timed Out

5 July 1926

Sir, The Eton and Harrow match is again at hand. May an imponderable quantity, who with countless other such, has suffered from four consecutive draws, venture a suggestion?

Whatever the rule, could it not be the practice in this match for the ingoing batsman always to leave the pavilion gate for the wicket as the outgoing batsman reaches the pavilion gate? Considering that there are 30 to 40 intervals on the fall of wickets, during each of which at least a minute (on the average) is lost, more than half an hour would be saved. Last year’s match would have been finished and not impossibly that of the year before. In fact, one has seen several draws in this match which another half-hour would have converted into a win.

This definite practice would have one other advantage: it would automatically save whichever side was tempted in that direction from lingering to the legal limit between wickets to avert defeat. Good sportsmanship, as a rule, takes care of that, but one remembers hearing shouts of “Hurry up!” The reasons against this saving of time no doubt will now be given to him, for they are with difficulty imagined by

Your faithful servant,

JOHN GALSWORTHY

The Nobel Prize-winning novelist had been captain of football at Harrow. His suggestion did not bear fruit until 1980, since when incoming batsmen can be given out unless they get to the wicket within a short time, now 3 minutes.

The annual cricket match against Eton was a highlight of the summer Season.

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Silly Point

11 August 1926

Sir, Down ’ere we be ’mazed along o’ they writer chaps an’ the goin’s on o’ they Testës. Laws be laws, an’ rools be rools, an’ they as makes ’em should keep ’em. Paarson — they sez as ’ow the rev’rend gentleman played fer the Blues afore ’e was so ’igh — tell’d us: “Once they arm-chair crickets gets yer into the papers, yer ’ave to be’ave yerself ’cardin’lye. That be the crucks of the matter.” I never learned French lingo, but we agrees along of ’im. So do Joe Rummery, as ’as umpir’d fer us nigh fitty yers.

Laast Saturday we at Firlin’ played a side from Lunnon — furriners, they be — an’ we ’ad two goes apiece, though I knaws we only played from foor till eight, cuz Farmer Beckley said Eb an’ me must finish that ten-acre field first.

I was out twice leg-afore, an’ it bain’t no use sayin’ “wot fer,” cuz Joe wunt be druv. “If it ’its yer leg, yer goes out, sartin sure,” sez Joe, who knaws the rools. Joe ’as the same coppers to count over-balls as when he started, with picturs o’ the Good Queen on ’em.

We thinks as ’ow they chaps at Lunnon be narvous, else ’ow should they be allus callin’ fer tay as soon as they be done dinner? An’ these paper chaps makes ’em wuss, a-tellin’ us wot it be about, pilin’ up pettigues (Paarson sez “worries”), till they batters wunt knaw whether they should be ther at all, or som’eres else.

Firlin’s played ’ere ’unnerds o’ yers, long afore that ther Mary Bone lady started ’er pitch at Lards in Lunnon, though we likes ’er, an’ ’opes she’ll keep purty blithesome an’ not fergit that we be cricketers too. We ain’t wantin’ foor stumps, as we finds three a plenty, an’ we ain’t thinkin’ that they pros an’ such like ’ave read the rools. If they did as Paarson sez his Irish friend did — when yer sees a ’ead, ’it it— ther wouldn’t be no cause fer this gurt talk o’ foor days.

I am, &c.,

F. CARTWRIGHT

It was felt in cricketing circles that, because of advances in preparing pitches, modern batsmen were scoring too freely off bowlers. Reforms to what was then regarded as the national game were mooted by correspondents to The Times. The options generally favoured were widening the wicket with an extra stump or extending the duration of first-class matches from three to four days in the hopes of enabling fewer to be drawn. In the event, no changes were made, prompting England some years later to target Australian batsmen rather than their wickets: see Bodyline p. 116.

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British Films

18 March 1927

Sir, I hope that Mr. Percival’s excellent letter in The Times last Wednesday will persuade those who still have minds to make up of the folly of the Government’s muddle-headed proposals for meeting mediocrity more than halfway. Professed patriots are at times very hard to understand. They prefer the word “British” to cover a multitude of sins rather than wishing it, as the more arrogant and less noisy of us do, to stand as a symbol of merit. Why a sandbag rather than a lantern?

On another page of your paper I read that a number of eminent authors and actors have placed their services at the disposal of a new enterprise called “British Incorporated Pictures.” This is, I think, the only country in the world that has not yet realized that films must be conceived and interpreted as films. None of the really great pictures have been adapted from books and few of the great performances, with the exception, of course, of Miss Pauline Frederick’s, have come from stage actors. Until literature and the theatre realize that the cinema is not a subsidiary concern to be despised intellectually and exploited financially we shall never get down to the real problem of producing good British films. After all, painters do not tell us that they are taking up the violin in order to help music!

Yours faithfully,

ELIZABETH BIBESCO

Elizabeth Bibesco was an author and the daughter of Herbert Asquith, the former Prime Minister, and his second wife Margot Tennant.

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hats Off

22 April 1927

Sir, A duty on hats would be no new thing. A century ago no self-respecting gentleman could visit France without bringing back a Paris bonnet as a present for a lady friend. But the gift was of no value unless it was smuggled. At the landing port a number of bareheaded women used to board the packet-boat on arrival. For a consideration, one would don a bonnet and go on shore with it thus making it free of duty. As soon as it was safely on land it was returned to its rightful owner. When I was a boy my father used to tell me stories of the filthy heads on which the Paris creations were brought on to British soil.

There is a legend that one of the Imperial crowns of Delhi, in the possession of an English officer after the Mutiny, was similarly brought to England, but on the head of the owner’s baby. That baby it is said, later became a distinguished General.

I am, &c.

GEORGE A. GRIERSON

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“Sarah was Right”

2 September 1927

Sir, Our weather prophets are sadly incapable of interpreting the future. I was confronted this morning with the problem of a hay crop that might have been carried but would be far better for a few hours’ sunshine. Daventry told me last night that I might expect two or three fine days. So did this morning’s paper. And the 10.30 broadcast gave a special message to farmers to the same effect. So I decided to wait a day.

But my cowman said: “Sir, you’re wrong; Sarah says it’s going to rain.” Now Sarah is a rheumaticky cow that has previously shown great talent in meteorological prediction, and she was very lame this morning. But I trusted the human experts.

Sarah was right.

I wonder if the Meteorological Office would buy her. Her lameness affects her milk yield, and her milk record this year is deplorably low.

I am, Sir, &c.

H. C. HONY

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Gone to the dogs

23 December 1927

May I be permitted to express, on behalf of the executive committee of the Girls’ Life Brigade, strong disapproval of greyhound racing and its appalling effect upon the girlhood of our nation? It has come to our knowledge that girls of tender years are to be found at the racecourses betting on the various races. If such things are allowed to continue, what can be the outlook for the future of womanhood in our land? We are firmly of opinion that immediate and strong action should be taken to protect the youth of our country from these new and growing menaces, and we should like to take this opportunity of associating ourselves with every effort made to resist the opening of courses at the Crystal Palace (where so many young people assemble) and throughout our land.

Miss DORIS M. ROSE

Headquarters Secretary, The Girls’ Life Brigade

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Elocution Lessons

6 June 1928

Sir, The subject of elocution in the theatre being closely akin to speaking in our churches, may I suggest some few useful rules?

(1) Read or speak so that a person sitting at two-thirds of the total distance of the space to be reached may hear.

(2) Stop at the mental pictures the words are to convey − the punctuation marks are mainly the concern of the grammarian and the printer, e.g., “There was a man of the Pharisees (slight pause) named Nicodemus.”

(3) The speaker should acquaint himself with the acoustic properties and peculiarities of the building.

(4) If we are young or not too old to learn, a visit to the Law Courts, there to hear our leading barristers, or to the theatre to hear Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, who tells us, I believe, that “our syllables should be like pistol shots,” would be helpful.

(5) Our pauses must be at the right pace, lest we say, for instance, “a man going to see (sea) his wife, desires the prayers of the congregation.”

I am, &c.,

REV. W. WILLIAMSON

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Sleeping Out of Doors

21 July 1928

Sir, I was much interested in your article “Sleeping Out of Doors.” As I have myself slept out of doors every summer since 1912, perhaps some personal experience may be of use to others. My house is just ten miles from London Bridge, and, fortunately, my garden is not much overlooked, although I live in the centre of Bromley, in the High-street.

I first tried sleeping in a hammock, but found it draughty and difficult to turn over, so I soon took to sleeping on a canvas Army bed, which is easy to pack up if required. If the weather is fine, I always sleep under the stars, with no covering on my head, in a sleeping bag, with an extra rug if necessary. If the weather is cool or likely to rain, I sleep in a wooden shelter I had made facing south-east, just large enough to take the bed. I begin sleeping out when the night thermometer is about 47deg. to 50deg., that is, as a rule, early in May. This year I started on 20 April. Having once started, I go on through the summer till October, and have even slept out in my shelter on into November, when the temperature has fallen as low as 25deg. during the night. If it should be a wet night I stay indoors, but then usually feel the bedroom stuffy, although the windows are wide open, and not refreshed as I do outside. If it rains when I am in my bag, I do not mind, and have often slept out in a thunderstorm. This last week I slept six hours without waking and got up feeling fresh and keen like a schoolboy, though I am well past 60.

Friends say, what about midges and insects? Well, all I can say is that in 16 years I have only been bitten once by a mosquito. As to midges, they are very busy up till 10, but evidently go to bed before I do. As to other animals and insects, they have never worried me, and the secret, I believe, is that my bed stands 1ft. from the ground. I hate the cold weather, and look forward to the spring that I may sleep out; and to hear the “birds’ chorus” in the early morning in May is worth waking up for; it only lasts about 20 minutes, but must be heard to be appreciated. In June it dies down, and few birds sing after Midsummer Day.

When sleeping outdoors I never get a cold. I do not require so much time in bed, and wake refreshed in a way I never do indoors, with such an appetite for breakfast as no tonic can give. I enjoy the best of health, and wonder more people do not try it. During this summer weather I have never had any difficulty in keeping my rooms cool. My study has never been higher than 70deg., while outside in the shade my thermometer is 84deg. and 88deg., simply because

I shut my windows at 9 a.m. and pull down the blinds, and open them at 8 p.m. and leave them open all night. I bottle up the cool night air and shut out the air which is baked by the hot road and pavement. My study faces due west and has the sun streaming down nearly all day. Bedrooms may be kept cool in the same way.

Yours faithfully,

H. WYNNE THOMAS

The writer was a former president of the British Homeopathic Society.

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Very Little Brain

23 August 1928

Sir, I must make my contribution to cricket history; the only one I am likely to make. In 1899 I was playing for Westminster v. Charterhouse, the match of the year. Somehow or other the batsman at the other end managed to get out before I did, and the next man came in, all a-tremble with nervousness. He hit his first ball straight up in the air, and called wildly for a run. We all ran — he, I, and the bowler. My partner got underneath the ball first, and in a spasm of excitement jumped up and hit it again as hard as he could. There was no appeal. He burst into tears, so to speak, and hurried back to the pavilion. Whether he would have run away to sea the next day, or gone to Africa and shot big game, we shall never know, for luckily he restored his self-respect a few hours later by bowling Charterhouse out and winning the match for us. But here, for your Cricket Correspondent, is a genuine case of “Out, obstructing the field.”

Yours, &c.,

A. A. MILNE

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Moral of the Story

19 October 1928

Sir, It is a curious thing that when they speak of “immorality” in literature our moral reformers seem to have in mind only one department of misbehaviour. They complain that they see nothing but “sex” in the modern novel: and serious writers are entitled to complain there is too much “sex” in many of their sermons. For the majority of the population are not reading books about successful sexual aberration: they are reading books, and seeing plays, about successful murders, robberies, and embezzlements, about charming crooks and attractive burglars. And if there is any substance in the view that the literature of wrongdoing has a demoralizing effect upon popular conduct, we should be suffering now from an unprecedented wave of crime (which is not the case), and Mr. Edgar Wallace should be locked up (which would be a pity). Does the Home Secretary think that so many murders are good for “the little ones”? For my part, I would rather give my children a book which dealt with the difficulties of married life than a book which illustrated the simplicity of homicide. But I do not give them either. And I wish to assure the Home Secretary that my wife and I are capable of watching over our family’s reading without any Jixotic1 assistance from him. But I fear that it is no use talking; and very soon, I suppose, we shall see him tilting fearlessly at John Stuart Mill.*

I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

A. P. HERBERT

* “We can never be sure that the opinion we are endeavouring to stifle is a false opinion; and even if we were sure, stifling it would be an evil still.”

J. S. MILL

1 The decidedly authoritarian Home Secretary, William Joynson-Hicks, was known as “Jix”.

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In praise of bread

10 December 1928

Sir, Among the various ways in which agriculture is encouraged by the present Government of Italy is the institution of a yearly festival for the glorification of bread, with a hymn in its praise, to which Signor Mussolini has appended his name. The festival is held on April 13 and 14, and the “hymn” is one which surely no one but a countryman of St. Francis could have conceived. It is printed on cards which may be seen on many cottage walls in all parts of Italy. Below is a translation.

I am, Sir, yours very truly,

G.H. HALLAM

S. Antonio, Tivoli (Roma)

IN PRAISE OF BREAD

Italians!

Love Bread.

Heart of the home,

Perfume of the table,

Joy of the hearth.

Respect Bread,

Sweat of the brow,

Pride of labour,

Poem of sacrifice.

Honour Bread,

Glory of the fields,

Fragrance of the land,

Festival of life.

Do not waste Bread.

Wealth of your country,

The sweetest gift of God,

The most blessed reward of Human toil.

Mussolini

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“Caddie!”

6 February 1929

Sir, This will never do! For five days in the week we avail ourselves of The Times as it so competently deals with the less important affairs of life: politics, domestic or foreign; the imminence, hopes, fears of a General Election; the arrivals or departures of great people; the steady depreciation of our scanty investments; another century or two by Hobbs; or a stupendous break by Smith. But on the sixth day The Times is exalted in our eyes; for then your “Golf Correspondent,” in a column of wisdom, humour, and unmatched literary charm, deals with the one real thing in life.

This week for the first time he has deeply shocked and disappointed us all. I am but a “rabbit.” I confess to a handicap of 24 (at times) and a compassionate heart (always). I cannot bear to see a fellow creature suffer, and it is for this reason among others that I rarely find myself able to inflict upon an opponent the anguish of defeat. To-day I suffer for a whole world of caddies, wounded in the house of their friend. They learn in a message almost sounding a note of disdain that the verb which signifies their full activity is “to carry.”

By what restriction of mind can anyone suppose that this is adequate?

Does not a caddy in truth take charge of our lives and control all our thoughts and actions while we are in his august company? He it is who comforts us in our time of sorrow, encourages us in moments of doubt, inspires us to that little added effort which, when crowned with rare success, brings a joy that nothing else can offer. It is he who with majestic gravity and indisputable authority hands to us the club that he thinks most fitted to our meagre power, as though it were not a rude mattock but indeed a royal sceptre. It is he who counsels us in time of crisis, urging that we should “run her up” or “loft her,” or “take a line a wee bit to the left, with a shade of slice.” Does he not enjoin us with magisterial right not to raise our head? Are we not most properly rebuked when our left knee sags, or our right elbow soars; or our body is too rigid while our eye goes roaming? Does he not count our strokes with remorseless and unpardonable accuracy, keeping all the while a watchful eye upon our opponent’s score?

Does he not speak of “our” honour, and is not his exhortation that “we” must win this hole? Does he not make us feel that some share of happiness, or of misery, will be his in our moment of victory or defeat? Does he not with most subtle but delicious flattery coax us to a belief that if only we had time to play a “bit oftener” we should reach the dignity of a single-figure handicap? Does he not hold aloft the flag as though it were indeed our standard, inspiring a reluctant ball at last to gain the hole? Does such a man do nothing but “carry” for us?