What to do? Same answer here. Whites, finish the divorce and let the African Americans move out — back to their beloved sacred Motherland Africa. Literally, the only final complete answer if you really want peace. There are no suitable half-measure; all or nothing. There is some truth to this statement. It was at the point where it was becoming obvious that traditional libertarianism was unable to deal with the swamping of White countries by the third world, as well as the havoc created by the eternal underclass of blacks.
This is so. After all, we have had a couple decades of free trade, and the USA is not any freer. Some states, like California, which have experienced mass non-White immigration have high taxes and regulations, with increasingly repressive gun control. When non-Whites become a sizable part of the population, or even the majority, liberties go out the window. Politics degenerate into struggles over who gets what share of the spoils. The groups which act collectively i. Libertarianism is a good jumping point from liberalism but it still requires race denial. Despite earnestly wishing to treat folks by their conduct and not their race, I don't see how we as Whites can allow these attacks to go without retaliation.
Violence teaches the stupid who it's too dangerous to mess with, and with LEOs and our "government" being both complicit in these thefts, murders, and assaults, and indifferent to actually enforcing the laws or protecting people; it's time to go out and protect ourselves. Any country stupid enough to elect a half breed mongrel rat P. What you didn't vote for it. How bout that demockracy comrade? Enjoy Zimbabwe and say thank you to race traitors who voted for it. You don't necessarily need guns to fight a war, and in related news, you don't need a prison to be a building with bars on the window.
The human mind is the only territory that needs to be occupied. The journalist and lawyer thus become the guardians of the occupation instead of the soldier. I'm trying to find a link about the Pennsylvania mayor Rasko? The town council is saying they will find a way to remove him. Every time I try to load up MSM page with the story the browser crashes. This is not happening with any other page or browser.
White Teenager gets caught up in cultural enrichment and ends up dead! This story is very important to me; one of the boys murdered by 3 magical Negroes is a close family relative to one of my female DWP; i have tried opening her eyes many time before; now reality has come to bite her in the ass; this should be a lesson for all parents of White Teanagers, make sure that you do all you can in your power for your kids to avoid the Groid! The MSM is giving him air time to draw votes away from Trump.
That's the main problem I have with Libertarians. They distract Whites with their own multiracial fantasy where instead of government it's actually the absence of government that magically fixes racial inequalities. I don't think libertarianism can be fixed. They can't admit Rand was wrong about race and borders because that undermines her credibility.
Their position on drugs doesn't make sense either. Their claim that drugs can't be controlled is a lie. Asian countries have done it so I am offended by this idea that White countries must legalize heroine and meth because Rand says it is the only way. The drug war itself overlaps with race and liberal culture. If we started hanging drug smugglers as Singapore does the supply lines would drop. Libertarianism is a bitter Jewish woman's vision for White countries which includes open borders and legal meth.
It was never objective as seen by Rand's refusal to face genetic differences. Libertarianism needs to be abandoned just like liberalism. I realize that a lot of libertarians no longer support open borders but the ideology is too flawed to reform. Pence gave a clinic on how to debate on TV. America is in a bad place right now. The economy continues in the doldrums. We have lost our pre-eminent position among the nations of the world.
Only a few years ago we used to be able to say that there had never been an attack on the American homeland. Now we seem to have a murderous terrorist attack every other week. Blacks riot every month or so and they have declared war against the police. Violent crime rises and the news media tries to conceal all the attacks by blacks on whites. Some problems that loom large in our perceptions are not very serious at all. Almost all of our energy problems are self induced. We can remedy most of them with little or no effort.
We have plenty of natural energy in the ground. All we need to do is exploit fracking and ignore the so called 'renewables'. Stop the windmill subsidies and just let them die a natural death. We are near the end of the 'Great Global Warming Panic'. It has been like the 'Millennium Panic'. The leftists tried to get everyone excited about COBOL software in just as they have tried to get everyone to worry about Polar Bears. These kind of engineered panics can only last so long. They fade away after a while.
But the racial issues are not fading away. There is big money and serious political power in keeping the racial pot churning. Can Trump and Pence really do anything about this? If as it seems the Democrats are trying to destroy all black people can or should the Republicans try to stop it?
Suppose you ran a wildlife preserve. How would you in fact preserve the wildlife? Would you let the public feed the animals? If you made the animals dependent on people you would just hasten their extinction. All of these programs hasten the day of doom for black people.
There will come a day when the human race decides it longer can afford to allow blacks to exist. When they are all gone honest historians will attribute their elimination to the policies of the left. If we really wanted to save black people we would be trying to wean them from the Welfare State programs that have them ensnared.
But I don't think the Clintons actually like negroes. I'm sure they see where their policies are leading and approve. The Mainstream Media did little to publicize libertarians back when the Two Party system provided voters with no choice. If Hillary wins in November, the Libertarian Party will be relegated back to the category of unpersons. Unfortunately, there is truth in this statement. Libertarianism might work in a single-ethnic country, especially one composed of high-IQ, high-trust citizens.
But a multi-racial society which has a large demographic of the low-IQ and perpetually berserk? We can see how that plays out in any American inner city. There are libertarians who do support border controls: Lew Rockwell and Stephen Cox come to mind, as well as the National Anarchists. But the big think tanks like Reason and Cato are all out for open-borders and mass migrations. You have to ask if someone paid them off to push this line. It's not so much drugs which need the control but the population using them.
That low IQ demographic with no impulse control and propensity for violence will abuse drugs, no matter what the policy on enforcement. And this necessitates even more government intervention to keep the situation from degenerating. So you amp up a drug war, or sit back and do nothing, giving Africans space-to-destroy tm.
It's a cash business, good place to sell drugs because people are always going in and out, set up is cheap, and most male groids spend just as much time getting their hair done with braids, fades, and patterns shaved in the sides and back. The women are the same way, they may be lbs, living in section 8 housing, paying with EBT, but they always have weaves, extensions which aren't cheap , braids, color, and their nails done. To sum it up: "It's dey kultcha". October 5, at AM.
They sell drugs and conduct their various rackets out of them. Small time hustlers will use them as an "office"…Until they start a "church" anyway. That was a well-written comment, Paintjob, and I agree with most of it. But actually, we could change their nature. It's within our technological capacity, but the white race lacks the will to do it. For example, if all black males were compelled to take testosterone blockers, then that would go a long way towards reducing both their propensity to violence, and their capacity to inflict harm.
This has to do again with the question of worldview. Worldview isn't itself a political opinion, but it determines which political opinions are possible. A solution like that is beyond the pale of acceptable discourse because of the white conception of "the rights of man" for lack of a better phrase , so-called free will, and a host of other reasons having largely to do with America's past. I want some of that white boy weed that Gary Johnson gets! His Aleppo what's an Aleppo comment is laugh out loud funny.
Tell me more about all the elections the fraud libertarians have won. Ayn Rand never discussed race. In her books, especially in her Opus, Atlas Shrugged, she specifically mentioned the skin color, eye color and hair color of her characters. She was aware of race but say NO advantage to bring it up since her message was extremely simple. The Individual is most important. In fact, the Individual YOU are the only important thing in all existence. If you don't exist..
Not country. Not family. Not "Gods". YOU have to exist first before there is anything. Not the State. Not any Relgion. Not any Race. She knew damn well that the negro would fail. She knew that religion was slavery and based on lies. She knew. They don't do them. Sambo has no money. Actually, Sambo has a lot of cash, but he keeps it at his baby mamma's Section 8 Apartment, paid for by White people. If da Whore steals his money, he simply knifes her ass, f's her dead body, and goes finds some white trailer trash lonely crack whore for a new crib.
I have "dated", in the past, a few women who actually worked for the IRS. They ONLY go after people who have something to lose and cash to pay….. White People……. White Lawyers, Doctors, etc. The IRS does not audit negroes. Did anyone really think that the DOJ was going to parachute people in there over a white boy? You would not be hearing about this now if the mother had not contacted local talk radio and conservative local news. Why you may ask? It doesn't fit the Marxist liberal agenda, that the sh tskins are always the victims and white people are always the oppressors.
As far as I know there has been no arrests made even though local Law enforcement knows some of the knuckle draggers involved. Quite a read, and a reminder that some aspects of reality won't go away because they don't fit into the modern neo — Communist mode. Thank you!!! You said it so well! Libertarianism is all about "I got mine" and to hell with everyone else. It's a movement that appeals to greed and promotes exploitation all in the name of "I got mine.
The logical end of libertarianism is a hideous corporate feudalism where everyone is a slave to some multinational corporation. You'll still have multiculturalism and gun control and prosecution of whites who resist TNB, but it won't be the government violating your rights, it will be your employer. The libertopians I have interacted with raise hell over any government law or rule that they feel infringes on their precious freedom, but let a corporation fire someone for exercising their First Amendment right and their response is "just go work somewhere else.
The direction we're headed is weak government, strong corporate control. Think the government is nuts with multiculturalism? Wait until business has more power. You ain't seen nothing yet! Take heart even from the worst. Notice how nuanced and thought-out our responses are. How can we lose? Blacks get incensed and riot, and are killed or imprisoned. Those noticed by law enforcement stay in the system forever. We stay anonymous and relatively free. Not that many -as a percent—voted for him and Dems vote along party lines. Does that explain it? Its not, but as a culture it is.
Blacks have high T [testosterone] and their brains dont have the empathy center [as I call it]. Hence they are sociopaths or low functioning [lazy, welfare takers]. Off topic but I just noticed that the Feds just charged 80 in a Maryland prison for racketeering and drugs. I wonder how they got away with smuggling drugs and cellphones into the prison? Oh wait, this is Baltimore we're talking about. The place where white people once lived, but live no more. Whenever large groups of blacks have been given political power and control over state resources there is always a large amount of corruption, outright theft, and kickbacks.
What a strange coincidence, I wonder if anyone has ever done a study on it. What a strange pattern. I wear, when I am not going to work, "cargo" pants. They have the pockets down the side of your leg. I began to wonder, think, imagine,create, design, as White People do about a design of cargo pants that have built-in "pockets" for hand-gun magazines.
Those of you who know guns know that a Beretta 92, or Glock 17, or Desert Eagle Uzi 9mm magazine is not that large. But, imagine a pair of cargo pants that built in "sleeves" for them? You would even sew in a "holster" for your 9mm, or even Colt. All concealed. There must be at least ONE smart White man out there who can contact PK and begin to market thousands of dollars, if not Millions of dollars, of products to the White Race. They brought the issue to his class which he was obligated to attend.
He was exercising his critical thinking skills and trying not to follow the beta flock and so he is ambushed on school grounds? It is so interesting how black behavior now trumps free speech in this country.
And people still wonder why people are so angry? If this is allowed to fall under the radar none of the kids in your white community are no longer safe. If you avoid them they come to you. There are unwritten rules that they live by and they don't bear much resemblance to the law. There is not a straight white female SJW alive that wouldn't feel pity after seeing what was done to this kid.
Over words, not even epithets or threats. Blacks have shown all the other minority groups how to use and abuse whitey for all that he is worth while cursing him the entire time. This kid was beat so bad his brain was bleeding. Thank you for bringing this up P. This incident will be a wake up call for more people than Brian Ogle, I guarantee it. Trump is pimp slapping the media and tearing the pro feetsball league apart?!
What a champion and what a service to the republic. Always Trump. No white is safe anywhere. Ammo has come down in price and it is a good time to stock up. You won't be an Alex Jones fanboy with a roll of aluminum foil on your head if you prepare for the worst. You'll be happy you did when zero hour comes and it closer than you think.
Agreed, but I dismiss that idea out of hand because frankly we have done quite enough for them already and owe them nothing more than a boat ride back to their ancestral homeland. Anything we "could do" is simply more wasted effort, money, and resources trying to polish a turd… sure, you might could put a shine on it, but it's still shit and gives you zero return for your investment. Do you truly suggest that instead of mining the asteroid belt we spend the next two hundred years trying to breed a more docile negro? Insanity, we need them gone, if not by deportation then by just not supporting them anymore and let nature take its course.
I do not even have to ask. EVERY third party that gains any momentum is quickly infiltrated and co-opted by the usual suspects and serves only as controlled opposition to control all sides of any "debate" that is allowed to enter the public arena. We should all keep a close eye on the burgeoning "alt right" movement for wolves in sheep's clothing. Mark my words, the first alt-right guy that breaks out into nationwide media and becomes a household name will not be our ally.
The people who own the big soapboxes won't just let anybody stand on them to preach. The beauty of this approach is that it would work within a matter of days or weeks, not years, much less centuries.
The tragedy is that it's unworkable because of the white worldview. It's not being rejected. It's not even visible to whites as a solution. I hope he gets better. All of them should be arrested. That's what blacks do, it was a gang attack and it was a hate crime. Intellectual and character traits have a genetic basis.
Apart from twin studies they have identified a gene that is associated with empathy. But even when she wrote her books it was widely accepted that intellect and certain traits could run in families. But here we have Ayn Rand taking the contradictory liberal position which that humans are entirely biological but defy evolution when it comes to intellect and character traits.
This is because both libertarianism and liberalism depend on blank slate. Without blank slate these ideologies are revealed as fraudulent systems that work against Whites. That's a subjective opinion, and one often held by people like Rand who don't have kids or any family they value. But more importantly that type of extreme individualism is only embraced by Whites. All other races work in their own collective interest. Only Whites embrace this idea that we are all individuals and acting collectively is wrong. This is another big reason why libertarianism doesn't work.
It's not like China is going to open its borders and welcome in millions of Africans in the name of Rand. She definitely knew that race was more than superficial but wanted her followers to believe otherwise. Why is that? Why does she side with leftist egalitarians that want open borders for White countries? Her and Boas would have agreed on opening borders in White countries and teaching Whites that race doesn't exist. Funny that. My grandfather was pulled by aging of blacks from his truck while driving home from work.
They beat him nearly to death. That was in the late sixties, and they were the only whites in the neighborhood, just about. In the early 80's, my dad got in a fight with some blacks who were parked on a railroad track, blocking the street. He called them niggers, and got out of the car, and my grandmother got out of the car for some reason, and if my mother wouldn't have had my dad's service revolver, we wouldn't have gotten out of there alive. In school, I was bullied relentlessly and assaulted numerous times by blacks, including being held down with some nigger on top of me, pressing his long black fingers into the sides of my skull.
Most excruciating pain I ever experienced.
I have also been bitten, slapped, punched, pushed, spat on etc. I am university educated, and was once a liberal and even a substitute teacher. I have read the Autobiography of Malcolm X, and was once opposed to racism. When the Christian-Newsome slayings were ignored by the media, I started to wake up. I began to haunt the WN websites, write pamphlets, research, etc. I was raised Christian. My religion now is a kind of mystically-informed National Socialism. I accept this as the "Kali Yuga", the Age of Gloom. All of this is to say that, curiously, I still do not hate blacks.
I just recognize them for what they are. Lower IQs, lower evolved; a bottomed-out caste. I do not hate vicious dogs for being, in an evolutionary sense, what they are. But that may not be written in the book of fate. However, this situation will NOT maintain itself forever, not in a local, and, most especially, not in a global sense. You should drop that libertarian BS and get in the concealed carry business. I would buy two pairs of those.
All libertarian organizations like Cato have been for open borders from the start. They just know that position isn't popular with their readers Whites and don't advertise it. Rand called for open borders so it must be worth doing. Iceland should allow in 1 million Africans. It will become a utopia thanks to capitalist-genius Africans. Anyone who says there isn't enough room is racist. Rand also said intelligence isn't inherited but that some people are born geniuses and determined to rule over everyone else.
How does this make any sense? Kick this goofy ideology into the dustbin of history.
Who gives a frig what some bitter ex-Soviet anti-White bitch said we should do. Stop following her around.
Authorities said a year-old boy and a year-old man were taken into custody on unrelated charges. Police said the year-old man is still being held on unrelated charges. She also said that Benton was burned alive. Pat Boyle :. Mostly induced by oil interests, such as the Rockefellers who have been sabotaging nuclear energy since the work of Muller and the BEAR I committee report in They're not as small as some people make them out to be.
The problems caused by the "easy" solutions are excruciatingly hard to solve, if they're soluble at all. The real solutions are somewhat more difficult, though not greatly so—but the half-century of propaganda opposing them makes them as unthinkable to the public as mass re-colonization of Africans. If conventional oil is fat and meat, fracking is sucking the marrow out of the bones. It is literally the last bit of recoverable chemical energy in the source rocks.
The irony is that the radon content of the gas from the Marcellus shale means there is dozens or hundreds of times as much energy in the uranium there than in the methane. Rn comes from uranium decay; it has no other source. Some would have you believe that, while California gets a respite from its massive drought. Meanwhile, supertyphoons plague the western Pacific, and the Antarctic winter turned to summer as equatorial winds brought coastal temperatures above freezing in September. They rely on natural-gas backup; the Ivanpah "solar" plant was stuck on prime desert turtle habitat because it had to be put near a gas pipeline to deal with clouds.
In the words of a very prominent political scion, " wind plants and solar plants are GAS plants ". The PTB are not afraid of solar or wind. They're afraid of France and Sweden, which went nuclear 35 years ago and got fossil fuels out of their electrical supplies. This is why the Greens controlled opposition are hysterically anti-nuclear, even as Denmark and Germany emit vastly more carbon per capita than nuclear France and Sweden. Nuclear power has the potential to eliminate over a trillion dollars a year in commerce that THEY control.
Do you wonder why one side of their controlled narrative promotes fake solutions to the climate problem, and the other denies it entirely? Wonder no more. Obama's racist Attorney General Eric Holder testified that hate laws are only for protected groups. When holder was asked by Senator Jeff sessions of Alabama what groups are not protected by the Matthew Shepard hate crime Act. Holder's stated that there are three groups where the hate laws dont apply, white people, Christians and Military people. It would have to be organized nationally to occur all on one day, April 4 for instance.
Also, no bag limit if the opportunity presents itself. It's obvious that black people are genetically inferior, put i've put my finger on why they're culturally inferior. I glanced at a Salon article that claimed that White people should claim responsibility for Donald, as if we own him because he's white. I like to think of it as the nigger brotherhood inferiority complex. The blacks think of every disfunctional black, and take cultural ownership of them because they happen to be the same skin color as themselves.
We don't spend much of our day thinking about dumb white trash that get killed by the police. We don't care. We have more important things to do. Pavement apes would rather burn their own neighborhood down over some child rapist that pointed a gun at a cop, then work over time, read to their child, or show their son how to take care of their house. Black people will be inferior for hundreds of years, and new immigtants like Asians and Latinos will pass them in every way.
The blank slate idea was a part of John Locke's philosophy, very influential among the Founding Fathers. Locke was a Christian, and his ideas saturate the Declaration of Independence. Men are all created equal i. The American project is to be that "city on a hill" spoken of by Jesus in Matthew , a light unto the world, a place where race doesn't matter. People will interact in this city like souls in heaven, and perfect justice will prevail, just like it supposedly does in heaven.
Given this vision, racism is the worst sin possible, the incarnation of evil. Race is an abstraction for which many people feel no particular affinity. All races have their traitors, but American white people were the first to make being a race traitor into a virtue. This strain of moral fanaticism traces back to America's foundational religion. I can't pretend to look inside her head and say what she knew or didn't know, but anyone can see there's neither fame nor fortune in preaching racism to American whites.
Anti-racism is very deeply embedded in the culture. It's an easy sell to white American rubes. Killers are white. It has been a great spiritual experience and I hope I may do my duty by her Little One,". She breaks bread with us but she has not yet undergone Baptism. She has hesitated but she is very desirous; Like you she has very delicate health. She does not want to risk an illness that might separate her from her son. Later perhaps A phase of great spiritual contentment opened in Mrs Tewler's life. Impelled only by love and her sense of duty, she found she had come into a circle of intense and sustained mutual appreciation, a sort of inner chapel into which she was extremely careful not to introduce Mrs Humbelay.
Mrs Humbelay could be very helpful and generous on the social side, but she was, one had to admit, lacking in real spirituality, suited to be at most a sort of lay sister to the chapel. And also subconsciously Mrs Tewler did not want to spoil Mrs Humbelay for herself It was a case of oil and water Her Baptism continued to be deferred, but she seemed to anticipate its beneficent influence.
She broke bread. She invented and exchanged experiences. Wrapped in that confident anticipation of an eternity of Glory which the Strict and Particular Baptists entertained, her face almost luminous with that happy inner light, she would thread her way through the countless multitudes of the damned who thronged the streets of Camden Town.
And she led her One Darling by the hand. And safe in her keeping Edward Albert would extend his tongue or snoot at the Children of Perdition passing him on their way to Judgment, or tug back to look at things in the shop windows. Sometimes there would be a bit of a struggle when the bill boards outside the newly opened cinema caught his eye. Moreover at that tender age he felt a curious desire to pull little girls by the hair, that twice became irresistible But when he was taxed with that he denied it stoutly.
There were scenes in the street. Fierce accusations and disgraceful retorts. He said the little girls were Wicked Little Fibs. His mother would not believe it of him, and he could scarcely believe it of himself. When Edward Albert showed signs of friendliness towards dogs, and reached out at them, saying! They bite and give you hydrophobia and you go mad and run about biting people. And then thy go mad too. Something in the eye of the small boy suggested that this was not an altogether unattractive idea, "And you scream when you see water and you die in awful agony," she said.
That gleam of hope faded. Cats too Edward Albert was trained to shun. Lots of people have caught things from a cat's scratches. They bring measles into the house. They don't love you even when they purr. And then she heard a terrible story that had to be repeated at once to the cherished darling, of a cat, being petted, purring in the lap of its little mistress, and it watched her eyes, it kept on watching her eyes, and suddenly it sprang at them with its claws out After that Edward Albert developed an antipathy for cats, and declared he could not endure them in the same room.
He was cat-allergic, as people say nowadays, in their bright, inexact way. But at times cats got near him unobserved —which wasn't in accordance with that assertion. Horses too he feared, because he realised they could be equally dangerous to human life at either end. Sheep he was inclined to bully and run after, until one dreadful day in Regent's Park an old ram suddenly turned on him and stamped and stood his ground, Whereupon he fled screaming to his mother, who, pale but determined, intervened, confronted the danger and disposed of it very rapidly by opening and shutting her grey-and-white parasol.
That left only the new grey squirrels which had recently come over from America for him to be reasonably bold about. He gave them nuts sometimes, but when they became over-familiar and wanted to run up his legs and over him, he struck and kicked at them. When a passer-by remonstrated with his mother, the defended him. Such were the reactions Edward Albert acquired to the indigenous fauna of London.
His knowledge of the graver extremities to which Nature was allowed to go after the Fall of Man was derived chiefly from books. He invented a marvellous electric gun for his private comfort which always killed and never required re-loading, and this he always kept close at hand when he travelled in his reveries across the silver seas. Gorillas and bears lurked in the darker corners of the house and under his bed, and no sort of emergency would induce him to quit that shelter once he had been tucked up in it.
Four guardian angels, he knew, watched about him, but none of them had the pluck or the intelligence to rout about underneath the bed. If he woke up at night they weren't there. He would listen to things creeping about and scrutinise dim ambiguous shapes until it became unbearable, and then he would scream for his mother. She never lit up the room and showed him the emptiness of his fears.
So he learnt to hate animals in every shape and form. They were his enemies, and when he went to the Zoo he made derisive faces and put out his tongue at all the most dangerous animals behind the bars. But the mandrill went one better.
They both felt that animals ought never to have been allowed, none of them, and that coming to the Zoo was simply encouraging them to be the animals they were. At first Edward Albert was inclined to have a ride on the elephant. But he asked to have a good look at it first. He thought perhaps he might sit by the keeper man and be allowed to beat it about the head, but when he saw the elephant taking programmes and newspapers out of people's hands and eating them, and when it handed up pennies to its keeper in the most intimate way, and when it suddenly put a moist mendicant trunk in front of him, he decided he would prefer to go home.
So he and his mother went home. THE home in which Edward Albert's mind expanded for the nine crucial years that followed his father's death was a furnished first floor. He had the little back room. There was fortunately no bathroom, so up to the day of her death he performed his week-end top to toe modestly in a sitz bath into which a large can of hot water had been poured, in his mother's room, under her watchful eye. The front room was the living-room and sitting-room, and it had a balcony from which the little fellow could watch the proceedings of his wilder fellow-creatures at large in the street below.
He went for walks with his mother to and fro from school and on small commissions. He skirted dogs widely and never answered if anyone accosted him. And one day when a small low-class boy punched him heavily in the back he went his way as though nothing had happened. But afterwards he meditated horrible reprisals! If ever he met that kid again! This peaceful and secluded home had been furnished in order to be let.
Mrs Tewler had never possessed any things of her own, though she and her husband had often discussed setting up a place of their own on the hire purchase system, but as we have seen they were people of slow decisions. No human eye had ever seen the fundamental upholstery of the various chairs and sofa except by peeping. They were enveloped in covers changed semi-annually from a faded chintz to a weary cretonne.
Folding-doors separated the apartment from the principal bedroom. There was a sideboard and a bookcase and various pictures, a fine steel engraving of a stag at bay, a view of Jerusalem, a picture of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort with a slaughtered deer, gillies, etc.
A round table, an overmantel and a large coal scuttle, refilled at sixpence a time, completed the apartment. Mrs Tewler had added many souvenirs, knicknacks, photographs framed and unframed, and objects of art and fancy to all this, making it very personal and homelike. She had thought of having in a piano on the hire purchase system, but, as she could not play it, she had decided this might be regarded as ostentation. There was indeed no music whatever in Master Edward Albert's early life, except the harmonium and sustained hymn singing of the chapel and a passing barrel organ.
The gramophone, the pianola, the radio, had still to break the grave serenity of British home life, silent still except for an occasional cough or sniff, the rustle of a turning page, the crepitation of the fire or a peculiar snoring of the gas jets, whose light was supplemented by a shaded paraffin lamp of noble proportions set upon a woollen mat in the midst of the central table. It had a glass receiver and when one touched it one acquired a faint but persistent odour of paraffin. On Sundays when one changed into clean linen came a whiff of lavender.
The roast chestnut men, the baked potato men and suchlike "cries of London" stood out brightly against this olfactory background. On the mantel was a card which Mrs Tewler had discovered in a shop together with others proclaiming "Furnished Apartments" and "Teas. But there it was, and it found a prompt response in the mind of Mrs Richard Tewler. By the standards of our present violent times, this atmosphere might have been considered under-stimulating. In Edward Albert's own little room however there was a more definite appeal to his religious susceptibilities.
There was a coloured picture of his Redeemer surrounded by a great number of children, with the inscription, "Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. Severally and collectively he hated them. The other religious subjects that adorned his apartment neither offended nor appealed to him. He just avoided looking at them. But one or two of the illuminated texts bothered him. He did not like that. He liked it less and less as he grew to boy's estate.
It wasn't fair, he felt. Was there nothing He couldn't see?
Could He see through bedclothes for example? And whatever you chanced to be doing? There was something indelicate about this relentless stare. It was Edward Albert's first encounter with Doubt. Never once did the faintest gleam of affection for the divinity, Father, Son or Holy Ghost, enter into his soul.
He believed that this Watcher and Punisher brooded insanely over his world and that he had sent his Only Son just to put his helpless creatures still more in the wrong. That was what Edward Albert felt and believed. I make no comment; I am merely recording facts. Since God was Almighty and Relentless, you had to propitiate Him—safety first—and not think a thought of protest even in the darkness of your black little heart. No putting out your tongue at Him, No! And a recording angel writing it all down! Edward Albert doubted but he never denied. Like most other Believers he managed to mitigate.
He had an inspiration. That wasn't an idea to tell other people. It was an idea to keep very much to oneself. If you talked about it too much you might suddenly attract His attention. Our young man put up that idea like a modest private parasol between himself and the Sun of Righteousness. And insensibly the skies clouded over so that presently he did not seem to need his parasol any more. God ceased to be a consuming fire. We are not arguing here. I am simply recording indisputable facts: I am telling the story of one little boy, who grew up to be a hero as you shall hear, and I cannot help it if his story becomes for a moment the story of countless millions of other little souls.
This is how Christians temper their faith and how they are able to behave as they do behave in spite of its stupendous imperatives. The elderly doctor who attended her last illness certified that she died of "bronchitis. Doctors are a mentally overworked race, and in this matter of diagnosis they have their own epidemic and epidemic disorders.
As a matter of fact she died, as a great number of people died in those days, of a surfeit of patent medicine advertisements. Because in that golden age of freedom, security and opportunity in which our story opens, people enjoyed, among other enviable liberties, great liberty of salesmanship, and a number of enterprising business men, realising that a vast majority o their fellow-creatures suffered from internal pains and discomforts due to the consumption of well-advertised but unwholesome foods, to the unhygienic quality of their housing and employment, and to the survival at a low level of existence of multitudes of individuals who would have been far better dead, devoted themselves to their exploitation.
This great uneasy majority constituted from the point of view of salesmanship a mass of consumers to be catered for with a view to profit, and to that these entrepreneurs vying with one another, set themselves with great energy. The medical profession in those days worked almost, entirely for private gain and protected its privileges upon trade union principles; it combined very low standards of education and qualification, with a creditable insistence upon the honour and privilege of the individual practitioner.
Doctors were disposed to' stand by one another under criticism, in a post mortem or anything of that sort, when definitely unprofessional conduct did not. Their methods of diagnosis were old-fashioned; good diagnosis was a matter of aptitude rather than training, and generally they preferred to diagnose a definite disease and bring it out fairly and squarely and cure it or kill, than tackle all those various and ill-defined states of malaise that would not yield to such forthright treatment. They waved these aside as fancifulness. Consequently there was a considerable irritation between doctors and patients; the doctor and his antiquated and incomprehensible prescriptions, his authoritative manners and his failure to enlist the intelligence of his patient such as it was, in the process of recovery, was distrusted even more than he deserved; and the way lay wide open for salesmanship, to flout his claim to be the sole dealer in the health of the community.
So in spite of him there had grown up a steadily expanding business of pills, aperients, tonics, sustaining foods, cures for every sort of twinge and pain, stimulants, purifiers. These new salesmen began perhaps crudely, but they steadily improved in their methods and reached an ever-widening clientele. Their advertisements became a more and more important item in newspaper finance. From early appeals to people who already had pains, their more and more competent methods instructed people how, when and where to have pains.
The medical profession attempted warnings, published analyses of popular remedies, explained their ineffectiveness and their harmfulness, and so forth, but this now gigantic system of human enterprise had achieved the control of all the media of news distribution, and the doctors were quite unable to get their protests over to the public at large. Their pamphlets vanished from the bookstalls and got no "Press.
This book is no picture of the Edwardian-Georgian age, but these simple circumstances have to be stated here if the reader, in this new and vivid world of adventure and disaster in which we live to-day, is to understand the way in which Mrs Richard Tewler did herself to death. The newspapers began to look for Mrs Tewler in real earnest in the benign reign of King Edward the Seventh. Then it was that "Constant Reader", in anticipation of Professor Crew, changed sex. In the old days when Richard was alive, Mrs Tewler hardly ever glanced at the paper.
She took no interest in Politics or what men had considered to be news, and it was only when she discovered the existence of "Aunt Jane" and "Dorothy Wisdom" through such publications as the Mothers' Vade-mecum , that she spread out her reading to the new daily Press, so different from the grey uneventful expanses of the old. She began to read first about bargains and cosmetics, because, although no decent Christian woman paints her face or does anything of that sort, it might be possible to learn something about one's appearance that did not involve that.
Naturally her attention flowed over to the more intimate discussions beside them. There was "that tired feeling. But she did not realise what it meant for her until the salesmen told her. It meant the onset of anaemia and then pernicious anaemia. For that a certain blood mixture was admirable. She stocked that and forgot to note its effect because next she was being made conscious of a whole series of neuralgic pains.
They flitted about, pursued by nervous panaceas, and got to her head. There always had been times when she had had headaches, but never the. It was liver pills she needed for that, and they were added to her medical menu. Effervescent salts promised and failed to restore her to a giddy cheerfulness, because now she lay awake all night suffering from night starvation. That too could be met. Uric acid also got loose in her system and clamoured for further remedies. Her washstand carried an ever-increasing array of bottles, capsules, pills and powders.
Still the salesmen pursued her. It dawned upon her that she had sinus trouble and incipient arthritis, cancer in several places and osteomyelitis. She did all that could be done to anticipate and defeat these evils. She did not tell her doctor about the cancer, because the salesman assured her that would bring upon her the crowning horror of an operation. She could not face that. No operation. She felt under-nourished, and, instead of taking wholesome food, she consumed a cup of feeble tea with a meaty flavour, that the salesmen assured her with vivid illustrations, had the strength of a whole ox in it.
Never a newspaper dared to denounce this murderous lie. She swallowed the stuff, felt satisfied for half an hour or so, and then faded again. She picked herself up with a viciously drugged red wine because its salesmen assured her that all its profits went to the promotion of Christian Missions throughout the world. Its advertisements were endorsed with signatures of venal divines of every persuasion. All religious organisations, as Shaw has been reminding us in his Major Barbara film, need funds, and all organisations that need funds can be bought A.
Poor Mother Eve, from first to last thou and all thy seed have been the victims of the Salesman! For so it was we lost our paradise, when the first salesman sold thee his fruit and lingerie. He proffered his free sample, he guaranteed satisaction. And until selling shall cease from the earth— She stood in her bedroom wearily taking her doses, hoping she had not forgotten anything, and listening to her ever more sinister internal noises.
Then she would feel herself all over for growths and tumours. Often she felt quite hard ones. Some of the other members of the inner circle were fairly good at affliction, but none could produce anything to equal hers either in depth or variety. Mrs Humbelay one day described an artificial hernia to her, and remarked that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and Mrs Tewler said, "If it comes to that, my dear, I think I would rather die But hernia she was mercifully spared.
It did not come to that. The salesmen could make nothing out of artificial hernias. She clang so desperately to life; because where would her Only One be without her? And it is to be noted that very little of this remedial struggle of hers extended to him. But that was because she was able to observe her own terrible symptoms, while, after one single experience with some tonic drops, nothing would induce Edward Albert to admit he had any symptoms at all.
His demonstration of his extreme vitality on a later occasion included an attempt to stand on his head which was only partially successful and led to the breaking of a plate. Promise me, whatever happens, you will never attempt that again. She had a spasm of pain.
If you'll go round for him. He might at least give me a morphia injection. The good doctor did, and in the course of a week assisted her departure from this vale of trial and error in a soundly professional manner. For she really had pleurisy. She had brought herself down to a vulnerability that gave any old germs a fair chance with her.
Their blitzkrieg was swift and successful. During her final phase of medicated malaise Mrs Tewler made several wills, couched for the most part in a richly pious phraseology. The valid instrument left a number of trifling souvenirs to various friends, including a marked Bible and a silver-framed photograph for her dear friend Mrs Humbelay, and named Mr Myame as sole executor, trustee and guardian for her son until the dear child was twenty-one, exhorting the young man to trust and obey his guardian as a Father and more than a Father, a Guide and a Wise Dear Friend.
He looked at the lawyer and he looked at Mr Myame, He sat on the edge of his chair meagre and wary. Then he reflected, "I didn't know Mother was nearly so bad as she was. I suppose it 'ad to be That was—it was "—gulp—" a lovely wreath anyhow, She would have liked Edward Albert had acquired a habit of never listening to what Mr Myame might be saying. He wiped his miserable sniffing face with the back of a dirty little hand. He was only beginning to realise what all this meant to him. Day or night she would never be there any more. He wouldn't go home to her presently and tell her things to his credit, true or false according to circumstances, and bask in the love she bore him.
She wouldn't be there. She wasn't there. She'd gone! AT thirteen our young Englishman was pale and undersized. Like his mother he was a trifle exopthalmic. His features were delicate and undistinguished and his bearing circumspect. Some more vigorous element in his heredity, however, struggled against the effects of his early restriction; he grew irregularly and inelegantly to average proportions, and his profile became firmer as he got into his later teens.
There was a repressed drive in him throughout his life—as we shall see. He did not actually cease growing until he was nearly thirty. For some reason he never learnt either to whistle properly or throw hard. His mother may have checked early attempts at whistling, and so he developed a sort of hiss-whistle with his upper teeth well over the lower. And as for throwing, he was. He lobbed with his left hand and learnt belatedly to throw with his right. He could never throw very high or very far, and that was just as well, because an undetected astigmatism made his direction uncertain.
In those days there was no examination of school children's eyes; you had to put up with the eyes God had given you. So that he also jumped uncertainly and to the best of his ability avoided jumping. His life had been so completely shielded from mental or physical harm that until he went to Mr Myame's school for young gentlemen at the age of eleven and a half, he had no child associates whatever. But there he found school-fellows, and some of them were even permitted to invite him home to tea.
He always had to assure his mother they were nice little boys before she allowed him to go. They had families, sisters and cousins, and his circle increased. He became a boarder instead of a day boy in Mr Myame's Commercial Academy when his mother died, and for a time he shared the bleak "Joseph Hart" dormitory, the larger one, with six other boys, which the ever-solicitous Mr Myame in list slippers might prowl through at any hour of the night.
And since Edward Albert had no home to go to, his first summer holidays were spent among the alarming circumstances of animal life at large and unashamed, in a Wiltshire farm belonging to Mr Myame's brother-in-law. There were fields in which great cows grazed and stared at you, chewing slowly as they meditated your death, and there was not the slightest protection for the passer-by.
There were horses, and once at sundown three of them started galumphing round a field most terrifyingly. Edward Albert dreamt about it afterwards. There were unmuzzled dogs. There was a lot of poultry with no sense of decency whatever. And you couldn't help looking and you sort of knew and you sort of didn't know. And you didn't want anyone to see you were looking, either.
There were ducks, but they weren't so bad. There were geese that would come at you very alarmingly if you went near them, but then you needn't go near them, and otherwise they were perfectly respectable. They disapproved, it seemed, of everybody. And there was Master Horace Budd, aged ten,, very sturdy and rosy, who was coming back to London to be a boarder, too, next quarter. But if you want a fight—". I'll just kill you. I know away. Edward Albert whistled after his fashion for a moment or so.
He had a way of his own in his imagination. For behind his unobtrusive fa9ade Edward Albert led a life of lurid reverie. It had passwords and secret signs, and you were admitted by an Ordeal. You had to stand with your finger in a gas-jet for five seconds. It hurt no end, you smarted for days afterwards, and you could smell your flesh burning.
But let it be recorded that Edward Albert stood up to the test. He licked his finger first, but Bert Bloxham, who hadn't thought of that, made him wipe it dry. The headquarters of the Hidden Hand of Camden Town were in the room over the disused stable behind Bert Bloxham's aunt's house. You went up to it by an almost vertical ladder. She was an extremely indifferent aunt, a heavy, silent woman in chapel, and with no trace of family resemblance to Bertie, and she never on any occasion ventured up that ladder. So the Hidden Hand had an admirable library of "bloods" stowed away there, and three black masks and three dark lanterns which stank of Brunswick Black when they were lit, an air-gun and a knuckle-duster, and there it planned a reign of terror that reached from King's Cross to Primrose Hill.
Little did the people of that region know how terrorised they were. On dark winter evenings the Hidden Hand would prowl sometimes for as long as an hour, with their dark lanterns nestling hotly inside their jackets and their masks on, actually on, except when a policeman was spotted. Then "Nix and we dissemble. In this fashion these desperadoes just raised hell. They swore and used forbidden words—Nuts' every other word was an oath—he thought nothing of saying "Godormighty" —and they had a pack of real cards, "the Devil's picture-books", and gambled with them at Beat your Neighbour out of doors and Grab and suchlike skin games for almost unlimited stakes.
Afterwards Nuts learnt Map from a cousin. For some obscure reason they always played for dollars and generally wore their masks while doing so. They swore and spat. They did not play for cash, they gave chits and kept a record, and at one time Nuts owed Edward Albert over five thousand dollars and Bert half as much again.
That was a pretty load to carry for boys still under thirteen. Since it was quite within the range of possibilities that they would be smelt over when they went home, they did not smoke. Nuts had tried chewing tobacco, using a partially-smoked cigarette he had picked up, but his reaction was so prompt and so extremely unpleasant for everyone concerned that the experiment was not repeated. Such was the hidden life that flowed darkly beneath the fair surface of Edward Albert's meek discretion. His mother, remarking how often he went to tea with Bert Bloxham or the MacBrydes—though indeed he never went near the MacBrydes—suggested a return of hospitality.
For a time he was disposed to resist this. He did not know what his mother would think of Nuts' vocabulary if perchance his tongue was loosened, nor did he know what his fellow-toughs of the Hidden Hand might think of his home life. She pressed the proposal. All the more reason for knowing them. He stipulated for fruit cake and ice cream. She did them well. They both came looking morbidly clean, and for a while everyone was too busy feeding Tor any other sort of behaviour. They made noises, but good wholesome noises, and chiefly when they drank.
Sighs of satisfaction marked the conclusion of the feast. And then came the crucial moment when Mrs Tewler said, "And now what shall we do? And believe it or not, these devils incarnate, these gamblers who thought nothing of staking a hundred dollars on a single throw, these wicked toughs who clothed themselves with cursing as with a garment, became as little children again. The Hidden Hand played Snakes and Ladders and Race Game and said "Thank you for our luvlay tea, Mam," just as though they really were the quite nice little boys Edward Albert had said they were.
THE number of boys in Mr Myame's school varied between nineteen and twenty-four, and yet Edward Albert got into the first eleven before he had been there two years, and played in his last year in the annual match against Bolter's College. Before that match he had not liked cricket very much, but sifter it he was as thorough a cricket fan as every young Englishman ought to be.
Mr Myame's school played cricket in Regent's Park in the summer, but it did not play any game in the winter, because football made the boys muddy and parents objected, But Mr Myame was convinced that good sound open-air exercise was conducive to morality. He hated to 'think of boys "loafing about" and the menu of his prospectus included "compulsory games.
It was possible to obtain caps, flannels, shoes and equipment generally from firms of school outfitters at advantageous wholesale prices, and even the most unworldly parents were gratified by the spectacle of their offspring apparently playing cricket in a socially acceptable manner. The underlying seriousness of the school was apparent in the choice of black and white for the school colours. Contemplating this enlargement of his enterprise, Mr Myame, being aware of a certain athletic insufficiency in himself, added a "Games Master" to the staff, Mr Plipp, an excellent young married elementary teacher who was free on Wednesday afternoons and who was also prepared to regard scout marches and tracking on Primrose Hill as a compulsory game for the winter months.
Nothing remained to perfect this games side of the school except to arrange a few matches, and here Mr Myame was so fortunate as to fall in with the Principal of Bolter's College who was watching his boys "practise", while he wrestled with a similar problem. Bolter's College was a small genteel private establishment in Highbury which catered mainly for the offspring of remote or hypothetical parents in the tropics; it had a Union Jack on its blazer pockets, its caps were red, white and blue, and its style of play did not seem to be hopelessly above the school standard.
So an annual, no, the annual cricket match was arranged, and had been going on for several years before Edward Albert joined the school Generally Bolter's won by producing lean, lithe and dusky "old boys" or alleged new additions to the staff who never reappeared. Nothing had been said about "old boys. Myame's was a younger and smaller establishment without them. They wanted Edward Albert to come up nearer and on the off side. Was there to be no longstop? Up there and closer was more dangerous. In the slips a ball can knock you over and stun you before you know where you are.
Why not pretend to be sick or go home? And be jawed at after by Mr Myame? Instead of tea? Edward Albert trotted up to his appointed place. The ritual of the game began. No—a little to the left. That's right. The old boy batting at the wicket snicked the ball neatly for a boundary. It passed within a foot of Edward Albert. Edward Albert neglected the game for a moment or so while he exchanged offensive grimaces with Nuts. Then a ball hit him,. It hit him so hard that for a moment he thought he saw two balls, one at his feet and one running away from him. The College batsmen were running.
Look alive. Edward Albert scrabbled at his feet and secured a ball, and with all his soul and strength threw it at the wicket keeper. It missed him by about a yard and a half, and knocked the bails off the wicket. The bat of the long darkie slid over the creases, five seconds too late.
Still Edward Albert did not realise his good fortune. Edward Albert grew an inch or so and forgot that he probably had a bump at the back of his head. Smartest thing you've done for a long time The game was held up for a moment by cries of "Thank you, Sir, Thank you. There it was, quite close to the Umpire's foot. Then there had been a second ball! The Old Boy picked it up absent-mindedly and sent it soaring home, before retiring to the College outs to brood over his premature dismissal.
He had counted on a long and glorious afternoon of free, loose hitting. He was replaced by a small boy who succumbed to the third of what were known as Mr Plipp's "googlies", a curious slow overarm delivery with great hypnotic power over the young. And then came a terrific event. Mr Plipp told Edward Albert to bowl. He told him to bowl. He held the ball in his hand, looked at it, started, seemed to be struck by some strange idea, and then ordered Edward Albert to bowl.
Mr Plipp was a cricket strategist of the most elaborate type, but for him to tell Edward Albert to take the next over strained the faith of his following to near the breaking point.
He instructed his pupil carefully in undertones. Well, give him some of those incalculable grounders of yours. Lob a bit if you like. Don't mind if he swipes you out of bounds once or twice. I know what I'm doing. And, after looking at it again for another reflective moment, he handed the ball to Edward Albert. I want him to hit. Fear and pride mingled in Edward Albert's heart as he handled the ball. As he felt for its creases, he had a curious feeling of unfamiliarity. This ball was showing signs of wear, he thought But now to bowl, If he aimed about a yard or so to the right he might get the wicket.
It often happened like that. He would do that. To begin with he would try one of his short sneakers. It pitched short and rolled slowly towards the wicket The giant, who seemed now ten feet high and broad in proportion, awaited its Doming with some hesitation. It was not the sort of ball he was accustomed to deal with. He wasn't prepared for anything so feeble. He simply blocked the ball. Our hero resolved to vary his attack. He would send in a few very simple grounders to the giant's leg. One fast and then a slow twister? Down there.
Out of his reach, perhaps. The fast one first. Edward Albert put all his strength into it and alas! Up, up, it went—a perfect Yorker. He'd slog it to—heaven! But the giant, expecting another lob, had been advancing to smite. This strange ball, high in the air, made him hesitate, and, hesitating, he was lost. He remembered what he had to do just half a second too late. He stepped across the pitch and hit hard to leg. The leg bail dropped. Flop, went the ball into Mr Myame's gloves.
To Goliath's astonishment, to Edward Albert's astonishment, to everyone's astonishment, the ball had got the leg stump. Butter-fingers had clean bowled Goliath. Clean bowled him, Sir! The rest of the innings was inglorious. Two of the College kids made two runs, and there was a wide, and, strangely enough, Edward Albert was not asked to bowl again. The back of the defence was broken. Mr Plipp resumed his celebrated googlies and Mr Myame bowled three overs, and the last man was out. The College had been disposed of for twenty-four, eighteen actual runs, a wide, three byes and two no-balls by Mr Myame overrunning the crease.
The black and whites went in at last to a possible victory. This time they just might do it. Plipp displayed an unwonted disposition to slog, scored sixteen, and was caught out by Goliath at long on. Mr Myame compiled a cautious five and was clean bowled by the lean and long Old Boy, who also gave four byes from his bowling. Edward Albert did not actually score a run, but the end of the innings left him in so that he "carried his bat "triumphantly" not out.
The school had won by six wickets, and Edward Albert was the hero of the day. Bert wanted to throw catches to some of the other chaps, but he found Mr Plipp had pocketed the ball. The College retired in good order, discussing the glorious uncertainties of the game, and the victorious school fell into column with the annual match tea currant bread and jam, day-boys invited , enlivening its outlook. As they left the park a young man in flannels came hurrying after Mr Myame. He produced a nice new red match ball as he spoke, and handed it to the Headmaster.
He looked across at the departing College. It was far away and out of earshot. He turned a perplexed and heavy face to Mr Plipp. Mr Plipp took the ball and immediately put it into his pocket, producing another with the greatest promptitude. I hope this won't upset your game in any way. We didn't notice at first. Just at the end of the game. Mr Myame reflected. There was a pause of several seconds and then he coughed and his hirsute adornments sprang to attention. In the former case we have no right to our victory. No, Sir.
None whatever. We have to call this match off as—" he sought for an appropriate phrase—"a non sequitur. But if, on the other hand, the substitution by the player was pure and honest—and I happen to know this young Tewler as one of the most earnest young Christians in my charge, a veritable Child of God, let alone that he was suffering from considerable pain at the time from die concussion of the ball, then I have no hesitation whatever in saying that not only are we entitled to this match, but that it was meant and intended that we should win this match.
The stars in their courses, if one may put it humbly and reverently, were fighting for us, and it would be sheer ingratitude—ingratitude—to quibble over this victory. The young man regarded Mr Myame with a qualified admiration, "That doesn't leave anything more to be said about it, Sir, does it? Mr Myame and Mr Plipp hurried to overtake their exultant crocodile in a thoughtful silence.
There was no reason why they should not talk together, but strangely enough neither of them could think of anything suitable to say. Finally, at the house door Plipp said one word, "Tewler. Boys who had never had a civil word for Edward Albert Tewler before, could be heard in the dingy passage and schoolroom glorifying and elaborating his achievements—melting up to him!
And that is how he became a cricket fan and began to follow the Tests and collect pictures of eminent cricketers and watch matches on every possible occasion. There was hardly any grade of match that he could not watch now with helpful comments. He did not play very much himself because you cannot be too careful about corrupting your style by inferior practice. But in his reveries, whistling after his fashion, he grew an immense beard—or wore a false beard perhaps—and made W.
Grace seem a mere precursor to his own brighter and better batting. Or he returned triumphantly to the pavilion all the other side out for nine , the super-Spofforth of his day, and there among the applauding throng were Bert and Nuts, realising with amazement that this demon bowler was merely another of the endless impersonations of silent Teddy Tewler, their intimate and yet mysterious pal. And henceforth "playing cricket" became a stock phrase with him, that phrase which still means so much to every Englishman, and which no Englishman can ever quite explain. We have submitted a sample, plucked straight from Regent's Park.
A new confidence appeared in his bearing. Hitherto Bert had unquestionably been the leader, but not now. And one day young Horry Budd, who had butted our hero playfully in the back after 'his custom, received the surprise of his life. Hitherto Edward Albert had been indisposed to resent these little attentions. Now suddenly he turned. He smacked Horry's face with extreme viciousness, and smacked again with all his strength. He overwhelmed Horry with surprise and dismay. Horry was a puncher, and face-smacking was outside his imagination.
He had never smacked a face in his life. He howled aloud. The red marks remained for days. SO the child Edward Albert passed on through boyhood, and approached that peculiar reconstruction in the human life-cycle known as adolescence. It is a metamorphosis. The change is indeed not so wide as it is between tadpole and frog, but it is much more marked in man, my zoologist friends tell me, than in most others of the land animals about us. Your cat, for example, does not undergo anything like the same transformation.
It does not suddenly grow hair in unexpected places, change its miaow to a leonine roar, lose its teeth, and get a new set, become spotty and gawky with chemical and nervous uncertainty. Your kitten grows into a cat, "but gradually and gracefully, it is a specialised and completed creature from the moment it opens its eyes on the world, and it has no metamorphosis at all.
But it, is not my fault that you do not know that. I have done my feeble utmost to help in saving you and our world from the dismal mess of antiquated misconception and misrepresentation, self-satisfaction and blank ignorance in which we wallow so tragically to-day. I have fought the academic classical tradition tooth and nail. If the idea of a metamorphosis is a new one to you, you have only those wretched impostors who pretended to educate you to blame.
If you find anything perplexing and unusual in what is written here, here and in the first Chapter of Book the Third, ahead of you, it is due to their default. A few of is who have had the good fortune to get some real education have tried to supplement your possible deficiencies We made you and we have tried in vain to force into school and college use, a group of encyclopaedic books of which The Science of Life is the one most relevant here. You can get it now in a single volume brought up to the date of You ought really to read it all, because you cannot begin to understand our world or face the present gigantic challenges of life without it.
But for our present purposes all I would direct you to consult is a diagram and the accompanying text taken from an article in the Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society by Dr W. You will find it put as an Appendix at the end of this book. If you look at that and the one that precedes it, condensing what is known about the evolution of the Placental Mammals, you will grasp what I am saying here about a human metamorphosis and what I shall have to say further in Book the Third, about the extreme primitiveness of the Hominida in the scale of being.
Because otherwise you will not realise the extreme primitiveness of Edward Albert in the scale of being. You can supplement Dr Gregory if you like by inspecting a little lemuroid creature, the Spectral Tarsier, Tarsier Spectrum, in any Zoological Garden or collection of stuffed animals. It is an inhabitant of Malaya, and it has something dimly suggestive of our Edward Albert in its look and movements, a small, tailed, nocturnal, furry and rather scared Edward Albert. One of its fossil Eocene cousins, by the by, was so human in its bones that it was christened Tetonius homunculus , the primordial Little Man Strubei.
It is much nearer to your actual ancestor than the black magnificent gorilla, that formidable gentleman. It was close to our ancestor and the ancestors of all the monkeys and apes, but while they branched off from our family tree on a line of their own, from which there is no returning, becoming our cousins in various degrees, the Tarsier sub-order, came right on to the Hominids and us. I shall be sorry if it causes you some trouble to follow me in this. I shall not blame you, but I must condole with you.
You are the innocent victim of your upbringing. None of this is digression. I promised to write about Tewler and I write about Tewler now. I have to put him in his place in the universe. Which we share. I will tell, you everything I know about Tewler, I will dissect and demonstrate on the creature, but for the few years of life that remain to me, I will be damned if I write a single propitiatory or mitigated line about our ancestry to please all the Tewlers in the world.
We are a lowly and infantile breed, There is hardly a quadruped in the Zoo that is not more modified, evolved, distinguished and finished than ourselves. Go and look at the grace and finality of a tiger for example, or a gazelle, or a seal As his metamorphosis proceeded, two new sets of problems invaded Edward Albert's mind. It was borne in upon him that he had to do certain things called earning a living, and simultaneously that complex of impulses, taboos, terrors and repressions, that onset of sex and sex education, which his mother had apprehended so anxiously, gathered about him and closed in upon him.
Let us take the simpler issue first. Mixing up the idea of lessons, sufficiently disagreeable in themselves when you still had mother to help you, with earning a living when her help would be no longer available, didn't make the prospect more palatable. He averted his attention from it as long as he could. George Orwell, an English Trotskyist writer with enormous feet, who fought very valiantly in Spain, recently made a study of the literature consumed by the English and American young at the close of their tadpole days.
He produced generalisations about it, which I have partially forgotten, and so I do not think it is any breach of the undertaking I have made to keep ideas completely out of this book, if I refer to one observation of his that has stuck in my mind, because it will be very helpful in framing the adolescence of Edward Albert in its proper setting,. His point was that, by the showing of this literature, in matters of sex and business alike, either the young American is precocious or the young Briton is retarded.
That retardation is not altogether disadvantageous. Because of the postponement of those adult preoccupations the British boys and girls get on with their school work with easier minds, and are found to be sounder and further advanced in their schooling than Americans of the same age.
This cannot be due to any profound difference in race. The blood of the American population is hardly more mongrelised than the British. Then why? I was reflecting on this problem; albeit sternly resolved to put nothing about it into this story, but just for my own amusement, when it dawned upon me that though Edward Albert was born in the back streets of Camden Town in that melting-pot of humanity called London, both his mother and his father had lived, they and their progenitors, in a feudal world, in a feudal world from whose remote interferences the thirteen colonies escaped, finally and emphatically, a century and a half ago.
What would seem strange about him to an American reader is just that difference. I had the clue. Generalisations evaporate at this word and fact resumes its sway. Mrs Tewler's mother was born in the shires, under the shadow of a lord of the manor, and she was brought up, so to speak, bone-feudal. His grandfather had found religion there, but Dickybird had never become a hall member by immersion, and the couple would probably have drifted back to the Anglican Communion if it had not been for his conspicuous inability to "find his place" in his prayer book.
She was ashamed of him. The Baptists were easier. Except for that one touch of dissent, Richard Tewler's tradition was just as feudal as his wife's. His grandfather and his father had both been with Colebrook and Mahogany all their lives, and they would as soon have thought of leaving the Firm, as the Firm would have thought of dismissing them. Colebrook and Mahogany pensioned off their old hands, helped them with their domestic difficulties, took an interest in their children, as a matter of course.
Now this feudalism which ramifies to this day through the British social structure and gives its literature and social habits and distinctions that peculiar affectation of high unspoken values which so baffles and irritates Americans, was the underlying cause why our hero, instead of rushing forward, like a young American or a young Jew or a young barbarian, to embrace and wallow in his adolescence, advanced upon it, so to speak back foremost, pretending as far as possible to himself and the world at large that it really wasn't there, and that it was not of the slightest consequence even if it was.
Young Buffin Burleybank, who came into the school as a day boy for one short term until there was a vacancy for him at Mottiscombe, lived in an acquisitive home atmosphere where making money was openly discussed and glorified. He had wonderful stories of "young Harmsworth" and "old Newnes. And the youngster had borrowed a bit of money somehow, started something called Answers, started something else called Comic Cuts, and now was worth a cool million.
Still young and worth a cool million. And Newnes had been just a little obscure country chemist until he read a bit out of a paper and said to his wife, "I call that a regular Tit Bit. And he put a bit of capital into it and here he was 'normously rich. Yes, cars. Put my shirt on them. These motor cars are going big. They cost a lot to make and they're always going to cost a lot to make. You got to have skilled exact workmen, my father says, and those you can't get cheap. So if the demand grows the price will go up. They've got cars now about as cheap first-hand as ever they're going to be, and what people like doctors and commercial travellers and middle-class people will get will be anything from shop-soiled to tenth-hand.
Well, that's a business for you. Growing and growing. You can buy 'em, do 'em up as good as new, sell 'em hire purchase, hire 'em out—In a few years only dukes and earls and millionaires will have the slick new cars. There won't be one car in ten on the road new. Not one in ten. My father knows all about that. There's a man named Henry Ford and his cars—why they're a joke! They rattle. They're ugly as sin. They fall to pieces. He makes jokes about 'em himself. Then there's these steam cars they have.
Kettles on wheels. They blow out in a high wind. My father saw one of them blown out the other day. The car for a man of ordinary means is going to be the second-hand, third-hand, fourth-hand, high grade car, done-up and carefully renewed. There's lots of cars on the road now that will still be on the road in twenty-five years' time. And that's where little Buffin Burleybank means to come in. That's where we open the oyster.
You watch me.