Pebbles on the shore [by] Alpha of the plough by Gardiner, A. G. (Alfred George), 1865-1946

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by Alpha of the Plough (Alfred George Gardiner)

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Title: Pebbles on the Shore
Author: Alpha of the Plough (Alfred George Gardiner)
Release Date: January 11, 2004 [EBook #10675]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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PEBBLES

ON THE SHORE

Alpha of the Plough

... collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge;
As children gathering pebbles on the shore

TO

ALL WHO LOVE
THE COTTAGE IN THE
BEECHWOODS

1916

PREFACE

These papers were begun as a part of a causerie in _The Star_, the other
contributors to which--men whose names are household words in contemporary
literature--wrote under the pen names of "Aldebaran," "Arcturus" and
"Sirius." But the constellation, formed in the early days of the war, did
not long survive the agitations of that event, and when "Arcturus" left for
the battlefield it was finally dissolved and "Alpha of the Plough" alone
remained to continue the causerie. This selection from his papers is a sort
of informal diary of moods in a time of peril. They are pebbles gathered on
the shore of a wild sea.

CONTENTS

ON CHOOSING A NAME
ON LETTER-WRITING
ON READING IN BED
ON CATS AND DOGS
"W.G."
ON SEEING VISIONS
ON BLACK SHEEP
THE VILLAGE AND THE WAR
ON RUMOUR
ON UMBRELLA MORALS
ON TALKING TO ONE'S SELF
ON BOSWELL AND HIS MIRACLE
ON SEEING OURSELVES
ON THE ENGLISH SPIRIT
ON FALLING IN LOVE
ON A BIT OF SEAWEED
ON LIVING AGAIN
TU-WHIT, TU-WHOO!
ON POINTS OF VIEW
ON BEER AND PORCELAIN
ON A CASE OF CONSCIENCE
ON THE GUINEA STAMP
ON THE DISLIKE OF LAWYERS
ON THE CHEERFULNESS OF THE BLIND
ON TAXING VANITY
ON THOUGHTS AT FIFTY
THE ONE-EYED CAT
ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF HATS
ON SEEING LONDON
ON CATCHING THE TRAIN
IN PRAISE OF CHESS
ON THE DOWNS
ON SHORT LEGS AND LONG LEGS
ON A PAINTED FACE
ON WRITING AN ARTICLE
ON A CITY THAT WAS
ON PLEASANT SOUNDS
ON SLACKENING THE BOW

ON THE INTELLIGENT GOLF BALL
ON A PRISONER OF WAR
ON THE WORLD WE LIVE IN
"I'M TELLING YOU"
ON COURAGE
ON SPENDTHRIFTS
ON A TOP HAT
ON LOSING ONE'S MEMORY
ON WEARING A FUR-LINED COAT
IN PRAISE OF WALKING
ON REWARDS AND RICHES
ON TASTE
ON A HAWTHORN HEDGE

PEBBLES ON THE SHORE

ON CHOOSING A NAME

"As for your name, I offer you the whole firmament to choose from." In that
prodigal spirit the editor of the _Star_ invites me to join the
constellation that he has summoned from the vasty deeps of Fleet Street. I
am, he says, to shine punctually every Wednesday evening, wet or fine, on
winter nights and summer eves, at home or abroad, until such time as he
cries: "Hold, enough!" and applies the extinguisher that comes to all.

The invitation reaches me in a tiny village on a spur of a range of beech
clad hills, whither I have fled for a breathing space from the nightmare of
the war and the menacing gloom of the London streets at night. Here the
darkness has no terrors. In the wide arch of the sky our lamps are lit
nightly as the sun sinks down far over the great plain that stretches at
our feet. None of the palpitations of Fleet Street disturb us, and the
rumours of the war come to us like far-off echoes from another world. The
only sensation of our day is when, just after darkness has fallen, the
sound of a whistle in the tiny street of thatched cottages announces that
the postman has called to collect letters.

In this solitude, where one is thrown entirely upon one's own resources,
one discovers how dependent one is upon men and books for inspiration. It
is hard even to find a name. Not that finding a name is easy in any
circumstances. Every one who lives by his pen knows the difficulty of the
task. I would rather write an article than find a title for it. The
thousand words come easily (sometimes); but the five-words summary of the
thousand, that is to flame at the top like a beacon light, is a gem that
has to be sought in travail, almost in tears. I have written books, but I
have never found a title for one that I have written. That has always come
to me from a friend.

Even the men of genius suffer from this impoverishment. When Goldsmith had written the finest English comedy since Shakespeare he did not know what to call it, and had to leave Johnson to write the label. I like to think that Shakespeare himself suffered from this sterility--that he, too, sat biting

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