Henry Masterman Mist Diaries and Prisoners Pie Magazine
Diaries of Heny Masterman Mist and a copy of Prisoners’ Pie, the Ruhleben Camp magazine. Learn more.
*All transcriptions are provided by volunteers, and the accuracy of the transcriptions is not guaranteed. Please be sure to verify the information by viewing the image record, or visiting the BC Archives in person.
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"Those days are told; But ladies fair, Are still as gay and debonair."
"I see him five minutes ago flirtin' with the barmaid," whispers Sam in an aside to Mr. Pickwick, with a cunning wink.
"Sam!" replies Mr. Pickwick in a rebuking tone, "you should know your place better." "Yes Sir! that's what me father's third vife is always a-sayin' when me father puts in a vord," acknowledges Sam. As Mr. Tupman is seating himself next to his leader, Mr. Winkle comes hurrying round the corner. "Sorry I'm late." he says, "but had some good sport this morning." "Where have you been -- shooting?" asks Mr. Snodgrass. "Yes," he replies, -- "that is, I've been watching the Boy Scouts practising at the Minature Rifle Range."
Mr. Winkle mounts by Sammy, who takes the wheel, and then off they go amid the cheers of the bystanders.
"I must confess I don't understand much about poetry," Mr. Winkle is remarking; "My interests are all for sport." "Quite so" Mr. Snodgrass returns, "but I can surely claim to know something of the poetic art; and, as I was saying, I maintain that Mrs. Leo Hunter's "Autumnal Hymns" far excel anything I can recall."
The car is now slowly ascending one of the steepest hills of the charming Surrey countryside. Some fifty yards ahead a lanky gentleman, with unusually long legs and long black hair, is striding jauntily along. He is dressed in a shabby green coat, black trousers with shiny patches; and his dirty white socks are distinctly visible. As the car reaches him he exclaims, "Ah! -- just my luck! -- going same way -- take a lift -- thanks!" -- as he opens the door and squeezes himself in calm self-possession between Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.
"Quite welcome, Sir, quite welcome," says Mr. Pickwick with an amiable smile; but Mr. Tupman appears rather annoyed. "We were just speaking of Mrs. Hunter's poetry," explains Mr. Pickwick, trying to break the Pickwickians' embarrassment. "Mrs. Hunter's poetry -- hem! -- know it well -- poetry indeed! ha! -- ejaculates the stranger with a super-confident laugh. "But, Sir" interjects Mr. Snodgrass most indignantly. "Milton -- Burns -- Mrs. Hunter -- Shelley -- all played out!" the stranger continues. "I never did hear such sacrilege," gasps Mr. Snodgrass, gazing with disgust upon the stranger. "Just think of the reverence, the deep emotion and the vital thought contained in that loveliest of poems, beginning: 'When fields are ripe with golden corn, With thankful hearts, each breaking dawn, To heaven above our voice we raise, In one continuous hymn of praise.'"
"Stuff! -- nonsense! -- old fashioned -- no more rhymes -- no sentiment. New poetry -- images -- rhythm -- images in three lines -- poet myself --
BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6 / MIST, Henry Masterman / Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners’ Pie, 1916