Evening star., 1923-07-22

little old shops. SO that an admiral
lived next door to a chimney sweep.
and that great artist, Walter Crane.
was two doors or so removed from an
oil and color man, who sold every
thing from treacle to paraffin. We
had everything in Holland street that
adds to the charm of life-a public
house at the corner, a German band
which played all the wrong notes
once a week, just as it ought TO do.
and a Punch and Judy show.
A near neighbor and close friend of
mine at that time was e. w. Hor-
nung. the author Of "Raffies," and
many better books not so famous. He
was the brother-in-law of Conan
Doyle, whose enormous success with
Sherlock Holmes probably set his
mind working on the character Of
that gentlemanly thief Raff1es, with
whom, personally. I had no sympa-
thy at all
Hornung and I used to jaw about
books and writing, and. as an OBJ
scure journalist and unsuccessful
author, I used to stand in awe of his
fine house, his powerful motor car,
his son at Eton. He was a heavily
built man, with a lazy manner and
certain intolerance of view which
made him despise socialists. radicals
or any critics of the British empire
and the old traditions, but 7 came to
know the underlying sweetness and
sentiment Of his character and his pas
sion OF patriotism. n
X x X x
oNE visitor Of mind in the little
~ house in Holland street, which
wa. often overcrowded with a mixed
company of writer's. artists and odd
folk, was distinguished little man
who came only when there was no
one else about At least. he preferred
1t that way, using my house as lit
tie retreat from the maddening
world. This was Mgr. Hugh Benton,
tie famous preacher and novelist.
The son of an Archbishop Of Canter-
bury, he had shocked his family by
joining the Catholic Church, in which
he found perpetual adventure and de-
,
its legends, it's romance, it's history,
it's music and its faith, like a small
child in a big old house constantly
discovering new wonders, mysteries
and enchanting treasures. He had
the heart Of a boy. and an enthu-
siasm for life and work which would
not let him take any rest. AS a
ho or V in 81
about the country for special SER
mons and missions, and he preached.
or, as he used to say, "praught," with
a passion that almost choked him
and tore him to pieces. In spite Of a
painful little stutter, and intense
shyness, he was extraordinarily elo-
quent, and every sermon was
crammed with hard thinking, for he
did not rely on sentiment for his ef-
feet, but on sheer intellectual rea-
'soning.
That was only one part Of his days
work. He had an enormous corre-
spondence with people Of all denomi-
nations or none, who used to write
to him for advice and help, and every
letter he received he answered as
though his own life depended on it.
At my house he used to go to his
bedroom at ten o'clock to deal with
the days budget. But when that was
done with. he used to get out a
manuscript book and begin to enjoy
himself That was when he was writ
ing one Of his novels-and as soon as
one was finished he began another.
my dearest dream of heaven" he
told me once, sis to be writing a novel
which goes we'll and is never finished.
What more perfect bliss than that?"
Among his other passions-and all
he liked he loved-was music. and he
used to strike wonderful chords on
my piano, and one particular combi-
nation of notes which he called the
deep sea chord" because. II you
shut your eyes and listened. you could
hear deep waters rushing overhead!
He killed himself by overwork, and
I heard of his death when 1 was
crossing a fieldo utside Dixmude, which
was a blazing ruin, in the autumn Of
the first year of war.
He used to envy my place in Fleet
street, and say that IL he were not a
priest he would like to be journalist.
remember particularly Bernard