New Ladies' Clubs to Conquer

A Parody Travelogue in the Style of Mr. Halliburton, and Other Literary Prejudices of the Month

JOHN RIDDELL

EDITOR'S NOTE: Richard ("Peter Pan") Halliburton, Lord Byron of the globe-trotters— he was recently voted Favourite Explorer of the Tuesday Afternoon Ladies' Club of Ypsilanti, Mich., and a good big kiss—and author of The Royal Road to Romance and The Glorious Adventure, has recently announced his intention of swimming the Panama Canal in order to gain material for a forthcoming book of romantic adventures in Mexico and South America. In the meantime, encouraged by Mr. Halliburton's aquatic prowess, Vanity Fair offers Mr. John Riddell's account of his similar spectacular swim across the Hudson River at Weehawken)

HEARKEN, girls!

I represent the Spirit of Bubbling Youth, Youth at its maddest, Youth at its gayest. I give you adventure, dreams, surcease and a severe pain in the neck. I am the Don Juan of Romance! I am the Slightly Pied Piper of lueltcchmerz. And I am only a boy, if that.

Phneeee!

Hearken, girls! I place to my lips the Magic Flute of Adventure, and sound the call o' the Gypsy Trail. Who will wander with me, hand in hand, down the Royal Road to Romance? Hearken, middle-aged suburban housewives, impressionable girl-graduates, Thursday afternoon bridge clubs, sex-starved librarians, and the rest of my fluttering, feminine, MiddleWestern audience. Look, I'm calling you. Phnee! Phneeee!

Then come with me, Mrs. Chairman and Lady Members of the Englewood (N. J.) Palisades Hiking and Tennis Club. Let us fling aside our everyday drudgeries and cares, our needless household worries and our husbands. Let us loosen our stays, shed our clothes, and thrust vine-leaves in our hair. See! We extend our bare great-toes with a nervous giggle, wriggle them tentatively, touch them at last to the silvery asphalt. Whoops! We are free! So toss your heads, girls, bend your knees, fling wide your arms, grabbing wildly once or twice to regain your balance, and follow me, follow me in a dancing, prancing, nancing line, toward the water's edge! Phneeeeee!

ONT the night before my Glorious Adventure, I honestly just couldn't sleep a wink. To think that my dearest dream was about to come true on the morrow! Since I first encountered Mr. Halliburton, it has ever been my dearest ambition to follow in his winged footsteps, footloose and fancy-free, tossing off the trammels and cleaning up the royalties, wandering away from civilization and exploring the quaint manners and customs of the natives along the Chautauqua Circuit! The time that Richard had taken a scrub-bath in the Taj Mahal Pool, the time that he had carved his initials on the top of Mount Olympus, even the delirious moment when he had spit off the Matterhorn, all these in turn had held me spell-bound; but of all his exotic experiences, none had seemed so utterly romantic to me as his oft-mentioned (by himself) swims across the Tiber and the Hellespont, the Mississippi and the Nile. How, I asked myself, could I equal this dazzling record? What body of water could I find which he hadn't swum across already? In a flash I had the answer.

I would swim the Hudson River from Weehawken to Forty-Second Street!

As the hour of my adventure approached at last, I felt that I could stand the suspense no longer. As in a dream I rose, flung my scarlet dressing-gown about my shoulders, and tiptoed softly down to the river. The silent night, the silver moonlight, the rippling waters were like a paragraph from one of his own books. Mayhap—as so often occured in Mr. Halliburton's flowing accounts—I likewise should meet a wood-nymph face-to-face! Mayhap I should also happen upon some enchanted deity, such as Richard encountered near the Porch of Maidens on the Acropolis! I reclined upon my stomach, as he had done before the Taj Mahal Pool, and gazed into the dark, mirror-like waters.

Stay! Whose features stared back at me? What strange face was reflected to my startled gaze? Had this magic night transformed me into some mythical god? Was I man, or was I faun? And if I was a faun, where had I gotten that black moustache?

"Am I the Great God Pan?" I asked my reflection softly, "seeking to play upon his sylvan reeds, far from the Jersey copse—?"

"I don't understand a word you're sayin'," replied a gruff voice behind my back, "but if you don't get off my beat, I'll run you in!"

Alas, Pan! Alas, memories of Mr. Halliburton! I turned, assisted rather violently from the rear, and flitted into the night.

FOR the course of my spectacular swim, I chose the same route that is customarily followed by all the other ferries. This route extends from Weehawken, N. J., eastward across the Hudson River to Forty-Second Street, New York, thence straight across town to Times Square, up Broadway one block and eastward on Forty-Third Street to the Town Hall Lecture Platform. The women, I figured, would be there already.

Everything was in readiness as the Great Morning broke bright and clear. Like Mr. Halliburton, I chose to travel rather light, in case I was attacked by a shark or a police-boat; and in addition to my crepe de Chine bathing suit, my equipment consisted only of a trusty pair of water-wings, some facial cream (in case of sunburn), a bundle of photographs of myself standing before the Parthenon, and a fountain-pen in case I was requested for an autograph en route. A tug-boat followed in my rear, loaded with copies of my book, to be placed on sale at the conclusion of my swim.

Needless to say, my heart went pit-a-pat as the moment of my swim drew nigh. For months I had trained eagerly, in the swimming-pool at the Hotel Naomi; but nevertheless I was all of a flutter as I tested my water-wings, dipped one ankle in the cold water, drew it out, and turned to face the camera for a last time. As far as I could see, in either direction, the shore was crowded with adoring females, waving their handkerchiefs, tossing roses, blowing me kisses and swooning with rapture. In my simple boyish modesty, I was very much "fussed" by all this adulation, and to cover my embarrassment I began to autograph books as fast as possible; but at last the surge of ladies pressed forward and literally forced me off the end of the pier. With a splash I landed in the water, turned, and struck out for the New York shore, followed by a cheering boat-load of my fair admirers.

For a time all went well. I was somewhat bothered by over-eager ladies who would dive overboard, swim up alongside me and persuade me to autograph one of my books; but the thought of the royalties invariably buoyed me up. Rod after rod I progressed, battling the tide, pausing occasionally to nod to acquaintances or speak a few words into a radio microphone lowered before me. Gradually the increased number of floating egg-crates, pasteboard boxes, half-sandwiches and drifting vegetables warned me that I was nearing my cherished destination, New York. And at this moment occured a most unfortunate accident, which I have never revealed before this moment.

PERHAPS encouraged by the nearness of my goal, I had unwittingly increased my strokes until I was some distance ahead of the pursuing boat-load of female admirers. In addition a light mist had sprung up over the surface of the river; and this served to add to the confusion. As I swam into the conglomerate mass of drifting objects alongside the 42nd St. pier, the boat lost track of my bobbing head; and the next moment, to my chagrin, I discovered that they were directing their cheers and applause toward a nearby head of cabbage.

In vain I tried to shout, to call their attention to this error. Amid the cries and hysterical confusion of the crowd, the unfortunate mistake in identity was not noticed. While I drifted alone and forgotten beneath the pier, too exhausted to hoist myself out of the water, my jealous eyes beheld these misguided admirers lift the head of cabbage to the bank, kissing it, fondling it and besieging it for autographs; and my last bitter memory, as I drifted helplessly out to sea, was the impression of the fickle crowd bearing this impostor vegetable on their shoulders toward the Town Hall. As a matter of fact, I understand that it subsequently completed a very satisfactory lecture-tour, and is now contemplating a book of romantic adventures in Mexico and South America.

I was, I regret to add, drowned.

[THE ROYAL ROAD TO ROMANCE, by Richard Halliburton. Bobbs Merrill.]

[THE GLORIOUS ADVENTURE. Ibid.]

[NEW WORLDS TO CONQUER. (Forthcoming.) Ibid.]

Continued on page 112

Continued from page 73

GOOFY AGAIN!

Mr. Riddell's severest critic has pointed out that in our enthusiasm for hooks dealing with the out-of-doors, practically any volume that carries about it the faint scent of a Balsam Pillow is assured of a favourable review. Which is by way of saying that we have just stumbled upon With a Camera in Tiger-Land, by F. W. Champion and, true to type, we found it simply gorgeous.

Here is a book that shows up the ballyhooing Martin Johnsons fprominent endorsers of practically everything on the market, by the simple process of doing their own stuff and doing it a million times better. Mr. Champion has taken his camera into the jungles of India, and brought out studies of the tiger, the elephant, the leopard and the hyena that are among the most beautiful photographs we have ever seen. Under incredibly hard conditions he has produced a masterly photographic panorama of jungle-life, accompanied in the book by a charming and sound prose. And—which final fact won our heart completely— there is not a single photograph of Mrs. Champion sitting. Osa-wise, astraddle a dead rhinoceros. (WITH A CAMERA IN TICER-LAND, by F. W. Champion. Doubleday, Doran).

IN LESS WORDS

JEROME, OR THE LATITUDE OF LOVE. by Maurice Bedel. (Viking). Mid-summer reading: an unstrained vanity showing a Parisian having his intentions misunderstood by some hyper-romantic and hyper-prosaic Scandinavian ladies. THE VIRGIN QUEENE, by Harford Powel, Jr. (Little, Broun J. An advertisingwriter puts his advertising-writer hero through the paces of boredom, adventure, clowning and a trace of satire, all with intelligence and good-humour. POSSIBLE WORLDS, by J. B. S. Haldane. (Harper). Journalistic science, sometimes fantastic, always clever, done by a scientist who can afford to be a journalist occasionally fin this instance, on train-journeys).

DIARY OF A COMMUNIST SCHOOLBOY, by S. Ogynov. (Payson, Clarke). Undoubtedly the best, truest and most easily assimilable introduction to Soviet Russia, and a most convincing picture of a most improbable world.

SCISSORS CUT PAPER, by Gerard Fairlie. (Little, Broun). One of the best on the lowest level of mystery story fiction. It kept us up, but we don't know how. ADVERTISING LAYOUT, by Frank H. Young. (Pascal Covici). A gorgeously made and illustrated treatise on the art of super-advertising. A very serious and doubtless authoritative work by an expert and, doubtless also, indispensable to the profession.

THE INTELLIGENT WOMAN'S GUIDE TO SOCIALISM AND CAPITALISM, by Bernard Shaw. (Brentano). The old boy is still wiggling his ears and still talking sound, if not especially original, sense. In this astoundingly comprehensive tome, with the cocky title, he makes no bones about his intellectual dictatorship. but he seems really anxious this time to have you agree with him.

THE SON OF MAN, by Emil Ludwig. (Boni and Liveright. The Fifth Gospel —and who asked this fellow to write one?