The four and twenty years down this weary century saw no other author come any where near the output or the inimitable style of the incomparable Plum.
With all these, the void remains. We who are manikins can only offer a requiem.
A Requiem for Wodehouse. O Wodehouse ! Blessed be ye, Wherever you are, May your kind soul rest in peace. Many years ago, you breathed your humorous last, Leaving, over the years of toil, characters eternal This wayward world goes on, from sunrise to sunset, While we seek in vain for the peace of Blandings. O Wodehouse ! Who can ever replace you ! The crafty and the cunning in this world are many, The Molloys and Pilbeams abound like slippery eels dipped in butter, While Dukes are plenty, where is even one Lord Ickenham? While weak Emsworths struggle with dominant sisters, Our Woosters continue their agonies for want of Jeeves. O Wodehouse ! The world has changed little, Fleet Street residents continue to boil cabbage as if lives depended on it And Office boys keep vigil -- to throw out vendors of patent medicines, and insurance policies. We have our share of the press and their senile publications, Not very different from Lord Tilbury and his editors -- And the Situations Vacant column like a dredger ever brings forth characters from the underworld . O Wodehouse ! You who are over hundred, Wherever you may be, we imagine you seated With a pipe in hand, pausing for thought, As sentence after sentence reach to perfection -- And the phrase that ever silences Your readers in admiration. O Wodehouse ! While patented humour lurked stealthily --and--- Brought forth first a flicker, then a smile till the air was loud with laughter, Our hearts turn from gladness to sadness as Today we wait to realise that we can only pine -- Like Tennyson -- for the touch of the vanished hand And the sound of a voice that is still.