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diff --git a/78197-0.txt b/78197-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..21b8165 --- /dev/null +++ b/78197-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1966 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78197 *** + + Transcriber’s Note + + + 1. Certain typographic errors & hyphenation inconsistencies were + silently corrected. + + 2. The text version is marked up as follows: + + (a) italics are indicated thus _italic_; + + (b) small-caps are indicated thus +Small-Caps+; + + 3. Footnotes moved to the end. + + + + + TRICKS OF THE TRADE + + + + + _WORKS BY J. C. SQUIRE_ + + + THE GOLD TREE + TWELVE POEMS + THE THREE HILLS + And Other Poems + THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST + And Other Poems + IMAGINARY SPEECHES + STEPS TO PARNASSUS + + THE COLLECTED POEMS OF + JAMES ELROY FLECKER + (Edited with an Introduction) + + + + + TRICKS OF THE + TRADE + + BY + + J. C. SQUIRE + + + LONDON + MARTIN SECKER + NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET + ADELPHI + + + + + TO ROBERT LYND + + THESE FINAL ESSAYS IN A NOT + WHOLLY ADMIRABLE ART + + + + + CONTENTS + + + HOW THEY DO IT + + PAGE + + 1. +MR. H. BELLOC, I+ 3 + + +MR. H. BELLOC, II+ 5 + + 2. +MR. W. H. DAVIES, I+ 10 + + +MR. W. H. DAVIES, II+ 11 + + 3. +SIR H. NEWBOLT+ 12 + + 4. +MR. JOHN MASEFIELD+ 14 + + 5. +MR. G. K. CHESTERTON+ 26 + + 6. +CANON H. D. RAWNSLEY+ 27 + + 7. +NUMEROUS CELTS+ 28 + + 8. +THE WRITERS OF FOLK-SONGS+ 30 + + 9. +MR. H. G. WELLS+ 32 + + 10. +MR. G. BERNARD SHAW+ 39 + + + HOW THEY WOULD HAVE DONE IT + + + 1. +IF WORDSWORTH HAD WRITTEN “THE + EVERLASTING MERCY”+ 49 + + 2. +IF SWINBURNE HAD WRITTEN “THE + LAY OF HORATIUS”+ 51 + + 3. +IF MR. MASEFIELD HAD WRITTEN + “CASABIANCA”+ 53 + + 4. +IF ALMOST ANY ELIZABETHAN HAD + WRITTEN “SHE DWELT AMONG THE + UNTRODDEN WAYS”+ 57 + + 5. +IF POPE HAD WRITTEN “BREAK, BREAK, + BREAK”+ 59 + + 6. +IF GRAY HAD WRITTEN “SPOON RIVER + ANTHOLOGY”+ 61 + + 7. +IF A VERY NEW POET HAD WRITTEN + “THE LOTUS-EATERS”+ 65 + + 8. +IF HENRY JAMES HAD WRITTEN THE + CHURCH CATECHISM+ 68 + + 9. +IF LORD BYRON HAD WRITTEN “THE + PASSING OF ARTHUR”+ 71 + + 10. +IF SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE HAD + WRITTEN “LITTLE DROPS OF WATER”+ 78 + + + + + HOW THEY DO IT + + + + + No. 1. MR. H. BELLOC + + + I + + At Martinmas, when I was born, + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_, + There came a cow with a crumpled horn, + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_. + She stood agape and said, “My dear, + You’re a very fine child for this time of year, + And I think you’ll have a taste in beer,” + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Ho, do, do, do, + Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_. + + A taste in beer I’ve certainly got, + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_, + A very fine taste that the Jews have not, + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_. + And though I travel on the hills of Spain, + And Val-Pont-Côte and Belle Fontaine, + With lusty lungs I shall still maintain + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Ho, do, do, do, + Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_. + + So Sussex men, wherever you be, + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_, + I pray you sing this song with me, + _Hey diddle, Ho diddle, Do_; + That of all the shires she is the queen, + And they sell at the “Chequers” at Chanctonbury Green + The very best beer that ever was seen. + _Hey Dominus, Domine, Dominum, Domini, Domino, Domino._ + + + II + + Lord Globule was a backward lad, + Round leaden eyes Lord Globule had, + And shambling legs and shoulders stooped, + And lower lip that dripped and drooped. + At ten years old he could not get + The hang of half the alphabet; + At twelve he learnt to read his name, + At seventeen to write the same, + At twenty-one, his boyhood done, + He reached the age of twenty-one, + Which was sufficient reason why + His father’s sturdy tenantry + Should gather in a large white tent, + Engulf some tons of nutriment, + And, freely primed with free potations, + Emit profuse congratulations. + + Sweet twenty-one! O magic age! + The opulent youth surveys the stage + Where soon he’ll walk ’mid loud applause. + He only hesitates because + His family all have different views + Which rôle, which entrance he should choose. + Lord Globule’s father thought him made + To dominate the world of Trade; + “Finance, finance is more his line,” + Exclaimed his Uncle Rubinstein; + “Oh, no,” Aunt Araminta cried, + “Diplomacy should first be tried”; + But in the end with one accord + They thought the chances of a hoard + That British politics afford + Would suit Lord Globule’s pocket best. + + They all employed their interest + With Uncle Tom, and Moses Kant, + And Strauss, who married Globule’s aunt, + And Johnny Burke and Stoke and Shere, + And the old Duke and Humphrey Bere; + So that in January next year + A vacancy in Hertfordshire + Offered itself, and Globule’s parts + Enraptured the electors’ hearts. + + The next five Sessions saw him slip + Through Private Secretaryship, + Under-Secretaryship, + Financial Secretaryship, + To Secretaryship of State, + With absolute power to regulate + The rural and the urban rate + Of birth among the pauper classes, + His duty ’twas to scan the masses + And carefully eliminate + What seemed to him degenerate, + To say what kinds they’d mutilate + And which ones merely isolate + In “homes from home” where they should be + Looked after tender-heartedly + By men selected by a Board + (No fewer than twenty to each ward). + + A heavy task, as you’ll agree, + For which they paid him liberally. + + Globule the office still would grace, + And still would draw the emolument, + Had not a wretched accident + Unfortunately taken place. + + His chief subordinate being away + (The man who wrote Lord Globule’s speeches), + Lord Globule took a holiday, + Going by train to Burnham Beeches, + A secretary, tall and prim, + As usual, escorting him. + This tall young gentleman, when taxed + Later, denied he had relaxed + His customary watchfulness; + But be that as it may, ’tis certain + That late that night at Shoeburyness + Lord Globule was discovered bare + Of all except a muslin curtain + And some few feathers in his hair + And that the constable, when he + Was quite unable to explain + His actions or identity, + Concluded that he was insane. + + Next day before the magistrate + The poor young pillar of the State + (His curtain bore no laundry marks!) + Was still quite unidentified, + And, catechized once more, replied + Only with sundry mews and barks. + And ultimately (to cut short + The day’s proceedings in the court) + Two doctors and the police advised + That Globule should be sterilized + (A thing I need not further mention), + And sent to permanent detention. + + For days the public did not hear + Of Globule’s disappearance; near + And far, inquiries set on foot + Quite privately, produced no fruit, + Until at last the rumour spread + (Not in the papers) and some one said + That such a man in such a dress + Had been detained at Shoeburyness. + His relatives pursued the clue; + Alas, alas, the thing was true, + ’Twas poor young Globule.... + But the worst + Was this: that when they’d brought him out + They found the thing had got about + Among the unenlightened mob, + Which stultified beyond all doubt + The hopes they’d entertained at first + That Globule might preserve his job. + + Fate was too strong; they had to bow; + Globule at home had been a failure; + And they could only give him now + The Governorship of South Australia. + + + + + No. 2. MR. W. H. DAVIES + + + I + + I’m sure that you would never guess + The tales I hear from birds and flowers, + Without them sure ’twould be a mess + I’d make of all the summer hours; + But these fair things they make for me + A lovely life of joy and glee. + + I saw some sheep upon some grass, + The sheep were fat, the grass was green, + The sheep were white as clouds that pass, + And greener grass was never seen; + I thought, “Oh, how my bliss is deep, + With such green grass and such fat sheep!” + + And as I watch bees in a hive, + Or gentle cows that rub ’gainst trees, + I do not envy men who live, + No fields, no books upon their knees. + I’d rather lie beneath small stars + Than with rough men who drink in bars. + + + II + + A poor old man + Who has no bread, + He nothing can + To get a bed. + + He has a cough, + Bad boots he has; + He takes them off + Upon the grass. + + He does not eat + In cosy inns + But keeps his meat + In salmon tins. + + No oven hot, + No frying-pan; + Thank God I’m not + That poor old man. + + + + + No. 3. SIR HENRY NEWBOLT + + + It was eight bells in the forenoon and hammocks running sleek + (_It’s a fair sea flowing from the West_), + When the little Commodore came a-sailing up the Creek + (_Heave Ho! I think you’ll know the rest_). + Thunder in the halyards and horses leaping high, + Blake and Drake and Nelson are listenin’ where they lie, + Four and twenty blackbirds a-bakin’ in a pie, + And the _Pegasus_ came waltzing from the West. + + Now the little Commodore sat steady on his keel + (_It’s a fair sea flowing from the West_), + A heart as stout as concrete reinforced with steel + (_Heave Ho! I think you’ll know the rest_). + Swinging are the scuppers, hark, the rudder snores, + Plugging at the Frenchmen, downing ’em by scores. + Porto Rico, Vera Cruz, and also the Azores, + And the _Pegasus_ came waltzing from the West. + + So three cheers more for the little Commodore + (_It’s a fair sea flowing from the West_). + I tell you so again as I’ve told you so before + (_Heigh Ho! I think you know the rest_). + Aged is the Motherland, old but she is young + (Easy with the tackle there--don’t release the bung), + And I sang a song like all the songs that I have ever sung + When the _Pegasus_ came sailing from the West. + + + + + No. 4. MR. JOHN MASEFIELD + + THE POET IN THE BACK STREETS + + [+AUTHOR’S NOTE.+--The following poem has been considerably + compressed owing to the exigencies of space, which must sometimes be + respected. But enough at least has been printed to indicate that it + is a production of the School of Real Human Emotion that is leading + a return to Life and Religion and Natural Action and away from the + refined æstheticisms of so many of our modern poets.] + + + I + + Down Lupus Street there is a little pub, + And there there worked a little bright-haired maiden, + Mornings the furniture she had to scrub, + Evenings she’d walk about with pewters laden; + But still she sang as did the birds in Eden: + In fact you would have said that there was no + More cheerful barmaid in all Pimlico. + + She had eleven brothers and a sister, + A mother who had rheumatism bad, + And when she left o’ mornings how they missed her, + And when she stayed o’ Sundays weren’t they glad; + No other help or maintenance they had, + So that their mother often said, “God pink ’em, + Lucky for them Flo makes a decent income.” + + “If ’t wasn’t for Flo’s fifteen bob a week, + Me and them brats would not know where to turn, + For some of ’em ain’t old enough to speak, + And none of ’em ain’t old enough to earn, + And as for ’er bright merry japes, why, durn + My bleedin’ eyes, if we’d no Flo to quirk us, + I’m sure we’d soon be droopin’ in the workus.” + + “It’s only Flo’s ’igh spirits keeps me goin’, + The way she sings ‘My Pansy,’ it’s a treat, + And also ‘All a-blowin’ and a-growin’,’ + Our Flo is fair top-’ole, she can’t be beat. + So give three cheers for Flo, it’s time to eat; + Mary, you just run out and fetch some jam, + And Bill, take down the pickles and the ham.” + + So the years passed, so Florence earned the money, + And all the throng were happy as could be, + No air could blench or stain her cheeks so bonny, + No labour weigh upon her heart so free, + She was, in short, as chirpy as could be; + Until at last came Fate in Fate’s own time, + And ravelled her in the dark nets of crime. + + Crime is the foulest blot on our escutcheon, + Crime draws mankind as the moon draws the tides, + Crime is a thing I’m rather prone to touch on, + Crime is a clanking chain that grins and grides, + A lure, a snare, and other things besides; + If crime should cease, I should not then be able + To furnish Austin with my monthly fable. + + One foggy night it happened there were drinking + Within the bar a crowd of all the boys, + ’Erb Gupps and Nixey Snell and Snouty Jinkin, + And Noakes with several friends from Theydon Bois + Visiting Pimlico; they made a noise + With call for booze and anecdote and curse, + And as the night wore on the row got worse. + + “Wot sher,” “Wot ho,” “I don’t fink,” “Blast yer eyes,” + “That was a good ’un,” “Cheese it,” “’Arf a mo,” + “Ten pints of ’arf an’ ’arf,” “There ain’t no flies + On Nixey,” “Your’re a ---- welsher, Joe,” + “A quartern more, miss,” “---- lie,” and so + They kept it up with rapid thrust and answer, + In phrases neatly measured for a stanza. + + Even when they yelled and fought, Flo did not mind, + She did not mind, for she was used to this, + Even when to sottish amorousness inclined + They called her “Floss,” or “Flo,” instead of “Miss”; + But when at last drunk Snouty snatched a kiss, + She felt her cheek flame with a flaming flame, + She felt her heart scorch with a hell of shame. + + All the air howls when storms scourge the Atlantic, + All the wide forest shakes when falls the boar, + A wounded whale is often very frantic, + And jealous lions have been known to roar + Almost as loud as breakers on the shore; + But all these are tranquillity and rest + Compared with what went on in Florrie’s breast. + + Red in her soul shame set its blazing seal, + Black in her heart strong hate swirled round in torrents, + Blue in her eyes the lightning shone like steel, + White on her lips rage mingled with abhorrence; + Against a barrel’s back leaned Barmaid Florence, + Watching with grinding teeth and eyeballs rolling, + Drunk Snouty who was belching forth “Tom Bowling.” + + There while the boozers rocked in song obscene, + She stood like a tall statue marble-still, + And first she moaned, “I am smirched, I am no more clean,” + And then she rasped, “By God, but I will kill + That lousy stinkard, yes, by God I will.” + Fate flung the dice of Doom, her buckler buckled; + Life shrank, grew pale; Death rubbed his chin and chuckled. + + So it draws on to closing-time; men go + By twos and threes; Flo washes pots and glasses, + Ranging them on the shelves in their degrees, + Wipes the wet counter dry, turns down the gasses; + And, locking up the doors, the portal passes, + Grasping with fervour of a frenzied bigot + Inside her muff a mallet and a spigot. + + There Snouty was, fumbling his way along + Towards the bridge, blind-tight, alone and grunting, + And as he lurched he sang a maudlin song, + A foolish song beginning, “Baby Bunting, + For rabbit-skins your father’s gone a-hunting,” + And as Flo heard the melody undroughty, + She whispered, “Cripes, _I’ll_ bunt you, Mr. Snouty!” + + So they went on, he foremost, she behind, + Until they got to the Embankment wall; + He leant against it; swifter than the wind + She smashed her wedge into his head, and all + His brains spattered the stones in pieces small. + “My kiss,” she hissed; then with a sudden shiver + Fled, tipping tools and Snouty in the river. + + And like a fleet slim panther she did fly + Through the webbed streets of silent Pimlico, + Faithful the white stars glimmered in the sky, + Over the Lambeth bank the moon hung low, + A great round golden moon as white as snow. + Death cursed; Life smiled and murmured, “She will live, + The police will fail to track the fugitive.” + + And the high stars looked down and saw her enter + The doorway of her home in the dark street, + Happy to think the cops would never scent her, + Proud for the godlike swiftness of her feet. + Cheek to her pillow cried she: “Yes, ’twas sweet.” + But God behind God’s curtain cogitated + About another end, and all things waited. + + + II + + Six months rolled by; Flo earned her wonted wages, + The family consumed its usual food. + Had nothing changed I’d not have penned these pages; + But evil generally brings forth good; + Briefly I’d have it to be understood + One day a pavement-preacher’s casual sentence + Hurled Flo into abysses of repentance. + + So the sky fell; there came a hand of fire + That seared her soul with consciousness of sin, + Her soul was all one yearning of desire + For God; she felt like jumping from her skin; + Like hell in a through-draught she burnt within. + “Mother,” she said, “here is my this week’s sub., + I cannot go on working at the pub.” + + The mother swooned; the children joined in prayer + That Flo should not decide in such a fast time; + But the fierce heavens cried beer was a snare + And skittles was a most immoral pastime; + So that that evening for the very last time + She washed the pots and locked the “Fountain” door, + As she had done so many nights before. + + Next day she went out early without warning + Down the wan street; and later in the day, + That is to say well on into the morning, + She sent a District Messenger to say + That she had definitely gone away + To join the Battersea Salvation Army. + “Swipe me,” her mother moaned, “the gal’s gone barmy.” + + Barmy or not, she certainly had gone. + In her low attic poor old mother wep, + “She kep the home up, little Florence done, + We was so happy in the home she kep; + ’Twas mean of her to hook it while we slep; + I’ll larn her yet to take me by surprise, + I’ll do her in, ---- ’er ---- eyes!” + + But Flo was meanwhile getting fur and furder. + Safe in the barracks in the Bilsey Road, + Aching to make atonement for her murder, + She said she wished to take up her abode + There permanently; stabbed by her inner goad, + She very quickly rose to the direction + Of her new comrades’ Social Effort Section. + + She visited the mothers in the slums, + And daily rescued suicidal wretches, + She helped the young with their addition sums, + And washed the infants’ clothes and mended breeches; + And when she broke a plate or dropped some stitches, + None ever heard a hasty word from Flo, + The most she ever said was, “Here’s a go!” + + Work or no work, her heart was always merry, + Heaven had washed her heart and cleansed her eyes, + Adjutant Flo, the Barmaid Missionary, + Was the adored of every sex and size, + They said that she had strayed from Paradise, + And every week her saintly reputation + Led many sinning souls to seek salvation. + + Death laughed; Life winced; for in the neighbouring borough + Old mother dwelt and bided her own hour, + Whetting a carving-knife with motions thorough, + Practising stabs of accuracy and power. + The scythe must fall, and then must fall the flower, + The day must die and then must sink the sun, + And all things end that ever have begun. + + + III + + All the crowds crowd in Battersea’s Green Park; + The deer are fed, the ducks quack on the water; + On the trim paths the Sabbath-resting clerk + Walks slowly with his wife and son and daughter, + Or seeks the grass where orators breathe slaughter, + Some singing hymns to variegate their turns, + Or waving flags with portraits of John Burns. + + Middle the plot there brays a brazen band, + Peaked caps, red jerseys, other things of blue; + And when they cease behold a figure stand, + A bright-haired wench who wears those garments too. + She preaches truth as few but she can do + Concerning drink and cigarettes and betting, + So that the mob must listen though they’re sweating. + + “S’welp me, it’s hot.” “Yes, s’welp me, so it is.” + “Ain’t it a shame the pubs ain’t open Sundays, + Just as they be Tuesdays and Wednesdays, Liz, + Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Mondays, + To close the ---- up on just this one day’s + ’Bout the worst thing the ---- law has done.” + “Yus, so it is.” “Gorblimey, wot a sun!” + + But though the high sun spilled a raging heat, + They could not go, they had to stay and hear, + So tense her accents were, her voice so sweet. + “Crikey,” says Bill, “she’s a ’ard egg, no fear.” + Says Sam, “By Gosh, I’ll drop the ---- beer.” + “You won’t.” “I will.” “You won’t.” “What will you bet?” + “A ... no, by gum,’ere comes a Suffragette!” + + It was a Suffragette with purple banner, + Handbell and bag of many-coloured bills, + At once in her inimitable manner + She draws the crowd; the space around her fills, + While Flo’s grows empty; soon her pitch is still’s + The solitudes of the Antarctic Ocean, + For even the band had shared the crowd’s emotion. + + Not a man trod her corner of the Park, + A quarter-mile around the place was void, + Only her voice to one lost mongrel’s bark + Rang on, and still, as with sound texts she toyed, + She did not seem the slightest bit annoyed. + But Life shrank low, and greedy Death did dance, + For here at last had come old mother’s chance! + + Old mother had been hiding ’hind a tree, + Old mother who had sworn the end of Flo, + Weapon in hand she stole up stealthily + Towards the daughter who had grieved her so. + “Aha!” she cried, “you little bitch, Ho, ho, + I’ll pay you out now for your vile desertion ...” + In Flo’s plain blouse she made a neat insertion! + + Flo fell, she fell, did Barmaid Flo, she fell; + The carving-knife was sticking in her back, + And as she fell she cried out, “Well, well, well, + What is the motive of this base attack?” + But her old mother shrieked aloud, “Alack, + This was my child, this was my little child, + O, I must cover her with blossoms wild.” + + So sought she underneath the elms and oaks, + Garlic and dandelions, peonies + And cabbage-wort and sprole and old-man’s-mokes, + And lillikens and dinks and bitter-ease, + And mortmains that the hind in autumn sees + In places where the mist lies on the hay + And all the land is frozen with the May. + + And with her arms full, poor old mother staggered + To her poor child there dead upon the grass, + “My little Flo,” she whimpered, “I’ll be jaggered + I don’t know how it ever come to pass, + I don’t know how I done it, little lass; + Whyever did I sharp that carvin’ knife + And let out all my lovely darlin’s life?” + + “She wor a merry grig, wor little Flo, + She kep the family goin’ nicely, she did, + There never was a wheeze she didn’t know, + She always pinched us anything we needed; + Cripes, but I cannot tell why I proceeded, + Just ’cos she left the family to starve, + My pretty Flo’s sweet darlin’ back to carve.” + + And so she brought the flowers to her dead, + And piled them on her feet and face and breast, + Flo lay there still as down the blossoms shed, + A heavenly angel lying down to rest, + A downy bird at evening on its nest, + A cloud, a moth, a wave, a steamer, or + Almost any other metaphor. + + “Good-bye, my little Flo,” said poor old mother + “You had your faults, I willingly admit, + Yet I am, taking one thing with another, + Sorry for my rash act more than a bit, + But still, I do not want to swing for it. + Mum is the word, least said is soonest mended.” + So mother left the Park, and all was ended. + + + + + No. 5. MR. G. K. CHESTERTON + + + When I leapt over Tower Bridge + There were three that watched below, + A bald man and a hairy man, + And a man like Ikey Mo. + + When I leapt over London Bridge + They quailed to see my tears, + As terrible as a shaken sword + And many shining spears. + + But when I leapt over Blackfriars + The pigeons on St. Paul’s + Grew ghastly white as they saw the sight + Like an awful sun that falls; + + And all along from Ludgate + To the wonder of Charing Cross, + The devil flew through a host of hearts-- + A messenger of loss. + + With a rumour of ghostly things that pass + With a thunderous pennon of pain, + To a land where the sky is as red as the grass, + And the sun as green as the rain. + + + + + No. 6. CANON H. D. RAWNSLEY + + + Britannia mourns for good grey heads that fall, + Survivors from our great Victoria’s reign; + For they were men; take them for all in all + We shall not look upon their like again. + + + + + No. 7. NUMEROUS CELTS + + + There’s a grey wind wails on the clover + And grey hills, and mist around the hills, + And a far voice sighing a song that is over + And my grey heart that a strange longing fills. + + A sheen of dead swords that shake upon the wind, + And a harp that sleeps though the wind is blowing + Over the hills and the seas and the great hills behind, + The great hills of Kerry, where my heart would be going. + + For I would be in Kerry now where quiet is the grass, + And the birds are crying in the low light, + And over the stone hedges the shadows pass, + And a fiddle weeps at the shadow of the night. + + With Pat Doogan + Father Murphy + Brown maidens + King Cuchullain + The Kine + The Sheep + Some old women + Some old men + And Uncle White Sea-gull and all. + + (_Chorus_) And Uncle White Sea-gull and all. + + + + + No. 8. THE PEOPLE WHO WRITE IN SECRET WHAT IN PUBLIC THEY ALLEGE + TO BE FOLK-SONGS + + + The night it was so cold, and the moon it was so clear, + When I stood at the churchyard gate a-parting from my dear, + A-parting from my dear, for to bid my dear good-bye! + And I parted from my dear when the moon was in the sky. + + “I never shall forget,” said he, “wherever I may roam, + The day that I parted from my own true love at home, + My own true love at home that was always true to me, + I never shall forget my love wherever I may be. + But I must off to Barbary for good King George to fight, + And it’s farewell to Bayswater and to the Isle of Wight, + And it’s farewell to my true love, it’s farewell to you, + It’s farewell to my own dear love, so faithful and so true.” + + He kissed me good-bye, and he gave me a ring, + And he rode away to Lunnon for to fight for the King; + Oh! lonely am I now, and sair, sair cold my pillow, + And I must bind my head with O the green willow. + + For last night there came a white angel to my bed, + And he told to me that my own dear love was dead; + My own dear love is dead, and I am all alone + (So it’s surely rather obtuse of you to ask me why I moan). + + + + + No. 9. MR. H. G. WELLS + + + I + +I do not quite know how to begin.... Ever since I left England and +settled here in this quiet Putumayo valley I have been wondering and +wondering.... I want to put everything down quite frankly so that you +who come after me shall understand. It is very peaceful here in the +forest, and as my mind goes back to that roaring old England, with its +strange welter of aspirations and basenesses, that little old England, +so far away now, a small green jewel in the great sea, I break into a +smile of tender tolerance. Here, as the immemorial procession of day +and night, of summer and winter, sweeps over the earth, amid the vast +serenities of primeval nature, it all seems so very far away, so small, +so queerly inconsequent.... The men who made me, the men who broke me, +the women I loved, the sprawling towns, the confused effort, and that +ungainly lop-sided structure of our twentieth-century civilization, +with its strange welter of sex.... + + + II + +And then it was that the Hon. Astarte Cholmondeley came into my life. +I remember as clearly as though it were yesterday--and it is now +over thirty years ago--the moment of our meeting. It was at one of +those enormous futile receptions that political hostesses give at the +beginning of the Session, assemblies of two or three thousand men and +women, minor politicians, organizers, journalists, all clamorous for +champagne and burning for nods of recognition from the great men of +the Party. It was a fine night, almost oppressively warm, and I had +walked across the Park from Hill Street, carrying my opera-hat in my +hand. There was a dull uniform roar from the distant traffic; the tops +of the trees faintly swished in the light wind, the lights along the +lake shone very quietly, and above were the vast serenities of the sky, +powdered with stars. On benches in the shadows lurked pairs of quiet +lovers, and the stars looked down upon them as they had upon lovers in +Nineveh and Babylon. As I stepped out into the rush of Pall Mall, with +its stream of swift motors, I thought, I remember, of my career.... + + + III + +The crush was vulgar and intolerable. + +I had spent an hour passing dejected remarks to the other young men, +also there out of duty and as bored as I was myself. Then suddenly she +entered ... a slender slip of a thing, brown-haired and brown-eyed, +leaning flower-like on the arm of her elephantine mother, the +Dowager.... + + + IV + +“Dearest,” she wrote me next day, “did you sleep last night? I did +not sleep a wink. All night long I lay dazzled and overwhelmed by +this wonderful thing that has come to us. And then this morning, when +God’s great dawn slowly lifted over the westward hills, I got up, +did my hair (oh my beautiful, beautiful hair, now all yours, my own +Man, all yours), and sat down to write this, my first letter, to you. +I am sitting at the little window of my room in the Lion Tower. The +breath of the roses rises in the fresh morning air; and out beyond the +park, where the deer are placidly grazing, the slanting sun glints +exquisitely on spacious woodland and rolling down, mile after mile.... +Far away, against the blue of the horizon, there is a little pointing +church spire, and somehow it reminds me of you.... Oh, my lover, I am +going to lay bare to you the inmost shrine of my heart. You must be +patient with me, very patient; for do we not belong to each other? We +must live openly we two, we who are the apostles of new freedoms, of +new realizations, of a second birth for this dear foolish old world +of ours.” Thus she wrote, and there was more, much more, too sacredly +intimate to be set down here, but breathing in every line the essence +of her adorable self.... + + + V + +And then it was that Mary Browne came into my life. I had known her +years ago when I was at college; I had thought her a meek and rather +dull little girl, as insignificant as the rest of her family. But now +there was about her a certain quality of graciousness, very difficult +to define, but very unescapable when it is present, that gave to her +mouse-grey hair and rather weak blue eyes a beauty very rare and very +subtle. She had spent, she told me, two years in the East End at some +social work or other.... + + + VI + +And then I met Cecilia Scroop.... + + + VII + +And so the end came. In those last days I worked more feverishly than +ever, writing my book, attending committees, speaking on platforms +throughout the country. I was the chief speaker during that +by-election of Brooks’s at Manchester, which I still believe might have +been the germ of a new social order, of coherences and approximations, +of differentiations and realizations beyond the imagining of the men of +our time, but to be very clearly and very palpably apprehended by that +future race for whom we, in a blind and groping way, are living and +building.... And then the blow fell.... + +It was a Friday afternoon. The House had risen early after throwing +out some absurd Bill that that ass Biffin had brought in; I think it +was something about Bee Disease. I had been one of the tellers for the +Noes, and at three o’clock I walked out into Palace Yard and along the +chalky stone cloister that leads to the private tunnel through which +members enter the Underground Railway station. I had promised to meet +Astarte at four at the foot of the Scenic Railway (this was before the +time when little Higgins revolutionized the amusement business with his +actino-gyroscopes) in the Earl’s Court Exhibition. Since her marriage +with Binger communication had been increasingly difficult for us. All +her letters were opened, and Binger had eavesdroppers at work in the +telephone exchanges. Her chauffeur, happily, played his master false, +and she was usually able to keep appointments when she had made them; +and for some months we had arranged our meetings by little cryptic +notices in the agony column of the _Morning Post_. We had thought +ourselves safe. But she must have dropped a casual word to somebody; +some fool had given us away; and when I got to Earl’s Court I found +that Astarte was there, but that Mary and Cecilia were there as well.... + + + VIII + +I remonstrated with them. I knew it was hopeless, and my heart sank; +but I did my best. Greatest agony of all it was to know that these +women in whom I had trusted, whom I had looked to as pioneers, as +auguries of what was to be and what still will be, were, when the +crisis came, still shackled and bound by the little petty jealousies +of the old system. With set, white faces they glowered upon me (it +was raining a little I remember, and the ground at our feet was muddy +and covered with stained and trampled paper) as I spoke, softly and +passionately, of muddle and waste, of the sordid and furtive shames +and reticences that man has brought with him from the ancestral past, +that he must shed before we build for our gods the diviner temples +that might be.... Night came over ... and then, as my voice failed, +a tall man stepped out from behind a hoarding. It was Montacute, the +Prime Minister. “I am very sorry for you,” he said simply, “but I am +afraid, Mr. Bilgewater, we shall have to ask you to resign.” He seemed +to hesitate a moment; then, as though half ashamed, he held out his +hand and looked me in the eyes.... I had known him since I was a boy +at school and he a young man, a fastidious and kindly young man who +had seemed almost too delicate for the rough work of politics. He +had always taken a friendly interest in me even when I was bitterly +fighting him.... “Good-bye,” he said. My voice was husky as I returned +his farewell. + + + IX + +I went back to my chambers and told my man to pack a single +portmanteau. There were just three hours before the boat-train. Before +I left I wrote ten letters.... + + + + + No. 10. MR. G. BERNARD SHAW + + _Fragment from an Unwritten Play_ + + MAHOMET THE PROPHET + + + +ACT II+ + +_The library of the Prophet’s house at Medina. As the audience is +looking straight into a corner, only two walls are seen. The right wall +contains two high windows, through which much blue sky is visible; +between them_ +MAHOMET+ _is seated, with his back to the audience, at a +handsome oak writing-desk. At the far end of the left wall is a door, +and along the rest of its length runs a long blue divan, piled with +multicoloured cushions, on which recline_ +AYESHA+, _a slender girl +with deep black eyes, pale cheeks, and golden hair, and two others of +the Prophet’s eighty wives. They are drinking coffee from brass bowls +and turning over the pages of illustrated magazines. The floor is +strewn with rich rugs._ + +_After five minutes’ silence the Prophet stretches his arms, rises, and +turns round. He is a fleshy man with huge head, hands, and feet. His +eyes are red, his nose imperious, and his beard covers half his chest. +He walks up and down nervously jerking his hands, then stands still, +right centre._ + ++MAHOMET+: Well, well, my poor dead Khadija! + ++THE WIVES+: We think you might have the decency to refrain from +mentioning our predecessor in front of us. + ++MAHOMET+: Don’t be absurd, my dears. You, Ayesha, ought to have had +more sense. You ought to know that my feelings are perfectly natural. +Here has the army just been cutting up the big summer caravan to Mecca, +chock-full of all the latest things from Constantinople. I have become +the biggest property-owner in Arabia; and you refuse to let me lament +the death of Khadija, who used to run the grocery-shop with me. Your +behaviour is monstrous. I shall present you all at Christmas with +complete editions of August Strindberg. + ++AYESHA+ (_screaming_): No, no, anything rather than that! + ++MAHOMET+: Well, mend your manners then. It is simply intolerable that +I should drudge like a slave working up this prophet business for a +pack of ungrateful women, and then get treated like this. (_Enter_ ++ABU+, _a white-bearded servant, with a card on a tray_.) Schopenhauer +was right ... or was it Weininger? + ++ABU+ (_advancing_): Weininger, sir. I am sure that is correct, sir. I +know his book very well. I used to read it to my poor wife, sir, when +she was in her last illness. (_Wipes his eyes_.) It was a great solace +to her. + ++MAHOMET+ (_taking the card and looking at it_): I thought I had told +you I was not at home. I am supposed to be at the front. + ++ABU+ (_turning to go_): Very well, sir. + ++MAHOMET+: Here, come back. Is there any news from Mecca? + ++ABU+ (_rubbing his head_): Oh, yes, sir! I quite forgot, sir. The +excitement of the moment, I suppose, sir. Mecca was taken last Sunday, +sir. It was dark, sir, and your men ran into the town by mistake. The +other side had run out of it by mistake. Yes, it must have been an +exceedingly dark night, sir. + ++MAHOMET+: Any converts? + ++ABU+: Well, sir, it is like this, sir; there were not many left when +your honour’s men had finished. A few children, perhaps. But the +general who was impersonating your honour had a great reception from +the troops. (_Goes out._) + ++MAHOMET+ (_to_ +AYESHA+): Abu is really getting ridiculous. We cannot +possibly keep the old fool any longer; he may give me away at any time +if he goes on like this. Why the devil can’t you put an advertisement +for a servant in the paper as I asked you to? + ++AYESHA+ (_sulkily_): Where would you be if I left off writing your +wretched old Koran for you? + ++MAHOMET+: Precisely where I am, my dear. You are not indispensable. +Anybody else could easily continue my Koran. In fact I think it would +actually be a good thing to make a change. All those disgusting things +you’ve put in about women, and so on. They really revolt me with their +tactlessness. + + (_There is a great noise at the door, which suddenly gives way and + lets in a tall, restless, thin man with a high forehead and a forked + red-grey beard. He is dressed in a fawn-coloured all-wool coat and + knickerbockers and wears a red tie. He nods his head sideways with + a gay smile, rubs his hands and takes up his stand with his back to + the corner._ +MAHOMET+ _and the women all stare at him in + amazement, for they have never seen a dramatist before_.) + ++THE DRAMATIST+: Come along, Prophet, brighten up. You must certainly +know my name. I think this inhospitality is perfectly disgraceful. +(+MAHOMET+ _makes a threatening move towards him_.) No, no, don’t +bother about ringing for coffee for me. I don’t drink your barbarous +poisons. Don’t you think you might introduce me to the ladies, Mahomet? + ++MAHOMET+ (_to the women_): Go to your rooms at once. I cannot possibly +let you listen to the conversation of this pernicious Englishman. + + (+AYESHA+ _and the others, with evident reluctance, get up + and file through the door, the last shutting it behind her_.) + +Well, sir, to what do I owe this most unwarrantable intrusion? + ++THE DRAMATIST+: Now, now, my friend, you can’t come it over me like +that. I shall blacken your character thoroughly if you are not careful. +The truth is, that I came here for the simple reason that though I have +frequently put my own name into my characters’ mouths, I have never +hitherto actually introduced myself as a person in one of my plays. +After all, when you come to think of it, my habit of expressing my +sentiments through invented characters has been utterly fantastic. And, +besides, some of these confounded actors have made hay with the parts +by trying to turn them into other people. One of these days I shall +have to start a school for actors. No actor ought to be under eighty +years of age. Men younger than that always will insist on interposing +their own personalities between the author and his public. What I want +is some one who will speak my lines. What on earth do people think my +plays are for? I wasn’t born in order that a lot of stupid mummers +should have an opportunity of parading their temperaments in public. +At all events, here I am, you old reprobate (_takes out his watch and +looks at it_), and I propose to talk to you for your good---- + ++MAHOMET+ (_groaning and sinking on divan_): But what do you want to +write a play about me for? I have never done you any harm. I am only +a poor prophet, earning an honest living. My Arabians are a simple, +unsophisticated people, and they have never seen a play in their life, +except my butler, who is merely a menial and doesn’t count. + ++THE DRAMATIST+: Now, really, my dear Prophet, this is the basest +ingratitude. Why, in most of my plays the characters have had to +tolerate a simple honest Englishman introduced into their midst. I can +assure you that if I had sent you one of those instead of very kindly +coming myself, you would have found him much duller company than you +are finding me. Upon my oath, I think you ought to pay me for letting +you off so lightly. + ++MAHOMET+ (_blubbering_): But why do you want to drag me into it at +all? Especially as my dislike of art is notorious. + ++THE DRAMATIST+ (_elevating his eyebrows_): Well, my friend, if you +insist, I will tell you; but your blood be upon your own head. You have +about you several characteristics that make it inevitable that sooner +or later I should nobble you. In the first place you are exceedingly +well known; in the second place you are a humbug and an impostor; in +the third place you are a shameless polygamist; and, in the fourth +place, if you refer to any decent encyclopædia, you will find that you +are probably an epileptic, like Cæsar and Napoleon. I ask, have you +the atrocious conceit to think that you have a right to escape what +Cæsar and Napoleon have had to submit to? Why, my dear sir, the thing +is perfectly preposterous. I wonder you aren’t ashamed of yourself. I +shall really have to write to the _Times_ about you. + ++MAHOMET+: Wallah, Billah, Allah, Bismillah! (_He falls to the ground, +foaming at the mouth._ +THE DRAMATIST+ _rings bell in the wall_. +ABU+ +_enters_.) + ++THE DRAMATIST+: My friend, your master seems a little indisposed. + ++ABU+: Yes, sir. So it appears, sir. Very sad, sir. Unavoidable tragedy +of our time. Clash of ideas, sir, and so on.... (_Picks up the_ ++PROPHET+ _and props him against divan_. +THE DRAMATIST+ _goes out_.) + ++MAHOMET+ (_recovering his senses_): My God, Abu, where am I?... I’ve +had a good many visions and revelations, but never one quite so bad as +this! + + + +CURTAIN+ + + + + + HOW THEY WOULD HAVE DONE IT + + + + + No. 1. IF WORDSWORTH HAD WRITTEN “THE EVERLASTING MERCY” + + + Ever since boyhood it has been my joy + To rove the hills and vales, the woods and streams, + To commune with the flowers, the beasts, the birds, + And all the humble messengers of God. + And so not seldom have my footsteps strayed + To that bare farm where Thomas Haythornthwaite + (Alas! ’tis now ten years the good old man + Is dead!) wrung turnips from the barren soil, + To keep himself and his good wife, Maria, + Whom I remember well, although ’tis now + Full twenty years since she deceased; and I + Have often visited her quiet grave + In summer and in winter, that I might + Place some few flowers upon it, and returned + In solemn meditation from the spot. + In the employment of this honest man + There was a hind, Saul Kane, I knew him well, + And oft-times ’twas my fortune to lament + The blackness of the youth’s depravity. + For when I came to visit Haythornthwaite + The good old man, leaning upon his spade, + Would say to me, “Saul Kane is wicked, sir; + A wicked lad. Before he cut his teeth + He broke his poor old mother’s heart in two. + For at the beer-house he is often seen + With ill companions, and at dead of night + We hear him loud blaspheming at the owls + That fly about the house. I oft have blushed + At deeds of his I could not speak about.” + But yet so wondrous is the heart of man + That even Saul Kane repented of his sins-- + A little maid, a little Quaker maid, + Converted him one day. “Saul Kane,” she said, + “Dear Saul, I pray you will get drunk no more.” + Nor did he; but embraced a sober life, + And married Mary Thorpe; and yesterday + I met him on my walk, and with him went + Up to the house where he and his do dwell. + And there I long in serious converse stayed, + Speaking of Nature and of politics, + And then turned homeward meditating much + About the single transferable vote. + + + + + No. 2. IF SWINBURNE HAD WRITTEN “THE LAY OF HORATIUS” + +_N.B.--Read this aloud, with resonance, nor examine too closely the +meaning_ + + + May the sword burn bright, may the old sword smite, that a myriad + years have worn and rusted? + May an old wind blow where the young winds go immaculate over the + eager land? + May faded blossoms on ripening bosoms flame with lust as of old they + lusted, + Or the might of a night take flight with the white sweet arms of a + dead Dionysian band? + Ah, nay! for the rods of the high pale gods the power of the past + have spilled and broken + And over the fields the amaranth yields her guerdon of gossamer, + bitter as rue, + And the desolate blind sad ghost of the wind falters and fails as a + word that was spoken + Long since of a fire and a blazing pyre of perjured monarchs and + kings untrue.[1] + + The sword may smite and the keen sword bite though the clouds in the + sky be clouds of peril, + Though the Teuton glance at the flanks of France and the hand of + Fate be a hand unseen, + For the brave man’s[2] arm was swift to charm and the coward’s arm + was weak and sterile + Or ever the Saxon galleons swam to England[3] over the waters green + And over the high Thessalian hills the feet of the maidens fail and + falter, + Samian waters and Lemnian valleys, Ithacan rivers and Lesbian seas, + And the god returning with frenzy burning foams at the foot of a + roseless altar, + And dumb with the kiss of Artemis and the berries of death the + virgin flees. + + _With persistence and luck the reader, after eighty verses or so, + would have come to something as specific as this_: + + For the triumph of the trampling of the nations And the laughter of + the loud Etrurian[4] gates + And the thunder of a host of desolations And the lightning of an + avalanche of hates + Never daunted thee or made thy cheek the paler + On the bridge which thou didst hold as held the fleet + Drake, our own superb Elizabethan sailor, + Yea, and drove the bloody tyrant from his seat. + + + + + No. 3. IF MR. MASEFIELD HAD WRITTEN “CASABIANCA” + + + “You dirty hog,” “You snouty snipe,” + “You lump of muck,” “You bag of tripe,” + Such, as their latest breaths they drew, + The objurgations of the crew. + ---- ---- ---- they roared + As they went tumbling overboard, + Or frizzled like so many suppers + All along the halyard scuppers. + “You ----” ... the last was gone, + And Cassy yelled there all alone. + (He thought the old man was on the ship.) + “Father! this gives me the fair pip!” + + “My God, you old vagabone,” he cried, + “If only I....” No voice replied; + Only the tall flames higher sprang, + Amid the spars, and soared and sang, + Only along the rigging came + God’s great unfolding flower of flame, + And Love’s divine dim planet shed + Her radiance on the many dead; + And past the battling fleets the sea + Stretched to the world’s edge tranquilly, + Breathing with slow, contented breath + As though it were in love with Death, + As it has breathed since first began + Man’s inhumanity to man, + As it will do when like a scroll + All the heavens together roll. + There’s that purple passage done + And I have one less lap to run. + + Dogs barked, owls hooted, cockerels crew, + As in my works they often do + When, flagging with my main design, + I pad with a descriptive line. + Young Cassy cried again: “Oh, damn! + What an unhappy put I am! + Will nobody go out and search + For dad, who’s left me in the lurch? + For dad, who’s left me on the poop, + For dad, who’s left me in the soup, + For dad, who’s left me on the deck. + Perhaps it’s what I should expeck + Considerin’ ’ow he treated me + Before I came away to sea.” + + “Often at home he used to beat + My head for talking in the street, + Often for things I didden do, + He brushed my breeches with a shoe. + O! but I wish that I was home now, + Treading the soft old Breton loam now, + In that old Breton country where + Mellows the golden autumn air, + And all the tender champaign fills + With hyacinths and daffodils, + And on God’s azure uplands now + They plough the ploughed fields with a plough, + And earth-worms feel averse from laughter, + With hungry white birds following after. + And maids at evening walk with men + Through the meadows and up the glen + To hear the old sweet tale again.” + + The deck was getting hot and hotter, + “Father!” he screamed, “you ---- rotter!” + The deck was getting red and redder, + And now he thought he’d take a header, + Now he advanced and now he funked it.... + It had been better had he bunked it, + For as he wavered thus, and swore, + There came a slow tremendous roar. + + Lord Nelson suddenly woke up. + “Where is Old Cassy and his pup? + ‘Don’t know,’ you say? Why, strike me blind, + I s’pose I’d better ask the wind.” + He asked the wind; the brooding sky + At once gave back the wind’s reply: + “Wotto, Nelson!” + “Wotto, sonny?” + “Do you think you’re being funny? + Can’t you look around, confound you, + At all these fragments that surround you, + Thick as thieves upon the sea, + Instead of coming bothering me?” + + _Or, alternatively, if you prefer his other method, it would run + like this_: + + And the flames rose, and leaping flames of fire + Leapt round the masts and made the spars a crown, + A golden crown as ravenous as desire. + “Father!” he cried, “my feet are getting brown.” + “Father!” he cried. The quiet stars looked down, + The flames rose up like flowers overhead. + He was alone and all the crew were dead. + + + + + No. 4. IF ALMOST ANY ELIZABETHAN HAD WRITTEN + “SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS” + + + Ask me not for the semblance of my loue. + Amidst the fountains of the christal Doue + Like to that fayre Aurora did she runne, + Who treads the beanies of the sweete morning sunne. + Forth from her head her hayres like golden wyre + Did spring; her amorous eyes were lampes of fire, + Bright as that torch their heauenly raies did mount + Wherewith fayre Hero lit the Hellespont, + Or as that flame which on the desert lies + When new-borne Phenix soareth to the skies. + Like wanton darts her eye-beames she did throw + From out her noble forehead’s iuorie bow + Whose Beauties great perfection would withstand + The skill of the most cunning painter’s hand. + Her virgin nose like Dians self did raigne + Amidst her vermell cheekes’ ambrosiall plaine; + Her busie lips twinne Rubies did appeare + From which her Voyce did come as Diamonds cleare; + Venus’ owne sonne would sigh to look beneath + At the straight pearlie pleasaunce of her teethe. + Like to fayre starres, or rather, like the sunne + Was her smooth Marble chinne’s pavilion, + Wherefrom her slender necke the eye did lead + To shoulders like twinne Lilies on a mead, + Whiter than Ledaes fethers or white milke, + As sweete as nectar and as softe as silke. + O, and her tender brests, they were as white + As snowie hills which Phebus’ beames doe smite + Engirt with azure and with Saphire veines.... + + +(_Cetera desunt_) + + + + + No. 5. IF POPE HAD WRITTEN “BREAK, BREAK, BREAK” + + + Fly, Muse, thy wonted themes, nor longer seek + The consolations of a powder’d cheek; + Forsake the busy purlieus of the Court + For calmer meads where finny tribes resort. + So may th’ Almighty’s natural antidote + Abate the worldly tenour of thy note, + The various beauties of the liquid main + Refine thy reed and elevate thy strain. + + See how the labour of the urgent oar + Propels the barks and draws them to the shore. + Hark! from the margin of the azure bay + The joyful cries of infants at their play. + (The offspring of a piscatorial swain, + His home the sands, his pasturage the main.) + Yet none of these may soothe the mourning heart, + Nor fond alleviation’s sweets impart; + Nor may the pow’rs of infants that rejoice + Restore the accents of a former voice, + Nor the bright smiles of ocean’s nymphs command + The pleasing contact of a vanished hand. + So let me still in meditation move, + Muse in the vale and ponder in the grove, + And scan the skies where sinking Phœbus glows + With hues more rubicund than Cibber’s nose.... + + +(_After which the poet gets into his proper stride_) + + + + + No. 6. IF GRAY HAD HAD TO WRITE HIS ELEGY IN THE CEMETERY OF SPOON + RIVER INSTEAD OF IN THAT OF STOKE POGES + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The whippoorwill salutes the rising moon, + And wanly glimmer in her gentle ray, + The sinuous windings of the turbid Spoon. + + Here where the flattering and mendacious swarm + Of lying epitaphs their secrets keep, + At last incapable of further harm + The lewd forefathers of the village sleep. + + The earliest drug of half-awakened morn, + Cocaine or hashish, strychnine, poppy-seeds + Or fiery produce of fermented corn + No more shall start them on the day’s misdeeds. + + For them no more the whetstone’s cheerful noise, + No more the sun upon his daily course + Shall watch them savouring the genial joys, + Of murder, bigamy, arson and divorce. + + Here they all lie; and, as the hour is late, + O stranger, o’er their tombstones cease to stoop, + But bow thine ear to me and contemplate + The unexpurgated annals of the group. + + There are two hundred only: yet of these + Some thirty died of drowning in the river, + Sixteen went mad, ten others had D.T.’s + And twenty-eight cirrhosis of the liver. + + Several by absent-minded friends were shot, + Still more blew out their own exhausted brains, + One died of a mysterious inward rot, + Three fell off roofs, and five were hit by trains. + + One was harpooned, one gored by a bull-moose, + Four on the Fourth fell victims to lock-jaw, + Ten in electric chair or hempen noose + Suffered the last exaction of the law. + + Stranger, you quail, and seem inclined to run; + But, timid stranger, do not be unnerved; + I can assure you that there was not one + Who got a tithe of what he had deserved. + + Full many a vice is born to thrive unseen, + Full many a crime the world does not discuss, + Full many a pervert lives to reach a green + Replete old age, and so it was with us. + + Here lies a parson who would often make + Clandestine rendezvous with Claflin’s Moll, + And ’neath the druggist’s counter creep to take + A sip of surreptitious alcohol. + + And here a doctor, who had seven wives, + And, fearing this _ménage_ might seem grotesque, + Persuaded six of them to spend their lives + Locked in a drawer of his private desk. + + And others here there sleep who, given scope, + Had writ their names large on the Scrolls of Crime, + Men who, with half a chance, might haply cope, + With the first miscreants of recorded time. + + Doubtless in this neglected spot is laid + Some village Nero who has missed his due, + Some Bluebeard who dissected many a maid, + And all for naught, since no one ever knew. + + Some poor bucolic Borgia here may rest + Whose poisons sent whole families to their doom, + Some hayseed Herod who, within his breast, + Concealed the sites of many an infant’s tomb. + + Types that the Muse of Masefield might have stirred, + Or waked to ecstasy Gaboriau, + Each in his narrow cell at last interred, + All, all are sleeping peacefully below. + + * * * * * + + Enough, enough! But, stranger, ere we part, + Glancing farewell to each nefarious bier, + This warning I would beg you take to heart, + “There is an end to even the worst career.” + + + + + No. 7. IF A VERY NEW POET HAD WRITTEN “THE LOTUS-EATERS” + + + I + + Ah! + Ough! + Umph! + It _was_ a sweat! + Thank God, that’s over! + No more navigating for me + I am on to + Something + Softer.... + Conductor + Give us a tune! + + + II + + Work! + Did I used to work? + I seem to remember it + Out there. + Millions of fools are still at + It, + Jumping about + All over the place.... + And what’s the good of it all?... + Buzz, + Hustle, + Pop, + And then.... + Dump + In the grave. + + + III + + Bring me six cushions + A yellow one, a green one, a purple one, an orange one, an ultramarine + one, and a vermilion one, + Colours of which the combination + Pleases my eye. + Bring me + Also + Six lemon squashes + And + A straw.... + + + IV + + I have taken off my coat. + I shall now + Loosen + My braces. + + + V + + Now I am + All right.... + My God ... + I do feel lazy! + + + + + No. 8. IF HENRY JAMES HAD WRITTEN THE CHURCH CATECHISM + + +_Q._ What is your name? + +_A._ It may possibly be conceived as standing in a relation +of contiguity to a certain--shall we say?--somewhat complicatedly +rectilinear design--to put it colloquially, a symbol--employed by +such of the races of mankind as follow the Roman usage to denote a +sort of suppressed explosion, or, rather, a confused hum “produced” +when the upper and the nether lip are brought with some firmness--or +even, as one might phrase it, “snap”--together, and a continuous sound +is compelled for egress to flow through a less harmonious though +undeniably more prominent organ. Or, on the other hand, its relation +to that so interesting figure may be something even closer than one +of mere contiguity, however proximate, something in the nature of +coincidence, of body and soul identity even: in a word, it may be, or, +more exactly, may be represented by, that symbol itself. + +_Q._ Who gave you that name? + +_A._ Which? + +_Q._ Oh no, _not_ the other one, the quite inevitably discursive family +“label.” + +_A._ You mean my.... + +_Q._ Well yes, not that all so shared, and as it were almost--if +one may forgivably say it--may one?--“vulgarized”--your, as they call +it, “surname.” + +_A._ Oh, _not_ that one? + +_Q._ No.... + +_A._ The other? + +_Q._ Yes--that other--that more exquisitely personal, the more +(dare one?) _appropriated_, the one of which, I had thought, we +touched, even grasped, the skirts when our interlocution, or to put it +quite brutally, when we began our conversation. + +_A._ You refer.... + +_Q._ I am, dear lady, all ears. + +_A._ To, in fact, my--since we are both to be so frank--Christian +name? + +_Q._ Oh, but you are great! + +_A._ Not _great_, not, I mean, really, in the sense that you +mean.... + +_Q._ _I_ mean? + +_A._ The other sense, you know. + +_Q._ Yes, I apprehend you, but it wasn’t that one I meant. + +_A._ Then what in the world was it? + +_Q._ Take it from another point of view, wasn’t frankness to be, +always, our splendid object? + +_A._ Explicitly, + +_Q._ Wasn’t it? + +_A._ Oh no, I wouldn’t doubt it; I wouldn’t, really wouldn’t, let +you down. + +_Q._ Not even gently? + +_A._ The other way, I meant. + +_Q._ Divine clarity! And who gave it you? + +_A._ The Deluge! + +_Q._ He was it, or she? + +_A._ Oh, never he, as he would himself say, never on your life. + +_Q._ And she? + +_A._ She would, as she always will, bet her boots not! + +_Q._ Not, surely it wasn’t, they? + +_A._ They! + +_Q._ They! + +_A._ Oh, certainly they! Who could have stopped them. Not +miserable I, so pitifully, so hopelessly, so microscopically, futilely +small! They were all there, and there was I. And they did it, oh, quite +finally did it. + +_Q._ Who? + + +_Etc._ + + + + + No. 9. IF LORD BYRON HAD WRITTEN “THE PASSING OF ARTHUR” + + + So all day long the noise of battle rolled + Among the mountains by the western sea, + Till, when the bell for evening service tolled, + Each side had swiped the other utterly; + And, looking round, Sir Bedivere the bold + Said, “Sire, there’s no one left but you and me; + I’m game to lay a million to a fiver + That, save for us, there is not one survivor.” + + “Quite likely,” answered Arthur, “and I’m sure + That I have been so hammered by these swine + To-morrow’s sun will find us yet one fewer. + I prithee take me to yon lonely shrine + Where I may rest and die. There is no cure + For men with sixty-seven wounds like mine.” + So Bedivere did very firmly grapple + His arm, and led him to the Baptist Chapel. + + There he lay down, and by him burned like flame + His sword Excalibur: its massy hilt + Crusted with blazing gems that never came + From mortal mines; its blade, inlaid and gilt + And graved with many a necromantic name, + Still dabbled with the blood the king had spilt. + Which touching, Arthur said, “Sir Bedivere, + Please take this brand and throw him in the mere.” + + Bold Bedivere sprang back like one distraught, + Or like a snail when tapped upon the shell, + Was _this_ the peerless prince for whom he’d fought, + A man who’d drop his cheque-book down a well? + Surely he must have dreamt the words, he thought. + Had the king spoken? Was it possible + To give so lunatic a proposal credit?... + And yet the king undoubtedly had said it. + + He said it again in accents full serene: + “Go to the lake and throw this weapon in it, + And then come back and tell me what you’ve seen. + The business should not take you half a minute. + Off now. I say precisely what I mean.” + “Right, sire!” But, _sotto voce_, “What a sin it + Would be, what criminal improvidence + To waste an _arme blanche_ of such excellence!” + + But Arthur’s voice broke through his meditation, + “Why this delay? I thought I said at once?” + “Yes, sire,” said he, and, with a salutation + Walked off reflecting, “How this fighting blunts + One’s wits. In any other situation + I should have guessed--’twere obvious to a dunce + That this all comes from Merlin’s precious offices, + Why could he not confine himself to prophecies?” + + Bearing the brand, across the rocks he went + And now and then a hot impatient word + Witnessed the stress of inner argument. + “Curse it,” he mused, “a really sumptuous sword + Is just the very one accoutrement + I never have been able to afford; + This beautiful, this incomparable Excalibur + Would nicely suit a warrior of my calibre.” + + “Could anything be madder than to hurl in + This stupid lake a sword as good as new, + Merely because that hoary humbug Merlin + Suggested that would be the thing to do? + A bigger liar never came from Berlin, + I _won’t_ be baulked by guff and bugaboo; + The old impostor’s lake may call in vain for it, + I’ll stick it in a hole and come again for it.” + + So, having safely stowed away the sword + And marked the place with several large stones, + Sir Bedivere returned to his liege lord + And, with a studious frankness in his tones, + Stated that he had dropped it overboard; + But Arthur only greeted him with groans: + “My Bedivere,” he said, “I may be dying, + But even dead I’d spot such barefaced lying.” + + “It’s rather rough upon a dying man + That his last dying orders should be flouted. + Time was when if you’d thus deranged my plan + I should have said, ‘Regard yourself as outed, + I’ll find some other gentleman who can.’ + Now I must take what comes, that’s all about it.... + My strength is failing fast, its very cold here. + Come, pull yourself together, be a soldier.” + + “Once more I must insist you are to lift + Excalibur and hurl him in the mere. + Don’t hang about now. You had better shift + For all you’re worth, or when you come back here + The chances are you’ll find your master stiffed.” + Whereat the agonized Sir Bedivere, + His “Yes, Sire,” broken by a noisy sob, + Went off once more on his distasteful job. + + But as he walked the inner voice did say: + “I quite agree with ‘Render unto Cæsar,’ + But nothing’s said of throwing things away + When a man’s king’s an old delirious geezer, + You don’t meet swords like this one every day. + Jewels and filigree as fine as these are + Should surely be preserved in a museum + That our posterity may come and see ’em.” + + “A work of Art’s a thing one holds in trust, + One has no right to throw it in a lake, + Such Vandalism would arouse disgust + In every Englishman who claims to take + An interest in Art. Oh no, I must + Delude my monarch for my country’s sake; + Obedience in such a case, in fact, + Were patently an anti-social act.” + + “It is not pleasant to deceive my king, + I had much rather humour his caprice + But, if I tell him I have thrown the thing, + And, thinking that the truth, he dies in peace, + Surely the poets of our race will sing + (Unless they are the most pedantic geese) + The praises of the knight who lied to save + This precious weapon from a watery grave.” + + He reached the margin of the lake and there + Until a decent interval had passed + Lingered, the sword once more safe in its lair. + Then to his anxious monarch hurried fast, + And, putting on a still more candid air, + Assured the king the brand had gone at last. + But Arthur, not deceived by any means, + Icily said: “Tell that to the marines.” + + “Sir Bedivere, this conduct won’t enhance + Your reputation as a man of honour. + If you had dared to lead me such a dance + A week ago, you would have been a goner, + Listen to me! I give you one more chance; + And, if you fail again, I swear upon our + Old oath of fealty to the Table Round + I shall jump up and fell you to the ground.” + + So that sad soul went off alone once more. + Rebellion frowned no longer on his face; + His spirit was broken; when he reached the shore + He wormed the sword out of its hiding-place, + Excalibur, that man’s eye should see no more, + And, fearing still a further lapse from grace, + Shut his eyes tight against that matchless jewel + And, desperately hissing, “This is cruel,” + + Swung it far back; and then, with mighty sweep, + Hove it to southward as he had been bade. + And, as it fell, an arm did suddenly leap + Out of the moonlit wave, in samite clad, + And grasped the sword and drew it to the deep. + And all was still; and Bedivere, who had + No nerve at all left now, exclaimed, “My Hat! + I’ll never want another job like that!” + + Thus Bedivere at last performed his vow. + And Arthur, when the warrior bore in sight, + Read his success upon his gloomy brow. + “Done it at last,” he murmured, “_that’s_ all right. + Well, Bedivere, and what has happened now?” + Demanded he; and the disconsolate knight + In a harsh bitter voice replied, “Oh, damn it all, + I saw a mystic arm, clothed in white samite all.” + + “Quite right,” said Arthur, “better late than never. + Now, if you please, you’ll take me for a ride. + Put me upon your back and then endeavour + To run top-speed unto the waterside. + Come, stir your stumps, you must be pretty clever, + Or otherwise I fear I shall have died + Before you’ve landed me upon the jetty, + And then the programme’s spoilt: which were a pity.” + + What followed after this (although my trade is + Romantic verse) is quite beyond my lay. + For automobile barges, full of ladies + Singing and weeping, never came my way. + Though, for that matter, I was once in Cadiz-- + --But never mind. It will suffice to say + That in his final act our old friend Malory + Was obviously playing to the gallery. + + + + + No. 10. IF SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE HAD WRITTEN + “LITTLE DROPS OF WATER” + + + Child, I am wondering. + Last night I was watching the silver moon rising over the sea, + And in her light the colour of the sea was pale, and the colour of + the grasses was dark and sweet as the champak. + I heard the ducks crying over the waters by the shore. + I heard from the khitmatgar, threading like pearls on the darkness, + the soft notes of the cummerbund. + Child, I am wondering. + + Child, I smelt the flowers, + The golden flowers ... hiding in crowds like fairies at my feet, + And as I smelt them the endless smile of the infinite broke over me, + and I knew that they and you and I were one. + + They and you and I, the cowherds and the cows, the jewels and the + potter’s wheel, the mothers and the light in baby’s eyes. + For the sempstress when she takes one stitch may make nine + unnecessary; + And the smooth and shining stone that rolls and rolls like the great + river may gain no moss, + And it is extraordinary what a lot you can do with a platitude when + you dress it up in Blank Prose. + Child, I smelt the flowers. + + + PRINTED AT + KNIGHT’S, WEST NORWOOD + + + FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Possible mention of Tarquin. + +[2] Conceivably Horatius. + +[3] Our mother, inviolate ever since, save for one only occasion. + +[4] Lars Porsena in poet’s mind. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78197 *** |