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«F|lCf [BY 



tfUl tSu^iei»a. 


A I 

%W^sf rriins fee oa 7, c ifc 






The Saturday Westminster Gazette 
Competitions, 1904-1907 





First Published in zgo8 



rpHIS book consists of work contributed to the Problems 
and Frizes ^Hge of The ScUwrday Westminster Oazette 
from February 1904 till the end of 1907. It does not 
include any of the (3reek and Latin veisions which haye 
been published separately, and yerse and prose transli^ 
tions from French and Oerman haye been omitted as not 
of general interest. 

A great deal of the work which won Prizes on page 6 
was of an ephemeral or purely topical nature and there- 
fore not suitable for reproduction here, and readers who 
haye followed the competitions will, on that account, miss 
seyeral familiar names from these pages. Occasionally an 
entry which won a Prize has been suppressed in fayour of 
some other piece which, though at the time it did not 
fulfil the conditions set, has worn better, and is included 
here on its own merits. 

It has been yery difficult to ascertain the authorship 
of a large number of essays and poems, which were either 
sent anonymously or else printed without signatures in 
the reports. I haye done my best to giye credit for eyery 
work to which my competitors haye laid claim, and must 
trust to them to rectify for their own immediate public 
any errors or omissions they may discoyer in the index. 

I haye to thank Lord Curzon of Eedlestone for two 



experiments in metre on p. 311, and Mr. William Bowry 
for several poems sent in hors concowrs. Mr. K S. Tylee 
has allowed me to include his dialect poem "Parson's 
Nag" from his published yolume Trwnupet cmd Flag 
(E. P. Putnam's Sons), and Mr. Edgar Vine Hall's songs 
have also been published since they won Westminster 
Prizes in Songs and Lyrical Poems (The Bibliophile 

This book has been prepared chiefly for competitors 
and their friends. I should have liked to dedicate it, 
with sincere admiration, to those people who have so 
often nearly deserved the Prizes they have never won, 
but memories of the irritation similar expressions of 
encouragement used to cause at other Prize-givings have 

prevented me. 


October li,lWS 




PROSE, 1904 


THE greatest Question between Man and Man is the Question 
of Fiscal Polieie. For in Other Questions, Men are but 
Insular ; Their Education Bill, their Army Bef orm, their licensing, 
their Irish Question ; But such as doe advance a F%9cal Polide are 
ImperiaL It is a triviall text Book Bule, but yet worthy a Wise 
Man's Consideration. Question was asked of Chamberlam ; What 
was the Chiefe Part of the Fiscal Folicie f He answered, Food 
will not cod pou more ; what next t Food will not cost you more ; 
what next againt Food will not coat you more. He said it that 
knew it best ; And had by nature, himselfe, no Advantage, in that 
he commended. The Fiscal Polide is often discussed; some- 
times explained; seldome understood. Food maketh ihe Fiscal 
QMstion more violent in Public Interest; Figures and Illustra- 
tions maketh tibe Fiscal Question less Intelligible; but Election 
onely doth alter or subdue Fiscal Policie, He that seeketh to 
understand the Fiscal Question let him not give Himselfe too great 
belief in One Party or the Other. For the First will persuade 
him out of his Food ; And the second, out of his Vote. And at 
the First let him practise with no Fixed Policie, as Fence-sitters 
doe till they discover from what quarter the wind blows. But 
after a Time let him chew difficult apothegms, such as 

Learn to Think Imperially^ 

My figu/res are merely Illustrations, 

as advocates of the Fiscal Policie doe. For it breeds great awe 


and admiration if the Texts used are mystick and sentimental 
Where the Fiscal Question is acknowledged unintelligible, and 
therefore the Victory to understand it too hard, the Resources had 
need be ; First to turn the Subject in Time ; Then to Qoe lesse 
into Particulars ; And lastly, to Discontinue altogether to discuss 
it. Neither is tiie Ancient rule amisse, To let welle alone, if it is 
going to cost you Monie. Let not a man force a Policie down his 
throat that he cannot well digest, nor vex others with the Errours 
of his Diet with a Perpetuall Continuance, but with some Inter- 
mission. And let not a Man trust his Victory over his Partie too 
farre; For the wrath kindled by the Fiscal Question will lay 
buried a great Time, and yet revive upon the Provocation or 
Temptation. Like as it was with Ghatsworth's King, turned from 
a Gouvemment Supporter to a Middle Counsellour who sate veiy 
demurely in the Cabinet till a Loaf was jeopardised. They are 
happie men whose Fiscal Policie sorts with their Vocations ; other- 
wise they may say. What am I going to get out of it f or WTiere 
do I come in? when they su{^rt those things that doe not 
Affect them. In Questions, whatsoever a Man persuadeth upon 
himself e let him get somewhat out of it. But whatsoever is 
Agreeable to his Estate let him take no care for any set Terms ; 
For his Interests will be served of Themselves; So as the con- 
dition of other Men's Affaires and Businesses will suffice. We 
will adde this, in generall, touching the Fiscal Question. 
A Man's Fiscal Policie runnes either to Words or Deeds ; There- 
fore let him seasonably Employ the One, and Avoid the Other. 



Society may be divided roughly into two parts — the Upper 
Classes and the Supper Classes, or, in architectural phrase, the 
" Early English " and the " Late Decorated.** 

The sinner jogs along his path, comforted and upheld with the 
thought of the joy there will be in heaven when he repents. 

To fail as a philosopher is sad, but to try to play the fool and 
fail in it — there's ignominy for you. 

PROSE, 1904 


OpENma Speech fob the Motion 

To saccessfolly affirm this motion I conceive that we are 
bound to take up a position analogous to that of defending Betsy 
Prig in an action for slander; the slander consisting in the 
utterance of Betsy Prig's express disbelief in the existence of 
a certain Mrs. Harris, and the innuendo being that the Plaintiff 
Mrs. Gamp, who had given on various occasions exact and cir- 
cumstantial extracts from conversations held by herself with that 
person, was on each occasion guilty of deliberate falsehood, and 
was thereby held up to the world as a woman unworthy of 
credence in the most vital and intimate afi^s of life. And, just 
as it is insufficient for a defendant in such a case to rely on a 
reasonable belief in his statements without actual justification, so 
are we bound to justify Betsy Prig by establishing affirmatively 
the non-existence of Mrs. Harris. 

But, to pursue the analogy further, as it is competent for a 
defendant to rely on matters of justification not within his know- 
ledge at the time of the utterance of the slander, so are we entitled 
to settle this question by use of all the materials supplied by our 
author, and not those only which were available to Betsy Prig. 

What do we know of Mrs. Harris? Absolutely nothing that 
does not rest on the unsupported word of Mrs. Gamp. 

Had any living person ever seen her? No, for we are told that 
"a fearful mystery surrounded this lady of the name of Harris, 
whom no one in the circle of Mrs. Cramp's acquaintance had ever 
seen ; neither did any human being know her place of residence, 
though Mrs. Gamp appeared on her own showing to be in constant 
communication with her." 

True, Betsy Prig had had opportunities of seeing a "profile 
in bronze of a lady in feathers, supposed to be Mrs. Harris, as she 
appeared when dressed for a ball": but here again it is not 


impertinent to obeerre that the link connecting Mrs. Harris with 
the medallion was the veracity of Mrs. Gkonp, and if we can 
destroy that link we shall have no difficulty in deciding that 
the bronze itself was designed to give the now classioed air 
of verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing 

What» on the other hand, do we know of Mrs. Oamp ? That 
she drank, drank spirits, and drank spirits systematically : Mrs. 
Gamp was either in liquor, or in hopes of liquor whenever she 
invoked the aid of Mrs. Harris; and if she was perpetually 
invoking that aid, it was because her every recorded word was 
uttered in one or other of these conditions. 

Now, it is matter of common knowledge — and Betsy Prig 
herself had gained it from that best of teachers, experience — that 
the one supreme faculty with which the habit of excessive spirit- 
drinking endows its devotees is that of seeing in duplicate what is 
in fact one and indivisible ; indeed, it may be doubted whether 
Mrs. Oamp was sin^e-eyed on any subject other than that of the 
main chance. We are then justified in inferring that Mrs. Gamp 
had invested her own *' alter ego" with the personality of Mrs. 
Harris, and had set her up as the outward and visible sign of this 
inward and spirituous grace. 

Are we to condemn Betsy Prig for disregarding the blessing 
promised to those who believe unseeing? 

Emphatically, no ! 


Speboh against the Motion 

Gentlemen, I approach this subject with all the diffidence one 
naturally feels in undertaking the vindication of a wronged and 
excellent woman. Mrs. Ptig's ill-judged and insolent attack on 
the character and existttice of Mrs. Harris does but bring home 
to us how strong is the circumstantial evidence in that lady's 
favour. Are not her surroundings, her children, her relations by 
blood and marriage, all familiar to us as household words) Is 
not her clinging and devoted nature sufficiently shown by her 

PROSE, 1904 6 

faitihfallj carrying the gruesome keepsake of Mrs. Qamp's double 
teeth in her pocket? Are not her very lineaments pictured for us 
in Mrs. Qamp's homely, though enthusiastic tribute : 

'*'0h, Mrs. Harris, ma'am, your countenance is quite an 
angel's ! ' Which, but for Pimples, it would be." 

Do not these pimples bear the hall-mark of reality upon them ? 
One involuntarily associates them with Oliver Cromwell's warts. 
Again, is her retiring and timid disposition not subtly indicated by 
her desire to conceal the fact of the sweet infant in her own family 
by the mother's side kept in spirits in a bottle t — a fact a more 
vulgar mind might seek to vaunt. Can any one be surprised that 
so modest a soul shrinks from general recognition? Who can 
pretend to believe that all these amiable characteristics are merely 
figments of Mrs. Oamp's brain! The brain of an uneducated 
albeit shrewd and affectionate monthly nurse is surely incapable 
of originating and sustaining so complicated and circumstantial 
a story. Let me quote to you the immortal outburst in which 
Mrs. Gamp repels Mrs. Prig's extraordinary accusation : *' If she 
had abuged me, bein' in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen 
she came, but could not so believe, not bein' used myself, I 
could have bore it with a thankful 'art. But the words she 
spoke of Mrs. Harris, lambs could not forgive. 'No, Betsy!' 
said Mrs. Gamp in a violent outburst of feeling, 'nor worms 

Can one be so blinded as not to recognise here the genuine out- 
pouring of a wounded heart? Could such generous indignation 
have been feigned ? 

One most important though painful circumstance remains to be 
considered. In vino veritasy and in the harrowing scene where 
Mrs. Prig so wounds Mrs. Gamp's feelings that the latter has to 
resort to such comforts as the contents of her teapot can afford, 
what do we find ? The more the excellent woman loses control of 
her faculties, the more stoutly does she uphold the truth of her 
assertions as to Mrs. Harris, until at length she sinks into 
slumber stUl murmuring her well-known name. Then^ if there 
had been a guilty secret on Mrs. Gamp's conscience, was the time 
for it to escape. 


No, gentlemen, the existence of Mrs. Harris most be classed in 
the poet's words as one of those 

** truths that wake 
To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour 

Nor man, nor boj, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! " 

In view, therefore, of the extraordinary circumstantiality of 
the whole story, and in the absence of any jot of evidence that 
Mrs. Harris did not enaif I maintain that Mrs. Prig's incredulity 
was not justified by the facts. 


What Bboaub of Jevon 

111 not tell ye how I come alongst the road just thin, but Pd 
been afther an iligant schame that shud ha' ended in lashins 
o' beer. 

It did not, an' me heart was as sore as me fut-soles. 

Hearin' the kyarts behind, I turned to see wud I ride back in 
thim, and there wobblin' towards me was the most amazin' sight 
iver I seen. Ut looked like a big red barril, wid a marvelious 
turnup, blue, an' green, an' red, an' yaller, shtuck in the top. 

" Phwat ha' ye there, ye black scutts?" says I to the naygurs. 

"TVas the other sahibs gave him to us thus," says they, 

" An' phwat are ye to do with him V 1 says. 

"The big-headed sahib with spectacles said, 'Take him to 
Jehannum,' " says they. 

"A very proper way o* talkin*," says I, "whin he's had all 
the dhrink he cud howld, whilst betther men ha' had to thramp 
ut, their hearts fair bruk wid the dust and the thirst" 

Thin it come to me mind quite suddint that here was a 
chanst to make up for me misfortunate night ; an', says I : 
"Bhoys," I says, "yell give me this dhrunk sahib." 

PROSE, 1904 7 

We rowled him to a bam that stud contagious, an' thin me 
an' the coolies had a few worrds, they bein' wiahfol to share if 
annythin' come of it. But naygurs are not mostly fightin' men, 
and they wint off like lambs befure long, mumblin' : 

" Lo, phwat Qnranny is here ! " which alwus means cavin' in. 

Whin I got him in the bam an' was lookin' at him, I had to 
laugh. But all the roUin' he'd had was wakin' him, so I shtarted 
to shtrip off the carput at wanst to make sure of ut For ut 
meant beer annyhow. I cut the cocoa-nut fibre tiiey'd tied ut 
wid, undher his feet^ an' I shtarted to onroU very careful. 

If rd be at all rough he'd shtart to groan, an' befure I'd got 
the carput all off him he begins to wriggle like the caddie wumns 
in the ponds at home, an' says he : 


" Whisht ! " says I, whishperin' like a snufflin' bullock, an' 
rowlin' like the divil. "Ye're safe so fur," I says, "but they 
may find ye anny minut." 

He groans, an' be the sound ye cud tell the head he had 
on him. 

" Phwat are ye doin' wid that carput ? " he says. 

" Ut's the one ye was rowled in to bring ye safe away," says I. 

He sits up, with his head betune his hands — I'd got the carput 
all off him be now — I was not surprised at him bein' onwell. 
Presintly he says : 

'* Phwat's the matter wid me head ? An' phwat's this damned 
thing round me neck?" says he, tearin' off the ham-frill that 
was there. 

" Whisht^ now," I says. " Sure we had to dishguise ye to git 
ye away alive." 

He swears at me very sober an' steady for a bit ; thin says he, 
all limp an' feeble in a minut like a wet collar : 

"I must ha' been dhrunk last night," he says, "an' divil a 
bit do I know phwat I done." 

" I would niver ha' knowed ye was dhrunk," says I, " ye spake 
out so bould. You been prachin' in ivery hathin timple in the 
place," I says. 

'' I been prachin' ! " says he, " I niver done such a thing in me 


life ! But phwat o' that if I haye?" he says, like as if he's goin' 
to Uub. " Phwat for have ye thrimmed me wid paper frills an' 
rowled me in a carput?" 

" Ye ha' thrampled on the prejoooes of an ignirant an' blood- 
thirsty popnlusy" I says very solemn, " an* it's your blood they're 
thirstin' for just now." 

At that he begins to blub right out, for he was all bmk up 
wid the dhrink he'd had. 

'' I don't know what for iver I come to I^jia," says he, wid his 
hands over his eyes an' black tears rowlin' from undhar. ''If 
wanst I git back to Engknd agin, divil a bit will I iyir shtir from 
there anny more." 

Wid that he looks up at me very pitiful, an' the hce of him 
all colours, wid the black o' the tears an' the coloured gelatine on 
him, an' 

« Phwat will I do 1" he says, " I cann't thravel like this." 

'' Ye can not, sorr," I says, for 'twas as thrue as Moses. 

"They'll be watchin' the house ye're stayin' at," says I; "ye 
cann't go there yersilf. But I know all the coolies, an' I cud 
shlip in an' git some o' yer things to ye." 

"I left me luggage at the station; there's only a valise," he 
says ; " an' if ye'll git me clothes an' see me away on the momin' 
thrain 111 make it the best day's wurrk iver ye done. But, oh ! 
man, befure ye go, git me somethin' to dhrink ! " 

"I wud be wi^ul to do that same, sorr," says I, "but I 
have not the price o' a dhrink o' wather." 

He pulls some silver out o' his pockut. 

"Take ut," he says, "in the divil's name, an' be quick." 

I fetched a dhrink an' a bucket o' wather an' a scrubbin'-brush 
to get what stuff he cud off his hair and cheeks. As I was oomin* 
back wid thim I met a friend named Juldhoo, a naygur, an' says 
I to him, "You go an' git one or two more, and oome tearin' and 
yellin' past that barn in a minut, an' Fll give ye a rupee." 

I come into the bam puffin' and blowin' and lookin' over me 

"Don't ye be frightened, sorr," I says, "they have not found 
ye ]ri1^ but the divils are tearin' mad after ye, an' no mistake." 

PROSE, 1904 9 

Wid that comes a tiemenjos tearin' and yellin' up the road, an' 
me little friend shok like a jelly. 

I left him schmbbin' at his head, an' I wint to the house 
where he was stayin', and says I to the Khansamah, quite om- 
brageous : *' The sahib that's been atayin' here wants his things," 
says I, " but ye don't need to wake your masther over ut. The 
sahibs ha' been havin' a bit o' a disagreenunt," I says, "an' ye 
know what your sahib is whin things go contrarious, so the other 
one is goin' away at wanst" ' 

He gi^ me the things widout a wurrd, an' I tuk thim to the 
poor little man in the bam. He'd schrubbed himself somethin' 
like dadnt, an' afther he'd changed, we shlipped off for the 
station. We come into it very quiet along the rails, an', glory 
be, none o' the naygurs noticed us. Whin I seen him safe in a 
first-class carriage he behaved like a gintleman, but he given me 
a look wid his little eye as the thrain wint off that made me 
l^ad I hadn't kept him round till the dhrink was all out o' him, 
an' Fve wondhered since was he thinkin' perhaps I hadn't told 
him all the thruth. 



In our hearts we all rejoice in a fool and would not have him 
wiser for the world. 

Most good sayings were originated by the ancients, elaborated 
by the French, and attributed to Disraeli. ... A paradox is only 
a platitude in fancy dress. 

Bats smell rats. 

No fruits without roots. 

The supreme immorality consists in ignoring facts. 

It is depressing to receive kindnesses that are mere bids for 
a martyr's crown. 

The attitude of an angel towards a mint must be a curious 
Mend of humility and disgust 



I had let myself drift farther than I had dreamed. When 
I came oat of my chambers to go to the usual dining-place and 
force myself to eat the food necessary to keep life in me I had 
no consciousness of being less well than a man ought to expect 
to be. But the wind was in the west and May was nearing its 
end, and there came a call as clear as the voice of the girl you 
love speaking out of the dusk of the rose-garden on a summer 
night I turned back to my rooms, and my packing was soon 
done. Nine o'clock found me at P^dington, and by eight in the 
morning I was here in the cottage which looks on the lovelieet of 
all bays. I have slept; I have bathed in the dean, purifying 
Atlantic waters; I have lain in the sun on hot, white sands. I 
have wandered on cliffs and towans in the long-lingering twilight, 
and have gathered the glow-worms which now make our little 
lawn a near reflection of the skies. It were good to sleep, but to 
be awake is better. There is scarce a light to be seen except the 
yellow revolving flash from Godrevy. The waves on the beach 
below fall with no more noise than that of the breathing of a child 
asleep, but from the distance comes the calling of the reef Hevra. 
Was it Hevra called me back to the West — Hevra that is always 
calling, day and night, to the hearts of the children of my country ? 
Yesterday at this hour I had hardly escaped from London. Now 
it is as if I were a tree that had stood here for a hundred years, 
with always the good wind blowing and the sound of the sea. 
I shall sleep soon, but the light will flood the little room and 
there will be the crying of the gulls come over from the cliffs 
by Godrevy and Hell's Mouth to seek the mackerel thrown 
back to the sea to-night by the fishermen who had reached home 
too late to touch a price for their catch. Sunlight will be shining. 
Perhaps there will be a mist, and there will be no sound save 
the whisper of the sea and the falling of the drops from the 
caves ; and the gulls will be only glints and glimpses of shining 
white, seen momentarily in the blue haze. The tide will go 

PROSE, 1904 11 

oat, and with it the mist, and it will be foil day. Shall it be 
a walk to the pine wood on the hill, or shaU one sail around 
about Hevra, or along by Owithian Sands, and try for pollack, 
and visit the sea caves! That shall depend on the mood of 
the moment Whatever shall be will be good, and now . . . 
Hevra, I have come back. Will you not give me the good sleep 
that I used to have? 



A precious lot of thoughts one gets lookin' out of this 'ere 
window ! Why, you can't see nothing but boots beyond the area 
railin's, unless you stand close up against the window, and then 
you can per'aps get a glimpse of knees. 

But knees ain't the sort of articles to make thoughts surge 
up into your brain ; leastways you don't get no beautiful thoughts 
out of 'em. If I was to look out on green pastors and flowin' 
streams while I was roUin' the pastry I could 'ave thoughts — 
fine poetry sort of thoughts — with the best of 'em. But boots 
and knees ! Low-down things like that can't raise you. Why, 
three-quarters of a 'orse and a whole dog is a fair luxurious view 
for us cooks in these London kitchings. 

Not but wot boots don't make you think, but the thoughts 
they give you is more about blackin', and the pore things what 
labour on them boots, and the people wot wear them, than 
anything else. I know them highly-polished boots. They means 
a determined master. The sort thatll say — " Well-blacked boots 
or a month's warning ! " And they ain't altogether bad to work 
under. If you serve 'em fair they'll do the same by you, and 
pay your wages reglar, and good tips at Christmas. But they're 
as particler with their chops as their boots, and if the soup's 
waidiy — don't you 'ear of it, that's all ! 

Then there's the patent leathers. Tou get 'em under trowsers 
and under petticoats. Under petticoats they don't mean no worse 
than the sort thaf s out a good bit, and is everlastin' wantin' pieces 
of lace and 'andkerchief s and blouses done up at 'ome, and in a 


hurry. They ain't the worst kind of miBsus, they fly out quick, 
but soon forget, and you're rid of 'em most times and get the 
'ouse to yourself. 

Under trowsers patent leathers means a fusser, and if there's 
one thing I can't abide it's a fusser. Nothing is right from 
soup to saVry ; and, lor ! the coffee ! Coffee turned my 'air grey 
when I lived with a fusser, and pretty near druv me into an 
asylum. There's a broad-toed, low-'eeled boot you see under stuffy 
black petticoats sometimes. The legs as far as you can see is 
thick. Defend me from them as from the — no, it ain't the word 
to put in thoughts, but you know. 

Theyll 'ave you down at six to the minute, they'll get up 
themselves and creep down, and watch you through a chink in 
the door while you do the stove, they'll rub their fingers along 
picture-frames and mantelpieces 'alf a dozen times a day, and 
the3r'll smell a follower a mile off ! 

There's a down at the 'eel boot wot's not pleasant to Hve 
with either. There's often a torn petticoat above it, and loose 
braid. That's a muddlin' missus. She leaves everything all 
over the place; puts 'er purse where she can't remember, and 
declares you've taken it ; forgets to pay your wages, and says she 
'as ; orders things, and then says she 'asn't ; arsts you questions, 
and forgets wot you answer, and leads you a fair dance with 'er 
'ap'azardness. Lor! I ain't 'alf done about boots, let alone 
knees and the lowest 'alves of dogs and 'orses. And my milk's 



His enemy shot at him and missed ; his brother's gun went off 
by accident, but the man was none the less dead. 

Love is only blind ; Envy has a squint and sees double. 
It is a good joke that carries no sting. 
Beauty needs no logic. 

PROSE, 1904i IS 

Thb Bobin and tbm Spabbow 

A robin sat on a bare branch, shivering. 

" If 8 cold," he said, « but it might be wcwrse." 

** How cheerful you are ! " chirped a little voice behind. " Will 
the spring ever come ? " 

" Of course it will," Bobin replied " What has been will be. 
That's philosophy." 

" I'm not a philosopher," the little voice pleaded. '* I'm only a 
sparrow, and Tm so cold I shall die." 

" If you think you are cold, you will be cold," Bobin snapped. 
*^ That's the newest school of thought. Do as Tm doing." Then 
he sat up straight on the bough, and began to say, '* I'm not cold 
— I'm not cold," as fast as he could. 

" What's that for ? " said the sparrow. 

"That's Ilie Science," Bobin replied. "That vnll make you 
warm quicker than aujrthing.'* 

Just then the sun came out and shone on a roof near. 

" Oood-bye," chirped the sparrow. " I'm going to get warm 
the way I know." And he sat there happily in the sunshine. 

Suddenly Bobin plumped down just next to him. 

" Hullo 1 You here!" the sparrow exclaimed; "I thought 
you wouldn't come for anything." 

"Why not!" Bobin said. "I'm not cold— only I thought I 
might just as well say it over here" 

Here then the Moral that we would present — 
Theory and Practice both are excellent 
Yet without one thing more are useless — hence 
Make all subservient to Ck>mmon Sense. 

R. K. w. 

Aw Up-to-date Fablb 

A number of animals once proposed to occupy themselves by 
playing the game of " Follow-my-leader." Subsequently th^e 
arose an unoertidnty as to whether the company had chosen the 


weasel or the gazelle to be their leader. To avoid nnaeemly 
dispute, these two animals proceeded together, and, aiding each 
other, surmounted many apparently insuperable difficulties, to the 
surprise of beholders and the embarrassment of their followers. 
At length they came to a quickset hedge surrounding a field of 
com which the weasel desired to traverse, being of an active nature 
and, moreover, well protected by his fur ; the gazelle, being of a 
more sensitive disposition, objected to breaking through the hedge, 
both by reason of the discomfort to himself and his followers 
and for fear of doing damage in the neighbourhood. The leaders 
therefore parted company, to the bewilderment of their followers, 
who rent the air with doleful cries, some going this way, some 
that, while the more philosophical sat down to wait till a seer 
should pass by who might tell them the name of their leader and 
his probable destination. 

Moral, — Be sure of your leader before you consent to be led. 


Mbs. Malapbop to Mbs. Jack Absolute 

My deab Niece, — Oh, Lydia, was there ever such an 
apostrophe! All the genteelest and most modish persons in 
Bath invited to grace the nilptial cemetery and at the last moment 
Madam Julia throws over her lover and all is Charon! I am 
almost distorted with grief and irrigation. Had it been you, 
Lydia, who perpetuated such an improper action I should hardly 
have been surprised; for before you was married to Captain 
Absolute — ^however, I will make no delusions to the past. But 
that Julia, who has such a delectable sense of propriety, and who 
had so long supported Faulkland's fanciful humours and caprioles, 
should discard him finally, is almost imperceptible. For my 
part, after this wretched piastre I have done with young women 

PROSE, 1904 16 

and their love affidrs. Martrimony maj become abaolute for 
aught I care. 

In fairness, I own, I most exercise Jnlia for her share in this 
nnhappy denudation. Ton know that Faulkland's jealous and 
relaxing temper made his love for Julia a torment both to her 
and to himself. Tou was aware that she actually absolved the 
engagement about the time of the superstitious duel — when that 
odorous Irishman, Sir Lucius OTrigger, acted so ungenteelly. 
After their reconsecration, Faulkland, I confess, endeavoured to 
overcome his deformity and behave like an irrational being, but 
very soon his natural synthesis asserted itself, and he again 
began to plague Julia with his foolish fancies. Indeed, after 
the date was fixed for the iUustration of their nuptials his jealous 
whims and rackets seemed to increase, and Julia, who had shown 
an unpalatable patience and goodness till now, and had borne 
all his surplices and laboured to remove them, began to be wearied 
with the continence of a jealousy so violent and ill-founded. The 
very day before the wedding his evil genesis put him upon a 
new tropic of jealousy, which was Julia's permitting an elderly 
officer to hand her into her coach from the play. The factious 
wretch had the odyssey to make this a ground of complaint when 
next he visited Julia. It was too much. His doubting her 
love, and the impossibility she thought there was of dissuading 
him of it, caused her great distress. She saw plainly, she told 
him, that these fancies he entertained would in the end distinguish 
his love, and would also ine£OEtbly destroy her affection. She 
could not believe, she said, that he loved her truly, and therefore 
she would never consent to marry him. Faulkland flung out 
of the house like a manacle, and is now doubtless inuring the 
pangs of remonstrance ; but nothing, I am convinced, will shake 
Julia's dissolution. The poor girl is doomed, I procrastinate, 
to a life of celebrity. 

Tou may suppose I was putrified with astonishment when 
I heard Julia's story. I have not regained my equilibrium as 
you may see from my writing, which is hardly eligible. — Your 
affectbnate aunt, 




Herbert Spencer's idea of " Comedy'' might be a reetatement 
of his idea of life, such as " The oontinaoos adjustment of thinner 
relations to stouter relaticms." 

The intrusion of a discontinuous causal relation into a homo- 
geneous group of well-balanced conclusions. 

Romantic Comedy 
The successful cohesion of the homogeneous. 

Comedy of Mammen 
The exposition of the ultimate homogeneity <^ the apparently 

DomuHe Comedy 

A philosopher contradicted by his wife. 

A (Natural) Law repudiated by a bishop. 

Herbert Spenccr^s Idea of a Comedy 

A discovery cancelled by a quotation. 

A dilemma with a broken horn. 

** Spencer's idea of a tragedy," said Huxley, '* is a deduction 
killed by a fact." 

"His idea of a comedy," I should say, "was ditto, with 
extenuating circumstances." 

A sentiment disguising itself as a truth. 

Spencer's idea of a comedy was a redttdio ad absurdum. 

A popular religion with a mistaken beginning and a happy 

A platonic intrigue between literature and tradition to evade 
the truths of science. 

An unclassified, natural phenomenon masquerading as a 

Darwinism critidsed by a gorilla. 

The Orthodox routed by Paradox. 

A rival's deduction killed by a fact. 

PROSE, 1904 17 

A Hegelian refuting the theory of Erolution. 
A Kantian justifying his existence. 
A cnhnination deferred by the incalculable human. 
Hie incalculable staying-off felicity. 


When the righte vertuous Johann Doughe and I were well 
known in the land together, wee gave ourselves to leame the 
social lawes of Signer Polloi, one that, with least patience, had 
the fame of *' Justice when I'm able." And he set aside our 
several protestations of our own persuits and listened less to 
that wee sayde, wherebye it strucke us both that each did 
care to look upon his calling as the best. 

Now therefore will I endevoure to showe that a stronge 
affection to my calling (that as you knowe is Palmistrie) is likely 
to misguide me if it hath not the supporte of a stronge argument. 

For I could showe you how from earliest times the arte hath 
had its followers. Each countrie had its own. The Roman poete 
Terence once hath sayde "per manus tradere"; to that the 
meaning seemeth obvious, for wee knowe much of hereditarie 
fayling. Cicero did also saye " haec non sunt in nostra manu," 
nor doe I doubte but that hee ment his future life ; and lastly 
Sallust (if indeed a further profe is needed) hath sayd ^'neque 
mihi in manu qualis Jugurtha f oret,'' implying also *' sibi in manu." 
From the Greeks wee doe acquire such profes as are contained 
in phrases of thys kind, cts x^^P^^ eX^ctv, or better still, dirh x^ipl^ 
Xoyta-iurdai. And if you search the more profonde of Oreeke 
you find a secte that flourished with our excellent Socrates, 
\€ipayi»>yol by name. 

In likelie manner all the learned lands of all the world hath 
the arte of Palmistrie its professors, but even most in barbarous 
eountaies where men and women are content to trust. 

Palmistrie is an arte of imitation of the truth, for as Aristotle 
termeth it in thys word Itplesis — that is, a figuring foorth, with 
this end to preach and delight — (for it sheweth absent qualities 
exhibited in imaginary persons) so that the ending of all earthly 


learning being yeriaona action, those skilleB that most aenre to 
bring forth that have a most inst title to bee Pricelefis over all 
the rest; wherein wee can only shewe the Palmiatee noblenes 
by setting him before all other Co^jorora. For knowledge standeth 
80 upon the abstract and generall that happie is that man who 
may onderstande it and more happie that can applye what he 
dooth not perceive. 

For that a fayned example hath as much force to teach as 
a true example (sith the fayned may bee toned to the highest 
key of passion). With that excuse I make leave to compare the 
Palmiste and a Historian. The very best of the latter is subject 
to the former, for whatsoever action or faction, whatsoever 
counsell, pollicy, or wane stratagem the Historian is bound to 
recite, that may the Palmiste with an imitation make as it pleases 
most; beautifying it both by extravagance and exaggeration, 
as it pleaseth him that heareth it, having all (from Ananias) 
under the authoritie of his imagination. 

• •••••. 

Nowe therein of all sciences (I speak of humane and according 
to the humane conceit) is our Palmiste the Mocker. For he dooth 
not only shew the way, but giveth so sweete a prospect into the 
way as will entice every woman to hear it from him. Nay ! he 
dooth as if your journey should lye through a fayre vineyard, 
at the first give you a cluster of grapes, that, full of taste, you 
may long to passe further. 

Infinite profe of the strange effects of this palmisticall inven- 
tion might be alledged, only two shall serve that are so often 
remembered, as I think all women knowe them ; the one Paris, 
who gave to one, at least, what she desired the most; the other 
Croesus, a King of Lydia, celebrated for hys riches. 

Some there are that would urge obiection to the various styles 
of Palmistrie, but this I never once will tolerate, for all Palmistrie 
has its one source in one booke, that many knowe, but only 
Palmistes buy. 

It is already sayde (and as I think tmlie sayde) it is not 

PROSE, 1904 19 

lying that maketh PahniBtrie. One may be a lyar without being 
a Pdmiste, surely one might be a Palmiste and escape the 

Nowe then goe wee to the most important imputations laid to 
the POORS Pahnistes. Urst, that there is required no knowledge 
of Palmistrie but rayther a knowledge of mankind. Secondly, 
it is the mother of Lyes. Thirdly, it is the Nurse of Hope. 
And lastly and chiefly they cry with open mouth that Parliament 
hath mayde it for ever illegal. 

I could answer all these at some length were I not confirmed 
in the opinion that alreadie my arguments hath convinced you. 

If you love not Palmistrie then this much curse I must send 
you, that while you live you live in ignorance of what you'll be 
and never get the poorer by my skille, and when you die you'll 
marvel what we knowe. 



Ugal is an island in the Southern Seas, and its inhabitants, 
though belongmg to that class usually referred to as "natives," 
are people of enlightened ideas. The island, a charming spot, is 
at present large enough for their needs, the love of justice is their 
ruling passion, and their only official is the person called by a 
Ugalian word meaning *' The Discriminator." 

" The office of Discriminator is hereditary, and at the time of 
my story was held by a youth named Kara. He was young for 
such a responsible post, but his father had lately died. Kara was 
the eldest son, and the Ugalians conservative, as all enlightened 
people are when they obey their instincts^ never thought of 
questioning his fitness for the post The Discriminator has to act 
as umpire at the Queen's Race, one of the most important events 
of the Ugalian year. Among this people the charming custom 
obtains of appointing every year an unmarried maiden to be their 
Queen. Although the Queen cannot interfere at all in the general 
economy of the island, the position has certain privileges, not the 
least being the right to bestow her hand in marriage where she 
pleases, during her reign. The appointment being for one year 


only, the Ugaliana, to fill the annual vacancy, do what all enlightened 
people do in such cases — ^Ihey hold a competitive examination in 
a subject which has no connexion with the duties of the post. 

The maidens run a race, the goal being a bowl filled with the 
juice of a red berry. The winner must mark her breast with this 
juice, and whoever first shows the mark is proclaimed Queen. 

When Kara became Discriminator only two competitors, Yea 
and nya, had any real chance. Now, Kara and Yea loved each 
other, but there were obstacles — Kara's uncles. Kara, though of 
aristocratic birth, was poor, and his two uncles determined that he 
should establish the fortunes of his house by marrying a rich 
maiden. Ilya was wealthy, and was not unaware that Kara was 
the most personable young man on the island. Yea was beautiful 
and poor. Her only weapon against avuncular prejudice was her 
fleetness of foot. Often did she steal at night from her father's 
hut and glide down to the seashore, where Kara met her, and 
under his direction she practised starts and short and long 
" sprints," in preparation for the race. 

When the day came, all XJgalia lined the course. Kara's uncles 
took up positions conveniently near the finish with confident hearts. 
They knew nothing of Yea's moonlight flights, for they had been 
occupied at these times in another part of the island super- 
intending the training of Ilya — each alternately acting as critic 
and running beside her to '* make the pace." 

The Discriminator stood beside the goal alone, holding in his 
hands the victor's crown — a wreath of white flowers. He gave 
the signal, and the race began. In a few seconds it was seen that 
two of the competitors had far outstripped the rest They were 
Yea and Hya — and they were level. Kara's uncles turned pale 
under their dusky skins, and gnawed their underlips when they 
saw the two girls dart past them neck and neck. Now they were 
together at the bowl, together they stretched their hands to the 
juice. . . . Yea touched her breast first ! But ... ah ! who saw 
it? Ilya in her haste splashed the liquid slightly, and before 
either girl could lift her encrimsoned hand from the bowl one 
small drop had fallen on her breast Ilya neither saw nor felt it 
No one saw it — except Kara and Yea. 

PROSE, 1904 SI 

They looked at each other, one fleeting glance passed between 
them, but it was long enongh for these simple island children to 
exchange their inmost thoughts. Often they had discussed the 
possible issues of the race, and though neither had foreseen the 
actual event) each knew at once how the Discriminator would act. 
His look contained no inquiry, but a mute assurance of the words 
which followed — hers showed only confidence in him. The breath- 
less silence was broken by the Discriminator's voice. According 
to custom he proclaimed the winner as Queen, then stepping 
forward he pkced the crown upon her head. Reader, upon whose 
head did he place it? Remember that Kara was Discriminator, 
and that a Ugalian's ruling passion is Justice. Remember that 
Yea loved and honoured him, that he loved Yea, that Lya loved 
him ; remember that small red drop, and decide ! 



The last time I met Erchie I saw at once that he had some- 
thing important to tell me. 

"I was lookin' for ye," he said, "for I've had an odd 

" What was that, Erchie ? " I asked. 

'*I was sittin' the ither nicht by the fireside," he b^an, 
" Jinnet bein' oot for messages, when the door opened and a gey 
queer-lookin' couple cam' in. Ane was a tall, grey-beardit man, 
wi' a long blue goon an' a badge on his airm like what the boys o' 
the buit-black brigade used to weer. The ither was a wee chap 
wi' a lot o' reid aboot him. There were reid stockings, a reid 
grauvit, and a tammy wi' a red toorie. 

''Before I had time to tell them to come awa' in, the wee 
ane says : 

** * You're Erchie ; I ken ye frae yer picture.' 

« < Dae ye ? ' says I. ' I'm gled I'm like it. But ye see, I'm 
the rale oreeginal.'^ 

" ' Yer feet's no' sae flet either,' he says. 

" * Are they no' ? ' I says. * I'm sorry I canna let ye see my 
hert, so's ye could tell me if it's warm enough.' 


" ' Never heed,' said he, quite cheery. * Dae ye ken me frae 
my picture?' 

"'Noj'said I. *I ken ye by yer impidence an' yer toorie. 
Ye're no blate.' 

"*No,' says he, kind o' huffjr, Tm no blate; I'm Wee 

" *Ye are that,' says L 'Jist Wee Mac, an' yell ne'er be 
onything else ; but ye're fine as ye are.' 

" * He's a rale divert,' says the auld man, speakin' for the first 
time, * though I'm no' shair I ken what a divert is ; if s no' a word 
I ever use mysel'.' 

" * Maybe it's no' guid enough for ye,' says I. * An' for that 
maitter, wha may ye be 1 ' 

"'Edie; Edie Ochiltree. Ye shairly ken auld Edie, the 
gaberlunzie man 1 ' 

" • Whit's gaberlunzie 1 ' says Macgreegor. 

'* ' Jist a beggar wi' a meal poke,' says the auld ane. 'But 
maybe ye'll no' ken whit a beggar is noo ; ye've been gettin' on 
sae weel since I left the warld.' 

" ' Deed no,' says I, thinkin' he was takin' a rise oot o' us, 
* we havena sich a thing. Whit was it like? ' 

"*Erchie, ye auld footer,' says Macgreegor, 'ye're bletherin'. 
We've plenty o' beggars.' 

<< ' Whist, Macgreegor,' says I, ' an' dinna disappint Edie.' 

« < Are ye ony freen o' Prince Edie?' says the callant to him. 

" * Wha's Prince Edie?' says the auld man ; ' ye're no* meanin' 
Prince Charlie?' 

*"Naw, I'm no',' says Macgreegor, 'an' I'm no* meanin' 
Mary Queen o* Scots or King William cross't Byne Watter. I'm 
meanin' the wee chap aboot my ain size that's aye gettin' 

" ' Whit's photygraphed? ' says Edie. 

'"Da ye no' ken it's gettin' yer likeness ta'en ? I min' fine 
when I got my likeness ' 

"'Ay, it's a' in the book, Macgreegor,' says I. 'Ye needna 
start on that.' 

" ' ril ha'e to tell the Shirra aboot this,' says Edie to himsel'. 

PROSE, 1904 J» 

" ' Whitna Shirra/ says I, wonderin' if he was gaon to mak* a 
*' ' When I say tiie SMrra,' says be, * there's but ane I could 

" ' Maybe in your day ; but there's twa or three noo. There's 
Shirra Outhrie, him that tried Duffjr for bein' disorderly in the 
Mull o' Kintyre vaults. Dear kens whit they micht ha'e done to 
Dufiy if I hadna explained he was jist singin' " Dark Lochnagar'' 
in a new key. "Qae wa', Duffjr," says the Shirra, "an' min' 
there's nae keys like the auld keys." ' 

"'It wasna Outhrie but Scott I was meanin',' says Edie. 
' Sir Walter Scott— him that wrote aboot me.' 

"'That's it, Edie,' says I. <I couldna think whaur I had 
heard o* ye afore. But I min' noo— it was in a book Wullie got 
at the Sawbath echule for sayin' the 119th F^alm aff by hert. It 
wasna exactly a non-stop performance, for they gie'd him twa rests 
to tak' a Book at his orange. An' I read " Bob Boy " aince,' I says. 

" 'Bob Boy,' says Wee Ma<^;reegor, 'I min' him fine. I saw 
him in the Princess, when Aunt Purdie got tickets frae the 
dairyman that has the biUs in his winda.' 

"'Whit's the Princess?' says Edie. 

'"Listen to him,' says Macgreegor. 'He doesna ken the 
Princess ; maybe he disna ken the Empire or the Zoo either.' 

" ' There's some things,' says I, no' wan^' to hurt the auld 
man's feelin's, ' that boys like you shouldna ken — the Princess is 
a theatre.' 

" ' An' dae ye tell me,' says the beggar, ' that Bob Boy's in the 

" ' No' the noo,' says I. * If s " The Grup o' Airmour-Plated 
Steel " or " The Warst Man in the Sautaiarket " that's on the noo.' 

"'The Sautmarket,' says Edie; 'that's whaur Bailie Nicol 
Janrie cam' frae.' 

"'The Bailie was a bobby-dazzler,' says Ma^reegor. 'He 
was the boy to fecht Yon was fine when he got the reid-hot 
poker an' near roasted the Hielan'man. It was better than the 
clown in the pantomime.' 

" ' Whaf s a pantomime ? ' says Edie. 


'< ' Oh, a baorley. Ye bate me at askin' things, Edie,' says 

'' ' An' ye're no' easy bate, either, Macgreegor,' says I. * Bat 
I've been wonderin' if it wad be impident o' me to ask what 
brocht the twa o' ye here.' 

" * I was playin' wi' my barra,' says Macgreegor, * when Edie 
cam' up to me. "Here's yin o' the students in the procession 
thaf s forgot to tak' Ms fancy claes afi^" I said to Katie, an' then 
he asked me for Mr. Macpherson, an' I brocht him here.' 

" ' The bairn's richt^' says the beggar, an' I cam' wi' a message 
frae the Shirra. He bade me tell ye that he has been readin' 
ye're bit book, an' Macgre^;or's tae, an' he hasna enjoyed onything 
sae much sine he cam' to whaur him an' me is noo.' 

" ' Whaur's that?' says Macgreegor, but Edie took nae notice 
o' him. 

*' ' He said I was to tell ye that there's a lot o' your words 
that he's no verra fameeliar wi'. He tell't me some o' them — 
"menoj," an' "nyaf," an' "smout," an' "skoosh cars," an' 
" swarees," an' as shair's daith they put me in min' o' some o' the 
things that Doostersdeevil used to say.' 

" ' Wha's Doostersdeevil ? ' says Macgreegor ; an' wi' that Edie 
took to lauchin' an' could hardly be got to stop. 

«< Doostersdeevil,' he said at the hiner-en', 'was an unco 
clever German. He was a kin' o' treesure-hunter.' 

** ' Did he dig for Weekly Record medalUons 1 ' says Macgreegor. 
* My Paw dug up a ten-shillin' yin, but they fined him a pound 
for spylin' a man's gairden, an' he said it wasna much profit, 
efter a'.' 

" ' Better a fine than bein' put in jyle,' says I. 

"Tve been in jyle mysel',' says Edie, 'yon time I led 
Doostersdeevil the dance ' ; an' he set to the lauchin' again. 

" ' Was it a cake-walk like this ye led him?' says Macgreegor, 
an' the brat set aff roun' the kitchen, his heid hingin' back an' 
near touchin' his heels. 

'*Edie turned fair white wi' fricht. 'Is there onjrthing 
wrang wi' the laddie ? ' he whispers to me. 

" * No' a thing,' says I, * it's jist a new gaime.' 

PROSE, 1904 86 

*''Lod,' says he, Tm f^ed Tin jist here on a veesit. There 
was anither bit o' the message/ he gaed on. *Ye were to tell 
Hugh Fonlis frae the Shirra that he tried to keep it daork himsel' 
at first, but it wadna work. " Tell him," he said, " that makin' 
books is a kin' o' murder, an' is shair to come oot. Foulis 11 be 
identified the same's The Unknown was." ' 

"*Wha was The Unknown,' says Macgreegor, 'an' whit's 
iden ' 

" • Macgreegor,' says I, * it's time you ,' an' wi' that Jinnet 

was shakin' me by the shouther. 

•* 'Erchie,' says she, *ye're an aufu' man to sleep.' 

" ' Ay, an' to dream nonsense,' says I." 



In the Style op Sir Thomas Malory 

How Sir Percy VcUe^ his Lady and his brachetj journeyed 
to the Sea 

It fell on a time that Sir Percy was sore ill, and the weather 
was hot, 80 the leech said his advice to the intent that he might 
betake himself to the sea. That is me loath said Sir Percy but 
sith I must needs it shall be so. But his Lady was passing glad 
thereof and made much trussing of clothes. So it befell siter 
within a sennight all came prepared. So on a day Sir Percy and 
his Dame set forth on his chariot without horses, as the guise is 
at this time, and they rode more than a pace till they came to 
Fenchurch, and there took train unto the South end, in Estsex, 
whereas Sir Percy had a barget. And many men at Fenchurch holp 
Sir Percy the which passing courteously gentily disparpled handsel 
among them. And they all accorded that by his largeness the 
curtiest Knight he was. Namely he gave large guerdon to him 
that guarded the train to the intent that he and his Lady should 
take poet alone. For, he said, we will not hold speech of neither 
more nor lees, neither at the beginning, neither at the ending. 


And 80 in sooth he thought at that time. Not for then he was 

Now it fortuned that the knight had with him a brachet^ a 
glasting beast and one of great annoy. By malfortune at the 
departition of the train this brachet, being held by no lune, sprang 
to the ground and voided Sir Percy, the which, wonderly wroth, 
yede foot hot after him, and that bo eagerly that all men had 
wonder. Right so the train let make for to move and none might 
stop it 

Now it happed near hand in other part, there was found an 
uncouth sort, of different strain in estate and range to Sir Percy, 
being but villains and of low parage, but lacking no manner of 
spending. Right now the In^ichet sprang in among them, and Sir 
Percy wot not what to do, but one there, seeing what had betid, 
thrang him from behind, whiles other cleight him deliverly by the 
arms, and he wist not what had become but rashed among them. 
All so soon as he who had taken guerdon heard the fare at this 
array, he called out — What cheer, Sir Knight, what cheer t Sir 
Percy was too astonied for to speak but one there, hight Arry, 
cried back at him — What ho^ ancient^ what ho ! 

And when Sir Percy wist what had befallen he had such 
sorrow and heaviness there might no tongue tell it. And in sooth 
the sort was strange. The damosels had much false ouches y-set 
with stones and pearls in latten and their mantles were purpled in 
many colours. Everych mocked and juped at the orgulous knight 
and one with a horn, a much young man, cleped Alf, blew some 
deadly motes. Then they demanded of him truage for his si^ge, 
and some made no other cheer but clipping and kissing, while 
others gave themselves to chaunt, asking many times if one Sir 
William Bailey might not return to his home. All this term the 
brachet was questing like twenty couple hounds, and the knight 
was wood with rage. Then they made ready a feast of eating, 
drinking and cheer out of measure, and enforced Sir Percy to 
drink there the strongest wine that ever he drank, him thought^ 
and therewith he was much chafed. And all that betid to him 
Uiere is no maker can rehearse the tenth part of it. But within a 
while Alf and Arry had language together, and there sprang up 

PROSE, 1904 87 

debate; then incontinent began a great stonr, and either gave 
other many hard strokes, being maryellons good men of their 
hands. The French book saith they fonght near half a day and 
never rested but right little, and there was none of them boUi bat 
had grimly womids. One had sach a buffet that the stroke 
troubled his brains, whiles the other fell down noseling so he brast 
out in blood. All this while the brachet made the grisliest 
groans, for in ihe recounter both it and Sir Percy had many sore 
scathes that it was pity to see. At the last they were concluded. 
In a while the train let stop, and him who watched it came to 
spere after the knight and the mountenance of his miscomfort. 
Much araged Sir Percy dressed him thenceward, all that ever he 
might fling, to his wife which was in great dole, tray and tene, and 
them twain wept with heaviness. When had dawed a little the 
Lady she searched his wounds & lay there soft salves. And by 
when he was wield himself they had come to the rivage where lay 
great multitude of ships, galleys, carracks, dromounds and cogs, 
but Sir Percy would none of them, nor the barget which he ought, 
but cried aloud — By the ^th of my body right now I repenteth 
me, dc shall the days of my life, that ever I let make this journey. 
And the Lady — ^T-wis the brachet is in default, if he had not 
been this had not happed. But the brachet retrayed with his 
maims, kept himself covert & softly made his moan. 


Fashions poe Autumn 

Autumn is upon us, and those who like myself are compelled 
to return to London are now reluctantly laying by muslins, lawns, 
insertions, and transparencies — the daintinesses and delights of 
the summer which passes away too soon. We may, however, 
solace regret by glancing at the windows of the shops which now, 
as evOT, display so seductively the fashions of the hour. Look in 
at Messrs. Reid and Mayne's, and you will see, as I did yesterday, 
a coat and skirt of tweed, whose hue recalled the heather I had 


left 80 lately. I could almost feel the wind and sun and hear the 
bees buzzing as I looked at it The coat was built squarely and 
somewhat severely, as we saw others in the spring, and carried a 
collar of satin, on to which braid was applique, the whole cun- 
ningly again suggesting heather in colour and design. The skirt 
was modishly cut, and evidently designed by simplicity and 
adequacy of style for the exiguities of the trotiotr. The seams, 
which display a multiplicity and variety of strapping, have been 
manoBuvred by Messrs. Reid and Mayne with the dexterity — I 
would almost say the chicanery — one expects from them. 

And what do I say of the buttons ? Madame, there are none ! 
Then how does it fasten ? Ah I Go to Messrs. Reid and Mayne 
and ask to be shown the ''en du ccBur" Enough said. The 
costume is in truth the apotheosis of savoir /aire I She who has 
wisdom will buy it and, having arrayed herself therein, will face 
calmly the fog and smoke of an October in London. 

Then for the drawing-room and the boudoir, the sofa and the 
fireside ! We must have frocks pour causer, pour rire, pour boire 
(le thi, bien-entendu). Pay a visit to Messrs. Larkins ; there you 
will find en effet gracefully draping its folds in robes and tea-gowns, 
and the material which reached England but lately — gradeuse. 
This greets you in a variety of shades which bewilder while they 

I must tell you of a frock I saw which was carried out in 
gracieuse and which makes me ache with longing whenever I think 
of it. The colour suggested a bed of asparagus by moonlight^ and 
as cloudiness of texture is the characteristic of gradeuse the hue 
was certainly very happily chosen. The designs was of the kind 
which ravishes by simplicity and which, relying on suggestion 
rather than on performance, at once stirs the imagination and 
delights the eye. Lightly, dreamily, irresponsibly, the skirt shook 
forth flounces. These pointed the way to a hem which would 
coquet gracefully with the ground as Uie wearer moved. Round 
the shoulders, as a cloud rests on the hilltops, floated a mist of 
lace. The bodice was cut en ravanche and was not ornamented 
save for grignets of the lace which were irregularly disposed upon 
it. The fastenings were cleverly concealed under vinedom of the 

PROSE, 1904 29 

material. The aleevee resembled nothing so much as mountain 
streams in the manner in which they issued from the mist and 
flowed down ever more ¥ddely until they were suddenly "cribbed, 
cabined, and confined," and lost in the mist of a waterfall (again 
the lace). The cost of the frock is an absurdity ! 

I also saw a daintiness in samite — the colour of a horse- 
chestnut and of a glossiness which implored while it defied 
description. Simplicity, nay ** tailor-maidishness," ruled hera 
It was simply a witchery of stitchery ! Frivolity, however, burst 
out in the buttons which — alternately of gold and silver — were 
cut into the shapes of clubs, spades, hearts, and diamonds. This 
would do excellently for a morning at Bridge. 

Chicette ia still with us, and she who likes to meet the 
weather halfway will do well to provide herself with an example 
of Mr. Remington's entourages. They are a defence against the 
brutality of November. 

Hats are fast reaching the nadir of popularity. I heard 
rumours, indeed, of a strike among the workmen at Messrs. 
Bowler and Topper ; but on the whole, I think that a " hat- wave " 
may be confidently looked for in 1905. 

Of gloves and shoes I have not space to speak ; they are, as 
ever, the delight and the extravagance of Dame Fashion. The 
chaussure known as ''Hermes" gains ground hourly. But the 
price? Alack ! "Ask the purse what thou shouldst buy." And 
so. Adieu ! Ladies. 



€kx)d people should remember that dressing badly does not 
necessarily help the poor. 

Love denied becomes, to all outward seeming, more and more 
intense; brighter and brighter it bums, and its colours become 
more and more unearthly until, suddenly, it goes out. From the 
beginning, silently, working beneath a show of increasing strength, 
a decay has set in, not heeded, until, at one blow, it accom- 
* plishes its aim. 



'*0h, come, Burn, this is sheer foolery!" I said. "I don't 
believe there are any houses in this cursed country. Let us give 
up short cuts and get back to the high road ; that must take us 
somewhere some time. I am tired of lifting my bicycle over 

Bum stopped and looked round over the mist-sodden fields. 

''A wise suggestion, my son," he said calmly, "if only we 
knew how to get to the high road." 

I was startled. 

" Don't you know where we are, thent" I asked quickly. 

'< Haven't the faintest idea." 

My terrier Tim, curled up in his basket slung to my saddle, 
poked up his head to see what we were stopping for. I lifted 
him out ; if this tramping over fields and lifting of machines was 
to go on he might as well run. Instead of careering about as 
usual, he lifted one paw and sniffed suspiciously. 

There we stood in the mist and the gathering twilight, and 
even Tim was subdued. 

''It is no good waiting," I said impatiently. "Let us go 
forward as straight as we can." 

We had hardly started again when Bum said in a tone of 

" There's a house at last." 

Pushing a wicket-gate we passed into a garden, and found 
ourselves facing a good-sized building. 

" There are no lights," I said dubiously ; "it starikes me there 
is no one at home." 

"Dare say not," retumed Bum, scanning the front of the 
house, " but tiiere will be in a few minutes." 

He made for a small conservatory, and as the door gave to 
his hand, looked round with a grin. 

"Nine people out of every dozen forget their conservatory," 
he said. 

"It's fairly cool, though," I objected, "to walk into another 
man's house like this." 

PROSE, 1904 SI 

'*It is ooolor to sleep in the fields, with eTerything sopping 
wet," retorted Burn, whose notions of ethics are elementary. 

Leaying our bicycles in the conservatory we went into a small 
room, with books to the ceiling all round the walls, and a writing- 
table in the window, strewn with papers. There was a dank, 
unpleasant smell of mildew, and leather bindings rotted by the 
damp. I peered uneasily about in the half-light. *' What a dirty 
hde for a man to work in," I said. 

Bum opened the door, and passed out into the hall. 

"By Jove! It is a queer place, and no mistake!" he 
exclaimed, as a large mat of old spiders' web fell on his head. 

The hall was damp and slimy, and in the comer stood an 
umbrella-stand with three rotting umbrellas in it, while on a 
row ot pegs above it was an uncouth row of sordid, moth-eaten 
coats and hats. 

''Where is Tim?" I said sharply, for the sake of talking 
about something wholesome. '' Here, Tim ! Tim ! " 

My vdce echoed back with a strange muffled clang. 

I stepped hastily into the library again. Tim was crouching 
on the threshold of the conservatory — his tail tucked in, his back 
bristling, the picture of abject terror. 

''Come here, sir!" I said roughly, making a grab at him; 
but he dodged my hand and fled forth into the mist 

" It's too dark to see anything properly," said Bum in a low 
tone. " 111 light my lamp and bring it along." 

He looked rather queer as the light fell on his face. 

We went into the next room without a word. It was evidently 
the drawing-room; a grand piano stood open near the door. I 
ran my fingers over the keys and awoke one faint tinkle that 
sounded so uncanny I stepped back in a hurry, and a lot of plaster 
came clattering from the ceiling. 

Benmants of carpet still clung to the stairs and muffled our 
footsteps as we went up. A door stood open before us when we 
reached the top, and we went into the room. 

The remains of a scarlet blazer hung from the bed-post — ^I 
know it was only a scarlet blazer, I feel sure of it — on a chain 
was a mouldering portmanteau, half unpacked ; the bed had been 


occupied, but not for long, for the dingy pillows were not 
misplaced; the bed-clothes had been flung ofl^ all together, and 
trailed from the farther bedpost to the floor. 

I was explaining to myself that to walk six miles over soggy 
fields, and to lift a bicycle over a score or so of gates, makes a 
fellow's heart thump a bit, when Bum caught hold of my arm, 
and I thought at first that he had broken my humerus. But I 
forgot that when I looked at him. You could see the whites 
of his eyes all round, his face was blue, his lips drawn back from 
tightly clenched teeth. 

Instinctiyely I followed the direction of his glance. 

My impression is that we took the stairs together at a single 
bound. I maintain that Burn would have left his bicycle behind ; 
it was I who ran both machines down the drive, and I confess 
that I should have abandoned them at the front gate if I had not 
fortunately found it flung, long since, from its hinges. 

It may have been three miles away that we stopped to mount, 
and Tim joined us, whining and shivering and looking back, with 
his back still bristling and his tail tucked in. Bum persists, now, 
that he suddenly thought the house too damp to sleep in, and that 
we didn't see anything. 

Well, perhaps we didn't. Bum ought to know. If any fellow 
likes to make sure, I can give him the address of the house ; I 
found it out afterwards. Not that either of us wants to see it 
again — for we don't — neither does Tim. 


By Henby James 

*' ConHnuez Messieurs el Mesdames, continuez toi^rs/** 
That, well-known utterance of the artist instructor has, it would 
seem, been the only direction that Mr. Henry James has found 
it necessary to give to the characters in his latest novel. While 
they continue to talk to each other he will take their portraits — 
and not only the portraits of themselves, but of their rooms, their 
furniture — in a word, their atmospheres. In "Interventions" 

PROSE, 1904 8S 

the plot can neyer be said to " thicken ** — in fact, one may ask 
after reading it whether there is a plot at alL A yonng American, 
who has been stodying Art in Paris, comes to London witii the 
intention of demoting himself to journalism. After a winter in 
London, however, he marries, forsakes the journalistic field in 
which he has not succeeded in raising any crop to speak of, and, 
taking his wife to Borne, he returns, not to nature, but to art 
Mr. Henry James has never been an enthusiast for '* plot-culture," 
but — do we require a plot from a man who is neither a Family 
Herald nor an Anarchist t What does it matter to us that Roger 
Treniham gets no dinner on the day of his arrival in London for 
many chapters, because he is sitting for his " impartial " portrait ? 
Roger Trentham (the young man from Paris) is a character after 
the author's own heart. He has a passion that amounts almost 
to a monomania for dissectmg, analysing, and classifying his 

Every one and everything that comes under the eye of this 
obsorvant young man is analysed, parsed, resolved into its com- 
ponent parts, and docketed. "His mind contained a set of 
pigeon-holes in which his acquaintances were placed. These he 
would review from time to time and furbish up the labels outside." 

Trentham spends his first week in town at the house of a 
cousin, Mrs. Whitcomb, wife of the Rev. John Whitcomb, Vicar 
of St. Boniface's, Regent's Park. While he is waiting for her 
in the drawing-room he experienced a ghastiy desire to turn a 
somersault in the middle of it. Anything to combat the feeling 
that he would become en suite himself if he remained still. He 
notes " the flowers placed in various inadequate positions in the 
room betrayed a talent for organisation which was dissociated from 
any artistic subtlety in manoBuvre." 

The vicar's lady, indeed, is a bom organiser. At dinner sub- 
sequently — '* Her conversational methods were those of a carpenter. 
She could saw off any convenient length of wood. She could, if 
necessary, make a plain deal table and put it on all fours, but as 
to pdishing it ! Roger admitted to himself that french-pok'shing 
was after all a 'dose' trade, and why should his cousin be ex- 
pected to show a knowledge of it? She had her method, however 


a deeisiTeneBs which floated over eyery obstacle. Another guest, 
also an artbt, had lately be^ in Borne, and having proclaimed 
the name of this town as the captain of a river steamer does his 
places of call, she smiled inclusiyely at the late Italian sojourner, 
and, dropping R(^r at this landing-stage, she passed on as one 
who had no concern at this particular haven." Mr. James's style 
is always delightful, and yet one wonders at times how Hoger in 
the course of his perpetual analysis of himself and every one and 
everything around him ever found time to eat his dinner, or how 
he ever gathered himself into a sufficiently synthetic whole to 
propose to the altogether charming Sibylla Canton. Sibylla is the 
one element in the story which resists analysis, as indeed an 
element should. We wish to state unreservedly that we think her 
the most charming portrait of any in Mr. James's varied collection. 
It is impossible to say that she is like any one we met before. She 
is herself, irresistible, entrancing, distracting. Roger realises that 
the methods of the Public Analyst will not do here from the first 
moment of their meeting. "She stood before him a delicate 
surprise, an unanswered question, piquantly insistent, and yet with 
an elusive air of having answered it to her own satisfaction. 
Here was some one who refused to enter any of his well-stocked 
but ever-gaping pigeon-holes. She was animatedly irrelevant to 
everything that he had been saying or thinking during his 
previous life. He was conscious of an intellectual stridency about 
his manner and conversation which he had never detected before. 
He felt that a question would be a bristling inquiry from his 
mouth, and that he might trouble the waters of intercourse by 
rushing in as a fool rather than as an angel. He showed an 
incoherency in his first remarks which, on a subsequent recollec- 
tion of the interview, pricked him with a poignancy undiminished 
by the lapse of time. Sibyl, however, was blissfully unaware that 
she had caused a flutter in the pigeon-cote, and, construing his 
inarticulate murmurs of tea and coffee rightly, declined to have 
any at present. At tiiat moment the piano stopped. ' Was that 
Schubert? ' she asked. ' Yes,' he admitted ; then, with a crushing 
sense of his own blatancy, 'I heard it often in Paris.' 'My 
brother is going to Paris as an art student. Do you know any- 

PROSE, 1904 86 

thing about the life there t' He hesitated, then plunging deeper- 
ately, ' I was a student at Julian's for three years,' and he went 
away with the stoeam." 

Want of space precludes further quotation. We can only 
assure all lovers of Mr. Henry James that when they have read 
** Interventions " they will re-echo Stevenson's verdict upon 
Boderick Hudson : *' Sir, you have never done anything better 
than this." k. t. btaphinson 



(In words of one syllable) 
What do ws Msan bt tee Phrasb '*Fbxe to AoT"t 

In this age, when there seems to be no bound set to the range 
of what we may leam of man and the world in which he lives, 
when the great store of facts, which we mark with due care and 
set each in its own place, swells day by day, when at each step it 
grows more clear that what rules the world is no mere chance, but 
strict laws, to which all must bow, it is not strange that we pause 
and ask : "What Ib the place of man in this great schemef These 
laws by which all life that we know — beast and bird and fish — 
are bom and reach their growth, and die to give place once more 
to new life — ^must not we too yield to them t " And so comes the 
first great doubt : we ask if in truth all that we do is not bound 
by a law, which we may not break, but which shapes from our 
birth the course we are to take. The stem chain in which cause 
links with cause through all time seems to crush us and to break 
down our pride. Is not the claim that we are free to act and to 
seek our own good a mere boast, a vain dream which our own 
thought shapes t And yet it is just by the fact that we can so 
doubt that our doubts may be set at rest. If we were in troth 
mere slaves of the law of the world, mere links in the chain of 
cause, how could we so doubt and ask f Nay, how could we know 
that there is such a chainf Oan the mind which grasps it and 
jcHus the links into one whole be a part of itf The facts which 
form for us what we know of the chain come to us each in its own 


I^aoe in time, and yet the mind in one act can grasp them, and 
bind them into one. How can the mind, then, be, like them, a 
thing in time ? 

But still it may be said: ''We grant this point; we grant 
that there is a mind or Self which knows, which is not in the great 
chain of cause; but yet does this show that we are free to actt" 
But to this we may say : '* If we may grant this, what does the 
chain of cause mean ? We could not know the mere facts which 
form the links of the chain, much less grasp the whole, if there 
were not a Self to know. This chain, whidi seems to bind us, 
and which we in vain strive to shake off, is a chain which we 
forge by our own thought and shape by our own act. Nor is 
this all ; for what in truth do we mean by the word ' free 't Free 
from what t To be free must mean to be free to fight some force 
which binds us— just this force, in fact, which rules all the world 
that we know ; were there not such a force, and did we not feel 
it) in which sense could we claim to be free ? And so we come to 
the truth : we forge a chain that we may break it; we shape a law 
that we may bend it to our will ; we form a world that our life 
may be no vain dream, but a Force which works in it and through 
it to one sure end." a. h. sidgwick 


The effects of jealousy are a vexed question ; they are curiously 
different in man and woman, making the one hate the object of 
his love, the other (Heaven help her !) detest those who would 
rob her of her prize. m. pabtbidgb 

Alas ! in spite of our much-vaunted sanitation, we find that 
influenza, a germ disease^ is still so widely prevalent that, like 
a conqueror, it year by year invades the bodies of those who are 
subject to its noxious influence. ^ wollaston " 

A child laboriously learns the six-and-twenty lettws of the 
Eni^ish alphabet, and lo ! for j^ize he gains a fsirj key which 
reveals to his juvenile mind the secret of all literature and 
eloquence. f. c. hblps 

PROSE, 1904 87 


Once upon a time there lived a Qneen with two daughters ; 
one as ugly and wicked as herself, the other (her stepchUd) as 
good as she was fair. Now it chanced that a rich young Prince 
was traTelling through the world in search of a bride, and he 
came to the country where this Queen lived. 

^ If he sees my sister he will not want to wed me/' said the 
ugly daughter. 

^' Ton leave that to me," said her mother, and paid a visit 
to a wise woman in the neighbourhood. That night the Queen 
said to her stepchild, *' Tou look tired, my daughter, and I think 
that a warm bath would refresh you — see, I have prepared one 
with my own hands." Now the Princess did not know that her 
cruel stepmother had squeezed some hemlock-juice into the 
water, and when she came out of the bath her skin was quite 
brown and speckled like a toad's back ! 

"Next I will comb your hair," said the Queen. She drew 
a poisoned comb through the maiden's tresses and they turned 
into tufts of coarse black wool. 

" Look at me," commanded her stepmother, and as the poor 
child looked up she squirted adders' blood into each eye, and 
lo ! they were no better than boot-buttons. 

" Now you are too frightful to live in the Palace any longer," 
cried they both, and drove the Princess out on to the common 
to tend the geese. 

But one thing the Queen had forgotten to take from her — 
her voice — which was so exquisite that any one hearing it would 
gladly have died for her. When the IVince arrived he rode 
directly to the Palace, across the common, where the goose-girl 
had just driven her flock home to roost It was sunset, and in 
the distance they heard some one singing in a voice of such en- 
trancing sweetness that the Prince exclaimed, "I shall marry 
none but the owner of that voice." 

The Queen looked out of the window, and when she saw the 
young man advancing she fastened a beautiful mask over her 
ugly daughter's face and led her downstairs. 


After some conversation the Prince asked the Princess whether 
she could sing, to which the Queen replied that her daughter 
had the voice of a nightingale, but, as she had strained her throat, 
the physicians had forbidden her to use it at present. 

When he heard this the Prince was overjoyed, imagining 
that here was the ideal bride he sought ; but before she left them 
alone together the Queen forbade him to salute his betrothed 
except on her fingers, explaining that this was the custom of the 

When the Prince returned to his inn and told his faithful 
servant the news, Hans laid his hand upon his master's heart and 

" It does not beat quickly enough for a lover, there is some- 
thing wrong. To-morrow insist on kissing the Princess and make 
her sing to you." 

Accordingly next day the Prince begged his betrothed to sing, 
and the vain, silly girl, forgettlag her mother's warnings, uplifted 
a voice as harsh as a crow's ! 

" For that I must kiss you," cried the Prince, and directly his 
lips touched the maiden's cheek he discovered the mask. 

Her screams soon brought the Queen to the spot, and when 
the young man upbraided her for her deceit, " Come, come^" said 
she, ''you will love my daughter fondly after you are married 
to her." 

'' Marriedf I will never marry her ! " cried the Prince. 

At this, in a terrible rage, the Queen struck him with her 
shoe^ and turning into a gander he wandered out on to the 
common, where the goose-girl tended her flock. 

When his master did not return, faithful Hans knew that 
sometiung had happened to him, so he ran to consult the wise 

"The Prince is changed into a gander," said she. "Qo to 
the common at sunset to-night, taking with you an axe and my 
apron. Chop off the Queen's head and throw it from you, but 
be careful not to let a drop of her blood touch you. Then throw 
my apron first over the gander uid afterwards over the goose- 

PROSE, 1904 89 

Hans thanked the witch, gave her a purse of gold, and, 
taking her apron, departed. 

That evening at sonset faithful Hans hid himself behind a 
bosh on the common ; and just as the goose-girl was driving her 
flock home to roost, the Queen came out of the F^ace. 

" Will you marry my daughter now I " she asked. " Never ! " 
cried the gander. 

Then the wicked woman seized the bird to strangle it, but 
at that moment Hans sprang out at her, and with his axe drove 
her head right off her shoulders. 

DirecUy her blood gushed out it turned into a great sheet of 
water, but forgetting the witch's vnuming, Hans let some of it 
fall on his foot, which instantly became lifeless. 

He now threw her head into the sea, and it became a 
beautiful ship; next he threw the apron over the gander, who 
once more resumed his proper shape, and then over the ugly goose- 
girl, who stood up a beautiful Princess. 

" Here is my rightful bride," cried the Prince, falling on hb 
knee before her, for he had heard her wonderful voice calling her 
geese; and now Hans had no fault to find with his master's 

They got into the ship and sailed safely away to the Prince's 
kingdom, where they were married and lived happily ever 
afterwards, but the faithful Hans continued lame to his dying 



" Laugh and grow fat," says the proverb. And the moral is 
— "Where corpulence is bliss, 'tis jolly to have size." 

" Few and short were the prayers we said." And the moral 
"If you're waking, call us early, caU us early, mother dear." 

" Mary had a lUtle lamb." And the moral is — "Enough is as 
good as a feast." 



" Truth is stranger than fiction." And the moral is — " If you 
teU a He— tell a good 'un." 

''Necessity is the mother of Invention." And the moral of 
that is—" Another ' story/ " 


''Accounts and geese both have to be cooked." And the 
moral of that is — " If you want a man done, do him yourself." 

" You can see an acrobat walk on a slack wire, and an organist 
jump on a slack choir." And the moral of that is— "You can't 
make a somersault without breaking legs." 

"The good boy does not complain when the nurse rubs the 
soap into his eyes." And the moral of that is — " Let us soap for 
the best." 

"The sulky man and the camel -have both got the hump." 
And the moral of that is — " We know what we are, but we know 
not what we may be." 

" It is only a mean man who means to augment his means by 
being amenable in mien." And the moral of that is — " The more 
the means the less the meaning." 


" A stitch in time saves nine." And the moral of that is — " It 
is very important never to mend too late." 

" We cannot help it if we have no brains, but it is our own 
fault if we are without manners." And the moral of that is — 
" Half an oaf is better than low bred." 

" The peppermint drop in the mouth of a- child is more pungent 
than the odour of sanctity." And the moral of that is — " Look 
after the young, or the old must look after themselves." 

PROSE, 1904 « 


''A Young Lady Companion, aged 18 to 25, is required by a 
married middle-aged lady, whose residence is in the most open 
part of Islington. The household, a healthy one, oonabts of the 
lady, her husband, three servants, and an old and valued canary. 
The young lady should be of good parentage, blessed with good 
health, bright disposition, amiable temper, moderate personal 
attractions, and the education and accomplishments properly 
incidental to upper middle^lass life. She would be expected to 
look upon herself as one of the family, and be as cheerfully and 
industrially useful in household matters as the lady herself is. 
There would be good board and lodging, but no salary ! " 


November 10 
"Reader! picture me young, desolate, and inexperienced, 
standing before the door of my employers, ignorant of what 
welcome awaited me within. "If this be the open part of 
Islington," I murmured, " Heaven help the enclosed ! " My reso- 
lution almost failed, but the fog was filling my lungs, pride came 
to my aid, and — I rang the bell ! 

A small room, furnished chiefly with antimacassars and 
chromo-lithographs, a smaU fire, and a small, elderly lady occupied 
in working what looked like another antimacassar ) She took no 
notice of my entry. I felt rather confused when my incon- 
qpicuousness was thus pointedly urged upon me, but I advanced 
firmly until my shadow fell on her work. 

She looked up and tohupered, "Dear me! Are you f" 

" I am Jane Eyre, madam," I said composedly. " Speak loudw ; 
I am very deaf." " Jane Eyre ! " I shouted. ... By this time 
I felt quite unembarrassed and at leisure to attend to my 
surroundings, which wore humble but cosy. A loud knock at the 


door difltnrbed me. • . . While he was attending to his tea and 
taking little notice of me I was able to observe him. My Master ! 
seen now for the first time. 

The massive brow shaded with silver curls, the firm jaw and 
chin deep-set with wrinkles, betokened the effects of a fierce 
intellectual fire within. " I shall not be afraid of you," I thought^ 
" for I can meet you on your own ground." 

... I am certain that my ill-starred employers cherish some 
family secret. They observed me covertly all the evening. The 
canary did not sing a note. 

Navmnher 11 
Presentiments are strange things ! As a child I was subject 
to them. . . . The canary is a large specimen and of a peculiarly 
bright colour. At breakfast, Mr. Brande shouted to Mrs. Brande, 
'' The bird is singing." She smiled and said, " Tes, I just hear 
him." Reader, it was not singing ! I went calmly on with my 
breakfast, and affected not to hear. ... I went into the drawing- 
room and caught sight of myself in a mirror. There was not 
much style about my dress, but at least it was tidy, it fitted, and 
it was ''suitable ** to my position. 

While thus engaged, I heard a step and saw Mr. Brande 
looking at me curiously. " I wish to speak with you. Miss Eyre. 
Kindly sit down. Did you hear me tell Mrs. Brande that the 
canary was dnging?" "Yes, sir." "Well, did you notice 
anything?" "I noticed that it was not singing, sir." ''Ha! 
your habits of observation have been trained, I see." He paused 
and seemed to scrutinise my face, which met his calmly, and then 
said with suppressed emotion, " That bird is a painted sparrow 1 
I accidentally let the canary escape some months ago. Afraid of 
the effect which this calamity might have upon Mrs. Brande, and 
unable to procure another of the same size and colour, I committed 
the fraud I have just indicated. Mrs. Brande is deaf. It b, 
theref<»e, easy to make her believe that the bird is singing. Tou, 
oi (me of the family, will please to back me up." He] ceased and 
left me abruptly. . . . " So ! " . . . She has said nothing about 
it yet 

PROSE, 1904 48 

November 13 
. . . The ease of her maimer, at onoe correct and cordial, 
attracts me. Were it not for the canary, that yellow and silent 
terror. . . . The crisis came this evening. She came into the 
drawing-room and bnsied herself as nsnal in arranging the 
antimacassars. I offered to assist. Suddenly she whispered, 
" Have you noticed anything about the canary? " " It is a fine, 
bird," I answered promptly. "But did you hear it singt" she 
whispered. I could not answer this faruthfully; I would not 
answer it untruthfully. I was silent. She continued : " He is 
far too old to sing now, but Mr. Brande, who is old too, fancies it 
does, and I humour him. I expect you, a$ one of thejhmily, to do 
the same." She quitted the room as she spoke. 

Navefnber 14 
I have played bezique, the piano, chess, and dummy whist, 
darned tablecloths, and extinguished Mrs. Brando's cap, which 
cau|^t fire. I have had no time to-day to nurse chimeras or 
dream of the future. The curate called, and looked once as if 
about to speak of the canary, but I had deftly placed his small 
table with his cup of tea in such a position that he would most 
Hkely upset it when rising to approach the cage. This occurred, 
and served to hasten his departure, for which on other counts 
I was sorry. 

December 10 
The curate has called often, but the canary lives in the dining- 
room now, so my heart is at rest. ... I have told you, Reader, 
that I ... I have always felt myself fitted to be Uie wife of a 

December 12 
The blow fell at breakfast time. The bird by some means 
escaped from its cage, and after our United ^orts to catch it had 
failed, fluttered into the slop-basin full of vfarm wUerf and 
drowned. I hastily took it out and wrapped it in a dean hand- 
kerchief ; at the same time, unobserved, I poured some c(^ee into 
the basin which rendered the yellow tinge less noticeable. . . • 


Mrs. and Mr. Bfande have been consoling each other. . . . 
Edward called later, and the news of our engagement distracted 
their attention to their prospective loss. Mr. Brande said, '' We 
mnst soon face a greater loss. We shall lose J<me Eyre'^ 



4.30 P.M. This is an improvement on guarding grass seed 
in the garden. Windsor chair all to myself, and plenty of string. 
New stuffing too, and a pair of boots. 

Seclusion rather wearisome, all the same. Wish some one 
would come and complete my toilette, which at present leaves 
much to the imagination. 

4.45. Really hope that some one will notice my left boot 
before I appear in public. Think they might have put more straw 
in that leg. Perhaps it is the leg and not the boot. Must 
mention it in any case. 

6.0. Hurrah ! here they come — ^now for some attention. So 
I am to have whiskers, am I? Do be gentle. And here are 
medals. I am of real importance now. 

7.0. Toilette completed. They are really most attentive to 
me. Have never worn this sort of hat before. Queer arrange- 
ment. Seems to be on crooked. No one notices boot Feel 
annoyed. Enough to disgrace any respectable scarecrow. 

7.30. So I am to have a procession. Did not expect so 
much. Find myself the central figure. Feel pleased. Remember 
boot ; feel sad. Hope no one sees it. Cheers from the populace 
lining the route. Also hisses. Wonder why? Feel pleased with 
populace. Attempt royal bow. Hat falls off. Boy says, '* Now 
then, Roger, what chemp to 1 " Rude boy. Puts hat on again. 
Think perhaps I had better not try bowing. 

7.40. Popukoe throws offerings at my feet Offerings rather 
hard. Aim of populace not all that could be desired. Wish they 
would show their feelings otherwise. Still, it is delightful to be 
so popular. 

PROSE, 1904 46 

7.42. OfFering hits me in the lace. Think that it mnst have 
been an egg. 

7.43. Podtiye that it was an egg. . . . 

7.45. Procession reaches large open space. In the centre 
I peroeive an erection of stupendons hei^t. Wonder what it is f 

7.50. Bearers deposit me on the gronnd, then seize me, and 
without " By yoor leave " hoist me to the top of aforesaid wooden 
stnicture. Cannot understand this. 

7.55. Escort retires^ leaving me enthroned — enthroned ! The 
very word. I see it all now. Verily I am a monarch among 
men. Always did think I was too good for grass seed. 

8.0. Grand display of fireworks, entirely in my honour. 
Really feel most flattered. Position here, though proud, rather 
draughty. Again remember left boot; but what matter — ^in a 
king all things are well. 

8.15. Small boy approaches with squib to salute me. Regret 
that I cannot acknowledge the ^vour. Squib explodes suddmily. 
Must I fear Anardust bombs ? Hat really feeb most insecure. . . . 
By the way, thought kings always wore crowns? Rather puzzled. 

8.30. More explosions. This is really very dangerous. 
Beautiful ruddy light plays on my medals. Fed that I am 
looking my best. Populace cheers. 

8.32. Much warmer now. Illuminations really splendid. 
Must promote some one for this. 

8.34. Getting rather hot. . . . Unpleasant crackling sound. 
. . . Populace seem pleased. 

8.35. Small boy shrieks, ''Go it, old Admiral, now you'll 
sizzle 1 " Can he possibly mean me f Am I reaUy nothing more 
than an Admiralf What a terrible blow . . . feel I shall never 
recover from it . . . 

8.36. Hotter and hotter . . . can't stand much more. Very 
smoky too . . . very hot . . . think I almost preferred grass 
seed . . . flame nmning up my right leg . . . why not the 
leftf . . . terribly hot . . . only an Admiral too . . . flames 
creepiog up my back . . . positive that . . . I . . . preferred 
. . . grass . . . seed. 




'Eirci yap ^0€ff 'qfupav t^v Kvplav ^fcovcrav — For when she 
saw that Lady-Day had come. 

Th y€v6fuvov KaXm <x*i — The baby is doing well. 

6/uX^avra axrrhv oKparwrorriv ycvco-^ac — They say that Kleomenes 
did not go mad by the act of any deity, but ike sermons of the 
Scythians made him take to drink. 

Tavpos xiP^^ — The bull is a widow. 

Ov yap S.V fMKpav tx^^^^^ airhv prj ovk €\iav ri <rv/ij8oXoi^— I 
should not have got far without a ticket of some sort. 

Yergilium vidi tantum — I have seen too much of YirgiL 

Non hie numen adest, non Di — Here is no divinity ; here no 
inseparable prefix. 

Coeruleae puppes — Skye terriers. 

Peritissimi viri — Men who kept on being killed. 

Arma virumque cano — ^ Arms and poison for the dog ! " 

Aes triplex — a threepenny bit 

Compare Caesar and Alexander. — Caesar, Caeserior, Oaeserri- 
mus ; Alexander, Alexandrior, Alexanderrimus. 

Hors d'oBuvre— " Out of work." 

Hs mangeaient du jambon cru — They were eating what was 
believed to be ham. 

Pas de deux — Father of twins. 

Tant de malheur — Unhappy aunt. 

Qui pent apprendre le tr^pas universel des siens sans d^sirer le 
tombeau t — Who can learn the universal decease of his folk without 
longing for a drum ? 

Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute — ^It is certainly not the 
Prime Minister who is cute. 


What are the two things necessary to baptism? — Please, sir, 
water and a baby. 

Asked what he knew of the Creeds, a Radley boy wrote: 
'' First tiiey wrote the Apostles' Creed and nobody believed it, and 

PROSE, 1904 47 

then they wrote the Nicene Creed and nobody beUeved it^ and then 
they wrote the Athanadan Creed and they had got to beUeve it." 

Ending to the Ptotble of the Mnstard Seed — <' And the fowls 
of the air came and lodged nnder the branches thereof and 
bronght forth some thirty-fold, some sixty, and some an hundred." 

'* Mary Magdalene was the sister of seven devils." 

"The Cities of Refuge" were for those who unintentionally 
committed suicide. 

What is a graven image? — ^An idle maid with hands. 


The British Constitution ib what you may call a sound one, 
but on account of its insolent position it suffers from fogs. 

Henry VlU. was brave, corpulent, and cruel; he had an 
ulcer in his leg, and great dedsion of character. 

What was the fate of Richard II.? — Richard 11. is said 
to have been murdwed by some histcMrians. His real fate is 


''What is the area of London compared to Paris?" — The area 
of London is where tiie servants live, and has steps down to it. I 
have never been to Paris. 

Explain '' sotto voce " — In a drunken voice. 

What is meant by a '* nasal organ " ? — A Harmonium. 

What is meant by a " Hibernating animal "? — ^An Irishman. 

What is the Masculine of " Regina " ? — Reginald. 

" George Washington was the man who said he never told a lie." 

Classify " triangles." — Triangles are of three kinds — the equi- 
lateral or three-sided, the quadrilateral or square, and the multi- 
lateral or polyglot. 

Define "Horse-power." — Horse-power is the distance a horse 
can carry a pound of water in an hour. 

Name the three highest mountains in Scotland. — Ben Nevis, 
Ben Lomond, and Ben Jonson. 

What is the shape of the earth? — Obsolete. 

How does a cow rise from the ground? — By its muails and the 
power Qod has given it, 


PROSE, 1905 


" QBEN better days, I reckon," said I, with a jwk of the head 
^ to the door that closed behind the weather-beaten steward. 

"Better days, sir! I just believe you!" said the ''Colonel," 
sitting bolt up to emphasise the point. ** Seen days the like of 
which no other man on this ship has cTer seen. That man, sir " — 
lowering his voice to a pitch of reverent adoration — " has made 
seven fortunes — seven distinct, splendiferous f (urtunes, sir ! " 

'< And lost them," I remarked. 

'' Oh, you can sneer. He's down now ; any one can wipe their 
darned boots on him. And he don't spin his yams so freely as 
some. But I know. He's everlasting proud, that's the size of 
it ; and a man with a past like his . . . and I'll lay hell make 
another fortune yet before he's done with." 


The Colonel flattened the speaker with a stare. We could see 
him pullulating with narratives, and we got them — ^got several, 
which proved one of two things— either that the Colonel was a 
consummate master of fiction, or that ihe weather-beaten steward 
was the genius of modem America incamate. 

This man, whose "Christian" name was Derek and whose 
surname was variable, had been trained, it appears, as a high-class 
exp^ engraver and printer. At first home-made bank-notes were 
his speciality, and at least one of his fortunes came from that 
source. But afterwards he had dwindled to postage-stamps, and 
it was as an irregular and immoral philatelist that the strangest of 
the Colonel's stories pictured him. It occurred to me that in 
these degenerate days, when highwaymen and pirates are out 
of fashion, it is the collector of strange things who has the best 


PROSE, 1905 49 

ehance of adyentnres. Eggs, orchids, gems, giraffes, and jade 
have made men acquainted with strange bedfeUows before this. 
Ton would not expect much of postage-stamps ; bat D^rek made 
romance even there. He had travelled up and down the world 
raking over the dead letters of petty American States and Fkcific 
islands for rare old issues. Then he had been so rash as to 
supplement his discoveries with a few manufactures at his own 
works in Camberwell, London. That was lucrative also, but when 
the final discovery came his credit went^ and he was left with 
dozens of rarities on his hands — mostly genuine, but unconvincing 
to dealers who knew him. 

The enforced month of solitude which he enjoyed at Pentonville 
was a month fertile in new ideas. When he came out he put all 
his gear, his dies, and his handpress, and all the paraphernalia of 
an up-to-date colour engraver into a litUe toamp steamer at Leith, 
and travelled away out of earshot of PentonviDe back to his old 
hunting-grounds in the West Pacific Ocean. Somewhere in the 
East Indies (the Colonel had never heard the exact location, but 
he opined it was somewhere near the Cocos) was a bit of island 
called Santa Colonia. There he landed. 

Now the constitution of Santa Colonia was peculiar. It was 
nominally a republic of about fifty huts, containing a mongrel 
assortment of Malays and runaway Lascars, who divided their 
time between fishing and leprosy. There were also three distinct 
fevers to be caught on this blessed island. Qreat Powers had 
often tried to annex it, but the only thing they had ever retained 
was one or two samples of its fevers. In the early 'forties the last 
^attempt was made, and the net result was one demi-semi Dutch- 
man of a pilot left behind by accident. This man, who in his 
sober moments was a man of some ability, having passed through 
every stage but the last of the three fevers, and being so saturated 
with alcohol as to possess a certain degree of immunity from 
leprosy, had been the pioneer of European civilisation in the fifty 
huts, and was now styled First President of the Free Republic of 
Santa Colonia. 

We gathered it was not a nice place of residence, but there our 

philatelist with his one idea disembarked his plant and paid a 



▼isit of ceremony to the Preddent. The Preeident received him 
with suspicion. The philatelist ingratiated himself with gifts, the 
most acceptable being a pair of Sunday trousers made in Camber- 
welL (There were only three other pairs in Santa Colonia, and 
the President felt that a certain amount of display was essential 
to the maintenance of his dignity.) So they made a compact and 
a covenant together, negotiations being rendered difficult by the 
fact that the President had forgotten most of his Dutch and the 
philatelist had never known more than a little Qerman. Still, he 
managed to communicate the idea, which was nothing less than 
the foundation of an inland postal system. 

When you consider that on the island of Santa Golonia there were 
only fifty huts, and these were closely grouped round the Presidential 
mud-palace at the only harbour, and that only two of the inhabit- 
ants in the island could either read or write, it will occur to you 
that an inland postal system was somewhat of a superfluity in 
Santa Colonia. Yet the philatelist devised with most exemplary 
ingenuity an embossed silhouette of the Presidential features, 
taken from an ancient daguerreotype. He surrounded it with the 
usual bay-leaf crown, a picture of the Presidential residence 
underneath, a palm in each comer, and a number to represent 
centimes, paras, annas, rds, and other cdmage according to the 
fancy of the reader — the real currency of the island being 
calculated on the standard of rotten fish. These stamps he made 
in various colours, to represent various values. One issue lacked 
a perforation on one side ; this was called in after five copies had 
been issued. Another had the palm-trees upside down. Some 
were surcharged " Official." Some were postmarked and actually 
affixed to letters addressed to dusky natives, who never got them 
and could not have read them if they had. Thus for six months 
all went merrily, and several hundreds of stamps were issued — 
not too many, for fear of flooding the market The natives 
meanwhile looked upon the printing machinery with reverence 
and dread, and would have fallen down and worshipped it had not 
the President beaten them away with sticks. 

Well, of course, the difficiQty was to dispose of them. The 
President would not let the philatelist go to Europe, because he 

PROSE, 1905 61 

trusted no one out of his sight ; and the philatelist was a marked 
man among the stamp-dealers of Europe. So finally the President 
went off with a portmanteau full of stamps and left the philatelist 
busy with the second issue for the coming year. The President, 
according to the Coloners account, did exceedingly well in Europe. 
The damaged copies sold for two hundred pounds apiece, and the 
ordinaries were in great demand at five shillings. 

And how did it all end ? Did the President ever come back 1 
" What do y<m think ? " asked the Colonel. *' With seven thousand 
pounds in his pocket and all Europe for his playground ! He was 
the * lion ' of a London season, and died of it. No ; Santa Colonia 
had to do without him. The philatelist waited six more months 
and then he started a third issue with his own head on the stamps, 
and began to look about for a steamer to take him home. But 
when the natives saw his likeness coming out on the little magic 
stick-papers an unholy fear came upon them, and they preached a 
crusade against unauthorised demons, and took that philatelist by 
the neck — ^having previously smashed his plant — aud put him out 
to sea in an open boat ; and that's why Santa Colonia stamps are 
so rare." 


(Wkittbn whilb Waiting at Clapham Junction) 

1. Q. In which proverb do you most devoutly believe % 

A. " LUies that fester smell far worse than weeds " (I have 
been reduced to trying a refreshment-room cigar). 

2. Q. How have you escaped public notice so long? 

A, By being careful only to express my feelings on the 
subject of the S.W. Railway system at the deserted 
end of the platform. 

3. Q. Of all possessions beyond your reach, which would you 

rather have? 
A, Clapham Junction. I would afforest it. 


4. Q. What is your pet epigram 1 

A. I don't keep one ; they don't make good pets. My last 
one died from insofficent airing. 

5. Q, What truism annoys yon most? 
A. All things come to him who waits. 

6. Q. On what income should your best friend be able to live 

comfortably ? 
A. On mine, if she would only believe it. 

7. Q. If fate had always been on your side, where would you 

have been now ? 
A. Fast Basingstoke — ^whereas I am at Clapham Junction. 

8. Q. Do you think men should part their hair in the middle 1 
A, Yes, if they have an even number ; otherwise, it involves 

needless hair-splitting. 

9. Q. What do you consider the most beautiful line of poetry ? 
A. " I waited for the train at Coventry." 

10. Q. What (a) book (b) picture do you dislike most t 

A. (a) Last April's "Bradshaw," which I appear to have 

consulted under the impression it was the current one. 

(b) A triptych representing Milo at different periods of 

his career, which has been facing me on the platform 

for the past twenty minutes. 

11. Q. How many persons do you suspect of harbouring a 

secret passion for you ? 
A» All the station authorities at Clapham Junction. Why 
else should they conspire to keep me here? 

12. Q. What is your besetting misquotation t 

A. " (d) Saturdays only " (" Bradshaw " passim). 

(This is how the passage runs correctly. I 
usually quote it as follows : " (d) Except Saturdays.") 

13. Q. What do you do with your Christmas presents? 
A. Pay my Education rates. 

14. a What is the very last thing you will part fromi 
A. Clapham Junction. 


PROSE, 1905 58 


There is a borderland of the soul wherein poor human nature 
spends much time, a shadowy region, the debatable land between 
the bleak kingdom of a courageous if somewhat insolent scepticism 
and the milder country swayed by an equally courageous and 
perhaps nobler spirit — reliance upon and trust in a dimly appre- 
hended external Power. In this debatable land dwells the hag 
Superstition. Here she has inhabited from time immemorial, be- 
stowing upon her subjects vague promises of good fortune, dim 
and haunting prophecies of evil. All who enter her realm are 
afraid, but know not what they fear. She whispers horribly to 
them in the night, and at high noon they start from fear at the 
thought of her. They desire one thing continually — to appease, 
to propitiate, something, some one, tJiey know not what nor 

Ey^7 soul knows this dismal country, and some have caves 
there and abide constantly in them, but some have strength to 
break often away and wrench themselves free or pay some small 
tribute and so escape. The hag delights in petty observances and 
childish acts of worship. We laugh at these and her for a season, 
and then — we too enter the shadows, slinking each to his own 

Superstitions prc^r are, as one inter^ffetation of the woid 
declares, survivals. The fear of and desire to propitiate the Un- 
known is a universal imd hereditary attribute of human nature, 
which long ago received expression in various acts differing in 
external details in different localities but like in essentials. These 
in every case crystallised into a miniature ritual which has often 
survived its explanation. It seems natural that many superstitions 
should be connected with birds, for what creatures are more 
obviously on the face of things in contact with the Unknown t 
Coming we know not whence, passing we know not whither, we 
hail them as presages. Again, certain birds are clearly marked 
out as the proper objects of superstitious awe. Tou cannot look a 
magpie in the face without feeling that this bird is in possession 


of a secret of its own, and knows yours as well. Hence its sadden 
appearance recalls you from your petty actualities to a sense of 
the vast mystery around you, and — a presentiment is bom, 
whether of good or of evil depends on your own temperament, the 
local history of magpies, and a hundred and one arbitrary circum- 
stances. The owl, with its twilight habits and mournful voice ; 
the raven, seldom seen, sombre hued — the croaker par excellence 
— are necessarily ill-omened fowls. But the cuckoo brings luck 
to him who runs on first hearing that " word, in a minor third," 
which is doubtless a fanciful way of counselling energy during the 
spring. Swallows' nests are counted a fortunate possession, as 
are storks' nests on the Continent, and woe to the man who expels 
rooks! Cats and dogs rank equaUy with birds as creatures of 
presage. It is not strange that the dog, the '* first friend " of 
man, with his sometimes more than human sympathy and intelli- 
gence, should be accounted fateful in his appearances, amd his 
mournful nocturnal howls. Cats are in broad daylight but un- 
canny creatures. At night — which is day to them — with their 
gleaming eyes, and the indefinable thrill of their silky coats, his 
would be a stout heart who would deny them some measure of 
occult power. A black cat is generally an evil omen, yet by the 
law of contraries it is sometimes held lucky if a black cat enters 
the house. Colour has much to say in superstitions, as has also 
number. Black and white in general stand for good and bad luck, 
but in many families it is held that a dark man should be the first 
to enter the house with the New Tear. Again, a piebald horse is 
lucky. Wish when you see one; remain silent until you see a 
white horse, and your wish will '* come true." The rarity of the 
piebald would make it ominous, and the horse being a comfortable, 
everyday animal the omen would be good, but the meaning of the 
white horse as a necessary appendix is obscure. It recalls the 
fox's tail, which is not to be thou^t of when the new moon is 
seen. Wish when you see the new moon, do not think of the said 
" caudal appendage," and all will be well. But the very inexpli- 
cableness of the veto forges a lamentable diain of association of 
ideas vHbich the present writer for one is always unable to breaL 
The moon, formerly the object of religious worship, preserves a 

PROSE, 1906 65 

relic of her former greatness in snperstitiouB observances. Curtsey 
to her nine times when she is new, tnm your money, and — do not 
look at her through glass. This last is a remarkable superstition, 
for, as glass is, compeared with the worship of the moon, a recent 
invention, it is clear that this idea is not a very old one. 

Of numbers 13 is the deadliest, an opinion generally held to 
be as old as the Christian religion; 3 and 7 are the luckiest 
numbers. Their symmetrical structure and their being odd 
numbers unite to render them peculiarly blessed. For as the 
oracular Barney Machree said, ** There is luck in odd numbers.^' 
Why in odd numbers ? There is certainly something dashing and 
generous about an odd number ; no exact peddling balancing of 
one half with another, but the full score and something over — 
for luck ! 

A picture has been held to be the origin of one of the most 
deeply rooted of modem superstitions. In Correggio's ^Last 
Supper " Judas is represented as having spUt the salt, but it seems 
more probable that the superstition was the origin of this detail 
in the picture, and not vice versa. Salt as a mysterious essential 
of life, the ancient emblem of hospitality, naturally assumed 
mysterious characteristics. But why do we now throw it over the 
left shoulder and ejaculate '' 1 hope my Cornish friend is well " ? 
To propitiate the hag ? 



Over my bed there hangs a picture which I can see reflected in 
the mirror opposite like the dream of a dream. 

It is a misty picture of a girl on a barge — a huddled, desolate 
little figure — alone with the sky and the water, and, although her 
surroundings must be in perfect accord with her mood, she is 
entirely unconscious of them, and her troubled thoughts are turned 

The sky suggests a certain cold aloofness from all little foolish 
human things that suffer, the water holds no comfort and offers no 


counsel, and the gathering darkness enfolds her without tenderness 
and permits no escape from the gloom which enshrouds her spirit 
Tet she has come to Nature for help ; she has sought for and has 
found isolation so complete that she has become for the time being 
a part of this vague, colourless scheme — a something inanimate 
and unearthly ; her soul beats its wings no longer in helpless pain 
on the weary body which is its prison, but escapes out into the 
common greyness around, and is at rest — at one with Nature. 
She has touched ground; she hopes for nothing more from life; 
she dreams of nothing more. She is only a girl, but she has 
acquired the wisdom of all the ages — she has learned to 

I wonder who painted that picture ! Strange and ungrateful 
of me that I have never taken the trouble to inquire, for I should 
like to say " Thank you " to its originator. I e^ould like him to 
know that I have been that girL 



Mt DEiiRssT Cabolinb, — ^Yes, you may this time truthfully 
felicitate your Louisa. And the sweetest of creatures ! Such 
grace, such elegance! And such ea^essive shotddersi More 
than ever I feel for my darling sister compelled to pass her 
days in the embraces of a backbone. The name? Sefior Silva 
Diaz, Conde de Saldar de Sancorvo. How does it sound to my 

A foreigner, I hear you say. What of the Earl of B.^ the Hon. 

• (3eorge P., and the others? My dear, I have taken my choice, 

and as one cannot marry all, let us choose the best, as poor papa 

says. A countess is somebody. In verity I am now more than 

ever convinced that for masculine manners you must go to the 

PROSE, 1905 57 

Contineiit 7 Ces auires f Disconsolate, no doubt And, on dit^ 
the Earl in hia despair is contracting a hopeless m^lliance with 
a person wholly beneath consideration. A domestic servant I I 
ooold weep for him, were it not for the ludicrous resemblance to 
the conduct of poor Peter Smithers. You remember ? 

A miracle of elegance, I have said. There is in my Silya that 
refined melancholy conveyed in the tender droop of the Iberian 
eyelid. And his manner of crossing a room ! Englishmen lurch 
or shuffle or stride. A Southern nobleman step^f I could, in 
faith, wish our Evan nothing better than the opportunity of 
studying such a model as the Count. Not rich. But for that, 
as Silva says, one can wait. He has claims. And his wife will 
find it a pleasure and a privilege to advance them by such poor 
means as she possesses. 

EUs wife ! But let me start at the beginning. For I know 
my Carrie longs for the whole history. At the Cogglesbys — con- 
trast me that name, je t'en prie, with the music that is to be mine 
— ^under EEarriet's roof I met him first. I marked his distinction, 
his air^ as he entered the chamber of the reception. Those 
Cogglesby receptions! Torment to one of my susceptibilities, I 
assure you. Tet, one should confess it, Andrew has acquaintance 
amongst the highest in Europe. How, otherwise, account for the 
presence of SOva? I marked him from the first, and I saw that it 
was a case for diplomacy ; here was no prey to common snare& So 
under the shoulders of my circle I watched him. Leaning by the 
fireplace, solitary, abstracted, triste^ were he English one would 
have said bored. But Portugal has manners and can dissemble. 
Jud^g the moment when he could bear it no longer I sought 
Harriet and prayed her to present him. EUs relief ! And when I 
rallied him so delicately upon his melancholy, '* Ah, mademoiselle," 
he said, mth a delicious lift of an eyebrow, '' when man is alone, 
man is always sad. Is it not ? " You should have heard the pretty 
English. He said of it once, "Broken, like my art!" For no 
foreigner, nobleman or beggar, can swallow our odious English 
" h " — the asthmatic of consonants. I spoke to him of Portugal, 
said I had heard of its beauty, longed to see it Words failed him. 
But what need of words to one who has eyes and shoulders. 


movable shoulders/ I permitted him to escort me to supper, and 
drank the wine of his country, always a penance to my delicate 
system, as my Carrie knows. As the evening advanced he grew 
tender ; he is the soul of sentiment ! He spoke lines of Portuguese 
poetry. I praised the sound of that mellifluous tongue. He offered 
instruction, and I had a first lesson on the spot He taught me 
Portuguese for *' loaf,'^ verb and noun ! He was pleased to praise 
my attire. I was wearing the mauve, dear papa's choice. His 
favourite colour was blue, the colour of his skies. 

On the following afternoon he came to pay his compliments to 
Harriet. I was wearing blue. He saw and was grateful. He 
praised our parks. I told him that I generally walked there in 
the forenoon. Thus the impression was made. Now to make it 

This, my sweet one, I have observed in men. You have never 
won a man until you have made him jealous. The next morning I 
was walking in the park with the Hon. Qeorge P. when the Count 
passes. I smile my sweetest. He lifts his hat with a scowl. For 
a week I see no more of him. 

A week! The limit of his endurance. He came full of 
reproaches, protestations, complaints. I assert my independence. 
The liberty of Englishwomen. He melted, sobbed. We mingled 
our tears on the sofa. 

Such are our battlefields, Caroline I 

It is to be soon. Such is dear Silva's ardour. By the way, 
when you announce this to your friends do not omit to mention 
that the De Saldars sae of almost royal blood. Not that / care for 
that, but people are weak. 

Needless to say, I have not thought it necessary to introduce 
LympOTt Nor has he inquired* He assumes the highest. And 
he is right. Once out of England, out of sound of the shears ! 

Wish me joy, dearest one, and recall me to your amiable 
Strike. Adieu I louisa 


PROSE, 1906 69 


Quid non morUdia pectora cogisy av/ri sacra fame$ 7 

To demonstrate a connexion between Kipling and Wordsworth 
might seem at first sight to be a Urwr de farce. To the orthodox 
critic the one is the embodiment of the quiet contemplative, the 
other of the load unreflective. While Kipling is circling the world 
in a tramp steamer or hnrrpng across a continent in a prospect- 
car, Wordsworth takes a walk up Borrodale. To make a poem, 
the one expands a single mood or incident in the ease of a philo- 
sophic calm, the other compresses a world-wide experience into 
tabloid form in the train between Southampton and Waterloo. 

But, in spite of this apparent difference, there are similarities 
between the two. Both poets headed a new literary movement, 
and in both cases this was a break-away from previous tradition. 
Wordsworth brought poetry from the salons of Mayfair to the 
countryside and the peasant's hut ; Kipling carried it further into 
the engine-room, the barracks, and the public-house. Wordsworth, 
in revolt against the current poetic diction, had recourse to the 
ordinary pedestrian language of the middle classes ; Kipling, finding 
that Browning had already employed most of the English language 
for poetic purposes, yet managed to extend his diction still further 
by the introduction of countiess scientific and trade terms, the 
adjective "bloominV' and all words which usually begin with 
'^ h " with the aspirate omitted. Finally, a enemy might say that 
both, besides being poets, are also frequently writers of prose. 

Now, when we reflect on the difference and on the resemblance 
between the two, we naturally ask which of these is essential and 
which accidental. Are the two poets essentially different^ pos- 
sessing by accident certain points of similarity, or is there one 
principle at work in both, expressing itself in differences! To 
answer this question we have to consider not only their actual 
{reserved works but also their general spirit and intellectual 
attitude, their historical position, and the political and literary 
Miviionment in which either lived. 


The position of Wordsworth is by now a commonplace of 
literary criticism. He found poetry bound in the chains of 
artificiality and cramped by the hard conventions of the rhyming 
heroic He headed the revolt, the return to nature, the emancipa- 
tion of poetic thought and poetic form. He claimed a place in the 
kingdom of poetry for humble scenes of peasant life, for trees and 
rocks and flowers, for simple emotions, and possibly, too, simple 
thoughts. And with tMs new matter came a new form — **the 
language of conversation of the lower and middle classes" — ^the 
ordinary Anglo-Saxon words, and, above all, the ordinary Anglo- 
Saxon monosyllable, of which he was the first great champion. 
The word "thing" is one from which Pope and his school 
would have shrunk, as being flat, inelegant^ unpoetic. Words- 
worth establishes its claim in the lines : 

For old, unhappy, far-off things 
And battles long ago. 

How would Cowper have dealt with such a phrase ? Probably in 
some such way as this : 

Of bygone deeds calamitous she sings^ 
Of mighty contests and the strife of kings. 

Of course Wordsworth was often carried too far by his principles ; 
his passion for simplicity of life carried him into the details of 
Poor Susan or Gk>ody Blake ; bis passion tor monosyllables nerved 
him to face that most terrible of all monosyllables — " Jones." So 
keen was his contention with the official eighteenth-century poetry, 
that he often ranged himself under the banner which is always 
hostile to all poetry — the banner of prose. 

The environment of Kipling was of course very different ; the 
world had moved on in the interval ; new poetic traditions had 
arisen, flourished, and fallen. Above all, Wordsworth had done 
his work; the victory over Pope and the return to nature had been 
accomplished, perhaps even too completely. Tennyson had lavished 
all his pictorial and onomatopoeic art on the English countryside ; 
his commonplace book was full of lines about the sea or the ousel, 
to be worked into future poems. The Saxon monosyllable, from 

PROSE, 1905 61 

being a resource, had become a disease. If "thing" is the typical 
Wordsworthian word, surely " lilt " is the typical Tennysonian. 

Browning, of course, stood apart from contemporary influences ; 
and Kipling, at any rate in his early work, is saturated with 
Browning. But there were some spheres of life which Browning, 
with all his encyclopfledic range, never touched; he "ransacked 
the ages, spoiled the climes," but they were mostly other ages and 
other climes ; like all the other early and middle Victorians, he 
kept apart from what was really the great fact of the Victorian 
age^namely, the industrial revolution, with its accompaniments 
of town life, machinery, and the despised and rejected aspirate. 

Then came Kipling, uplifting the banner of the lower classes, 
as Wordsworth had uplifted the banner of the middle. The town, 
from being a dull aggregation of red-brick and smoke, becomes the 
theatre of passions and their achievements, the field of Badalia's 
struggles, or the background of Charlie Mears's metempsychosis. 
Machinery, from being a lifeless substitute for the labour of man, 
becomes endowed with a voice^ a message, a romance of its own. 
The dropped " h," from being a stigma of degradation, becomes 
the batUe-cry of the new movement, the mark of emancipation. 
Wordsworth had found poetry in Michael and his hut; Kipling 
only carries the same process a step further when he finds it in 
McAndrews and his engines : 

Backed, bobbed, braced, and stayed. 
And singin' like the morning stars for joy that they were made. 

But, it may be said, are there not still great differences? How 
can the loud cosmopolite, with his hurry, his blatancy, his doctrine 
of blood and iron and racial domination, be reaUy a disciple of the 
calm philosopher of the Lakes? Is not the poet of machinery, or 
of "Sussex by the sea," only a small part^ and not the most 
characteristic part, of the real Kipling? 

Kipling is a man of such extensive and varied interests that 
it is difficult to understand him entirely, to comprehend all his 
activities in the light of one principle. But there is such a 
principle latent in his thought; Kipling no less than Browning 
has a metaphysic of his own. For him there is a God, or Fate, or 


the Lords of Life and Death, outside the oniirerse, and working it 
like a machine. Hence man is likest God, not when mercy seasons 
justice — that is a delusion of street-bred peoples — ^but when he sits 
outside another machine — a tjrpe of the universe — and works it. 
Hence comes Kipling's |;l(«ification of the engineer, the gunner, 
the absolute autocrat^ the Roman Catholic religion, and, ultimately, 
God. From this doctrine he deduces his religion; we must 
belieye in Gkxi, since the head of the Indian bureaucracy must be 
responsible to some one — otherwise the machine would not work. 
Hence, too, come his ethics; it is best for man to work a big 
machine, next best to work a small machine, or be part of a big 
one. Hence the young man should enter the Army at Navy, if 
possible, since they are big machines ; failing that, he should go 
away among the inferior races and work them into a mechanical 
system : above all, he should have nothing to do with democratic 
government, which is not a machine, but an organism, and cannot 
be worked from outside. 

Now this doctrine of Kipling may seem in direct antagonism 
with those of Wordsworth and most other poets ; he seems himself 
so far conscious of this that he alters the spelling of the Deity's 
name. The God of Wordsworth is immanent in nature : 

The Presence which disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; 

the God of Browning is immanent in man and nature alike^ or, 
rather, the principle that makes them one ; the Gawd of Kipling 
is merely chief engineer to a very big machine. But Kipling's 
doctrine, if we examine it, is only an exaggerated devel<^ment of 
Wordsworth's. The " return to nature " is only one side of that 
glorification of the object as opposed to the subject which is 
characteristic of English thought^ and which animated the whole 
scientific development of the nineteenth century. When the return 
to nature begins the balance is fairly preserved ; the " inward eye 
which is the bliss of solitude" is no less important than the 
daffodils observed. But as the landscape widens and grows in 
interest and complexity the inward eye is forgotten ; we gaze at 
the wonderful panorama, seeking its ruling principle in it alone 

PROSE, 1905 6S 

and forgetting that it can only be found in the inward eye 
itsdf ; and when the prospect begins to embrace the whole world 
and the call for a unifying principle beocHnea more urg^it it 
is too late to retrace our steps, and we must seek the principle 
without^ in a God or Gawd who is postulated to make the system 

It would be interesting to trace the development of this 
principle, its relation to EipHng's pditical and ethical doctrines, to 
the British Empire and the White Man's Burden. But having 
proved Kipling's metaphysical sonship to Wordsworth, I had better 

It would be a pity to spoil it by an anticlimax. 



Envy is A's feeling tovrards Z when Z has just the particular 
cake that A wants, even if there exists no suggestion that Z bested 
him in any way in acquiring the prize. 

Haired is A's feeling towards Z when A is possessed by such 
extreme ill-will that even if he had all the cake in the world and 
Z none, the joy of the situation would not altogether quench the 
blaze of his animosity. 

Maltee is A's feeling towards Z when A is revenging his 
grudge by zealously spreading the injurious rumour that Z acquired 
his cake by the exercise of wrongful means. 

AU Uncharkableness is A's feeling towards Z when A can see 
nothing to justify Z's possession of the cake, and experiences a 
quiet hope that Z may be seized with violent regret (and other 
things) if he eats it 





Froof — (Firzi^ or a priori method,) 

What sort of person ivould Polonius have married ? 

" Qive every man thine ear but few thy voice." He being a 
man who gave every man his voice would naturally prefer a lady 
who was more ear than tongue. Now listeners are of two kinds 
— those who listen to criticise or to learn, and those who are silent 
because they are afraid or unable to speak. That Polonius should 
have married a critic is as impossible as that a chtic should have 
married Polonius. Therefore Polonia must have belonged to the 
latter category. She married Polonius for the same reason that 
Ophelia would have married Hamlet, or any one else — because he 
asked her. Thus Polonia was weak-minded to start with, and it is 
easy to imagine to what a depth of imbecility a few years of old 
Polonius and his good advice must have driven her. 

{Second method : by the theory of heredity,) 

Polonius bulged with good advice, together with "a plentiful 
lack of wit and most weak hams." Laertes also exuded discre- 
tion ; see his adieu to Ophelia with the priggish termination : 

"Youth to itself rebeb though none else mar." 

Thus Laertes clearly "took after" his male parent. Now 
Ophelia, on the other hand, with her perpetual "Tes, my lord," 
" No, my lord," " I shall obey, my lord," and " I do not know, my 
lord, what I shall think," was obviously an amiable young person, 
but very, very weak : no good advice from her, but she was for 
every one the uncomplaining receptacle of it : with what a deplor- 
able result we are all aware. 

Thus both methods lead to the same conclusion : videlicet, the 
weak amiabilily of Polonia. 

Now since such a character, or indeed any othor, after ten 
years of " this tedious old fool," would be reduced to utter mental 

PROSE, 1905 65 

annilulationy and since Ophelia was eyid^Uyboin leng after her 
brother Laertes, and tho^rfore after the aberration of her mother's 
intellect had become pnmoonced and hopeless^ it is not difficult to 
detect the hereditary taint which predisposed this anf(Hrtonate 
young woman to cerelnral derangement, insanity, and suicide. 

In short, we have proved that a certain character was ineyitaUe 
for the wife of Polonins^ and probaUe for the mother of Ophelia. 
It only remains to add that the distinct traces of gentlemanly and 
sportsmanlike feeling which we find in Laertes must have been 
derived from his mother, since it is clear that the ** fishmonger " 
possessed the instincts of a bully and a sneak. Ther^ore 
Mrs. PcdoniuB was undoubtedly an imbecile lady of refined 
mstincts. Q.E.F. 


Mbs. Polonius 

She had been a pretty girl, pretty enou^ to turn young 
Pdonius's head, and to cause that usually so cautious courtier, 
<< suffering extremity for love'' of her, to commit the one rash act 
of his prudent life, and risk the "desperate undertaking" of 
making a mesalliance — for Mrs. Polonius was of plebeian Hrth. 
His was a short infatuation and a long regret, for his wife's beauty 
faded rapidly, and the *' blaze" of his love faded with it. AU 
that was left was his belief that experience had made him a perfect 
mentor for youth. His frequent warnings against impetuouB 
passion have the sting of personal disenchantment. It was long 
bef (»e the romantic girl, who had looked up to him as a demi-god, 
could recondle herself to the loss of his affection, for his soul had 
been ''jwodigal" to give "the tongue vows" during their courtship, 
and her laments were continuous and tearful, greatiy annoying 
Polonius. Tears afterwards, when Ophdia tells him of 
Hamlefs "tenders of affection," probably in a sentimental tone 
like her moth^s, Polonius bursts into such a storm of irritation 
that it se^ns directed against some remembered grievance rather 
than against Ophelia. He sees her mother in her, while he wishes 
ber to act "as behoves my daughter." Being a failure both in her 


husband's tjm and in the aristocratic society which he frequented, 
Mrs. Polonius withdrew 4o her nnrserj, and, fsithfol to her old 
hero-worship even in her sadnesi^ tan^t her children to adore him 
as she had done, aad to find wit in his ponderous pnns, and 
eloquence in his prosy platitudes ; obliterating herself the while so 
entirely that to them, too^ she seemed only a gentle nonentity 
compared with their pompous father. Unwittingly, however, they 
were both largely formed by her. 

Ophelia had many of her traits. Not only her gentleness and 
obedience, but her very mannerisms. Her description of Hamlet 
(Act ii scene 1) is full of circumstantial detail dear to the 
middle-class mind — much in the style of Juliet's Nurse. Her 
little commonplaces (Act iv. scene 5) — "We know what we are, 
we know not what we may be." "I hope all will be welL" 
" We must be patient." " They say we made a good end " — are 
evidently echoes from Mrs. Polonius's former visits of condolence. 
Even the old sentimental songs with whi<di her mother used to 
sing her to sleep haunt her in her madness. Laertes warns his 
sbter against a confiding tenderness which she certainly did not 
inherit from Polonius. On the other hand, in lus father's long 
sermon of advice to him one catches hints ol what Polonius 
probably thought his dangerous maternal inheritance. 

''Give to thy thoughts no tongue." (Mrs. Polonius had a 
tendency to prattle.) 

** By no means vulgar." (There rankled the thought of the 
I^beian blood.) 

" Not gaudy." (Mrs. Polonius had dearly loved cheap finery.) 

What Polonius did not see was that Laertes also got his better 
qualities, his uncalculating generosity, his too tardily awakened 
conscience, his ^unily affection, from his^ mother. Hie only time 
that she is mentioned in the play (Act iv. scene 5) it is by her 
son ; but even he uses her more as a figure of speech than as a 
personality — although the adjective *' true " rings with a certain 
reality after the rhetorical *' Chaste unsmirched brow." 

Poor Mrs. Polonius, faded, sentimental, bourgeoise, common- 
place, rather silly — ^but trus I 

X. 0. WADS 

PROSE, 1906 67 


A Trui Relation 


Phantasm op thb Livino; 
in which, dniing a period of anzietj & sickness, 
one Mrs. Riohabdson 
appeared to 
Fanny Bbown, a little waiting maid, 
the 5th of January 1905: 
which apparition supports the views of the late Mr. Myers, 
pat forward in " Human Personality,'' recently controTerted. 

This relation is attended by circumstances Ihat were the 
subject of investigation by a gentleman whose eminent position 
m one of the universities renders fraud impossible. The Mistress 
of the Qirl, with whom the apparition conversed, is a gentlewoman 
of known charity and piety, a stepdaughter <^ the said gentleman's, 
who lives in London. 

A Relation of the Appabition of Mbs. 

By Miss A 

Mrs. Richardson is a maiden gentlewoman of about five-and- 
thirty years of age, ccMupelled by adverse circumstances to accept 
menial employment. For some years she served me faithfully as 
waiting-woman, and our intimacy grew little by little until we 
had omne to be more like two Mends than mistress and maid. 
Though of a {^easing mien and cheerful air, this estimable woman 
suffered from a disorder which it seemed beyond the power of 
physic to relieve ; for suddenly her distemper would cause some 
part of her body or even her face to swell to such disproportion, as 
would have been laughable were it not terrifying. In December 
1904 we parted with mutual regret^ forasmuch as she had inherited 
a small property in the vicinity of London on the death of her 


brother, a tradesman in a small way of bnsineBS. The last among 
the many friendly offices she did me was to instruct a little maid 
in all those acts of service which had proved so greatly to my 

On the 5th of January 1905 this little maid was alone in the 
kitchen, where my dinner was preparing, and fell into a doze, on 
her own confession; which she had no sooner done, than she 
hears the bell of the telephone in the passage. She went to see 
who was there, and this proved to be Mrs. Richardson, lately her 
fellow-servant, to whom she owed all her instruction in the use of 
that instrument. She saw Mrs. Richardson replace the receiver 
and turn the handle, and at that moment of time the clock in the 
haU struck five after noon. 

Ma'am, says the little maid, I am surprised to see you ; but 
begged her to enter the kitchen and to drink some tea, which Mrs. 
Richardson complied with. She told her she was desirous of sending 
an important message, and had come to that house because there 
was no telephone where she now lodged. But how came you, asks 
the maid, to enter without my knowledge f Oh! says Mrs. 
Richardson, I still possess my key, which I will leave for your 
mistress before I depart Then eihe asked the maid if she re- 
membered two volumes that lay on the table by the bed of her 
mistress. Fetch them, says she, and so the maid goes away and 
fetches them. 

Then Mrs. Richardson fell to reading parts from the book, 
whi<di was Myers' *' Human Personality " ; which she continued to 
read to the wonder of the maid, who understood little of what was 
said, commenting on the wisdom of the writer, who had conceived 
the clearest notions of the subliminal self. She spoke in a rapt 
and pathetical manner, forgetting to eat ; and when she rose, her 
tea remained untasted. Then the cape of Mrs. Richardson's mantle 
fell apart; and the maid cried. Dear Mrs.. Richardson, 3rou have 
begun to swell. To this she received no answer, furthw than 
a request that she should replace the volumes without delay. On 
her return she found that Mrs. Richardson had departed without 

When I entered later in the day, I was informed of her visit, 

PROSE, 1906 69 

and notioed on the table the tea which she had not tasted ; and 
this surprised me, as it had been of her own choosing. Some two 
hoors later, I receiTed a letter from Mrs. Richardson by the hand 
of her little niece, bulging me to come to her at once, as she 
feared she might die. As she had Tisited my house that day, and 
as I was indisposed with a cold, I did not go that ni^t; but 
next morning, I hastened to her bedside. Her illness had some- 
what abated, but the physician feared her throat mi^t have been 
obstracted daring the night. It was unwise of you, says I, to 
imperil yourself by a visit to me at the beginning of so grave 
a disorder. I assure you, says Mrs. Richardson, I have been in 
my bed these three days ; and then she tells me of the love she 
bears me and how she had thoughts of the many beautiful sayings 
in ** Human Personality." Then Tasked her if she was disturbed in 
her mind, and she said she had forgot she was no longer my 
waiting-woman ; and when her distemper was growing, die had 
thought earnestly of me. During her anxiety, she had fallen 
asleep about five of the clock with a desire in her mind to warn 
me tiiat no dinner would be ready on my return, in consequence 
of her disordered healtL 

Immediately on coming home I questioned the maid concerning 
the occurrence of the previous afternoon. She never varied in her 
story, but says she should have told me before that Mrs. Richardson 
was wearing a blue locket. This strangely surprised me, for such 
a locket Mrs. Richardson had shown me that afternoon and said she 
had received it but two days before from a sister in Kent. My 
maid, though no hypochondriac, has been part crazed by the know- 
ledge that she had converse with an apparition ; and, though con- 
vinced of the truth of her story, I have sent her to an Hospital, 
where the most sceptical may be convinced from her particular 
relation. hxnbt head 


Panning may be defined as the employment of a word or 
phrase which suggests, by resemblance either of spelling or (more 
commonly) of sound, another word or phrase, or another sense of 


the same word. The resemblance may be of any degree: we 
have the Exact Pan, which consists in two different senses of 
the same word ; the Good Pan, sach as that mentioned by Charles 
Lamb between " hair " and ** hare " ; or the so-called Bad Pan, 
soch as the world-bunoos oatrage on Jodas Maccabaeos.^ 

Panning is osoally attacked as — (1) not amnsing, (2) actively 
offensive, (3) in any case oseless. Let as take these points in 

(1) This view is nsaally infected with the modem taint of 
sabjectivism : it generally resolves itself into the simple statement, 
'^ / do not find panning hnmoroas," a position which is thoaght 
to defy farther argament The reply is, of coarse, obvioas; 
the argament is merely a revival of pre-Socratic sensationalism. 
There mast be some aniversally valid conception of the hamoroos 
for even a denial of it to have any meaning. By a dialectic regress 
we determine this concept, and define hnmoor as the sadden 
perception of some similarity or contrast — each, of coarse, in- 
volving the other — ^between two objects not consdoasly related 
before. This definition explains parody, barleeqae, and other 
forms of hamoor. A pan is thns seen to be, by definition, one 
of the parest types of hamoor. Hence the sabjectivist plea " / 
do not find it fanny'' is self-contradictory, since it presupposes 
this objective concept ; it is merely the ttsthetic eqaivalent of the 
barglar's or Tariff Reformer's plea, '' / do not find ordinary moral 
standards satisfactory." The reply is well known : sensationalism, 
in the .realm of hamoar as in other realms, if consistent, mast be 

(2) The more subtle opponents of Panning surrender their 
position and fall back on the bare statement^ "Punning is re- 
pulsive to me personally." This argument is more difficult to 
meet : there can be no objective standard of Repulsiveness, and 
so our opponent is not immediately guilty of inconsistency. We 
have, then, to examine the causes of this repulsion, and by show- 
ing what other things ought to be equally repulsive from the 
same cause, reduce him ad absurdum. Now, the ofcrjection is 

^ Hoary-TMy-0 1 Do-jns'mak'-a-bee-'iu (bee-hive). 

PROSE, 1906 71 

probably baaed upon what is reaUy a sound instinct : the objector 
feels that the punster is outraging language and is emfdiasiBing 
accidental similarities of sound at the expense of the egsential 
rdations of thou^t This is seen clearly in his varying attitude 
to the Exact, the Good, and the Bad Pun. The first he tolerates, 
because the connexion is not really accidental, but essential : a 
pun, for example, on two senses of the word "bow" only rouses 
the scientific mind to point out the underlying etymological con- 
nexion. He is less kind to tibe Qood Pun, since hc^ etymological 
connexion is rare, and the relation is usually accidental ; but at 
least word cwresponds to word, and the divisions of language are 
kept inviolate. But the Bad Pun oyerrides all considerations of 
etymology, structure, and division ; and he feels it as a lapse into 
primal chaos from the hard-won Cosmos of language. But what, 
after all, is the punster doingf He is only utilising tor his own 
purposes accidental similarities of sound in wcuxb which bear no 
linguistic relation. This is precisely what has always been done 
by every poet thatever wwe the bays of ApoUo. Poets use, and 
are forced to use, sound-effects every bit as accidental as even 
the MaccabflBus masterpiece. Our objector, if he is consistent, 
must only allow them sound-effects where the connexion is essential 
— i.e, in onomatopoeic words. Thus^ in Tennyson's line 

The murmur of innumerable bees 

he would allow him '^ murmur," since the word is designed to 
convey the sound; ''innumerable," on the other hand, conveys 
the *' murmur " sound only accidentally ; the original Latin word 
would not do so afr all : hence Tennyson is making a Bad Pun. 
Therefore, for our objector, Tennyson and all other poets stand or 
foil with the nameless genius who invented the "Maccabasus" 
pun. He must reject all or accept all. 

(3) Having disposed of the esthetic attack, we can face the 
utilitarian without qualms. In these days of reaction from the 
ideals of 1840 it is happily superfluous to refute the utilitarian 
position a6 initio : having proved that punning is humorous, we 
need not further prove that it is not useless. But a few a posteriori 
proofs may serve to indicate the strength of our position and to 


show that pans are not» as k generally supposed, mere ephemeral 
creataons belonging to the lighter side of life. A Pan by the 
Delphic Oracle, d which Croosos did not see the point, caused 
the fall of the Lydian Dynasty, and consequently the rise of the 
Persian Empire. A Pun ^ — by the same inveterate joker— caused 
Athens to build a fleet, and so led the way to Uie rise of the 
Athenian Empire. A Pun by Cicero' clinched his case against 
Yerres, whose fall was the first nail in the coffin of the Sullan 
oligarchy, and so cleared the way for military autocracy and led 
inevitably to the rise of the Roman Empire. FinaUy a Pun — 
some authorities say three Puns — ^by Pope Gregory caused the 
conversion of England to Christianity, which, as we all know, led 
to the rise of the British Empire. In the great movements of 
cosmic history, what are kings, principalities, and powers beside 

All the great men of the world have made Puns. Shakespeare 
made them; Aristophanes made them; JSschylus, Rabelais, Ben 
Jonson — ^the list is endless. I make them myself sometimes. 

Mr. Balfour does not' 



A recent writer has described with great sympathy and truth 
the feelings of some children, come to years ol discretion, whose 
toys were to be sent away — ^how, in the dead of ni^t» they stole 
to the box in which the toys were packed, and, extracting from it 
a few of their most treasured relics, buried them in their garden, 
that the hand of the stranger might never rest upon them. 

With some such feelings a modem writer approaches the 
subject of coincidences. For these are surely the toys ol our race's 
infancy — ^the tangible objects round which hangs our first un- 
conscious i^ymbolism. The years of discretion teach us that toys 

^ Of. Herodotus, L 63, vii. 141. 
• In Verr., II. i 46, 

' Except poBsiblj « While I am leader of this party I intend to 
lead it." 

PROSE, 1906 78 

are made of lath and plaster ; the ages of discretion teach us that 
coincidences ans too often the workings of a natural law, and bid us 
send them away in a box to the savage, the mystic, the dreamer. 
But there still lurks in us the spirit of rebellion, which the calm 
voice of science cannot exorcise ; and in some midnight hour, when 
science sleeps, let us steal out and give them at least a decent 
burial, and perhaps a few w(»ds of funeral oration. 

For these forgotten toys once formed the only stepping-stone 
from the lower world to the higher. The stars at the birth of a 
victorious chieftain, the birds' flight across the path of a successful 
expedition, the rain which seemed to answer the priest's invocations 
— ^it was in these that our ineradicable impulse to wonder first found 
its satisfaction. It is true that this wonder begot science and 
philosophy, the brood of Eronos which deposed its own parent. 
But the battle was a long one, and the victors were divided, 
niiloeophy at least never forgot the wonder from which it sprang : 
religion and poetry, at least in the first struggles, fought by its 
side, and superstition was always a bold and useful skirmisher. 
Even science itself found at first that it had won but a Pyrrhic 
victory. For when it had shown that the stars are merely a grea^ 
system moving by unalterable law, wonder turned round on it» 
and found in this very thing a new source of strength. The 
relentless march of the heavens typified the relentless march of 
man's fate; their ordered unity typified the unity for which he 
strove ; and so from its ashes arose Coincidence, and called itself 

For us, of course, coincidence can never mean so much again. 
Hie mists of morning, which covered its early movements and 
made all things and shapes seem alike, have given place to the 
dear light of day, in which we can distinguish, and classify, and 
label. Coincidence must take its place in the ordered army of 
tact : the excursions of its youth are over, its wild oats are sown. 
And mOitary restraint is not good for it — ^it grows pale and wan 
under its limitations. 

The law of probability is its non-commissioned officer, and is 
somewhat of a martinet Let ccnncidenoe exceed its bounds never 
80 little^ and science steps in. If I see two men going up thesteps 


of a dub^ each with a sizpam j edition of Haeckel under his ann, 
I may call it a coincidence : if I see six men. Coincidence is at 
once ordered back to the ranks, and Science hastily exi^ains that 
it is a Theological Club. I may smile or groan, bnt I may not 
wonder. In other ways, too, coincidence is bonnd by the Raticmal ; 
indeed, we can now see that it cannot exist without a rational 
basis. Bill, in ''Troy Town," remarking on the coincidence of 
his being hanged on his birthday, might be thought a pure instance 
of chance hi4>pening. Cromwell's victories at Dunbar and Worcester, 
and his death on the same day, might seem an even stronger 
instance. But^ alas ! what is it that makes these events coin- 
cidences f It is merely the length of our year — a year 364 days 
would spoil them ; and this depends on the motion of the earth, 
and so aspiring wonder knocks its head against the Solar System — 
a sad shock to one so old. In one place only coincidence retains 
its ancient power. On the shores of the Mediterranean, where 
every prospect pleases and only man is vile, around the green 
baize tables, among the waste products of civilisation, coincidence 
finds its last and most faithful devotees. If such be the ending 
destined for it upon earth, better a quick death, a veil swiftly 
drawn, and a quiet grave. 

Yet the old age of coincidence has not been without its con- 
solations : it has even had its triumi^s. Not only does humanity 
as a whole still refuse to walk under ladders or sit down thirteen 
to dinner ; Science itself was driven to invoke the aid of its ancient 
victim against the onset of Psychical Research, until it ooukL save 
its face by compromising on Telepathy. But the battie only 
showed the weakness of the old warrior: the more coincidence 
was used the weaker it grew, and the more insistent became the 
demand for scientific explanation. And so Coincidence, "rude 
donatus," put up its sword and left its last field. 

Its task is over. They that fight the battie of the ideal 
against the actual no longer need its aid; they can meet science 
in fronts from the end to which it advances ; they need not attack 
it from the quarter from whidi it arose. So at last we may bury 
the toy of our childhood, not perhaps in the Valhalla oi Odin and 
Thor, or the fairyland where rest Cinderella and Jack the Giant 

PROSE, 1906 76 

Killer, but in some green spot open to the stars which were once 
its fri^ds, where the birds fly that were once its messengers. 

icai xai^civ &r€ #cai/o^, hrai^fuv * ^vUa Kal vv¥ 
ovKiri, \mr€fn)s <f>povri^s aif^ofuOa, 



The ordinary man dismisses coincidences with a " Dear me ! ** 
or a " How odd ! " But your philosopher who lives by wonder sees 
a pretty problem in them. Sorely, he reflects, so strange a knot 
of events must signify something, be more than a fortuitous 
concourse of circumstances. But what ? For it is hard to escape, 
and still harder to accept, the first and obvious solution, that if 
coincidences mean anything at all they mean that events are 
furiously wirepulled from the " other side." 

But in a mythopoeic age, or in a mythopoeic mood, we make no 
bones about swallowing such a doctarine. We not merely accept, 
we greedily affirm the existence of wirepulling powers, and glory 
in our own puppetdom. Our complaint then is that coincidences 
and other miracles are so few. With that liberal supply of 
machinery they should be as the sands for multitude. 

That this mood is well known to us all is obvious enough from 
the fairy-tales. There the never-so-ordinary reader calls imperiously 
for his full rations of "voonders upon voonders," and gorges 
himself with miracles. And a fairy-tale without coincidences 
would be a faiiy-tale without fairies. 

In real life also there is a curious half-acceptance of the 
doctrine on the part of men of destiny and their admirers. Tour 
real man of destiny, no less than the f aiiy hero^ accepts coincidences 
as his right. He even appeals to them, or we do for him, as 
proofs that he is being used, as the phrase goes. It is right and 
prqper therefore that the stars in their courses should fight for 
him. The smallest event has significance. 

The fairy defect of the fairy theory of coincidences is, of course, 
that it proves too much ; it empties out the baby with the baUi. 


A latis&ctory explanation of cmncidences mnst leave a little room 
at any rate for the action of the human mind. 

Now at this point, corionsly enough, one aspect of fairy 
mythology begins to chime in with the most recent mythology — 
I mean with what has been named Metapeychics. 

Besides the non-human agents of the older mythologies there 
was often the human mind itself, in the form of the master magician, 
the wise old woman, or the silly son. And these purely human 
persons were frequentiy supposed to outmanoeuYre all the non- 
human powers in the direction of events. 

But that is just what Myers and his school claim for the 
*' subliminal " consciousness of man. As those who know anything 
of metapeychics will agree, there as yet appears no end to tiie 
wonder-working powers of the submerged mind. Among other 
littie miraculous trifles, it runs our physical organism — ^in its spare 
time, so to say. But its main work appears to be just that wire- 
pulling of events in time and space that meets us in the fairy-tale. 

Thus while the fairy-tale might reply to our question — Whsit 
causes coincidences f — by pointing to the human magician, the 
school of Myers would point to the subliminal consciousness of 
every human mind. There, they say, is the destiny that shapes 
our ends, that loads the dice we throw, and plays the music to 
which we dance. Like another of Kipling's " harumfrodites," we 
are puppets and showmen too. 

How far we dare go in applying such a theory depends upon 
our courage. But we can scarcely go further than a distinguished 
Cambridge professor has lately gone, or in a more delightful 

It is, or should be, generally admitted that of all people 
below the rank of men of destiny, lovers are most often indebted 
to coincidence. Their great miracle of coincidence is, of course, 
that "just we two" should have met at all in a world of millions 
of souls. Cynical people see nothing remarkable in that ; but our 
professor, being a professor of philosophy, sees a good deal 
Believe not» he says, that this beatific meeting is due to nothing 
more than geographical propinquity ; but seek its origin, if not in 
other stars, at least in otiier states of your souL In thesubliminal 

PROSE, 1906 77 

world you two^ you happy two, conspired together to bring it 
about) and from thence you pulled the strings that moved events. 
What wonder, then, that your course is strewn with coincidences ! 
Not to know them woidd be to argue true love unknown. 
Comforting as such a theory is to the lover, the novelist will find 
it equally comforting. He need no longer make-believe that his 
manifold coincidences are inevitable; he may boldly believe that 
they are, and tell his ruder critics to go to — Metapsychics ! Only 
he must be warned of this, that coincidences cannot be improvised. 
They will not come just when you do call them. Unless, there- 
fore, tiie stuff of coincidences is confessedly mingled in the plot 
from the beginning, the story is only spoiled by producing them, 
juggler-fashion, out of obvious nothing. The sound maxim for 
novelists, as well as for other observers of human nature, is this : 
Always allow in your calculations for ike incalculable subliminal ; 
you never know when you may need a coincidence, or a theory of 
coincidences. a. b. o&aob 

A Cakuirophe is the fool's word for tiie fact that the seed 
which he has sown has come up. henry mabblet 

A MUe^Mdentcmding is a term used by those who first meant 
what they did not say and then said what they did not mean ; (or) 
is a term used by those who have been led to say too much by the 
fact that they ought to have said more. bbnby mabblby 

An Entanglement — The mix of the warp and woof of '* a will 
of its own " with the web of things as they are. 


A Sulk is the state of mind in which it would be well if one 
were to speak more and think less. k. t. stephxnson 

A Catastrophe — ^What we faU to see past. 
A Mt9wnder8ta/nding — ^What we fail to see round. 
An Entanglement — What we fail to see through. 
A Sidk—Wh^t we fail to see in. 



The first remark to be made with regard to profane swearing is 
that popular ethics on the subject are in a thiMronghly chaotic state. 
The ordinary SandaynBchool condemnation of the habit is as 
inconsistent as the pnlpit condemnations of gambling which leave 
the Stock Exchange untouched. 

For sure the first thing to be recognised about the man who 
misses his train and says " Damn ! " is that his language has no 
conscious reference to any theological dogma. If the man who, 
at the Professor's Breakfast Table, uttered three words, two of 
which were '' Webster's Unabri^^^ed," and the first an emphatic 
monosyllable, had really visualised St. F&ul's conception of 
a groaning and ts^yailing Universe (including Webster's Una- 
bridged), I for one would find a unique interest in his view-point. 
But let any reader ask the next man in the train who speato of 
^the deuce" exactly what he knows or believes of the Dusii. 
The result will be pure blank. 

This obvious &ct is not recognised in current ethics. The 
broken collar-button, the suddenly punctured tyre, the train 
missed by half a minute, produce an inevitable overflow of nervous 
discharge. Now, human behaviour under these conditions may 
take several forms. 

Some people let their emotions explode down ticket-of-leave 
channels. The present writer was once installed in a home wherein 
the domestic encumbrance was an aggressive adherent of the 
Salvation Army. When diplomatic relations with the mistress 
reached breaking-pointy the electrical condition of the kitchen 
atmosphere was always indicated by the overheard strains of 

'Tb life everlasting ; 'tis heaven below. 

So, too, I recollect observing the divergent behaviour of a man 
and his wife over one of the exasperating incidents of our trying 
civilisation. The man followed the en^getic advice of a friend of 
mine : " D , and have done with it." The lady expressed her 

PROSE, 1906 79 

imtation (and her opiiiion of her hiisband'e language) with perfect 
proprietj— and Uxk an hour to do so. Now, tested by any sane 
ethiesy there is not a penny to choose between this pions domestic 
and exemplary wife and the erring man who employs the em- 
phatic monosyllable. The kitchen hymnody warbled " D ! * 

to tile dullest ear; and the emotions of man and wife were 
chemically the same stnfl^ differing as sqnib-powder differs from 

Why not keep your irritation to yourself, and exercise restraint! 
asks an objector. There go two words to that. Emerson once 
said that if you are a poet and do not write poetry, the latent 
inspiration "will out," even through the pores of your skin. 
A cynical lady observed to me that this is true of masculine bad 
temper too. The man is silent, and the evil thing comes out 
like a malarious atmosphere, poisoning the very springs of agreeable 
sociability. No ; my energetic friend's wisdom, as quoted above, 
is better than this. 

But perhaps the reader wlQ argue that the impatience itself is 
immoral. The brOliant author of " The Defendant " has taken up 
the cudgels for what may be called the swearables of our petty 
life. The worst knife that ever broke a pencil, he tells us, is not 
really a bad knife, but a good one if only we were not accustonied 
to a better. "It would be regarded as a miracle in the Stone 
Age." Bother the Stone Age ! The razor that failed to shave me 
this morning is undoubtedly a perfect weapon from the standpoint 
of the Stone Age. But then the chins of the Stone Age need no 
more grooming. The fact is, Mr. Chesterton's defence is sheer 
immortal conservatism. I could defend Slavery or Armenian 
Massacres, or even the continuance in office of the present Qovem- 
ment, if you grant the antediluvian point of view. 

I should like to take a stronger line still. Swearing is 
essentially a Liberal habit The emphatic monosyllable is the 
oldest and most venerable form of the creed of Mazzini and 
Gladstone. What is Liberalism ? It is academic discontent with 
things as they are. What is Swearing t It is non-academic dis- 
content with things as tiiey are. Mr. Gladstone's language 
against the Turk was saved only by prolixity from the charge of 


profanitj ; Mr. Stead and Mr. Dill<»i have croflsed the fence. The 
first aboriginal Liberal in the Stone Age was the man who chipped 

his knuckles when trying to chip his flint hatchet^ and said ! 

But meantime there are ndUstines in the land; and the 
present writer is a practical mcmdist A string of ccmTenient 
substitutes for swear-words is a felt want of our ciyilisation. 
Why not innocuous oaths t The Leisure Hour once suggested a 
perfect phrase for this purpose : " Dan Gkklfrey's blazing Uast- 
f umaoes " — the mouth-fUling quality of which leaves nothing to be 
desired. I have known a Shakespearian enthusiast who fell 
back upon 

Now in the name of all the gods at once 

in time of stress. But enough of these toys. The great nation on 
which the sun never sets is obstinately conservative. It abides by 
its own beef, its own beer, it own fogs, its time-honoured dulness, 
its venerable ill-temper, and — ^last, but not least — ^its own pet mono- 
syllable. Offer it "" Strange Oaths ! "—your thanks will be, '' Don't 
carea !" 



Okimalkin and Littlb Edith 

Once in ten thousand years a cat is allowed to speak. Grimalkin 
was that cat Little Edith had just pinched his tail. So 
GiimaUdn said — 

" Why do you pinch my tail, Edith T' 

'' Why, where else should I pinch, OrimaUdn ) " 

Grimalkin felt that he had wasted seven words ; Edith did not 
understand in the least. 

*' Put yourself in my place," he said eamestiy ; '^ would 

you like me to pinch your taill" 
*' But I have no tail," said Littie Edith. 

PROSE, 1905 81 

So OrinuJldn bul another ten thousand years to think of the 
proper answer. 

When opportunities are rare, 
Embrace them with ezcessiye care. 

J. 0. 8T0BABT 

Thb Clothw and thb Men 
{After G. Bernard Shaie) 

A rich man^ feeling generous, presented his poor relations with 
new clothes. One was a clerk, crippled with rhenmatism and 
a large family. He received a dress smt. The other was an over- 
worked curate, who had charge of a straggling district A cycling 
suit was sent to him. While thanking the donor, he pointed out 
that he possessed no bicycle. The clerk also mentioned that he 
never had a chance of wearing evening dress. The rich man, 
deeply touched, immediately sent the country curate some ball 
tickets, and to tke rheumatic clerk — a bicycle. 


Not the Gift, but the Giver. 


The Aps that Ionored the Past 

A Youthful and Reforming Ape, fresh from a tour in Utoina, 
publicly advocated the use of nut-crackers. " In Utopia," said he, 
" nobody cracks nuts with his teeth, and consequently toothache is 

The Dental Adviser to the Crown rose to reply, and d«non- 

(a) The Reforming Ape lacked all appreciation of the dignity 
of Apish customs. 

(b) It was centuries of strife with toothache that had made the 


character of Apes, and indeed the Empire of Apeland, the things 
they reepectiyely were. 

The Youthful Ape died under a shower of cocoanuts. 


It was always too late to reform. 



The true cat is the emblem of tranquiUity, the incarnation of 
home, the embodiment of Oriental Nirvana at the Occidental 
fireside. Cats! As we see you, grey, sleek, motionless, staring 
with mysterious eyes throu^ the heart of the red-hot coals into 
a Beyond that we cannot perceive, of what are you thinking t 
Some say, because you do not fawn upon your master like a dog, 
nor play tricks, nor come at a whistle, nor work like the horse, 
the ass, or the man, that you are stupid and lazy. These are 
people who have not leisure to think. The cat is the only animal 
capable of abstract thought^ the proof whereof lies in her absolute 
calm of expression. Such calm is only attained by those who 
have grappled and vanqmshed the abstract problems of existence. 
Feline philosophers, could ye but speak ! 

The true cat is the hearthrug cat. Some may boast of mousers 
or show cats. Heed not these. It is only the cat of deficient 
intellect or of insufficient sustenance that condescends to jurey 
upon mice and rats. A well-fed, well-trained cat may occasionally 
pursue a mouse if it should cross her path, but only in a pure 
spirit of amateur sport, and as one feature of the lordliest life on 
earth. The cat that habitually and professionally catches mice 
for a living is no lady ; and the cat is properly the most ladylike 
thing on earth, not excepting the lady. 

At the show the cat is quite in her element. For cats are 
always on show ; never unconscious, even when asleep, of the 
value of appearances. There is one feline attitude at washing- 
time when one hind kg has to be raised in the air somewhat after 
the manner of a leg of mutton. This is not a graceful attitude, 
and the cat knows it If she thinks that you are looking she will 

PROSE, 1905 88 

■ometiines begin with a deprecatory oou^ and if yon are a 
gentleman yoti will look the other way. But the show cat is 
not the tme cat. For the meet part ahe is a bundle of monstrous 
for, wherein the elegance of felii^ shape is utterly obscured. 

Black cats require a separate paragraph. Some think they 
push the mystery-business to the verge of indecency. Black cats 
are uncanny. They visibly hold commerce with the unseen. 
When they are young and the rain is in their blood, black cats 
execute the wildest and most mysterious of leaps and gyrations. 
They are evidently at (day — ^but with whom? Ah, with whom? 
That was why they burnt old women who associated with black 
cats in the Middle Ages, and perhaps they were right Black 

No, the true cat is the tabby. That is the distinctiye feline 
marking^ as seen in her uncle the tiger. And the tabby is the 
moet catlike of cats, the most graceful, the most indolent, the 
most meditative. For the cat is as the lilies of the field, that 
toil not, neither do they spin. The essayist may quote Shake- 
speare; but neither '^ harmless" nor "necessary" is an epithet 
complimentary to the cat For the true triumph of feline genios 
is the manner in which she has contrived to live in comfort, rent 
free and owing no service to any man. No true cat comes when 
you call, became you calL Slw will come if there is anything 
to eat, otherwise you may call until you are tired. 

Perhaps the secret of the cat's success as a fireside ornament 
is, in addition to her repose of demeanour and perfect manners, 
tiie silence in which she lives and moves. Walking daintily on 
cushioned velvet she makes no sound in her progress ; she will 
walk through a bed of flowers or a table of Venetian glass, and, 
if not disturbed, breaks nothing. In repose she is silent too, until, 
saturated with bodily comfort, warm and well fed, she breaks into 
that most reposeful of human sounds, matched by nothing but 
the hiss of the tea-kettie. The purr of a cat has often deterred 
wicked men from CTime. 

A silent, self-centred philosopher ! 

Ah, but in the silence of the night has not your blood run 
chill at the sound of those unearthly shrieks like the wail of lost 


souls in the fire ? And when yon were told that this is the wo<»ng 
of Puss, did it not give you cause to ponder upon the nature of 
the mysterious creature who deigns to dwell under your roof? 
A creature of a double life : by day the silent, somnolent, indolent 
prophet of repose, by night a dreadful, wailing, wUd-eyed ghost of 
the shadows and the house-tops. Ah Spliinx! Ah mystery I 
He who loves thee most least comprehends thee. What hast thou 
seen, what hast suffered, to put that note of agony in ^y 
nocturnal voice? How hast thou meditated, what riddles hast 
thou solved, to spread thy hearth-side face with that inefbUe 

calm? J. 0. 8T0BART 


Custom, as inexorable as when she binds the names of 
Thackeray and Dickens eternally together in our conversation, 
forbids the discussion of cats unoompared with dogs: let no 
profane lust after originality drive us from obedience to her 
decree, rather let us meekly proceed once more to weigh in the 
balance their traditional req>ective merits. In fact, on this 
subject, the only permissible gambit is the question whether the 
one has less heart than the other, to which the reply must be no 
crude affirmative or barren negative, but, as befits the subtle and 
elusive nature of our theme, a nice evasion of the alternative, 
as " that the cat can more than make good in quality what she 
lacks in quantity," or " that where she falls short in intensity she 
surpasses in discrimination." For your dog, or rather your un- 
selfish dog — ^the whole depths of canine egotism no pen has yet 
probed — ^flings himself upon you with an " abandon " which allows 
no leisure for selection. Ages of evolution have given him one 
commanding need, an object for his love, a chance or a cash 
transaction has made you that object, so that he will fawn on 
you, idealise you, worship you, wiUi a devotion practically inde- 
pendent of your individuality. It is quite otlierwise with the 
cat Her green eyes watch you shrewdly, with an almost cruel 
impartiality. She condemns^ tolerates, admires you piecemeal, 
but if the sum-total of your qualities prove satisfactory, she will 

FROSE, 1905 86 

tender yon, in consideration of yonr dnly rendering eendoe in 
food, fire, and massage, the honour of her calm, nnezacting affec- 
tion. To each of the high contracting parties is reserved their 
aheolnte independence of action and nntamished self-respect; 
ndther sentimentality nor passion may mar the alliance which, 
when once formed, is durable, philosophic, Emersonian. 

Hence it is that men of hasty, impulsive natures, craving 
admiration of any sort^ soldiers, sportsmen, and those who follow 
the rough excitements of business, are accompanied by dogs; 
while it is left to the cat to take her place as the honoured f dlow 
of dons ^ in our universities, as the friend of artists, the beloved 
of poets and bishops. Sometimes there arises an actual antagonism 
between men of the former class and the too scrutinising critic, 
so that of at least one gallant soldier it is whispered that he 
fears nothing — ^but a cat. 

Let us not be thought rashly to maintain that cats are the 
only creatures capable of a restoained and lofty friendship for our 
race. Some men boast of a relationship all but perfect with a 
squirrel ; but for ourselves we always suspect that in reality they 
need to lavish a world of tenderness and devotion to gain in return 
but rare and tricksy favours from their squirrel friends. With a 
jackdaw things may go better. Humour prevents his flattering 
preference from degenerating into mawkishness, but his companion- 
ship is exacting and whimsical, and it is not every one who can 
stand the strain of his rapid alternations between teasing and 
coaxing, between pecking and caressing. Besides, these other 
friendships are comparatively rare, results of lucky accident or 
complete compatibility, they lie, like the aristocratic manner, 
beyond the reach of the majority. But if you have gained a fair 
share of true civilisation of spirit^ it is hard if you cannot have a 
cat to your hearth, to say nothing of kittens to your home. 

There is, alas ! another and a dimmer side to the fair medal 
of pussy's fame. As night comes on the darker steed of the pair 
which draw the chariot of her little soul (some coal-black Cinderella 

^ Sach as was the lats lamented Senior Fellow of Corpus Christ! 
College, Oxford. 


diarger would Plato have fabled it t) grows strangely restive, and 
too often, taking the bit in its teeth, bolts away into regions of 
horrid, anti-social barbarism. Philosophy, self-restraint, good 
manners, apply their brakes in vain — ^but Uus is in praise of cats, 
and onr very title bids us turn our eyes from the Hyde-like 
degradation of a noble natura Who dare say, moreover, what 
purgatory of self-reproach is passed through at eaiiy dawn ; what 
hard-fought battle between the higher and the lower self precedes 
the attainment of that peace with the world and herself which 
radiates from the gentle cat who, restored to her ri^t mind, mews 
f<Mr a sardine or whisks her gracious tail into your breakfast plate 
next morning ! qilbikt whitbmak 


A topic for the cynic, this. He may dilate upon the matter 
with a bland relish of its bitterness, noting with a smile of satis- 
faction the absurdity of the lender's anguish, the sublimity of the 
borrower's forgetfulness, as signal examples of the meanness and 
paltriness of the human soul, which are his chief delight 

But the book-lover cannot dally with an affair so vital; to 
him it is unspeakable. To dwell on it is to forfeit all esteem for 
humankind. Mention the subject to him and he will turn upon 
you with churUsh ferocity and voice, with a stem sense of virtue, 
his absolute determination never to lend a book. 

For in the society of the passions and affections the true love 
of books (not the mere love of reading) ib an unsociable member. 
It does not consort with the love of humanity, as does the love 
of sport or of wine, but keeps by itself, sour and jealous, brooding 
over old wrcmgs, resentful of the demands that may be made on 
it by other feelings. 

Thus it is commonly found that the borrower of books stands, 
for the Hbliophile, as the very type of all that is most treasonable, 
shameless, and graceless in human nature ; and this all the more 
if , in his inexperienced years, he himself was apt to lend. He 
cannot forgive himself for that trustfulness that was so foully 

PROSE, 1905 87 

aboaed from time to time, becanse the ghosts of the books lent 
long ago haunt him reproachfully. 

And indeed it is the suffering of the poor dumb books them- 
selves that would pierce, if anything would, the callousness of the 
borrower. Exfles from their master's care, if they do not languish 
monldily on a garden-seat or bank where they have been left, they 
stand on alien shelves in mute protest. It is their lot most often 
never to be opoied from year's end to year's end ; if a glance hXL 
upon them it is a ^baice made irritable by the quahns of stifled 
conacienoe ; none takes any pride in them ; none handles them 
lovingly, remembering their past history; they are elbowed Ijy 
strange bodes whose neighbourhood has no meaning; and far 
away their rightful owner looks at the gape in his shelf, where 
they should be standing with their fellows, cudgels his brain for 
the name of the rascal who has despoiled him of them, but 
sooner or later fills up those very gape with new-comers. 

And yet^ after all, despite all the heartburnings which this 
business of the lending and borrowing oi books brings in its train, 
the world oi friends would be a poorer place without it. Perhaps 
the man whose master-passion is the love of books will do well for 
his peaee of mind to keep clear of it. But it is a plain fact that 
he who never lends a book never has a book returned to him, and 
misses thereby one of the true pleasures of friendship. For 
between friends, such, at any rate, as are rather lovers of reading 
than lovers of books, the trusting and restoring of a book sweetens 
their intimacy in a way that more than compensates for an 
occasional actual or possible loss to their library. It is the token 
of the generous courtesy which is the garment of friendship, the 
vehicle of that communicativeness which is its essence. 

A friend would have his friend ei\joy the writing that has 
rejoiced his own heart; it is even a fervent delight to him to 
know that the written word In^ught its message to his friend's eye 
from the same page that gave it to his own. And the book itself 
is dearer to him for having been handled by his fellow. 

Therefc^ as an element of friendship, despite the scorn of 
the cynic and the sour wisdom of the jealous book-lover, the 
bcwrowing of books has its place among the pleasant things of 


life; and the careleas and ongratrfol borrower cffeadn not only 
against the rights of books, bat against the ri^ts of human 
fellowship. HiKanor obopfib 


There are three ways of obtaining books — baying, stec^g, 
and borrowing. The buyer loses money, the stealer loses repata- 
tion and sometimes liberty, the borrower loses nothing except the 
lender's friendship. The diffsrence between the last two classes 
is rathtf sabtle : both take the book, neither gives it back wiDin^^y ; 
but the thief, if pressed, will probably deny his theft, while the 
bwrower ia always ready to acknowledge his borrowing. It is 
generally best, when trouble is brewing; to address your victim 
Toluntarily with some such phrase as "It was so good of yoo 
to lend me that boc^.'' 

Borrowing books as a profession or as a means of livelihood 
is justly condemned by the ri^t-minded; it should rather be 
re^^urded as a sp<»t or as a fine art^ according to its grade. The 
lowest and least intellectual form oonsbts of entering a friend's 
house during his absence, removing a book, and leaving a message 
of insolent triumph to that effect ; this last act marks the transition 
from a felony to a gentlemanly proceeding. The second stage 
represents a moral advance upon the first : ethically it lies some- 
where between highway robbery and Rugby football. The dis- 
tinctive mark is that the owner is present when the book is 
borrowed ; the borrower announces his intention of borrowing the 
book, and wins the race home with it in his pocket The varia- 
tion of this method, in which a third friend is introduced to hold 
the owner down while the loan is being completed, is of a lower 
grade, and can only be defended as a joke. 

In the third stage we pass from barbarism to civilisation; 
and monl institutions, which are the mark of civilisation, are 
here present in the form of certain presuppositions of politeness 
on either side, which constitute the rules of the game. Rule I. 
is that it is impdite to refuse to lend a book. This would seon 
to put the game into the borrower's hands ; but Rule IL restores 

PROSE, 1905 89 

the balance by allowing the lender, within limits, to say that he 
has already promised the book to another friend. Matters now 
seem at a deadlock, bat Rule m. again modifies the dtoation : it 
say that lies coming under Rule II. must not be too (^arin^^y 
obvious. It is dear, then, fliat the borrower must exercise a nice 
discretion. On the one hand, the book must be valuable enough 
to be worth borrowing; on the other hand, it must not be so 
valuable as to force the owner to invent a really artistic lie and 
so escape Rule m. Where not much is at stake he will probably 
refuse the effort involved, and let the borrower win the 

In this higher stage the game admits of several interesting 
variations, such as the Sick Friend, the Journey, and the Biter 
Bit. The Sick Friend is used either in attack or defence : thus 
the borrower may say that his friend is ill and in need of a 
certain book, and offer to take it to him; or the lender may 
refuse to lend the book on the plea that he has already promised 
it to another sick friend; in such a case, however, the lender 
must observe Rule III. with care. The Journey variation is 
purely offensive : the borrower is leaving the lender's house and 
borrows the book to read in the train ; if the lender replies that 
he has promised to lend it to another friend to read in the train, 
he infringes Rule III., and loses. The Biter Bit is one of the 
most interesting of all the variations : as the name implies, the 
lender becomes a borrower ; he has lent, let us say, a book (a) to 
a friend. He then goes to the friend's house, borrows a second 
book (6), and says, " As I am here, I may as well take back Uiat 
book I lent you," adding, " for poor Jones," if he is also playing 
the Sick Friend. 

The above may serve to indicate some of the possibilities of 
this game. On its merits as a form of sport it is needless to 
dwell. Like all the higher forms of sporty it does much to train 
our faculties, and is an invaluaUe element in the education of 
an Imperial Bace: at least it teaches thoroughly the two great 
lessons of Enterprise and Diplomacy (otherwise called lying and 
stealing), which form the A B C of Imperial expansion. It is 
with a just historical appreciation that the Book-borrowers' Club 


haYe i^aoed in their Testibiile the busts of Ananias and Barabbaa, 
engraved with the motto, ''Honour among Borrowers." 

Book-borrowers on the whole are a prosperous and contented 
raoe^ and entertain a kindly feeling for one another, altiionf^ 
th^ interests frequently ccmflict They are often scattered in 
this life— some live near Hyde F^irk, some in Fdrtland ; but they 
will all be reunited later on. 

A. H. smowicK 


Here is another stcMy, O my Best Beloved, and it teUs how 
the Daddy got his long legs. 

Once upcm a time, before people were in such a 'scruciating 
scurry and before there were any motor-'buses, there was a 
Dretful Discontented Daddy. 

He was always grumbling about himself ; he grumbled about 
his toes and his nose and his tongue and his lung and his 
antenn» and his appendicitis, but most of all he grumbled about 
his shorty short 1^. 

His legs were shorter than a centipede's, and, as you know. 
Best Beloved, the Daddies don't think anything of centipedes. 
" Clerks and Calmien '' Father Daddy always called them. 

When the Dretful Discontented Daddy grumbled Father Daddy 
got mos' awful angry, and licked him, long and lustily, with his 
shorty short legs. Tou must know, Belovedest, that Father 
Daddy had shorty short legs, too. 

That made ^e Dretful Discontented Daddy grumble all the 
more, because, as he took peculiar pains to point out, if it wasn't 
for his short, short legs Father Daddy couldn't catch him, and he 
would never get a long and lusty licking. 

When Father Daddy said he had no ground for complaint the 
Dretful Discontented Daddy said that even if he had it would be 
no use to him, as he hadn't what you might call a 1^ to stand on 
it with. 

Then Father Daddy was confused and struck dumb, and had 
no available answer, because it was Logic, and, as the Dretful 

PROSE, 190S 91 

Discontented Daddy explained, it stood to reascm, and no one 
could reasonably expect anything more of him with his short, 
short legs. 

But when he added that Father Daddy couldn't get away from 
the fact because his legs were so short too, Father Daddy got mos' 
'stonishing angry, and said if the lumpy earth wasn't good enough 
for him he had better go and live in a Plate Glass Window. 

""Aye, aye!" said the Dretful Discontented Daddy; "just 
so, and not otherwise. Transport me to my Platal-Piane." 

That was the way the Dretful Discontented Daddy always talked. 
He thought it was Logic, too. But he made a mos' monstrous 
mistake in choosing his premisses. 

At the top of the Plate Qhiss Window there was a Patent 
Ventilator, and on the other side of the Patent Ventilator there 
was a Wild West Wind. 

When the Dretful Discontented Daddy climbed up to the 
Patent Ventilator (and it took the Dretful Discontented Daddy 
three weeks to climb up to the Patent Ventilator with his short, 
short legs) the Wild West Wind blew him all the way down to 
the bottom of the Plate Glass Window again. 

Then he was more dretfuUy discontented than ever, and he hid 
his face in his short, short legs and longed to go home. 

The only way home was through the Patent Ventilator, so he 
climbed and he climbed and he climbed, and he reached the 
P^ktent Ventilator in two weeks and six days. Just that time and 
no more. But he was so surprised that it hadn't taken him three 
weeks that he forgot all about the Wild West Wind, and the Wild 
West Wind blew him all the way down to the bottom of the Plate 
Glass Window again. 

It was all so spontaneous sudden, and he was so surprised, 
that he forgot to grumble, and said to himself, " If I got there 
quicker it strikes me my legs must have growed." And that was 
Logic, too. Best Beloved. So he climbed and he climbed as hard 
as he could climb, and' he kep' on and he kep' on and he kep' on 
a-keeping on, and each time his legs grew longer, and he gained a 
day each time ; and each time it was all so spontaneous sudden, 
and he was so surprised, that he forgot all about the Wild West 


Wind, and the Wild West Wind blew him all the way down 
to the bottom of the Plate Glass Window again. 

By-and-by, and in coarse of time, he was able to climb up to 
the Patent Ventilator in no time, and he became so 'customed 
to finding himself at the Patent Ventilator in no time that 
one day he remembered not to forget about the Wild West 

But when he tried to squeeze tlux)ugh the Patent Ventilator, 
behold ! his short, short legs had grown too long. 

Then the Dretful Discontented Daddy was more dretfullier 
discontented than ever, and longed more'n ever to go home. 

Suddenly, and when he least expected it — and it does happen 
that way sometimes, O my Beloved — ^it occurred to him that as 
he had arrived there by Logic he might find a logical way out 

He said to himself, "If I can see throu^ the Plate Glass 
Window I can wear a hole through it." And that would have 
been Logic, too, Best Beloved, if the Plate Glass Window hadn't 
been so hard. But the Dretful Discontented Daddy didn't think 
of that He was thinking of his dear family and how inordinate 
envious they would be of his nice long legs. 

So he started wearing a 'normous hole all over the Plate Glass 
Window, and he got so practised that he went all over it in no 

He is still trying to wear a 'normous hole all over the Plate Glass 
Window, and he can get all over it in less than no time nowadajrs, 
his legs have grown so 'ceptionally long. 

Occasionally, and between times, when Father Daddy comes 
and pokes fun at him through the Patent Ventilator, and asks him 
how he got his nice long legs, he pretends not to mind, and 
answers indifferently, " Specs they growed." 

But when a Stranger-man, taking a 'telligent interest, inquires 
who he ii, he smiles in a sad and sorrowful sort of way and says, 
" I am the Daddy that longed for big legs, and all windows are a 
pain to me." 


PROSE, 1906 


"VTOW, then, Clumsy ! 'Old up, can't yer ; and don't shoye a 
-L^ chap inter the gutter. 

Tou wait till we gets 'ome, and see what Muwer's got to say 
to yer, that's all ! 

Shamed of yerself, do ; in this 'ere state agin, same as last 

Serre you jolly well right if I chucked yer altogether. (Look 
out for that puddle, now ; there goes ! Wad did I tell yer?) 

'Urry up, now — ^past eleven o'clock, and me wantin' to be abed. 
But what's the odds to you if the Boss bullyrags me for bein' late 
at school or punches my 'ead for noddin' when another bloke's 
sayin' 'is Collick ? 

Oh ! no yer don't, neither — not a bit of it ! No sittin' on 
doorsteps, with the rain a-pourin' and peltin' and soakin' through 
everythink, an' my toes a-bustin' out of my ole boots. 

Tou buck up, now, and come along. Tou ''ain't argoin' to") 

All right, then ; 111 leave yer and skidaddle 'ome alone. There, 
donf ee cry, Dad, dont'ee. I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't. 

Look'ee here, Fader ; the teacher, ha give me tiiruppenoe to-day 
to get my boots mended, coz it was my burfday. 

Tou 'urry up, now, an' you shall 'ave some baccy to-morrer ; 
you shall, for certain. 

That's right, mate, push alcmg. 

The thruppence! Ho, ain't you wide awake, jest, an' no 
mistake? No fear — not me — not such a flat ! But you shall 'ave 
the baccy right enough. 

"Don't want none"? Ho, yus, you will. Toull grab at it 



fast enoQ^ to-moirer. Shut up, I tell 'ee. I ain't got no 
thrappenoe, so stop it. 

Mind ike step. 

Why, 'we's luck! MuYveri she's out, a-looking for yer; so 
tumble inter bed, an' she can't jaw yer till to-morrer. 



One of the most cherished Articles in the private Creed of the 
Ordinary Man is the belief that he could — ^if he would — ^get his 
own way. That he does not attempt to do so is due, he thinks, to 
a kindly regard for others and a not ignoble wish to refrain from 
running counter to the ordered advance of his fellows. And these 
considerations alone keep him from setting out on that way of his I 

O pitiable credulity, that hoodwinks him and cheats him into 
believing such a fairy-tale! Getting your own wayf Do you 
really think such a thing exists as your own way t Can you see 
—or rather can you even imagine yourself seeing — any way in 
life, however fantastic, that can honestly be called yours ! For a 
very few years, it is true, you had a way of your own and tried to 
get it — and I rather think you succeeded. But soon the grey 
cloud of Convention settled upon you and blurred all the land- 
scape, till it grew 

heavy with some veil 
Risen from the earth or fall'n to make earth pale. 

And the bright lights of earth and sky were gone, and you saw 
nothing but a few monotonous paths fenced in with neat hedges of 
What - other -people- expect - you-to-do-in-the - circumstances. Of 
course there is variety even in these paths. If you are disposed by 
nature to be a good citizen, you take a nicely paved path and keep 
your feet dry. If you are cantankerous, you choose a way full of 
puddles. But the hedges are always there, and the fog never lifts, 
and soon you learn to believe that there is no fog, but that you see 
the whole countoyside and are taking your way across it 
- A few there must be, I &ncy, whom the mist can never blind ; 

PROSE, 1906 95 

for ''some there are that with doe steps aspire" to reach what 
lies beyond onr trim roads. So they leap the hedges and find the 
broad hillside and moorland, and plnnge across them, getting their 
own way and I know not of what delight beside. 

For the rest of us, who dimly hope that the beaten track that 
we see is not all, there is no salvation save to take the hand of a 
veiy little child and follow where it leads us, as it gets its own 
way. But woe to us if we bring ihe little feet to walk along the 
paths within the hedges, and bid the little eyes yield to the grow- 
ing mist which lies so heavily on our eyelids ! 

M. v. HILL 


Alicd was getting quite accustomed to jumping little brooks, 
and finding on the other^side a new kind of person ; and so, after 
jumping this last one, she was surprised to see Humpty Dumpty 
again, still sitting on the wall, and still smiling at her. 

"Does he always smile, I wonder f" she said to herself as 
she approached him, curts^ng and trying to remember whether 
it was his belt or his cravat. " We meet again," she said, looking 
up at him. 

" Whose fault is that f " said Humpty Dumpty. 

"I suppose it is mine," replied Alice; but he merely smiled at 
her so pleasantly that she did not feel at all shy. " I have been 
wishing to see you again," she went on, " because I want to ask 
you the meaning of the other hard words in the poem, which you 
began explaining to me so kindly." 

" I didn't explain them kindly," remarked Humpty Dumpty ; 
"it was kind of me to explain the words ; thafs what you meant 
to say." 

Alke thought that was what she had said, but she had learnt 
that it was easier not to argue with Humpty Dumpty. 

"I Uke explaining," said he; "tell me what you want to 

"Well," replied Alice, glad to find him so accommodating, "I 


can goeis that frwmam maans faming and fariona, and that by 
galvmphiimg yon mean triumphing gallantly " 

"No^" said Hompty Dumpty, interrnpting her, *'it means 
galloping triumphantly; but I see you understand the principle. 
Go on." 

"Then what is uffl$hf" asked Alice; "<in uflSsh thought,' 
you know." 

"I do/' said Humpty Dumpty. *'It means a kind of hufiy 
uppishness, and people who hunt Jabberwoeks are very liable to 
it. It is not infectious." 

"That's a comfort," Alice replied. " WJUffUngf I suppose, 
means whistling and — and sniffing f " 

" Yes," he replied ; " it is a triumph of onomatopoeia." 

" And what is that t " Alice asked eagerly ; " it sounds nice." 

**Tulgey" Humpty Dumpty continued hurriedly, "means 
turgid and bulgey ; all woods, you may have noticed, are turgid ; 
and this one was bulgey as well What nextt " 

" Let me see," said Alices repeating the next verse quickly to 

" Tou may," remarked Humpty Dumpty. 

"What does vorpcU meant" she asked. "'His vorpal blade 
went snicker-snack.' " 

"Why, of course it means that the stroke was mortal to his 
corporeal vitals," said Humpty Dumpty. "Tou might have 
guessed that, I think." 

" Well, I can guess that burbled means that the Jabberwock 
bubbled and gurgled, and that chortling is chuckling and snorting. 
But what is beamisht" 

"Dear, dear," said Humpty Dumpty, "have you no sense! 
He was beaming, of course ; and he was Flemish, on his mother's 
side. Now, have you guessed manxome t " 

Alice thought a little, and said, " Does it mean the foe was 
handsome and Manxt — ^But then the Jabberwock had a tafl, so 
he can't have been Manx." 

" Handsome is rights" said Humpty Dumpty ; " but the other 
part of the word is 'manicured.' He was very careful of his 

PROSE, 1906 97 

«<ThAiik you,*' said AUoe; ''tlieii that ia aU— except the 
Tnmtam tree. Fve never seen one." 

''But you mnat have heard of things being done in Mo,'' aaid 
Hnmptj Dompty, ''which ie the aUatiye of Tomtom." 



To live by the clock, as thoogh for ever catching imaginary 
trains, is to live in misery. It is difGksolt^ however, to persuade 
energeUc or punctual people of Uiis. They always act and talk as 
thoo^ there were some merit in getting a thing done — whether it 
is wanted or not Mrs. Baxter, in ** Quisante," is a good example 
of this : ** She was under spiritual contract to make two petticoats 
a month," and she interrupted the conversation to say : '' ' Tm 
splendidly forward. This isn't an April one ; I've done them« and 
this is my first May.' It was impossible not to applaud and 
sympathise, for it was no later than the 27th of April." Some one 
asked her if she had ever thought what would happen if she 
stopped making petticoats, asserting that it illustrated the absurd 
importance we attach to ourselves, and that the race would get 
itself clothed somehow. The good lady was quite unimpressed, 
and was hard at work on June petticoats in May. The pity is that 
such people cannot realise that the world would go on quite peace- 
fully and comfortably without their strenuous efforts. They make 
a little god of Punctuality and rise up early in the morning to offer 
sacrifice to it. They spend their life in an unceasing effort to do 
everything at the proper time— or sooner, for the habit increases 
tiU they become miserable if they only finish anything when it is 
wanted. Their life is one long feverish task, and they probably 
die before their time in ordw to live up to thdr principles. These 
punctual people have many proverbs to hurl at tiie heads of 
weaker brethren : ''Never put off till to-morrow what you can do 
to^y." Whyt we ask; but they are doing to-morrow's work 
and have no time to answer. 

" A stitch in time saves nine." The poor idiots do not realise 
that if the stitch is put off long enough it need not be done at aU. 


'' The early bird catches the worm," whieh aeema to show that 
worms, anyway, are subject to a difierent moral code from the rest 
of the wcwld. 

They — the panctaal people, not the worms — ^boast that they 
^* rise with the lark " ; but unfortunately they do not " go to bed 
with the lion," which would seem an appropriate end, both to the 
proverb and the people ! 

They drag poor Solomon in to back them up, and as Solomon 
lived at a time when wisdom meant moral precepts, not brilliant 
epigrams, he uttered very excellent sentiments about sluggards, 
and ants, and the virtues of early rising ; but Solomon was wiser, 
and from his realistic description of the sluggard's petition for " a 
little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep," 
we may gather that he had tasted the joys of lying in bed after 
he was called. The people who bound up at the appointed hour 
lose one of the greatest pleasures of life. To half waken, to turn 
over and curl up again, just for a few minutes (!), and to fall into 
a gentle doze, is to enjoy luxury in its most seductive form. It 
has been well described by a poet who was, otherwise, uninspired : 

A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was. 

Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye, 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

There eke the soft delights that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast 

And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh ; 
But what e'er smacked of noyance and unrest 
Was far, far off expelled from his delicious nest. 

This is the gift of *' Procrastination " ! 

Punctuality can only reward its devotees with an increase of 
activity, accompanied by self-conceit; but Procrastination gives 
unending pleasures. The happy moments spent in bed in the 
morning, when a sleepy conscience, giving gentle pricks, only 
heightens our enjoyment, are almost equalled by those at night, 
when we sit before a fire putting off the moment of going to bed. 
The pleasantest part of a visit is that when we say we ought to 

PROSE, 1906 99 

gOy and know we on^t to go, bat linger for a few last words, 
because we are enjoying ourselves too much to tear oorselves 
away 1 It is only those who can throw ponctnality to the winda^ 
and pat off their daily duties with a clear conscience, who can 
enjoy a sadden and unexpected holiday — ^who can go just because 
the sun beckons and the wind calls, for a long, idle day in the 
open air, and come home, tired and happy, filled with the beauty 
of the world and the joy of living, to find that the day's work 
which they had planned has remained — very comfortably — undone, 
and that the world has been clothed — even without their petti- 
coats! "Procrastination," says the moralist, ^'is the thief of 
time"; but surely a thief like Lamb's friend who borrowed 
books and did not return them — yet ''if he sometimes, like the 
sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he throws 
up' as rich an equivalent to match it." We have lost a day, but 
have gained a treasure, which cannot be taken away from us — a 
happy memory. To procrastinate is often sound, worldly wisdom. 
It is not always expedient to act too quickly, and " to be too busy 
IB some danger." Most of the men in history who have kept their 
heads, both metaphorically and literally, in troublous times were 
those who waited to see how the cat jumped. Queen Elizabeth 
lived peaceably in the main, and left her country happy and 
prosperous by the simple expedient of putting off her marriage, 
and keeping all the eligible princes in Eun^ dangling after her, 
instead of turning one into a troublesome husband and the rest 
into declared enemies. She knew that when she made a bargain 
she must keep something in her basket for the next customer or 
she would lose her market ! 

Even in lesser matters Procrastination is sometimes useful. 
We may turn the tables on the worshippers of action and say, 
"Fools rush in where angels fear to trwwi," or "What is done 
cannot be undone." Indeed, when one does not know what to do 
it is a very sound rule to do nothing ! By procrastinating we may 
find a way out of our difficulty or the difficulty may end itself. 
At the worst, silence can never sting as words do, and the letter 
which has never been written cannot rankle like the letter which 
has ! Perhaps we take IVocrastination too seriously, and confuse 


her with the sober virtue Plrndence^ when we imagine her as taking 
part in affiun of State. She ia the companioii of our idle hoars, 
the Juliet who whiqiers: ''It ie the nightingale and not the 
lark"; a thie^ perhapsi but one who steals so pleasantly and 
robs ns of what we yahie so little that we are content to look the 
other way and believe that her thievish tricks only add to her 
charm. alicb bowmait 


Was there a real miller ? Why, yes, dear, of coarse there was. 
Evw so long ago — he lived in a little old-fashioned mill with his 
old mother. The miller was a kind man. He made porridge for 
aU the hungry cats, and he fed the birds all winter. When cruel 
people moved away and left poor pussy to starve she knew just 
what to do. She went right down to the mill, and lived in one of 
the sheds and ate the miller's porridge. 

No, he wasn't married. If he had been married there wouldn't 
have been any story, I'm afraid. You see, he helped aU the poor 
people^ and fed cats and birds, and kept his <Ad mother comfort- 
able, and somehow he never thought of getting married. But by- 
and-by the old mother died — and that winter the miller was very 
lonesome. He began to think of a wife then. But he was getting 
too old for most of the girls ; and somebody exactly to his mind 
was not so easy to discover. He was afraid to marry a wife who 
might grudge the cats their porridge. 

Well, one day he had been at the fair, and he had stayed late 
watching the dancing — not dancing himself, but only looking <m. 
And he was coming home — lonely to his lonely house. And there 
in the moonlight, by the Holy Well under the Fairy Thorn, he 
saw a young girl sitting. 

She looked tired and wet — for it had rained since the gloaming, 
and she was bathing her weary little white feet in the well — ^her fair 
hair hung all about her shoulders. The miller was sorry for her. 
He stopped to speak to her, and he lingered speaking to her, and 
she UAd him that she was a stranger and had come a long way. 
Her blue eyes were so sad, and she shivered in the cold, and the 

PROSE, 1906 101 

mOler took his own warm cloak and wrapped it round her. And 
ahe thanked him, and asked him to meet her again and she would 
give him the doak. 

Well, he went baek there — and there she was with a little 
more colour in her cheek — and they made another tryst The 
miller was in love — there was no doubt of that But he could 
hear nothing of her by day, and he never questioned her after that 
first night: it was enough to be beside her — and look at her. 
Sometimes she would sing. Such music I none ever heard the 

But all this time it was dawning upon him that there was 
something unearthly about her. For one thing — ^night by night 
she appeared to him in finer dress and more radiant beauty. At 
first he hardly noticed any change — then it began to trouble him ; 
and one night, when she came from behind the thorn, in a green 
robe aU sparkling with gems, her wee white feet in golden slippers, 
he threw himself <m the ground and kissed the hem of her 

"Ah!" he cried, "how happy — how unhappy I am! For 
you are either a fair princess or — what is more likely — the Elf- 
Queen. And soon I shall lose you, and I shall wither in 

" I did not mean to harm you," she said. " But it is true 
that the time of my stay here is come near an end, and I too am 
unhappy with the thought of losing you, for I have learned to 
love. Tell me, miller, do you wish that we should meet 
thus year by year, and never lose each other while the world 

So the miUw said there was nothing he wished more. Then 
she smiled and made a sign ; and where he had been there was a 
litUe knot of mealy flowers — the first Dusty Millers that ever 
grew, Darling. For you see the Fairy Lady was April, who comes 
poor and shabby and grows splendid day by day, and the Dusty 
Miller is always there when his Lady is in the land. Do you like 
the story, Darling!" 

" But how did the cats do? "- said Darling. 




" Fame floats on the wind's breath,'' say the wise men ; but 
that thing which, like fame, is much sought for, and, like love, 
much longed for, is swift as the wind to pass, and slow to come as 
dawn to one that is lost. 

Tou may search in vain through all the lands and half the 
seas ere you shall find a man who is loved of hb peers, though 
this graft and, as it were, side branch of the Tree of Love is the 
pride of youth and the chief hope of all age that is not made a 
dead thing by ill-health or the joy of gold. I think the charm 
that takes men's hearts with love is the one thing that lives on 
when the man who waked the heart of it is dead. For some short 
years it lives, and like a fire in the wind dies out and is gone. 

But when the man who is loved has made his own niche, small 
thou^ it be, in tiie House of Fame, and yet his friends speak not 
of him, but their eye glows and the flush comes red on their cheek 
— that man you shall count wise to smooth the rough ways of life. 
Then you must hear the'talk of the maids that served in his house 
and the men that have tilled his fields ; and if they too speak no 
ill of him you shall judge him for more than wise. He is rich in 
the gift of love, which can draw love as the stone draws steel ; his 
name shall sound sweet in the mouths of men all the length of his 
years ; and he shall taste of the Wine of life and drink from the 
cup of the gods. 



Long years ago a Man — ^perhaps it was Adam himself — set up 
a Fetish, shrouded it with solemnities, and named it Consistency. 
Then he called upon Woman to reverence it and bow down to it^ 
and she, in each succeeding g^eration, has striven — more or less 
successfully — to yield it her respectful admiration. But at heart 
she knows that her worship is hollow, and there have been 
moments when she dared whisper that the Fetish is a sham and 
can only bring disaster on its devotees. Yet of the solemnity of 

PROSE, 1906 103 

its pretensions there can be no doubt. Let Man, its High-Priest^ 
speak and he will tell you that to be consistent is to be noble, 
jost^ and honourable — to be inconsistent is to be trifling, irrational, 
and untrustworthy. On this belief as foundation he builds an 
amaring structure of rules for life and conduct. Take but his 
TiewB on politics. It is needful, says he, for a well-ordered state, 
that a man's beliefs and deeds of to-day should be consistent with 
those of yesterday, and should foreshadow to-morrow's. But if 
woman would but follow her true instinct, which bids her call a 
consistent man a bore, she would have none of this vicious theory 
that one action must follow another in succession of dreary 
likeness, like iron palings all of a size. 

Even in dining, Man avers that Consistency it is that bids him 
eat his fish before joints and makes it altogether unthinkable that 
the soup should appear after cheese. But Woman has never yet 
brought herself to believe that consistency in dining can be a 
virtue. For, though I doubt if she would admit it» her ideal of a 
dinner can be satisfied by a savoury and an ^lair. 

How is it, then, that, with these sceptical thoughts in her 
heart, Woman can jrield as much reverence as ever to this Fetish 
that masquerades in such virtuous guise? Is it not that she may, 
by a noble exercise of the contrary Virtue, prove how really 
vicious is Consistency? So she continues to aid Man, in spite of 
her inward knowledge, in his worship of the great Sham. 

Thus, by one great self-sacrificing exercise of her native 
Inconstancy, does Woman undo the nuschief wrought by this vice 
of Man. M. V. hill 


The only use many people have for a God is as a safe and reliable 
agency for the proper chastisement of those that trespass against 

Some people seem to believe that Gkxl's Ph)vidence operates 
only outside the sphere of human aim and motive. If this be so, 
it must be by a strangely circuitous and perplexing method that 
Providence dodges the devices of mortals, so as to bring about the 
world's great events notwithstanding. 



It is not often given to the reviewer — an epicure of somewhat 
jaded palate — to experience a new aenaation. Mr. Rndyard 
Kipling provided one wmie years ago, and a few others, bat very 
few, have done so since then. Now, with the coming of spring, 
'*M. A. Knowles" has done it for as again with "The Tinted 
Qlass,** a book which mast always be considwed a very remark- 
able performance whatever the author's subsequent work may be. 
It is not a book which bids i^ to attain an exuberant popularity. 
There is a hint of allegory in it which will be distasteful to some, 
and a certain old-world precision and leisurelinees of style unsuited 
to an age which cherishes the Rapid Review. These remarks 
will perhaps recall ''John Inglesant,*' but ''The Tinted Glass" 
is not in the least like "John Inglesant" — that marvellous jewel 
of story, an opal in a medieval setting. It is fanciful, somewhat 
after the fashion of Hans Andersen perhaps, and the quaint, 
direct, ludd style, with the abrupt changes from humour to 
pathos, the sudden half-caustic, half-playful reflections of the 
author, are not unlike his manner. It is worthy of note in this 
age, which approximates every day more nearly to the state of 
things prophesied by Mr. Chesterton when " we shall not be able 
to see the ground for clever men,** that this book contains no 
intentional epigrams, carefully thought-out paradoxes, startling 
epithets, or other depressing manifestations of the author's 
ingenuity and industry. He is, in fact, to be congratulated on 
having achieved a style without mannerisms and with distinction. 
" The Tinted Glass " is a simple story, essentially Eng^h in its 
setting and its characters — save one. The scene is a village in 
Dorset or Somerset, the date somewhere in the dreamy age before 
motor-cars were, almost before railways were — ^the last years of 
England's beauty sleep, in fact John Deverel possessed a wife, 
a son, Roger, and the most prosperous farm in the village, though 
his wealth was not expressed in luxury. "The best parlour at 
Deverel's was a long, low room with a polished floor and no 

PROSE, 1906 105 

carpet, windows wider than their height and no curtains, carred 
wooden chairs and no cnshion& On the polidied table in the 
centre there always stood a large china bowl full of flowws, and 
on a high aide-table there lay two books — the Bible and Shake- 
speare. The room was certainly well famished. The neighboors 
said that the Deverels did not need to make a show to let others 
know how rich they were, and that is certainly a convenient 
repntation." The farmer and his wife are in keeping with their 
hcmest^ homely surroundings, and their son is — a poet and a 
philosopher. He grows up treated always with kindness, but 
never understood by his parents, inherits the farm at their death, 
and Bves his whole life in the village in which he was bom, liked 
but never in the least comprehended by his shrewd, cheery 
agriculturally minded neighbours. The book is, in fact^ the story 
of the life of a man idio lived always in a foreign country inhabited 
by a race fri^dly but f (»eign to him. When a boy he picks up 
in one of his father's fields a piece of glass tinted with prismatic 
colours, a fragment centuries old turned up by the ploughshare 
from its long resting-place. Here the discerning reader will 
scent the allegory which is certainly not artfully concealed. He 
keeps the tinted gjlass always, and gradually falls into the habit 
of observing mankind through it The glass, needless to say, 
has remarkable powers of altering perspective and colour for the 
gaxer. The poet, in fact, sees things as they are, and is thus 
wcfflds removed from his nei^bours, who can never be persuaded 
to look through the glass, and regard him in general as an 
amiable eccentric. Roger has his love afbir, but it is only an 
episode in his life and in the hock. The development of this 
episode is a half-ironical contrast of two methods of courtship. 
Marian Barton, the village beauty, is a triumph of characterisation. 
She was ''what some would call an ordinary girL Ordinary, 
however, only in the sense that there are many like her in 
England. Not clever, but with subdued twinkling lights of 
humour about her, and full of a golden, radiant content destined 
to be a lamp unto the feet of her husband." Marian has another 
lover besides Boger, a certain William Friar, a cheerful and 
commonplace young farmer, evidently the right man for her, as 


Soger recognises. He decides to make room for the triumph of 
the commonplace, and tells her one owning of his love and his 
decision. Marian only half understands him, for she is entirely 
engrossed with the vision of William coming over the common 
to meet her, and Roger leaves her to that happy consommaticm. 
This, as we said, is only an episode in the book. The life of the 
village goes on ; Marian and William are married, and go through 
various vicissitudes of fortune. Unconsciously to them all Bog» 
is always their best guide, philosopher, and friend, though many 
look upon him as a harmless lunatic. The book stops — ^it can 
hardly be said to finish — with a description of the feverish activity 
engendered by the opening of a railway through the distoict and 
the leap by which the village becomes a town, which is marked 
by the birth of its newspaper. The actual end is in 1870, and 
the passing of the Education Act, with Roger's comments thereon, 
dose the story in a singular though not inappropriate fashion. 



Those who believe this cannot have read Walt Whitman. 

For, indeed, I know of no author who emphasises the con- 
trary with so much conviction and to so much good purpose. If 
books are to be ranged according to their '' friendliness," his will 
certainly take a principal place on our shelves ; yet no sooner do 
we settle down in an easy-chair to participate in the delights <^ 
a '* causerie " with our newly discovered friend than we are asked 
to look fot him — ^not on such-and-such a page, nor between the 
lines, but <' under our boot-soles." This might appear at first 
sight nothing less than a hollow and uncharitable pretence at 
abasement, a scurvy trick of self-humiliation pranked upon the 
unwary and warm-hearted fellow-sinner in order to circumvent 
his attempts at a confession — as a man might shake his empty 
purse in the face of a petitioner or forestall the request of a loan 
by begging a sixpence to redeem his waistcoat This lowering of 
a man to your boots is not more in season than the premature 
and unattended disappearance of your nei^bour below the taUe 

PROSE, 1906 107 

«t a friendly dinner-party, patting an untimely end by his mere 
impatience to the mutual "feast of reason" and progressive 
*'flow of soul." But to deal seriously by our author — for we 
have been but trifling with him so far — the injunction is not 
that we should examine our shoe-leather, or the dusty carpet of 
our sitting-room, but that, having emerged with him into the air 
and succeeded him at his own diversions, we should ''see what 
flowers are at our feet,'' behold and consider the pleasant ''leaves 
of grass," and look along "the open road." To do this in the 
right spirit — and that is our author's — is to be on a pretty good 
understanding with Nature and feel the community of fellow- 
travellers. Tet this would seem to be no less than what we had 
hoped to derive from a long course of mutual cultivation and 
friendly t^te-i-t^te with our books. Do I hear certain well-to-do 
friends and eosau relations protest at this juncture t Is this atti- 
tude as much above their understanding as the other was beneath 
itt Such as have money to supply themselves with knick-knacks, 
pictures, motor-cars, ^., like prodigiously to attach to their sub- 
stantial surroundings a local habitation and a name. And, indeed, 
I confess myself to a certain sympathy even with the book-lover 
who lends a value apart from its author to an uncut favourite. 

There are such things as associations apart from authorship. 
An old china tea-cup that we have in our possession has gained 
great properties of friendship from having stood for many years 

on the chimney-piece of our great-grandmother F ^ whof 

we know, disliked Chinamen as much as we do ourselves, and 
cannot be thought to have chmshed this chipped remnant of a 
set on account of any secret affection she bore the "pagan" 
handicraftsman who made it. A cabinet-maker once produced 
a square and sullen piece of furniture which has, since it left 
his hands, acquired an air of tenderness, almost sisterliness, by 
reason of the affection bestowed upon it by some departed friend. 
How much more, then, will books— our constant companions, 
taken up at aU odd moments of the day, full of the "sounds 
and sweet airs" of past reading, recalling, perhaps, a face long 
since forgotten, a voice "long since mute," a field or scenery 
long nnce destroyed or converted — seem able to replace or to 


better the friencUhipe we still retain with spirits of oar own 
flesh and blood ! But is not even this, after all, onlj friendship 
by proxy t Could we love our books, onr cabinets, our old china 
tea-caps anless we had loved the friends whose memories linger 
aboat tiiem t Can we love them at this moment without includ- 
ing many parts of the broader reality in our affection f Merely 
to make friends of books for their own sakes would seem, in the 
words of Cervantes, to be *' wanting better bread than is made 
of wheat.'' Shakespeare, as Dryden tells us, and we can well 
believe, "needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature," and 
Beatrice, as Shakespeare himself tells uSf ''could see a church 
by daylight," which I take it to mean could give all things their 
due, and recognise one form of truth without unnecessary exag- 
geration of another. B. maoooll 


Chapter VII 

This morning I was up before the sun, and I washed in the 
stream as the warmth began to come into the east, and a bird or 
two tried timidly for a reply, each one emboldening another ; so 
I returned to my fragrant haystack, and watched the sunrise. 
There came into my head the conceit of Sir Francis Drake's 
epitaph, that says ''the sun himself cannot forget his fellow- 
traveller"; and I thought that the combination of poetry and 
scientific inaccuracy in that phrase would date it for any one. 
But Drake was no vagabond; he had an object^ and reached 
forward to an inconquerable hope. Your true vagabond is a 
free agent. I recalled the new word "casual " — ^it was new when 
last I read a newspaper forty years ago — and I agreed with myself 
that the word described me best Thorough independence of 
civilisation is (alas!) impossible for me; the laws of England 
prevent me from stealing my food — "convey" the wise it call; 
her climate prevents me from going unclad; and comfort bids 
me seek a barber now and again ; while my most galling chain 
b that which binds me to my banker : thank Heaven, I have and 
need no solicitor! Bat money I must have, to buy me food 

PROSE, 1906 109 

and clothesy thoai^ I only bay clothes when I go South in 
winter and ffHring, because I can get better clothes for my money 
at a place I wot of in Northern Italy than anywhere else. And 
it is usually at that season when I hare to leave England that 
I return most nearly to civilisation. Last year, on the boat to 
Marseilles, I met a man whose aim in life, or lack of aim, was 
very like my own ; but even he had seen an account of Qordon's 
death at Khartoum in a newspaper some twenty \years ago, 
whereas when I retired from sophistication, Gordon was indeed 
known to me, but by the merest accident. Men will be talking, 
and they insist on trying to " inform " you ; they are unselfishly 
anxious that you should hear " the latest^" and selfishly anxious 
that you should hear it from no lips but theirs. For me, I care 
for none of these things. If a man will tell me what he has 
seen for himself of the way the wren builds ; if he will sing me 
a song of the people that has never been "lapped in lead" — 
type, I mean— H>r if he takes my crust as his due without thanks, 
I know him for a brother vagabond, a casual like myself. It 
is many years since an Essex casual told me that the wren built 
her nest from the outside, working inwards, while the blackbird's 
last labour is to add an extra covering without; which I never 
knew before. And then the carol I heard from a Herefordshire 
mummer last year! — ^the quaintest possible collocation ol Chris- 
tianity and Paganism, like our marriage service — and all of it 
sung to a tune like a stream in sunlight. Only the other day 
I gave bread and bacon to a vagabond obviously poorer than 
myself, whom I forbore to remind of the three shillings he has 
owed me this half-century. He was almost bUnd, and did not 
know me; but as I looked at him I recalled the place where 
we made the bet he has since lost, on that windy down that 
overlooks our old school. So we spoke of common things, till 
he used a phrase that I know he learned from one of my dead ; 
and it jarred a chord of memory long since out of tune, so I bade 
him God-speed and struck off into a side-road. How I love 
these little side-roads of England in summor! TiU they cease 
I ramble along them, first on this side and then on that^ stopping 
to look at a flower, or to remember where last I heard that 


warble. Yagabondia is a bappy land for a man to whom lack 
of oompanionflhip is not loneliness ; and such have I been forty 



[Note to the Reader, — Let it be granted that "prose descrip- 
tion " may be : (a) mbjedive ; (6) objective ; and (c) the blend 
of (a) and (6), which results in the "pathetic fallacy" — 
a frequent trick of the "decadents." Let it further be 
granted that "the style of the modern decadents" may be 
concocted by taking the mannerisms of, inter cUiOy George 
Moore, Oscar Wilde, Richard de Gallienne, Max Beerbohm, 
and Arthur Symons ; mixing together, straining, and throwing 
away the sediment] 

The leave-taking had been arranged for sunrise. . . . 

Alone among the hours, and especially in mid-autumn, this 
hour is proper for lovers' farewells. The soul trembles at the 
approach of the garish day ; and the body is wrapped about — as 
with a shroud of samite — by the chill mist of the autumn dawn. 
The terrors and the shadows of night have scarce flown; the 
gross sunshine forbears yet a little while to flaunt its rays before 
the drowsy mom. The exigent, punctual day looms ahead, grim 
with the terror of tiie unknown, lowering with the menace of 
enforced activities that gall the weary limbs of man. How shall 
one live through the daylight hours till gentle night comes again f 
Only the very strong and the very brave are unafraid at dawn. 

Neither Sylvester nor Eulalie was very strong and very brave. 
They chose to part at dawn simply that no element mi^t be 
lacking to complete the sadness of their separation. He aiui she, 
wearied with a l<mg and tearful vigil, would cower beneath the 
elms of R^uvilliers like two children untimely awakened and 
carried out of doors to shiver under the wan sky. . . . 

Arrived at the meeting-place before the appointed hour, 
Sylvester rested on the trunk of a fallen tree, and surrendered 

PROSE, 1906 111 

himself to the gentle sadness that welled up within his sonL 
The woodland wore an aspect of damp and dishevelled melan- 
choly ; an aspect of some goddess issuing^ divinely discontented, 
from her bath. The leaves, sad and dun-colonred, fluttered to 
tile ground like lost illusions — the illusions that Sylvester had 
once entertained about life, about love. Illusions and ambitions 
alike had been shed ; had detached themselves from his philosophy, 
and sunk to where the multitude of their kind awaited them with 
the boon of a peaceful oblivion. 

Ah! he could at last look upon the landscape and not feel 
rebuked ! In this season of decline and decay, Nature no longer 
repeQed hiri with what 8orae senfiitive spirit (was it himself?) had 
termed "the great staring egotism of its health and strength." 
The dun carpet beneath the elms gave forth a subtle yet poignant 
aroma : an aroma sadder than the sad sere colour of the leaves ; 
awesome as the nervous whisperings with which they fled before 
the wind. What more fitting mise en 9chu could be devised for 
the interview in which £ulalie and himself were to say farewell? 

With her fine sense of the emotional and esthetic requirements 
of the situation, Eulalie would assuredly introduce no jarring 
element of colour or sound. She would show, as always, a 
consummate skill in avoiding not simply the banal but also the 
more complex banaliU which consists in the too passionate 
avoidance of the commonplace. Eulalie was unique; and Syl- 
vester's duty as an artist in melancholy was to take leave of her 
for ever, that his artistic experience might be enriched by the 
emotions thus aroused. p. o. ltbl 


What you fear to say seriously you may safely put into an 
epigram. Wit rushes in where Gravity fears to tread, for it 
excites as well as covers a multitude of grina 

Most of us spend our lives dreaming of what we will do when 
we wake up. 



Mahomet was not his real name ; only I called him so because 
he would never keep still, and I had to see that the moontains he 
sought in his eagerness did not do him any harm. 

Those were the days when we searched for the Fortunate Isles 
oyer a sea of carpet, in a ship mannfactored oat of two overturned 
nursery chairs. 

** We most never find them, Mahomet," I used to say. 

Bat Mah(»net always woold, and he always has, ever since. 

With some dim prescience of my attitude towards life, I would 
never disembark, but used to watch him surmount the difficulties 
of landing and gain a perilous footing on the table, previously 
laden with the desire of the moment. 

Sometimes^ when it was twilight, I would point to luminous 
cottages shadowed by opaque mountains in the depths of the fire, 

" There are the Fortunate Isles, Mahomet." 

''Bed-hot coals," he would answer gravely. And once I 
showed him the canal outside, where a moonlit barge was passing 
through a sheet of sQver. 

<' It is raining diamonds in the Fortunate Isles," I whispered. 

'' Moonbeams," was his brief reply. 

Later the quest lay in more definite ways ; for me in a country 
produced by the contact of a blank sheet of paper and a black-lead 
pencil — for him — well, for him — a wife and nursery of his own, 
where the old game is being played by sundry smaller Mahomets. 

Mahomet the Second is my favourite; I have just been ex- 
plaining to him, as I tucked him in his crib, the real way to those 
same islands. 

"Well, do you understand f" I asked him. "How do you 
find themf " 

" Ton go on and on till you don't get there," was his drowsy 

He IB the smallest philosopher I know. 


PROSE, 1907 


THERE IB one man and none other whom I pity ; he has never 
known the Waters of Babylon, and to him alone are shut 
the straits that lead to the Isles of the Blest. Strangely indeed 
did those old Children hold that that dividing channel was the 
channel of death : strangely, for children are nearer to the start- 
ing-place : or was it a true word yeiled in allegory! 

He knows tiie Fortunate Isles whose soul has returned from 
captivity. As he sat by the Waters he shed no tears ; he forbore 
to hang up his harp, but its strings sent forth a note of melancholy : 
sometimes, like the poet of Rome, " he laughed at tears, and shed 
them in his heart." But the season came when the rough places 
were made plain, and the crooked ways straight ; when the waters 
took on a calm, and his barque bore him to those golden shores 
where roamed the Great Ones he had known and loved; where 
reigns an independence known to no philosophy of earth. 

Therefore I pity him whose surface- waves are stirred; for 
the knowledge of the Waters and the Isles moves the masses of 
the depth, while the surface is calm and untroubled. 

Blest Gate, that openest thy joys to rich and poor alike ; 
Mystery, whose initiates must pass from darkness into light; 
Temple, that spumest not the lowly worshippers, adorned with 
richer sculptures than those of Pheidias and Praxiteles, whose 
Deity hath arms outstretched to aU who travel thither by the road 
of Suffering ; Valley of the light of life ; Mountain, where " tears 
from the depth " are dried ; Blest Isles, to your shores shall my 
soul fly ; she shall sit beside the Waters of Babylon in a bitter 
captivity, that at the last her return may be glad ! 


g us 



[In publishing the papers of my honoured friend the late Professor 
Nogo^ I make no apology for induding the following frag- 
menty which was evidently to form part of his treatise on the 
subject on which he was the acknowledged authority — the 
Decadence of the English during the period 1850-1940. The 
research and intimate knowledge displayed therein are to my 
mind equalled only by the brilliant criticisms and luminous 
conclusions, I may add that Professor Nogo evidently 
intended this chapter to be illustrated by photographs of 
objects from his v/nique collection of antiquities, — 0, JiT., 
Tokio, 2613 A.D,] 

If it be true that a straw shows the direction of the wind, and 
a leaf the current of the stream, it is assuredly an indisputable 
fact that a nation's advance or decline may be traced by the trifles 
that go to make up its ordinary social life. To a close student of 
English history the period 1890-1910 is especially rich in traces 
of the nation's decadence, and in no field does research yield such 
marvellous results as in that of the social life of the English 
middle-classes. Among the many signs of advancing decay I have 
selected one that seems to me to be the clearest symbol of this 
declension. It is an object of which, so far as I can judge, the 
hideousness was equalled only by the popularity — ^I speak of the 
" goUiwog." In describing it I find it difficult to avoid incurring 
a suspicion of wanton and malicious exaggeration, wherefore, in 
order to escape from this appearance of malice, I will refer my 
readers to the photographs taken from some golliwogs in my 
possession, and I feel confident that these illustrations will give an 
impartial view of these repulsive objects. Yet to me it is as a 
symbol of the decay that was attacking this great nation that the 
golliwog possesses its supreme interest. 

First, let us consider the name. The word itself is an affront 
to both eye and ear. No derivation can be assigned to it with any 

PROSE, 1907 116 

confidence, though I may in passing express my opinion that 
Professor Sinsen has suggested a not improbable origin of the 
word. [He holds that gollywog is composed of two parts, both 
of which are corruptions of other words : golli being a corruption 
of doUy (a child's puppet), and wog a low form of the verb 
to wag. The whole word would thus mean a wagging doll or 
toy.] This appearance of a practically meaningless word which 
passed rapidly into the common speech of one of the most 
civilised nations of antiquity is in itself a sign of the canker 
that was attacking the English, even in their noble and unique 

Secondly, the black colour of this object is, to my mind, of the 
utmost significance. It was, I judge, a cynical acknowledgment 
of the failure of the white races in the struggle for supremacy, and 
an admission that the future was in the hands of more virile 
peoples, savage and uncivilised though they might be. 

Thirdly, the fact that the cult of the golliwog became so 
popular as even to oust that of the " peterrabbit " and other such 
totems proves that the English were fast losing all sense of beauty 
and dignity of form and colour. That a people who held some of 
the most marvellous stone images of antique art in its museum- 
temple should devote itself to the admiration of the most hideous 
grotesque that could be designed is inconceivable on any other 
hypothesis than that of national decadence. 

Fourthly, the appearance of this golliwog in the education and 
training of the young is surely the most unmistakable and pathetic 
symbol of the general decline. Imagine a child with fresh and 
unspoiled instincts of the good and beautiful surrounded by 
objects which cease to terrify him only when his sense of beauty 
has been blunted or debased, and you will perceive how serious an 
emblem this golliwog is of a deliberate lowering of the standard of 
truth in art. 

As I regard the five specimens of this object that I have been 
able to collect, I am filled not only with a loathing for its hideous- 
ness, but with an unfeigned pity for the young eyes and minds 
that were terrified by its appearance. Yet from the not incon- 
siderable literature devoted to the golliwog, I gather that the 


English had persiuded themselTes that it was a laughable and 
mirth-exciting object — thereby revealing their own enfeebled sense 
of homoor and wit. . . . 

The signs of decadence which were not wanting in political 
and commercial life were eclipsed by this symbol which was 
enthroned in the nurseries and homes of the peoj^e. 



DiOKENS (in the dark). 

Night ! never was such a night, never ; not if you collected all 
the darkest nights mentioned by historians, since the days of 
Pharaoh, and all the blackest nights invented by novelists since the 
days of Robinson Crusoe, and baked them into one compact night 
of the customary number of hours, and coated it thickly over with 
lamp-black and emptied several bags of the darkest possible soot 
upon it, would you turn out such a night as that was ! 

Carlylb {declining an invitation to dine with Lord Mayor and 
Cabinet Ministers). 
... for which I thank you; but there are factors in the 
essence of the proposal that forbid my acceptance ; besides which, 
there are cocks and hens, contriving noises and eggs ; motorisms, 
contriving noises and smells ; a Thames river whence are stenches 
and sounds : — ^these aU infemaller than pit of Erebus could emit, 
than pit of human stomach can endure : so that I am sick ; and 
must decline this you proffer me ; which is, nevertheless, beautiful 
to me. . . . 

Milton (pleads for a Restraint upon the Liberty of the Press), 

. . . Let me persuade ye. Lords and Commons of England ! 
the right-minded in this realm, the simple folk and the learned 
together, desire not that this unbridled liberty continue longer ; 
for as men gather not grapes from thorns, nor, having sown tares, 
do they expect wheat thereof; so assuredly the vintage ye shall 

PROSE, 1907 m 

gather from thia planting I tell ye of will be a mintage of bitter- 
ness ; and at the harrest from this sowing will be no songs of the 

RnsKiN (rampant). 

To be able to say, That is beantifol, is well ; beings in some 
Bort, " deep calling unto deep ; " and to say, That is beautiful and 
true, is very well, being further interchange of salutations on the 
part of deeps ; but you will say. That is beautiful and true and 
cheap ; which is not very well, nor well at all, nor anything but 
iD; and thyself an ass egregious, and rascally beggarly knave; 
avast therefore, and avaunt ! — egregiate no further, but back to 
thy herd, thou most remarkable ass — with thy Cheap / 

RuSKiN {comparatively couchant). 

When it has dawned upon England that grass is meant to be 
green, and not black; that there has been spread above her a 
firmament intended to appear blue, and not brown ; that Nature 
is admirably competent to suspend in that firmament all requisite 
clouds, to drop fatness and not pestilence; that streams bound 
from the hills and play about the valleys under the impression 
that they are pure and not poisonous; there may then be room 
for hope, that she shall not presently be extinguished, erased from 
the catalogue of islands, abased by an avalanche of seas. 


From «* Marina the Bank Clerk,'' by Walter Pater {from Bock ii. 
Chap, ix, " Procragtvnation^). 
Well ! it was there, as he beat upon the station gate (that so 
symbolic barrier !) and watched the receding train, that the idea 
came upon him ; casting as it were, a veil of annoyance over the 
vague melancholy of his features; and filling, not without a 
certain sedate charm, as of a well-known ritual, his mind with a 
now familiar sense of loss — a very deeideriwn — a sense only 
momentarily perceptible, perhaps, among the other emotions and 
thoughts, that swarmed, like silver doves, about his brain. 




The persons who call a spade "a spade" are these : The plain 
man, the doll man, the true man. The plain man because he has 
no Tact^ the dull man because he has no Imagination, and the true 
man because he has no Fear. But the bedside man, the poet, the 
auctioneer, the emphatic or profane person — because they have 
those things which the others haye not; or, in the latter class, 
because they have not that thing which the others have — namely, 
Patience — will use equivalents, euphemisms, synonyms, metaphors, 
synecdoches, metabolisms, and tropes of every sort, rather than 
face the thing as it is. 

It is Tact that teaches us to call a navvy " an Excavator," or 
a bargee " a Navigator " ; the same instinct makes a postman with 
timid calves say ''Good dog!" or the Qreek to call his Furies 
" Eumenides." The Chinese are the most euphemistic people on 
earth, therefore the least progressive. 

For, behold, here is a great solemn truth. So long as you 
continue to call a spade a spade, so long is there a chance of your 
continuing to think of it merely as a spade — and trying to improve 
it. It is nothing transcendent, the spade that you can call a spade. 
The lie that you can call a lie is half repented already. But the 
lie that you call policy or intuition or tact or excuse or inspira- 
tion or Qod — a plea, or a parable, or a convention, or a euphemism, 
or any figure of speech whatsoever, that is a lie that will breed. 

Ideas are so cheap to-day, it is so easy to spin theories, and 
the a priori method saves such a deal of hard reading and straight 
thinking, that hardly here and there do you meet a man who has 
the habit of looking a Fact between the eyes without blinking, and 
staring it out of countenance. Yet to have mastered a Fact is to 
take a step forward ; to have discovered a new one is more, it is to 
take a step vpward. Stubborn and sturdy are Facts. 

Are there no beautiful Euphemisms t Not for spades, it would 
seem. I think you will find none for things that have hard out- 
lines like a spade. But for vague equivocal things like love and 
fighting (for examples), which various eyes see variously, things 

PROSE, 1907 119 

which have in reality nglyish aspects but which it is desirable that 
some should admire — why, there is the field of the beautifying 
euphemism that artists call Bomance. Hius you may teach Life 
to babes, or Virtue to the Pit 

But are there no harmless Euphemisms t There are, yes, some 
puny, poor drawing-roomisms. Lions must roar at you like suck- 
ing doves lest they fright the ladies — or suchlike — who go about 
in drawing-rooms and kid gloves and rose-coloured spectacles — a 
queer get-up ! For such the honest old spade becomes a " fancy 
article," tied up with pink ribbons, stuffed and plushed to make a 
toasting-fork to " sell " — another euphemism — at a Bazaar. 

But are there no virtuous Euphemisms ? For " women labour- 
ing with child, sick persons and young children," breaking the news, 
hiding the depths — noble lies forbidding to d^pair ? Perhaps, if 
you meet that lunatic brandishing a knife, you may be justified in 
misdirecting him. But such encounters are rare, and when news 
is " broken " or depths concealed from the young, one sometimes 
wonders whether wisdom or cowardice has the largest share in it. 

Finally, why is it that those who are bold enough to call a 
spade ''a spade" generally prefer to speak and think of muck- 
rakes. Is it because prudery has so long worn the garb of 
innocence that decency herself now goes suspect ? Genius and its 
mission to shock ! It was not always so, and surely, surely it has 
been so long enough. Since Shelley and Byron began it have we 
been shocked inadequately 1 We blush no more at anything (in 
print), we stick at nothing (in literature), we sympathise with sin 
(on the stage), we have not much objection to nudity (in art). In 
a word, we have already embraced the spade, embraced and 
swallowed it. Now let us go on and talk of something a little 
nobler ! J. c. stobabt 


Tou cannot avoid it, of course, when it iff a Spade, and has 
been left to you. In that case it becomes one of those unpleasant 
duties that you owe to Society ; but, even then, be sure that it is 
a Spade before you speak. If you can, however, obey the law of 


charity, and leave it to the other man to say the nasty word, and 
to do the nasty thing. All of which is an Allegory. 

Be 9wre eAae it U a Spade before you call it. That is the 
invariaUe role. Now, I have no doubt that when yon caU a spade 
you mean something nasty. Yet, really, there is nothing objec- 
tionable aboat it in itself. The genius of the Bronze Age who hit 
upon the happy idea of attaching his tomahawk to the burnt stick 
with which he used to scratch the ground no doubt found it a vast 
improvement ; to the gravedigger it means bread-and-butter, and 
perhaps Christmas pudding ; to Elizabeth and to the Poet Laureate 
it brings royalties; and though, according to Father Yaughan, 
Lady Chicane sees in it the loss of her personal honour and of the 
family diamonds, still a Spade in the hand is better than No 
Trumps with the adversary; and there are noble souls like Mr. 
Micawber to whom a spade may be something to turn up. 

Remember, there is nothing more deceptive than a spade-call. 
It may come from strength or from weakness. The spade may be 
a weapon of defence witii which the noble-hearted peasant protects 
his holding from the attack of the foreign foe ; or it may be the 
instrument by which he puts to death his innocent rival You 
can never tell. 

So, high-bom, respectable British Matron, precise and pharisaic 
in the dulness of your ultra-conventional suburbanity, do you not 
see that your supposed candour is the acme of cantt You call a 
spade a spade, and you think that thereby you are equipping 
yourself with a tool wherewith to cleave in two such worms of 
earth as husbands, or curates, or sons-in-law, or tradesmen, or even 
cooks. Whereas the worm doesn't even turn. Why should he, when 
he knows well enough that there isn't any spade there at all ? 

The bishop in the story was quite right. The spade conven- 
tion laughs our so-called candour to scorn. In ordinary circum- 
stances we do not trouble even to play out the hand, unless, 
indeed, the spade-call has evoked the repartee of a double. Why 
should we? The spade is but the guinea's mark, the coin itself 
may be a counter or may be current money, according as it is 

We British are said to suffer from onomatophobia — that is, we 

PROSE, 1907 1«1 

reverence words more than things. The truth is that we think of 
noons as standing for realities and overlook completely the adjec- 
tives that accompany them, and yet in oar incomparable language 
the a4jective comes firsts in order to convey the leading idea to the 
mind before the noon comes to destroy it. But we torn adjectives 
into nouns and then misapply them, and this is what we mean by 
calling spades, spades. Let me give an example : I take in two 
newspapers, a "daily" and a "weekly"; whether either or both 
take me in is beside the question. The "daily" is renowned 
throughout all the world for its immense circulation and its skill 
in splitting infinitives, yet it knows no viler word to apply to 
those whom it considers beyond the pale of decency than " Liberal " ; 
while the "weekly," famed as it is for its patronage of all the 
liberal arts, knows no more scathing term to hurl at its enemies 
than " Moderate." 

Let us get rid of cant. In these County Council days, when 
living pictures are forbidden, we know that the naked truth can 
be nothing more than a plaster saint Even Mr. Labouchere 
supplies the lady on his cover with a sufficiency of drapery to pass 
muster in a London crowd. Kipling has shown us, and Germany 
has proved to us, that the uniform is not the least part of the 
official's equipment. So to call a spade a spade is worse than 
indecent, it is futile. Take my advice, and if you cannot do 
better — ^leave it. pbtsr piper 



As I was taking my daOy walk round the ramparts of Elysium 
the other day, I met my friend Mozart, for whom I hear you still 
profess a certain admiration, and we fell to discussing the musical 
developments of Germany since we left it to the tender mercies of 
younger generationa You may care to hear our opinions, even 
though after the fashion of the day you should scarcely conceal 
your contempt for the judgment of your elders. Mozart urged the 
imperative need of keeping absolute music wholly distinct from 
illustrative, and insisted upon dramatic music being reserved for 


the theatre. " Bravo ! " said a Toice behind ua, and we saw that 
somewhat self-assertive fellow Wagner close by; "did I not say 
that Berlioz made himself grotesque in the concert-room by trying 
to express in notes what can only be intelligible with the help of 
action t" Mozart agreed, and so did I, although I somewhat 
resented an irreverent clap on the back with which the Saxon 
emphasised his approval of my friend's words. They then both 
turned on me (as I fully expected they would) and said that I 
began it. They were both wrong, however, as they presently 
admitted, for if I did work to a picture I never defined what the 
picture was, but left my hearers to imagine their own. My 
Pastoral Symphony would have been so named even without my 
sanction ; I did not reproduce any sounds save the notes of birds, 
which in themselves are absolute music. I did not try to represent 
the growing of turnips, or even the bleating of sheep. My aim 
was to induce the same impression which a sojourn in the country 
makes upon the dweller in town. When I perpetrated a Bondo 
about the loss of a penny, I did not add a triangle obbligato to 
illustrate its Ml upon the floor. When I expressed my gratitude 
for recovery from an illness in one of my last quartets, I did not 
preface it with a movement to describe tiie pathological details of 
my sufferings. 

I revenged myself on your namesake by telling him that you 
were hailed as Bichard the Second in direct descent. " Unnnn J " 
he cried ; " Franz the Second, if you like. That stuff comes from 
Liszt.** I was just about to ask Wagner why he had not included 
his father-in-law in his diatribes when Mozart broke in. " No," 
said he, " from Kotzwara, who wrote the * Battle of Prague,' and I 

am afraid that even our friend Beethoven once " " True,** I 

said, "but that was after an unusually bad dish of fish at the 
Matschakerhof.** At this moment Brahms came up, and said in 
his bluff way, " You and I have never been to London ; come and 
hear ' Heldenleben ' at the Queen's Hall this afternoon.** And we 
aU set off together. 

I am afraid that none of us liked it, least of all Wagner, who 
declared that the only enjoyable pages were reflected from his 
'^ Nibelungen." Mozart said that ii he wrote chromatics he 

PROSE, 1907 128 

preferred to make them fit^ and if mosaic was hammered together 
tbe chips were apt to fly into one's eyes. Brahms was silent, but 
granted occasionally. I congratulated myself on my wisdom in 
choosing even that scoundrel Napoleon for a hero rather than 

But> dear Sir, how could you allow yourself to depict lovely 
Woman by such a series of squeaking non-sequiturs as that violin 
solo? Was your face smarting from the feminine nail t If I had 
so described my Immortal Beloved, I should have composed many 
Busslieder before I was restored to favour. And your battle? 
Honestly I prefer Kotzwara's, for his thunders would not have 
caused a temporary return of the deafness from which I suffered 
so long. 

No, young man. When I wrote the Pastoral Symphony, it 
was "the expression of sensations rather than music-painting." 
Your work is "the impression of sensationalism rather than 
music." Can you invent a real melody, or are you trying to 
conceal the fact that you cannot ? Tour parti-coloured mists are 
alluring, but, believe me, they will dissolve when the sun shines. 

We aU wondered if it had so happened that the title, pro* 
gramme, and composer's name had been withheld, what fate would 
have befallen your " Heldenleben." 

So we returned to Elysium, found little Schubert in a Nectar- 
stube, dragged him to the piano, made him play his song " An die 
Musik,** and felt better. ' l. v. btvn 

Brothbb, — From the abode of the dead, and yet of the living, 
I greet thee. All hail to thee, great artist that thou art ! Like 
thee, when on earth I was criticised, mocked at, made light of; 
now all men praise me — yea, even beyond my deserts. So shall it 
be witii thee, when thou art come to the place where I now am. 

One hundred years ago I wrote these words at the head of the 
Pastoral Symphony: "Mehr Ansdruck der Empfindung als 
Malerey." But in a movement of that symphony I imitated a 
storm, for well I knew that without a definite picture there can 
be no enK>tion. It was all I could do then ; Weber, Schubert, 
Schumann, Wagner — above all, Wagner — these came after, not 


before me! I had only Mozart — Mozart and old Haydn — to 
build upon. But thoa — what ia there thoa canst not do, with iky 
means t The bleating of sheep, the tumult of battle, the sick and 
wandering fancies of the dying, the ecstasy oi love — all these 
things — ay^ and more— canst thou portray. The whole realm of 
life and spirit lies open before thee. True, the critics are not 
satisfied; thy works, they say, are ugly, formless, illegitimate. 
But what of that ? So — or much the same — they said of me ; and 
where are they now ? Go thy ways ; go thy ways, and leaye these 
little men to their chattering. A hundred years, and where will 
they bet 

I say not that I can follow thee in all thou dost But what 
of that? Who knows if I or thou be ri^t? Could old Haydn 
follow me ? So go thy ways. Keep to thy own path — thou canst 
do no else. It is thy path, and, lead it where it will, thou must 
follow it. If it leads to Heaven, thou hast thy reward. If to 
Hell — what then ? Dost thou fear to be in Hell with MB ? 


Toung man ! {Jtinge !) there are those on this side of the 
river who do not scruple to tell me thou art my spiritual son. 
So ! it is not the least of our afflictions in this nether world to see 
the harvest of our deeds, and here are many virtual fathers who 
see with a vision death has cleared the inherited behaviour of 
their offspring. So if to me, knowing no link between us, thou 
appearest, at times, but a sedulous ape of my worser habits, there 
are other moments when I have not scorned to thiak thou drewest 
inspiration from me. Still would I remind thee, for thy good, 
that though I sought ideas in the pasture I never looked for them 
in the kitchen or the nursery. And if in my strains thou hast 
heard Fate knocking at the door, never didst thou hear a gutter 
urchin (Stratsenbube) rattling his stick on the railing& Young 
man, these are unworthy tricks; mere mockeries of music and 
travesties gI sound ! And why, with such an orchestra as thou 
hast in these days at thy command, seek the earth over for bizarre 
and weird forms of wood and wind, save to tickle the ears of 
groundlings who love excitement and novelty, and reck not if true 

PROSE, 1907 1J6 

liarmony b loet therein? Not ill were it for thee, perchance, 
shonldst thou endure some touch of my world iU, and that deafnees 
to mortal sounds which befell me might tune thy spirit ears to 
more celestial notes. Toung man 1 thou hast the germ oi the true 
musicianly spirit Prostitute it not to novelty-mongering, lest 
worse befall thee ! tatb 


Nothing is easier than to give or, as they say, call other people 
names. That, however, is not the point The possessive alters, 
not to say spoils, the case, as it so often does. Instead oi being at 
liberty to give other people names we are limited to the considera- 
tion of those they have. True, if, in the exercise of my individual 
judgment, I give a person a name, tTiat becomes, so far as I am 
concerned, his name. It has been presented to him, a free gift, 
and is therefore his. But it is to be noted that nothing you can 
offer anybody will be rejected with less hesitation ; if, indeed, the 
refusal be not accompanied by obloquy or even more objectionable 

Names thus gratuitously bestowed have, for some obscure 
reason, been named '' nick." They are really, however, surnames, 
just as Brown or Shakespeare are ; names^ that is, over and above 
those received at baptism. And surnames are nicknames. It is 
remarkable, therefore, that, while people go about complacently 
bearing one nickname, they should yet betray the utmost irritation 
if anoUier be given them. And this seems stranger still when we 
remember that those nick- or sur-names are not really theirs. They 
are Other People's Names, and their proprietors have long ago 
passed into other spheres, or forms, and doubtless been named 
afresh ; as Csesar, for example, who, according to some, is probably 
now known as Bung. 

But, much as we may wonder, it is certain that you will 
hardly secure a person's lifelong enmity more quickly than by 
offering him an improved nickname. You may reason with him ; 
show him beyond controversion that the other name is much more 
appropriate than that which has drifted upon him from weltering 


seas of darkness and ignorance, and which really belongs to some 
preposterous ancestor whom, were he to meet him, he would discard 
at sight; but you will convince him of nothing, except of your 
own impudence. Should he be so singularly amiable as to discuss 
the matter, he will tell you that it was his father's before him — as 
if that were argument. His forefather may have stood seven or 
eight on his own bare feet, and been fittingly called Big; but that 
does not justify him in demanding to be so called who never stood 
more than five or so in his tallest hat He will never agree with 
you ; as well offer him a new nose, which would be putting a slight 
upon the one he has, and, naturally enough, make him angry. 

No ; of names, as of noses, one is enough ; and a man is satis- 
fied, for the most part, to have that he found in the cradle in- 
scribed upon the brass in the cathedral Except, of course, in 
cases requiring particular consideration; for a considerable con- 
sideration the vast majority are prepared to take on Other People's 
Names — which, after all, is a much more sensible proceeding than 
taking them off. 

All this he will tell you — the man to whom you offer a name. 
But the Woman is another party altogether. The Woman, with 
that utter absence of scruple which gives her her supereminence, 
will pursue Other People's Names anywhere they like to go. The 
Woman will adopt one or more of them with the utmost alacrity, 
dexterity, and joy. The Woman, so far from rejecting Other 
People's Names with scorn and justifiable — if not homicide— con- 
tumely, will seize upon ihem as upon a splendid feather, stick 
them in her cap, wave and flaunt them in Hie eyes of the world. 
The Woman — ^so far as Other People's Names are concerned, the 
motherly woman will deride, tear off from her daughter the name 
she herself gave her, and label her with that belonging to some 
other motherly woman. There may be some element of self- 
sacrifice in — ^but we will proceed no further in this business. 

It has already been noted that there is little freedom of speech 
in connexion with Other People's Names individually considered. 
It would be unbecoming, therefore, to direct criticism on any name 
in its particular mass. So doing, we should be hurling stones in 
the dark, not knowing whom we might hurt. But it may be said 

PROSE, 1907 187 

without danger that some names are unhappy, so to speak. And 
with a great deal of time and space and other essentials at our 
disposal we should have been pleased to elaborate a scheme for the 
reform of the present absurd method of nomenclature. The basal 
principle of the scheme would be that boys and girls leaving school 
should be re-sur- or nicked-named according to the general im- 
pression he or she had left (if any) so far, or to any pleasing 
feature or trait After some such reform all persons might speak 
of their names as being really theirs, and of their "good names" 
and of Other People's good names. At present there is no such 
liberty, inasmuch as their names are not theirs, and very few of 
them good for any — amount. 

We are prevented also from dealing with the signing or writing 
Other People's Names, and from saying anything concerning read- 
ing Other People's Names, whether in the " Court Circular " or the 
modem "Newgate Calendar." The subject, indeed, spreads out 
like a swamp that would engulf us. 

For between Other People's Names and other people subsists a 
vast and intricate telepathic system, and the same message put on 
all the wires will awaken an infinite variety of emotions. And 
yet^ as we have seen, they are not theirs, and, granting that they 
are, it has been gravely questioned whether there is anything in 
them. It is very puzzling — ^like all the rest. 

p. H. MINT 


There is a theory abroad that Names have an origin in Noises. 
For myself I do not think that Adam was so caUed because he 
made a noise like an Adam. I remember reading in early days a 
Greek tale of a babe who was isolated, that its parents might study 
Instinctive Language ; but if I recall it rightly, the story had no 
satisfoctory conclusion ; and anyhow it was told by Herodotus, 
who was the Father of Lies and Brother of all black spirits, though 
his fantastic admirers may daub him with cheap whitewash. Thkto 
pretended in one of his dialogues that the Names of things had a 
serious derivative meaning. But he put this ludicrous theory in the 


mouth of a man who believed that you could not step into the same 
river once ; and, if a man will believe that, he will believe anything. 

I refrain from quoting the query put by William Shakespeare 
re the content of a Name. 

I fancy I have now made most of the conventional allusions 
and can get to work on my real contribution to literature. Sir 
Thomas Malory said of King Arthur that he " leaped upon a small 
hackney ** and rode off. I, like King Arthur, have used these 
small hackneyed remarks as my steeds that on them I may ride off 
into wider fields, or perhaps soar aloft into the empyrean if they 
will take to themselves the wings of a Pegasus. (Vide '* Encyclop. 
Britann.," $,v. Greek Mythology.) 

This Essay is not on My Name nor on Tour Name, but on the 
Names of Other People. Thus it will be my first duty to prove 
that there are no Other People. For, if there be any Two Things, 
they must be both like and unlike in being different ; and I gather 
from infallible logicians that such a condition of things is not 
possible. Then plainly there are no Other People; indeed, there 
is only I, and not even You ; for I am certain of Myself, and I 
was never quite sure of Tou. 

Then what are we to do with our Essay? Why, throw Logic 
overboard and begin again. 

Other People's Names are for a convenience to their friends : 
labels, titles, indices, handles. Useful in fatal accidents if written 
clearly on the shirt-tab or on the back of the collar ; in exhumations 
if stamped indelibly on the occiput or any other dear bone-space. 
There was once a man who had no Name and went to hunt the 

He would answer to Hi ! or to any loud cry, 
Such as Fry me ! or, Fritter my Wig ! 

But it was not a very satisfactory position for himself or for his 

In evidence of the truth of my observation note this poem ; for 
a poem will prove the truth of any lie, if it be sufficiently obscure : 

Two Dank Spirits went out for a walk 

Over hills of Coal and hills of Chalk. 

PROSE, 1907 1«9 

"Aha!" said the one; "I Hke this Coal; 
Its smutch, it smacks of a sinfol soul ! " 

"Fool," said his friend, "with your random talk I 
There Oflrt Fouih of Living Things in Chalk I ^ 

Two Dank Spirits came back from their strdl 
Over hills of Chalk and hills of Coal 

" This Chalk," said the one, "it likes not me ; 
Its Whiteness stinks of Purity ! " 

" Fool," said his friend, " with your random talk ! 
There we Fossils of Living Things in Chalk I " 

When the Moon was new and the Wind was still, 
Two Danknesses crouched on that Chalky hilL 

And one had a spade and the other an aze. 

And they worked till the sweat hissed down their backs. 

They found it at last : it was cold and hard, 
Y^th DiPHiL writ clear on its idsiting-card. 



Proverbs are proverbially fallacious. When the Preacher, in 
an endeavour to carve an epigram out of a platitude, wrote, " Dead 
flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking 
savour," and gave life to a belief which, sealed with the seal of 
Solomon, has come down to us unquestioned and absolute, he, 
unwittingly perhaps, set in motion one more wandering flame to 
join that innumerable array of false lights which float about the 
world for the misleading of mankind. For this principle, taken in 
its obvious application, will not, humanly speaking, stand the test 
of inquiry. It is what is known to Christian Science, I believe, as 
a " &lse claim." And however painful it must be to us to have to 
differ from so eminent an authority on any point, in the interests 
of truth we are compelled to point out the fallacy of this too 


common &ith in tlie ondedrabilitj of fliea in tlie dntmoit; to 
demonstrate that the dead fly not cnnly need not detract from the 
▼aloe, commercial or otherwise, of its onfortonate settings bat may 
quite oonceiyably be regarded as a positiTe asset 

Briefly stated, the principle underlying its application is the 
impossibility of happiness. Howeyer ardently we strive to com- 
pass that combined state of feeling and circumstance of which, 
perhaps, no entirely satisfactory definition yet exists, there is 
always $amethin^ — ^yes, there is alvfaffs something, some trifle, 
insignificmt in itself no doubt^ but assuming intolerable propor- 
tions in the light of the sense of injury its {M^sence inflames — that 
intruding at the last moment contrives to irritate and disconcert 
what otherwise we fancy would have been that supreme state of 
blessedness of which at rare moments our imagination is dimly 
capable of perceiring. We call it the fly in the ointment, and 
rail indifferently against Hhe fate that set it there, and our own 
impotrace in the matter of its removal. 

Now, has it never occurred to even the most sanguine amongst 
us that this last, so &r from being, as is fondly imagined, the one 
thing superfluous to our happiness, is in reality the one thing 
essential to it; not the uncaUed-for coping that threatens to 
over-topple the whole fabric, but the crowning touch, the apex of 
the pyramid, so to speakf For without that one irritant we 
might never have awakened to the possibilities of happiness that 
are ours already. We rarely understand how blest we are till 
something threatens to disturb our serenity. And by comparison 
only can the full measure of anything be properly gauged. Pro- 
portions are meaningless otherwise. The vastness of the ocean is 
best realised by observing the tiny speck an Atlantic liner makes 
on its expanse. And the spectacle of the dead fly best illustrates 
the immensity of the surrounding ointment. There are people — 
we use the indefinite term advisedly — who hold happiness within 
their reach for years without knowing it. Then, one fine morning, 
they behold the alien body sticking fast, and at once the imagina- 
tion is stimulated and the mind awakened, and with loud lamenta- 
tions they come triumphantly into their own. The apothecary 
might doze among Us drugs tiU Doomsday, totally oblivious of 

PROSE, 1907 181 

the precioQs ointmont doi?fy wasting away on a dusty Adt ox in 
MMM forgotten corner, did not bis startled nostrils siuidenly recall 
his indignant senses to the possession of Us long^n^lected treasure. 

To the thoughtful mind, too many illustrations will doubtless 
present tbemselves for a catalogue of them here to prove otherwise 
than tedious. One will suffice. We will suppose ourselves look- 
ing forward to a quiet, restful eyening, after a hard day. We 
have just settled down with our book or our thoughts, as the case 
may be, when that infernal piano next door starts tinkling. We 
are annoyed. Yet we never quite realised the blessedness of 
silence before. We never properly understood its inestimable balm 
while it was ours. The gift of the perfect appreciation is bom of 
the lack of the perfect possession. 

Of course it is always understood that the fly retains the 
precise dimensions as set out in the original scheme of Creation. 



A fly is but a small thing, and an ointment is a powerful 
sweetness. Let us appreciate the full force of the metaphcMr. 
lliat distilled fragrance of Araby the blest was shut in its jar, held 
down with waxed parchment, which, being split off, the Qenie 
q>rang forth, and with his ine£Eiftble presence fiUed the whole shop 
of that Pothecary. The customer's little vessel was filled, and ^e 
parchment carefully replaced, yet the unwary bluebottle had 
slipped inside and was already swooning. And a month later, 
when another veOed figure came seeking ointment of spinkenard, 
ftnd held out in henna-tipped fingers a little phial, the jar was 
again opened — pah ! what a savour of death ! 

The sweeter the perfume, the more unbearable the fault in it. 
If Desdemona had not been so entire and perfect a chrysolite, the 
fluspected flaw would not have appeared so ghastly. Haman 
eoonted all as nothing — wealth, position, consideration, and a 
seat at the queen's banquet — ^while Mordecai the Jew stunk in 
his nostrils. English people have proverbially a good nose for the 
fly in the ointment. They are not happy unless they can detect 
one. The writer once perambulated a fair country churchyard 


with a fair oountry girl iHio apparaiilj po ooeme d in this world aD 
that heart oocdd wish, yet she gaced around and said : ^'I do think 
it is a shame ! Yfhj dionld these Qriffithses haTe Hhe pick of the 

The Oriffithses were quiet enon^ under their three grassy 
mounds, which nothing particularly distinguished as a place of 
honour ; certainly the fair complainer did not want the place her- 
self, but the grieyanoe was there — 'twas not much, but it served. 

But a little folly in him that is in great reputation — ^ah, that 
is a stench indeed ! O Solomon, that one weakness in the man 
whose wisdom was and is the wonder of the world ! Wherefore 
that penchant for veils and henna, great king ? We should not 
have remarked it in Behoboam. But Solomcm, whose wisdom 
was proof against Sheba ; Solomon, who spake of all things from 
the hyssop to the cedar; Solomon, in aU his gloiy, sitting in 
Lebanon's palace, with pillars of sweet smoke rising around him — 
there was a fly in his ointment, a taint of folly in Us wisdom, and 
it availed to cut short his kingdom. O frail human nature, that 
compound of spirit and flesh, of mortal and immortal, soaring 
essence and heavy clog, strength and weakness, divinity and 
creature, life and death, ointment and fly. 



Miss Brown sat over her sitting-room fire. She had been alone 
in her flat since twelve o'clock, when Jane departed, radiant in a 
pink blouse and an amazing hat, carrying a white box tied up with 
red ribbon, which was Miss Brown's contribution to her Christmas 
iiinner. It had rained steadily all day, and in the afternoon a fog 
had crept up, shrouding everything in misery, till Miss Brown had 
lifted the lamps and drawn the curtains. She had read, she had 
worked, she had written letters, fighting against depression till 
eight o'clock, when she went into the kitchen to get her dinner, 
which Jane had left on a tray. The girl had be^ very grateful 
for her unlooked-for holiday, and had arranged the cold chicken 
very carefully with beetroot and celery, had put the mince-pies in 
a little glass dish, and added a vase filled with holly and mistletoe 

PROSE, 1907 188 

to give a f estiTe appearance ; she had not thought that the vase 
would give the last touch of cheerlessness to the funereal meal, and 
that Miss Brown, when she had toied to eat, would throw away 
pretences and let the ghosts of other Christmases creep round her. 

It was no good to toll herself that she was going away on 
Thursday and taking a new ball-dress with her ; no good to say 
that it was only by choice that she was alone, for Mrs. Rankin 
had pressed her to share their Christmas dinner. She remembered 
how in the old days the family had fought against having a 
stranger at Christmas, and she knew that the young Rankins 
would fight in the same way against her. No; loneliness and 
ghosts were better than such hospitality ! 

Her mind went back to the old house in Hi^^igate where they 
had grown up — always her idea of home. It was untidy and 
shabby, but they had been happy, and Christmas seemed always 
to have been an unclouded f estivd — ^thou^ there was a year when 
the turkey, by some terrible mischance, did not arrive and they 
had had to make their Christmas dinner off cold beef, and one 
when they all had whoofang-cough and could eat no sweets, 
because they made the coughs worse. There was a wonderful 
year, very long ago, when they had to wait till evening for their 
presents. Then a Christmas-tree, the first they had ever seen, 
burst on their enchanted gaze 1 Much later was the year when 
they were too old for trees and stockings, and gave their presente 
at breakfast in grown-up fashion. What children they were t 

Then came the Christmas when Aunt Mary asked her to Nice, 
and she went and sent back French presents and spring flowers, 
and ei^yed every minute, except for the horrid pang, on Christmas 
Eve, when she heard a middle-aged American say that when one 
ol a ftimily was once away at Christmas they never all met again 
for it She had tried to forget, but it had come back again and 
again, and — ^it was true ! The very next year Jim was engaged 
and spent Christmas with Helen's people; after that Marion 
married and went to India ; and this year, when they had hoped 
all to be tc^ther again, was the saddest of all, for they knew that 
now it could never be; so they left the old house, which was too 
largo for them, and drifted apart, one by one, till she was left 


alone, and could only send toys to the unknown children who 
made new homes for the bojs and gurls she rememhered. It made 
her feel very old and tired. 

At last the bell rang, and when Miss Brown opened the door 
Jane came in, while footsteps grew fainter and fainter as they 
passed downstairs. Jane was flushed and excited, and her arms 
were full ci a quaint o(dlection of untidy parcels, crackw-papers, 
and caps. She was evidently panting to show her treasures, so 
Hiss Brown went into the little kitchen, and looked — ^with well- 
feigned admiration — at the presents, all cheap, and nearly all 
useless, while she heard the adventures of the day. She received 
a formal message of thanks from Jane's mother for the box of pre- 
served fruit which she had sent^ and also heard the informal com- 
ments which had been made by the family, who had evidently 
admired it She was told at great length of the impudence of a 
strange postman who had passed remarks on the box, but when 
she regretted that she had not wrapped it in brown paper she 
found that Jane had dealt with him and passed on victorious, 
evidently ei^joying the encounter. She heard of all they had had 
for dinner — and tea — and supper ; what games they had played ; 
and how the butcher's young man had formed one of the party, 
and then Jane confessed shamefacedly that he had seen her home 
and given her a motto from a cracker : 

Tou have my heart 
Till death us part^ 

and when it was favouraUy received had produced a white card- 
board box, in which— enshrined in pink cotton-wool — was a gold 
brooch. This was decisive, and Miss Brown gave due ccmgratula- 
tion, for the butcher's young man was not only personable but 
steady, and had X26, 15s. 6d. in the Post Office Savings Bank, 
thougji Jane explained as she gathered up her treasures that "it" 
couldn't be for some years yet, till he was a foreman. 

Then at last Miss Brown went to bed, and Christmas was 
over. She was half amused, half touched, by the queer little 
romance, and Jane's evident happiness. She wondered dreamily 
what their future would be — and then — she had not wanted to 

PROSE, 1907 185 

go to Jane's mother's Christinas party, and she certainly had no 
desire for the batcher's young man; and yet it was on thdr 
account that she cried herself to deep. 



DiAJR Madam, — Has it ever happened to yon, in your 
wanderings in the wc^ld of literature, to admire a noTel, while 
failing to admire the noyelist's admirations t 

The case is quite possible. I admire "Shirley"; bat Char- 
lotte Bronte did not think (as I do) that Lonis Moore is a hqpeless 
ass. "Tom Jones" is a landmark in English literature; but 
Kelding did not think (as I do) that his hero ou^t to be shot 
at flight "Daniel Dcffonda" is a magnificent book (I can't 
understand the critics who think otherwise); but G^ecnrge Eliot 
did not think (as I do) that Dan is a walking T.M.C.A., with 
far too much private property in minor pn^etiea. Perhaps it 
is Hhe same perversity that makes me object to your pdnt of view 
concerning your own creations. 

I once met the Rev. James Oreeley. Some reviewer, I believe, 
said that no such person ever existed. But reviewers are fallible. 
I found him (the Rev. James) a quite endurable human being; 
and — I want to convert you. 

Of course you will say that it is a case of mistaken identity ; 
or pwhaps that I am altogether such a one as Archdeacon 
Thursby. Not quite. In fact, it was a theological explosion 
that enabled me to identify my man. An Anarchist in these 
things myself I happened to remark that "if you are not filled 
with a i^ofoand contempt for every organised form of Christian 
t each i ng, yon must be congenitally inci^ble of Christianity." 
The harmless remark was expressed with some of the iU-l^ed 
excitability of youth ; but I never dreamed of the explosion that 
was to f dlow. 

I have seldom eigoyed anything so much as the next three 
hours. What I love best in aU the world is what a college friend 
called a "theok)gical free fight" It was perfect, and my only 


regret wm that the Rev. James did not eigoy it as well as I did. 
To be quite caadid, he '^said things.'' I am a fanatical belierer 
in freedom of speech (including freedom to ''slate'') for other 
people, and I am still aliye. After all, his worst wrath fell on 
the onlncky third person, who admitted that I was unanswerable, 
when I tried to prove that he (the Rev. James) was a more 
thorough materialist than Haeckel and Huxley. As we both 
got tired, I even admitted things. After all, we can never be 
quite sure about the Universe. The savage tribe mentioned by 
Herbert Spencer who believe that rain is caused by the spitting 
of the gods upon the earth may be ri^t. So may the Rev. 
James. (He did not seem as grateful for the admission as I 
had expected.) 

Bo much for the Rev. James. Now for his wife. I have an 
overwhelming admiration (at a distance) for the Mrs. Oresleys 
of the world. In actual conversation I am apt to find them, as 
Leslie Stephen found John Ruskin, *'a highly explosive com- 
pound liable to go off without notice in any direction." No ideas 
of mine on theology, politics, ethics, women, or social order 
quite hit the marl^ and I find the interchange of stifled 
antagonisms trying. But this does not alter my admiration of 
the type. They are the real " Pillars of Society " (women who 
can still preserve an unmixed respect for the limitatioits of a 
very imperfect man are our real safeguards against race suicide). 
And in one vital point I am with Mrs. Oresley heart and soid. 
She was quite ri^t in disliking her sister-in-law. 

The really intolerant and intolerable orthodoxy of our day is 
the orthodoxy not of James, but of Lady Susan Oresley. It has 
a maddening ritual too. ("Dressing extremely well," in your 
vocabulary.) Its "services," I think, are not in the early morn- 
ing, but late at nig^t. There are "worms who go in at back 
doors," toa (" Outsiders " is the technical name, I think, not 
^Dissenters.") Tou can even find ungrammatical preachments 
of i^ cult in almost every journal for women written in a 
ghastly euphemistic jargon which is Greek to the mere man. 
(I read a description wherein a lady's garments were suspended 
horn her shoulders by a "(irsam" ! of chiffon, I think.) 

PROSE, 1907 187 

Now this other Athanasian Cieed, with its terrible list of 
damnatory clauses, is the real accursed tiiiiig. It brings not 
peace bat a sword, dividing the brother from the sister, and the 
husband from the wife, and (above all) the mothw-in-law from 
the daoghter-in-law. My compliments, Mrs. Gresley ! — Sincerely 
yours, b. b. cbookx 


Qive me pork and a nightmare, a good, burly nightmare. 
Not one of your soft, golden-lily dreams, where all comes right, 
or ratiier nothing is ever wrong. These are but idle^ enervating 
luxuries, like the Bounteous Isle of Maeldune ; the nightmare it 
is that energises, that shows what is latent in the man (beside 
his supper). Whether one has suddenly found oneself in the 
drawing-room in shirt and socks only, and has to exercise 
unwonted ingenuity in making shift with an antimacassar, or has 
had to brace oneself to face a dimly seen but surely approaching 
Something, of nature unknown but certainly malign; in every 
form the nightmare is the stimulating, soul-developing dream, and 
th& night-rider will awake next day ennobled^ and refreshed in 
spirit, if not in body. 

Look at little Brown, whose " peak " is the office stool when he 
has to get a ledger from the top shelf, and he likes some one to 
give him a hand down. Follow him home ; watch him through 
his supper sausage, and the hunk of cheese thereafter. Then go 
vnth him through the grey gate, and, lo ! he, the insignificant, 
timorous Brown, of the ten-and-sixpenny trousers, is warily squirm- 
ing his way along a precipitous ledge, that narrows through a dim 
mist to the edge of an unibthomable crevasse. Next day is not 
Brown a better man because he, like Odin, has hung over Niflheim t 
Has he not there, like Odin, learned wisdom before undreamt-of 
(note the phrase, for it is a testimony to the "revealing" in 
dreams, as our fathers also testified), as he gazed down into feet and 
feet and feet of nameless terror, and, finally, O glorious Brown, 
when there was no more path and he could crawl no farther, and 


itiU it pressed behind, launched himself nnsostuned into the view- 
less Tapoor, and — awoke t 

Or Jones. Yesterday Jones jost missed his tndn. He tried 
to board it^ but porters laid hold of him, and his hat was knocked 
off and Idl on the platform. While he dusted it they abused him, 
and the crowd left the stricken deer and smiled superciliously two 
yards away. Then Jones was hot and red, and the next train was 
an unconscionable time a-coming. To^lay the porters eye him, but 
he jauntily lights his pipe, and quails not The secretf YThj 
lastj^ij^t Jones came to that same station, and finding the gate 
shut^ he flew over it, and chased, yea, and overtook, the retreating 
train, careless of millions of monstrous '* Stand-aways," and dived 
head first through the last carriage-window, safe and sound (though 
the close-fitting dream-tunnel did its utmost to shear off his pro- 
jecting hind-legs). Ah t glorifying nightmare ! thou hast set the 
foot of Jones upon the neck of all porterdom for ever. The 
^'sweet" dream, too, has its use, but after toil and strife, when 
the nightmare, in Hegelian phrase, has gone over into its Other. 
I mind one dream, wherein I was chased by myriad wolves, and, 
leaping a ravine, with pine-trees and a moon at the head of tiie 
gorge, and a white tcHrrent sounding far below, I fell short and 
bowered in the thicket^ while interminable wolves flew overhead. 
And all at once, as I lay panting, a voice cried thus : 

The Trail came by enchantment, 

By slopes of magic music from the heaven, 

and I lay at peace in a broad, hollow lawn, whose path glimmered 
away into the moon that had become an ineffable ^ory ; and I 
saw, as I listened to the long poem, the Divine Trail that led 
down from earliest ages through all human history, even to the 
present ; nor could the last line, in a well-marked American accent, 

The Trail ends right here, 

avail to disconcert me. 

But the greatest revelation is given in the " FUrsichseyendes.'' 
nightmare, the nightmare that knows itself as such, and so tran- 
scends itself, bringing the calm, not of indolence, but of an assur- 
edly conquering strife. In this I know that the evil has no more 

PROSE, 1907 189 

power than my own fear allows it ; I make it powerless by calming 
my own apprehension, and the triumph of mind over matter is 
complete. Of old, one wolf would have nosed me ont, and I should 
have fled from one unavailing shelter to another till the daybreak. 
At a later stage I could have willed that they should not find me, 
but coold not have prevented their return, to cross and recross the 
ravine all night long, while I ** itrained " them away from where I 
crouched in an agony beneath them. As it was, with an effort of 
8^-realising will I created for them a forest and banished them 
therein for ever. 

So, too, I used to flee through thick day, with leaden boots, 
from tramps, and hide in a drainpipe by the roadside, and there 
crouch till they looked down, and then with all my mighty I would 
desperately punch their pulpy faces, and awake shouting *^ Boo ! '* 
But now my nightmares threaten to be as tame as a wwld of 
miracles ; I know that I can outwit my tramps, and — they never 
look down, 

Tet sometimes, after an extra wgy, the old horror comes, and 
now, the highest lesson of all, I forego my power, and suffer them 
to find me, that I may thrill with fierce suspense, and once again 
nwve myself to punch them. 

This, then, is the use of a dream, to awaken, and [nrepare 
against the hour of need, that which else in this dull world would 
perish, those dormant faculties of ingenuity, enterprise, endurance, 
which thus from time to time emerge from their torpid staUe 
to gallop gaily forth with the nightmare ; so that to the dreamer 
are revealed suspense and strife, streng^, victory, and the peace 
of overcoming, which in this '' day-life " he may never know. 

It is late ; to one and all, a good nightmare. 



'* light " was the adjective used by the Vicar in describing the 
refreshments to be offered at the Choir Social; and lively were 
the speculations raised in the mind of one hearer at least as to 
how much might be expected from this dubious expression. 


" What do'ee call light t"hB inqmred of his siBter. ** Lemonade 
and buna, or blnmmonge and tartot" 

"How do I knowT' she retorted. "Pr'aps plum-cake and 

''That's all kiff/' he said. 

Daring the various items of the programme the Boy was 
occupied in casting surreptitious glances at the tables arranged at 
the side of the room. His mother had forbidden this, remarking 
that it was ''an unmannerly trick"; but her son attempted 
obedience with only partial success. 

At last the interval was announced, and the Boy waited on the 
other guests with alacrity. His mind was tranquil, his i^petite 
keen — "light" meant not merely macaroons, but also beef-patties 
and sausage-rolls. 

His duties finished, he helped himself to a patty and sank into 
a chair. Gently he pressed the pastry into his cup of tea; 
thoughtfully he ate the mixture, like soup, with a spoon. Some 
sausage-roDs, treated likewise, proyed even more alluring; and 
afterwards followed meringues, macaroons, sponge-fingera^ chocolate- 
biacuits, cocoanut-knobbies, and other cakes. 

But the Boy had not yet reached the supreme moment, which 
only came when his crumlnlotted cup was filled with coffee, and a 
wedge of plum-cake stirred into it until it acquired the consis- 
tency of porridge. He leaned back in his chair. He was content 
He had other things afterwards, but that was the height of bliss. 

The Boy was young. Ten minutes later no voice was lustier 
than his, as he sang of Peter Piper and the picking of his pickled 
pepper. kat 


That it is desirable for my young friends to show Kindness and 
Forbearance to their fathers and mothers, in spite of foolish and 
inconsiderate behaviour on the part of the latter, is shown by the 
following story : — 

Eliza and Gerald Conwell, aged respectively nine and seven, 
were two charming children. Their father and mother were 
singularly h a rm le s s, even attractive^ persons; the one absorbed in 

PROSE, 1907 141 

fldentific inTostigationSt the other in the mannfaotnre of gannents 
soitaUe for the wear of our hero and heroine. It wiU be seen 
that the young Eliza and Gerald were enabled to follow their 
natural instincts for free development with little hindrance from 
their parents. Nevertheless, those parents wore not neglected; 
the dnlnees of their winter evenings was freqnenUy enlivened with 
the sprightly talk and cheerful converse of the youthful pair. The 
study of P^fessor Conwell was their favourite resort. In his 
crucibles and stills they would concoct ddicious toffee with which 
to regale their favoured parents. 

One night as they entered laden with sugar, nuts, butter, and 
treacle, their father displayed some peevishness. ^* Eliza and 
Gerald," he pleaded, "for this one 'night allow me to pursue my 
lesearches in solitude.'' The children paused ; emotions of leniency 
soQght their breasts. "Why not indulge our father for tiiis 
oncet" murmuredi the soft-hearted Gerald. But Eliza's sterner 
feminine soul crushed down the tender impulse. " We wish your 
good only, father,'' she replied, and taking his well-filled crucible 
from the stove she gentiy but firmly poured its contents into the 
ashes, replacing them by the ingredients for the customary sweet- 
meat| with which in due time the fractious parent was consoled. 
The sohice was but temporary, however. Next morning Eliza and 
Gerald learnt to their grief that the rejected decoction was the 
fruit of long investigations approaching completbn, the issue of 
idiich would have brought a fortune to the unlucky children, 
whose father, reduced to despair by the failure of his hopes, 
surrendered the endeavour to discover a new element, and retired 
to the workhouse, leaving to our young hero and heroine the task 
of supporting their bereaved mother. oamkl 


It was Tommy's birthday ; the day was fine and frosty, and he 
and Willie were excitedly expecting a beautiful slide on the frozen 
pond. But, after breakfast, their father (who was one of those 
men who anticipate their children's wishes) said : " My sons, the 
ice is too thin for sliding to-day ; you must occupy yourself in some 


olher manner tkis afternoon, and I tmat jon wiD find some oeciqpa- 
tion whidi is oaefol and agreeable to otheia." ''Tee, father," re- 
plied Willy and Tommy; ''it is always our pleasure to obey yon." 

So that afternoon Tommy and WiUy set out on a difforent scad 
f r<»n that which led to the pond ; and, making a rapid detour, 
reached it in time to enjoy an hoar's sliding with their friends. 
Now, contrary to all precedent, the ice did not Ineak, and the 
disobedient children were not drowned. It was their fortune to 
return home punctually and in safety. 

It happened in the evening that their father found Tommy 
alone in Uie sdioolroom, and, with all the affection of one who has 
eigoyed a good dinner, cried, "Well, my boy, have you had a 
happy birthday t" "Yes, papa," replied Tommy, "for I have 
been good." "Why, where did you go this afternoon t" asked his 
father. " Oh, father," cried he, " we plucked and took wild flowers 
to poor old Mrs. Simpkins ; it was a joy at once to see her sad 
face lighten at the fragrance of the blossoms and to know that we 
were unselfish in our pleasures." 

At that moment WlUy entered the room, and, seeing his father, 
cried, "Thinking, papa, that our conduct would please you and 
benefit ourselves. Tommy and I stayed at home and endeavoured 
to learn the fifty-first Ftolm : the effort was great but valuable." 

" Ah, my sons," replied their father, " I shall now proceed to 
punish you ; partly because it is evident that you have disobeyed 
my wishes, and partly because you have told me falsehood ; but 
more especially because you have been so improvident in neglecting 
to invent a consistent tale." 

To Children: Lie with Caution. 




8.8. AT Yokohama 

I am going to risk your doctor's anger; and I'm sure your 
voyage will have pulled you together enough to learn, without 
nerve-exdtement, of the most unlooked-for and welcome godsend 
that ever delighted an artist's heart ! — a set of Diirers, come to 

PROSE, 1907 148 

;m>nextnioc di paryiiMmn0r(Iaendyottaoinectttti^ Tkgj 
ue some preptraAory stadieB, and more or kes finished pen-«nd-ink 
diawbgB, designed to iUnslrate the **Diyina OommediA." Whj 
there are only a few I will tell you later (according to my gness). 
No donbt a big work was intended, but Dvbrer got no farUier than 
the Inferno, ezcqpt for one scene from the Pnrgatorio, of which 
more presently. They belong, no doubt^ to the period <A the 
"Qreen Passion/' the medium of which he copies in this series, 
only his background tint is brown — Dante's special cdour. (You 
remember 'U'aer bruno," the brown wayes, and *' bruna-brtma " 
Lethe— not a negation of colour, as Buskin imagines, but a 
genuine Italian brown.) The '^Tedesco luroo,'' or ** guzzling 
Gennan," has a happy colour sympathy with the Divine Poet 
Heightened with white body-colour, it is most effectiye, and gives 
at once the Berne of mystery and ^oom which Dante's words 
respire. First comes a ^etch of Dante weeping at the gate ol 
HelL He, with his guides is just through the dreadful portal 
Virgil's hand-grip is itself a masterpiece. While he looks upward 
and forward, Dante, like a frightened diild, looks backward and 
down. The contrast is not too marked, but still pointed. The 
min^^dng of horror and pity is supremely done ; but where in the 
poem pity predominates, in Diirer the horror which was ''as a 
coronal" to Dante's brows is the mastering expression of the 
whole features. Here is one of those divergencies between painter 
and poet whkh have so deep an interest. The background is filled 
by dim forms of the ever-eddying ''Lukewarms," drivmi on by 
clouds of hcmaets, all minutely figured — ^perhaps over-minutely. 
Next there is a fine study of Farinata, half-emerging from his fiery 
tomb — Farinata whose "contemptor animus" could find scorn 
even for the hell where he is tormented. In the same tomb rises, 
crouching^ the shadow of Cavalcanti, puzzled and bewildered. 
Dante's gaze is intent upon the proud and contemptuous Qhibel- 
line. The grouping here is admirable, with none of Diirer's over- 
crowding. The next work of importance (though all are of deepest 
interest-Hlid I say that I went post-haste to Vienna to see themt) 
is a series of studies for (Jeiyon, who seems to have given a lot of 
trouble 1 There are sev€iral studies for his tail, and the ahaggy 


pawB give splmdid soc^ for the minute woric ahown in the 
''Hare'' (no jest intended); the ''knoto and eirclets" on bieast 
and flanks remind one of the rhinoceros sketch in the Museonu 
Perhaps the feature which seems te have gi^en Diirer most 
pleasure is the sinnons corves of the monster, which indeed go 
carving oat of the . picture, and show the detightfol charm of 
incompleteness which yon get in the '' Prodigal Son's " farmyard. 
A magnificent group is given by the scene with the ''Barrator" 
Ciampolo, trembling, but cunning, amid the Demons. Dante 
stends apart from his hated escort; Yirgil mournfully questions 
the piteh-covered thief; GraflSacane stands glowering over his 
" fresh-speared ottw " ; Ciriatto is even now using his cruel tusks ; 
"Dragon-face" and "HeU-hawk" are striking their victim. 
Diirer, you will notice (have you your Dante with you?), groups 
together these successive actions, overriding the necessary limita- 
tions of narrative (see your "Laocoon") and gaining an effect 
striking enough, though I must say that here Dante is better : the 
torturing demons one mangling an arm, one a leg, of the " poor 
mouse fallen among evil cats," give an impression of cumulative 
horror which poetry by its very limitetions avoids. A splendid 
nude study is Gaiaphas, stretched across the road. Here Diirer 
has really made a prqpOTti<m-study, though he strangely imbues 
the Hypocrite with just a touch of the chained Prometheus. So far 
the Inferno ; but there is one more picture — on rose-tinted paper 
—of highest interest Seven studies have been found, as if Diirer 
must needs complete the mystery number before going on to this 
special effort. The subject is Beatrice — Beatrice at length un- 
veiled, turning up(m her worshipper the light of her "emerald" 
eyes, and of her " holy and inefbble " smile. There are only the 
two figures ; the "too rapt" look of Dante meeto shamefacedly the 
divine glance of Beatrice, a glance filled at once with unspeakable 
piety, and also breathing the sense of angelic aloofness from misery 
and pain. 

lo son fatte da Dio, sua meroe, tale 
Che la vostra miseria non mi tenge. 

One would naturally look to compare Beatrice with some of 
Dtirer's Madonnas, but I see no similarity, and were this an 

PROSE, 1907 145 

(migiiial it wonld be a profound sQccees; but — and it is a Ug 
"bat" — be baa set bimseif to paint from Dante, and tbongb my 
instincts are first witb tbe artist, I must confess tbat Dilrer bas 
billed to present anytbing like one's idea— from Dante's words — 
of what Beatrice was. 

Tbe interest in tbese drawings to me is largely artistic, but also 
largely psycbologicaL It was a matcbing of genius against genius. 
Dilrer set bimseif not to illustrate Dante, but to outdo bim. Tbis 
last attempt seems to bave been acknowledged by its autbor as a 
failure. He did no more— so far as we know— from tbe "Gom- 
media." Tbe Apocalypse, Passions, and Lives of tbe Virgin pro- 
vided an easier, if not less insprin^ tbeme ; and be seems to bave 
put down bis pen in tbe zenitb of bis career, in tbe confession tbat 
tiie task was beyond even bis powers ! Vieuti Florentine t we can 
bear bim saying. For my part, I bold bim in no way tbe lesser 
genius tbat be failed. e. i. b. 


Rome, Aug%at 1, 1907 

My DBAS , — Of course you bave beard of tbe new Diirer 

drawingst A poor art student bappened to see tbem among a 
beap of torn and smudged Academy studies — tbe refuse of tbe 
Roman art scbools — on an old bookstall outside tbe cburcb of San 
Luigi dei Francesi, and be bougbt tbem for twenty centesimi. 
Tbat was tbree days ago. An American offered bim some fabulous 
sum for tbe precious tbree of tbem yesterday, but be refused to 
part Tbey say be is waiting for a wire from Pierpont Morgan, 
and certainly be seems to be a young man witb a keen eye to tbe 
main cbance. He is cbarging fifty centesimi admission to bis 
dingy studio in tbe Via Margutta, and be will not let you off 
witbout an inspection of bis own vile daubs. If be is taken up by 
astbetic ducbesses and lionised, as is most probable, it wiU not 
take bim six montbs to become a popular portrait-painter. His 
room was full of people yesterday morning, and tbe Prix de Romq 


men from the Villa Medid were th^re en nM$$e. They all think 
tiie drawings are perfectly genuine, and I am inclined to agree 
with them, although I have not yet been able to look at them 
closely with a glass. 

There are two charcoal sketches and one pen drawing; all 
three are signed A.D., with the small D inside the A, and dated 
1512, and they seem to be illustrations for Dante's *^Diyina 
Commedia." The pen-drawing represents Count Ugolino and his 
sons and nephews in prison. The background is washed in Indian 
ink, and there is a faint suggestion of barred windows. Hie 
pose of the old man stooping oyer the boys huddled at his feet 
is very natural and convincing. You know Diirer's exquisite 
finish and his delicate treatment of hair, and fur, and wrinkles ; 
Ugolino wears a fur cape and a gold chain like a German burgher, 
and his long beard is very characteristic of the master's style. 
The snub-nosed, flap-eared children are unfinished, and no Italian 
would have chosen such models ; but, then, no Italian could have 
made them beautiful by sheer force of technique. 

The larger of the two charcoal drawings is evidently intended 
to illustrate the famous line : 

Quel giomo piu non vi leggemmo avante. 

I think the artist put it aside as a waster when it was half 
done, as though the figure of the unhappy Francesca is drawn 
carefully and in detail there is no background whatever, and the 
hindquarters of a stout Flemish horse with a plaited tail appeitf in 
the left-hand comer with some smudges and a meaningless scribble 
of Indian ink. Does not this suggest to you that Diirer made a 
study for one of the centaurs who would appear in an iUustration 
for the twelfth canto of the " Inferno " and tried his pen on tiiis 
sheet of paper t The lovers were seated side by side with the laige 
book resting on their knees, but only Francesca remains, and 
she is unfortunately rather blurred. She is a large, coarse-looking 
woman with a double chin, and she wears an elaborate dress with 
loose hanging sleeves and a chemisette of fine-drawn muslin. 
Bossetti would have shuddered at her, and so would Bume- Jones, 
but she is admirably well drawn, and the complicated folds of her 

PROSE, 1907 147 

draperies are perfect. I can fancy Rnskin going into polysyllabic 

raptures over her finger-nails, and D. G. R. covering her heavy, 

meaningless face with one slim brown hand that his eyes might 

not be offended by so much as a glimpse of it I heard a yonng 

American sculptor saying, "eighteen stone if she weighs an 

onnce " ; but no one encouraged him in his flippancy. The third 

drawing is a study of an angel on grey paper, shaded in charcoal 

and touched up with white chalk. The spread wings are worked 

m detail to the last feather — a miracle of finish — and the draperies 

are Diirer at his best. For the rest I say nothing. He could not 

portray a beautiful woman, much less an angel ; the face is hard 

and heavy, with long flaccid cheeks and common ears, and the 

ankles and feet are rather those of a tramp, misshapen through 

wearing other people's old boots. I hope to go to the studio in 

the Via Margutta again to-morrow early, and I shall take a strong 

glass with me. They may be clever forgeries, and I am not 

going to rush into print on the subject until I have made a few 

more inquiries about their present owner; Old Masters are so 

often faked here— and if pictures, why not sketches? The man 

who keeps the bookstall outside San Luigi should be questioned, 

as he must have bought the drawings at some sale : there are 

wonderful accumulations of old books and papers in the libraries 

of some of these Roman palaces, and if they could be traced back 

even a little way their value would be enormously increased. As 

it is, I doubt if Mr. Morgan will take them without a pedigree of 

some sort, but we shall see . m. d. dalton 


I often wonder what my Bread must think of me ; I am some- 
times inclined to fancy that it despises me ; but I comfort myself 
with the reflection that it is not the same Bread day by day, and 
that its amazement has no time to turn to familiarity and con- 

I am its chief excitement ; apart from me it sleeps in the cup- 
board, but in its waking hours my table is its Universe and I its 
Qod. There may be patient times in the morning when the 


Univerae is Gkxlless; tbose hours of waitiiig it consumes in 
thoog^tfol anticipation ; but at the last there comes a season when 
I dawn upon its world, and the Ritual begins. 

It watches me while I cronch oirer the fire and stir Uie 
porridge : it sees me poor it out into a bowl, adorn it with salt 
and milk — and the porridge is no more. It gazes fascinated while 
I sip my scalding tea, and trembles with anxiety when I hold aloft 
my knife. 

The Bread is one Whole no more ; it is a mutilated Most and 
a Piece ; and the Piece feels its face growing brown and warm as 
it stares at the fire, impaled on a cruel three-pronged fork. All 
hot, it is deluged with a melting mass of yellow butter. 

The Bread is no more divided ; it is only a mutilated Most ; and 
soon it is put to sleep again in the cupboard, and wakes at noon to 
find its broken side stiff and stale. Four times a day is the Rite 
performed with variations ; and each successive time the Bread has 
more to wonder at and less to wonder with. 

This from the Bread's point of view; for myself, I love 
a Solitary Meal. I have known restless people who are doomed to 
eat in loneliness — they call it doom — and who solace themselves 
with a newspaper at breakfast and a book propped up on the jam- 
pot at tea. This is to n^ect the essence of a meal. Ask such 
a one, as he leaves the table, what has been his fare, and he will 
gaze at you blankly and say he does not know ; he has eaten and 
is satisfied ; that is all. I can hear the Bread laughing scornfully 
through its indignant tears. 

Give me no book, no paper ; give me just my Lonely Food ; 
and there will come dreams of fair things fashioned in the sugar, 
visions of pure places carven in the ham; sweet memories will 
ripple to greet me in the milk. 

I revere Jack Homer ; he knew the joy of clasping tight to his 
soul — no vulgar plum — but the pure delights of Solitude in Eating. 
" What a good boy am I ! " Ah ! yes. Jack, you in your comer, 
and I in mine, are better men that we have drawn our golden 
reverie from a Solitary Meal 

I fancy that in Purgatory the Souls under probation dine at 
a long common table ; and there is ceaseless chatter of an empty 

PROSE, 1907 149 

kind. And I think that the Angels sup each at his separate 

board, curtained from one another's curious gaze. 

So I am far from agreeing with that old Persian poet who 


A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou 
Beside me singing in the Wilderness, — 
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! 

For I can dispense with Thee and Thy song, gladly; and even 
wine is a superfluity. My Paradise is little beside a Loaf of 
Bread, so it be alone. 

Bread, are you leering at me t Give me a knife that \ may 
cleave your Crust ! w. d. p. hill 


I suppose the most stupendous solitary meal on record is 
that legendary one of the crocodile who gave, indeed, a dinner-par^y, 
to which he invited many guests, but for which, with wily foresight 
and no little humour, he provided no ''baked meats," though 
accounting for many funerals. For he made such a happy selection 
of predatory members of his visiiing-list that the course of the 
feast — tables being found empty — ran thus : The frog became the 
dinner of the duck, the duck of the fox, the fox of the Ijrnx, the 
lynx of the leopard, the leopard of the wolf, and the wolf of the 
lion, so that by the time the host, having thus served his guests to 
their satisfaction, was ready for his own solitary meal upon the 
king of beasts, that monarch had nicely packed inside him, like so 
many graduated Chinese-boxes, the whole of the dinner-party — 
himself excepted ; he, being duly devoured, producing this anomaly 
— ^which has some suggestion about it of a riddle as well as a 
Chinese puzsde — that the crocodUe dined upon his own dinner- 
party ! The question certainly arises whether one could call such 
a meal solitary, accompanied as it would be by the violent pro- 
testation of victims ; but most distinctly the crocodile dined alone 
(as I imagine all predatory creatures prefer to do), unless dining 
upon 1^ living be a matter of " two is company.'' Three in such 


case wonld appear to be considered bad company ; one need only 
watch the early bird and worm threatened with a guest to Iveakfast 
to be quite sure of that. The suggestion herein involved and 
conclusion to be drawn is, then, that the objection to company at 
Meals only disappears with the predatory habit — viz. when 
civilisation has so far slackened the tension of competition as to 
differentiate between appetite and greed. Whether man and the 
creatures he has domesticated alone have reached this stage one 
dare hardly pronounce ; but I suppose even ants do not sit at table, 
and one bee will oust another from the coveted nectar-well of 
a flower. Even the tamed and half-tamed creatures betray an 
irritable and unsociable frame of mind at meals forced upon them 
in common — vide the bickering concourse of sparrows when crumbs 
are spread and the confidence with which the daintily stepping and 
very exclusive robin will watch his opportunity to feast thereon 
alone. Even so the most ingenious of kittens will prefer a saucer 
to itself, and the cat, compact of wisdom, usually secures one. 
N(»r does one expect the horse or ass to share manger or nosebag 
or the exalted dog his bone. Gregarious sheep and kine browse 
together in peace, it is true, under the beneficent rule of plenty, 
which is ever apt to quell enterprise even in quarrelling ; and yet 
what sheep or what cow has not the effect of taking a solitary, 
unsociable meal in its populated pasture-land ? 

I suppose the departure from solitary meals begins essentially 
with the family-party of young requiring to be fed in the nest or 
lair; but that is only episodic in the life of animals tamed or 
untamed, and rather curiously does not appear to influence their 
prevalent disposition to invite no guest to dinner — even sister, 
aunt, or cousin. 

Apparently only man has taken a hint from the family-party 
necessitated during immaturity, although the hint in his case is less 
obvious than in any other ! And now what he began doubtless 
as a matter of convenience, and continued from prudential and 
economic reasons, he insists upon as a matter of course ; or when 
he thinks about it conceives as a condition which may include two 
of three fine arts — e.g. the fine arts of cooking, of conversation, of 
conviviality, of hospitality. (The last should have been firsts since 

PROSE, 1907 151 

it probably came first in order of time, and owes its earliest and 
still its most beantifnl practice to the earliest civilisation— of the 

Now, since these fine arts have accrued for ages to the meal 
sociable, the pertinent question arises whether solitary meals incur 
their utter absence ? Alas ! yes — with one exception ; for only the 
fine art of cooking can survive the restriction of solitude, and the 
solitary meal would seem to suffer the degradation of being at best 
inartistic — unless one could construct and bring it to a climax with 
the consummate fine art of the crocodile. 



Let us begin with a fragment of dialogue from " Some Emo- 
tions and a Moral '' : 

''The fact is, the artistic temperament ought not to marry," said 

'' Geniuses are never practical," agreed her aunt. 

De Quincey somewhere remarks on the enormous amount of 
error enshrined in popular antitheses ; he might have added that it 
is the most ineradicable of all types of popular error. Take this 
implied opposition between the "practical" and the "artistic" 
temperament. The fallacy always exists at a certain mental 
stratum, and will not uproot The charge of " unpractical," when 
brought against you by people like Cynthia's aunt, may mean three 
things : (a) It may be the immoral person's way of describing a 
higher morality than his own. Any kind of decent civic govern- 
ment is " unpractical " from Mr. Richard Croker's standpoint ; any 
kind of decent artistic conscience is " unpractical," to Cynthia and 
her aunt, (b) " Practical " may be the word applied to the un- 
fortunate limitations which spring from too much doing and too 
little thinking. In this sense, to be "practical" is no more 
meritorious than to have a " bicycle back " — in fact, it may be 
defined as the ''bicycle back" of certain types of mechanical 
action, (e) Lastly, the word "practical" may be applied to the 


kind of imagination that enables us to plan things — the gift that 
wins Waterloo or baUds the Forth Bridge. 

Now, in this last sense of the word, " practical " qualities are 
more wanted in literature than in anything else. Let any one who 
doubts this read Stevenson's " Lantern-Bearers,'' that little miracle 
of accomplishment in the art of presenting a difficult thought 
The amount of constructiye talent and ingenious dovetailing of 
means to ends shown in it would probably furnish all the brains 
manifested on our side in the South African war, and leave a good 
helping over. I doubt if Napoleon had practical ability enough to 
write ''The Ring and the Book." Mr. Gladstone certainly had 
not enough to write '' Arms and the Man." 

So much for one bom of the antithesis. Now for " the artistic 
temperament" I fully agree with the Philistine who regards it as 
a nuisance. It is a form of colour-blindness to the Qolden Rule, 
a failure to recognise certain outstanding facts of life, a pathetic 
conviction that our neighbour is not a poet and an artist too. The 
people who suffer from it are sometimes men of genius, as Thomas 
Carlyle and Samuel Coleridge; sometimes very conscientious 
workers, like Qeorge Gissing ; sometimes humbugs and good-for- 
nothings, like James Gates Percival and Will Ladislaw. Its 
victims may all be known by certain unchanging articles of their 
creed. They all believe, like Gwendolen Harleth, in their own 
superiOT sensibility, and that it makes them unintelligible to other 
people ; and they all flatly disbelieve Dr. Johnson's dictum that 
*' a man is seldom so innocently employed as when he is making 

Subjectively considered, I believe the artistic temperament to 
be a ''blind spot," hiding from its possessor the beauty and signi- 
ficance of certain forms of life. Gissing was, in his narrow way, 
a thinker and an artist. But some strange one-sidedness blinded 
him to the fact that the suburban grocer's shop is just as romantic 
a battlefield as the ringing plains of windy Troy. Thomas Carlyle 
was a man of genius, who could not see at short range. Fot any 
distance short of a century the artistic temperament smoked his 
glass. In short, I agree with Cynthia that the artistic tempera- 
ment ought not to marry. Or rather — lady novelists are too fond 

PROSE, 1907 158 

of earmarking ineligibles, in defiance of notorious statistioa — it 
ought to reform. The proper thing to demand of the artistic 
temperament is Clara Middleton's question : Can U not be cured f 

I believe it can. Let as begin by opening the patient's eyes to 
the fact that his complaint \a not unique. Every one has suffered 
oace in his life from it The complaint is everywhere. The 
timber merchant's clerk wants to go into the Church and become 
a gentleman. That is his form of the artistic temperament. 
Sterne is '* moricUiter aeger de mea tixore,*' That is Sterne's way 
of catching the disease. The domestic servant stays out till twelve 
o'clock on Sunday night — the artistic temperament again. All 
schoolboys suffer from it — if they are let. And there is at least 
(me person whose artistic temperament takes the form of an in- 
vincible belief that *' the gods have called him " (editors have not), 
and that his unique powers are completely wasted in failing to 
make the schoolboy a lover of the Humanities. We are all alike. 
We all want| like Lowell, to " wander off into infinite space and 
be free at one stroke from prosaic serfdom to respectability and 
the regular course of things." But it will not do. Some one must 
make boots ; some one must bring round the milk ; some one must 
teach the young idea. A saner civilisation than ours will plant an 
isolation hospital for confirmed victims of the artistic temperament. 



Tou know, directly the hall-door opens, that from the cakes up 
to the Conjurer and Father Christmas things will all be quite 
different from Everyday. This feeling begins in the nursery when 
you put on unaccustomed silk stockings and white shoes. The 
dark drive in a fly is an adventure to be proud of afterwards, 
though at the time suggestive of " face to the comer till you're 
good." Directly you get to Sybil's house, you hope you may sit 
next to Alice in Wonderland or a Princess at tea ; they are much 
more likely than Conjurers and Father Christmas, anyway. Tou 
meet mother and nurse by accident. 

Sybil's house before this always seemed rather daylighty and 


fall of ladies in bonnets. Now it is glittering with gas, and the 
floor is so slippery that it makes your white shoes seem very self- 
willed. Billy and Geoffrey, when you speak to them, don't look 
at all like Everyday. Perhaps the Conjurer or a Fairy Godmother 
has been altering them, and they aren't quite finished. How can 
the butler walk about so quietly ? Perhaps he wears goloshes, or 
has furry feet like cook's cat. 

The cakes are pink and sugary, but somehow tea is easier in a 
mug. The Ck>njurer won't give you the rabbit he found in Sybil's 
father's hat; he just throws it away, as if rabbits were quite 
common. After tea, you have presents off a tree^ shiny, and quite 
too beautiful to touch. Bef<»e all the others have got their 
presents, your legs have grown much too short for the chair. 
Sybil's house is too light and glittering; you see nurse and don't 
mind going home to bed. In ike morning you make up a lot more 
about the party, as if it were a fairy tale. 



The word teeth " surprises by himself " natural teeth and false 
teeth, which may belong to me or to somebody else. Each class 
may be subdivided into " fixed " and " loose." The inconveniences 
of false teeth, whether loose or fixed, are too obvious to need our 
consideration. Their sde advantage over real teeth is that they 
have a market value when (and if) you have finished with them. 
See advertisements. Animals seldom have false teeth. 

Natural teeth, which usually grow inside the mouth, are only 
useful for eating, smoking, fighting, and tying or untying knots. 
When they grow outside the mouth, as in the case of wUd-boars 
and other rodents, they are very inconvenient for smoking or tying 
knots. Hence rodents are better at eating and fighting. 

Tour own teeth hurt you when they come, and you let the 
environs know it. Also they " shoot^" like the Parthian, as they 

PROSE, 1907 166 

''go," and let you know it Wben they are "gone," you have to 
let the dentist know it, and then they are quite gone. Others' 
teeth also can hurt you, in a different way. If yon have a 
serpent or a thankless chUd in the house, you will find that both 
have inconvenient teeth. Children have tlirust upon them about 
thirty teeth — more than any other domestic animal — and these 
arrive one by one. Until they are fixtures there is no goodwill 

Even when natural teeth are done with, they do not cease to 
be inconvenient. I think it was Cadmus who tried sowing teeth 
in the earth ; perhaps he wished to bury them ; but it was no use 
— they sprang up and became armed men. I suppose each armed 
man had thirty-two of his own. Negroes, I have read, fear the 
wrath of Obi if they throw away an old tooth ; and this leads me 
to the story of the Discoveiy of the Banjo. An old negress put 
her loose tooth into the shell of a tortoise, and tied a piece of skin 
over the front to conceal the tooth from ObL She gave the shell 
to her little son as a rattle. Idly he stretched the loose end of the 
string over the taut skin, and twanged it. One might say the 
negress sowed a tooth and there sprang up nigger-minstrels. The 
inconvenience of that tooth is self-evident. 

But the most inconvenient teeth the world has ever known 
were those of Eve. It is common knowledge that apples require 
Hting, and if Eve had had no teeth, what would — well, what 
would Milton have found to do in his blind old age? I pause for 
a reply ; meanwhile let us turn to the natural history of dentists. 

There are four species : dentists, American syndicated dentists, 
dental surgeons, and odontological specialists. You can differen- 
tiate them at sight by their clothing, and afterwards by their fees. 
Tou pay dentists, as you pay photographers, for hurting your 
feelings. An American syndicated dentist will hurt you for 
twenty-four hours for 2s. 6d. ; a photographer seldom charges less 
than 10s., but the harm he does can easily last twenty-four years 
— some even advertise "permanent" carbon-prints. But while 
you have done with the photographer at a sitting, the dentist 
always says " Come again." 

Dentists are not gregarious, though I once dined with three of 


them ; they all had teeth like actresses, and they all chewed like 
Gladstone. Usually yon only see one dentist at a time, and even 
then yon prefer to shut your eyes as long as possible. 

Like stoats, dentists have one coat for the winter and one for 
the summer, but they do not actually hibernate until they are 
quite at the top of their profession; then they winter on the 
Riviera. Out of professional hours they are kind to their children, 
and take them to the pantomime, because when they smile they 
become advertisements. On these occasions dentists leave their 
cards at the box-office, in case any member of the audience should 
require their services during the performances. A London dentist 
once made a joke. He asked, "Why did not the ladies' Mile!" 
and the answer was, '^ Because she had a Rotten Row.'' He would 
try this on his victims, and some of them, who were accustomed 
to ride in Hyde Park, saw the point He died suddenly, shortly 
aftOT propounding the question to a colonel hmne on leave from 
India, who had an aching molar. The colonel spent hours in 
prison puzzling out Uie correct answer. 

Few dentists have made their mark in the history of the world, 
but in Shakespeare's play "As You Never Can Like It," there is 
one called by that common Shakespearian name Valentine. An- 
other character in this play says truly, " Dentist is an u^y word," 
and calls Valentine an '* ivory-snatcher " and a " gum-architect." 
These are typical examples of Elizabethan humour now happily 

Apart from this instance, however, dentists are seldom heard 
of in English literature, until this essay came to be written. 

F. smowioK 


Val di Tbbbbia, PBES80 Bettola, Parma 
(And 6000 ft above the sea) 

Dbab Feathbbston, — I hear that your month's holiday is 
fixed for October. Have no hesitation, but come straight here. 
If you have never seen the Apennines in October, you have never 

PROSE, 1907 167 

seen them at aU. No diffictilty about lodgings, even in this 
'^lonely hamlet, which, girt with beech and pine, like an ea^^e's 
nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine," for the peasants 
will do anything for a change. We are variety incarnate, and 
they loTe ns. There is nothing to eat, but you won't mind that. 
Bring a gun of sorts, and you shall have hares and partridges 
when you can hit them, and dine on the best minestra and 
gorgeous fruit when you can't But the thing you are really 
coming to see is the forests in autumn : the green pine forests and 
rusty-red oak ditto, and to see from the mountain head that 
mighty Eurodydon go tearing down the great red pass, driving 
the leaves in storms before it. Come— it is vintage time, and 
your help will be gratefully accepted in every vineyard; and 
draughts of new wine are not to be despised. And the pine 
forests — they also are connected with eating, for the pine forest 
is the home of mushrooms. Tou shall have a large basket and 
work for your living. Tou shall start early, when the air is like 
soda-water, and scramble up the stony mountain path, where the 
sun scorches like summer, though the dew is heavy on the grass ; 
and where the grasshoppers whir up underfoot, with wings like 
butterflies, dazzUng red and blue ; along the precipice, where you 
look down on the backs of the birds that skim across the abyss — 
and, unless you break your neck previously, we enter the scented 
shade of that beloved forest. 

The mushrooms spawn in ones and twos, but such mushrooms ! 
All over with Claudius Caesar if he saw them. Little golden fans 
pushing through the turf, red oranges with white caps, deformed 
cutlets, and little balls. We will submit the spoil to the inspec- 
tion of old Manenti to-night, lest sudden death lurk in the 
basket, but that possible neighbourhood adds to the savour of 
those weird and exquisite fungi. 

We must lunch on bread, cheese, and salame^ but sorrel is 
about us in plenty, and wUd strawberries, raspberries, and black- 
berries the size of thimbles. 

There are no snow-caps at this time— from the summit you 
look down upon a petrified green sea of mountains, but at the 
end of the month they will be white. 


The Angelns will call ns down, the Angelas from villaged in 
onmiBpected fdds of the mountains. One bell is cracked, and 
duck instead of ringing — it is a trifle. Oh, the gentians, daric- 
blne and half-fall of tears! The sheets of aatamn crocnseef 
And see there, as we come into the warm air of the torrent-bed, 
where all day the son has heated the broad waste of boalders — 
see, there they are, coantless specks of green lights dancing, lapsing, 
and shimmering ander the willows, the last fireflies of the year. 

Roast kid is waiting, and Cecilia smiling with hands on hips, 
ready to make an enMe of oar mashrooms. Oh, consider, you 
can get here for less than a £5 note, and live for less than two 
lire a day ! Delay not. There are solitary wolves to be parsaed, 
and Qenoa within a day's walk over the mountains. — Thine, 



So my gaide, who have found me wandering in the Bosoo di 
S. Giovanni, led me by devious paths unto a place where was a 
deep ravine, and he made as though he would descend thither. 
Then I said, " O sea of all wisdom, what is this place, and whither 
are we bound!" "Know, beloved one," he replied, *'that there 
are four great Ways ; by three Ways go the blessed, some unto 
the Crystal Sea by the Way of the East, some unto the mountains 
by the North, and some, by the Way of the West, unto the Riviera 
Beata. There be also some that go by the South, but they must 
first come unto the Angel that stands at the entrance to that 
Way. But we are bound unto another journey, for thou must 
needs see them that suffer in the midst of the earth, and therefore 
we must go by this Way, which is called the Great Central." 

Then the dear Master brought me unto a deep chasm, the 
mouth wherefore was barred with a gate of iron. Here we 
stood, and he cried aloud upon Otis. Thereupon the gate leaped 
asunder, and he that was called Otis ran upon us, crying for an oboL 
But the Master exclaimed, "Peace, dog, for now we have our 
season." Then, seeing him disconsolate, he added, " Be content, 
wretch, and repine not^ for so it is Written in the Regulations." 

PROSE, 1907 169 

Then ke that was called Otis (and likewise Elevator) smote the 
wall with a wand of iron, and we fell softly through the chasm. 
And the wall thereof was ribbed, as it had been the ribs of a 
snake that snns itself after a full meal among the paving-stones at 
Tivc^ and we did glide past them like two unchewed and as 
yet undigested gninea-pigs. And when we had fallen about three 
times as far as the dome of St. Peter's rises towards the stars^ 
Otis cried aloud, and, lo ! the gates were rolled away by a hand 
not seen, and we sped along a narrow defile unto a cavern, wherein 
many awaited their Destiny. And thereia was written no bxit. 
And as we gazed there came forth, with gusts of flame and 
much roaring, that which seemed like unto a boat, and many 
therein. '* Enter," said the Master, ^* for now tiiou shalt see those 
who, while they were above, did spurn and trample on their 
fellows. Now they sit rigid and are spumed and trampled on." 
And as he spake I saw certain that smote them that lingered, and 
compeUed them to enter the craft. And they that were within 
sat still, and stretched forth their legs, and could in no wise draw 
them in. And they that entered stumbled upon them, and there 
was wrath and much recrimiuation. For one that sat there cried, 
'^ Why wilt thou tread on my shins 1 " And he that trampled on 
him said, ** If thou hadst not legs like a rickety giraffe—" And 
he of the shanks, "If thou hadst not hoofs like a performing 
hippopotamus ! " And thereupon they smote one another. And 
I, hearing it, rubbed my hands and laughed for joy. But the 
Master, perceiving me thus to rejoice, waxed wroth, and, saying, 
" See that thou be not a toad on wheels," hauled me forth by the 
scruff of my neck. And certain came forth also. Then said I, 
*' O, fount of all illumbation, where are we now, and who be 
these?" And he answered, "This is the Stretta di Bolangero, 
and by this way go we unto the Inner Circle." Now in the 
Inner Circle there was more noise and many more spirits, that 
hastened to enter the boat that was there, though certain would 
have prevented them. And I said to the dear Poet, "Who, then, 
be these, and wherefore hasten they thus eagerly to their torment ! " 
And he replied, "These be they that have earned their living by 
the work of their hands, therefore by their right hands do they 


swing until they oome onto the Gapella Bianca, which is the seat 
of all evil, and there must they undergo a grievoas transformation, 
for at the word of one of Uiose thou seest there shouting and 
clashing the gates against their will they must all change. And 
that they hasten to enter tiie vessel, it is because a worse torment 
be&tUs them that remain. Seest thou those that walk amcnigst 
themi They are the Malebranche. And if any would shirk his 
torment, or join himself to a class less evil than that assigned to 
him (for they that have worked the hardest are tormented most in 
the Third, which is the lowest Class), they seize him, and smite 
and rend him, and with ignominy drive him to his own place. 
But he who has entered the vessel is safe from the Malebranche, 
for not even they can abide the savour that is within." And 
while he spake I had been listening also, and knew the names of 
the Malebranche— how that two that had a venerable mien were 
called '* Abraham" and '* Dr. Swete," and anotiier that was hot in 
his rage was called "Zingibero," which is ^'Qinger." Now I 
could not believe that '* Abraham " and '' Dr. Swete *' were of evil 
disposition, so benevolent were their countenances, till that I 
heard Abraham ciy aloud, ''First Class only; plenty of room 
behind." Then, indeed, I knew that he was of the Evil One, for 
he spake not the truth. And even so I saw a spirit that had 
escaped into the vessel of the First Glass, and he made a nose, and 
cried, *' Come inside, Qinger, for there be many of us here." But 
Zingibero smote him, and came not in ; and another clashed the 
gates and shouted. And I beheld them, even as I have seen the 
carcases of sheep and oxen in the market of the Campo del (what's 
the Italian for Smith V)y how they hang and swing dose together, 
and are driven through the streets. Even so do these sinners 
hang, in smoke and a foul vapour, by their evil hands, and thus, 
swinging and twirling into thick darkness, they are carried 


PROSE, 1907 161 


''In good sodety, as among the angels in Heaven, is not eveiy- 
thing said indirectly, and not as it befell P " 

So the Sage of Concord, with hia normal infallibility. LaeeraL- 
mmdedneu is the sin against the Holy Ghost. This may seem a 
cruel verdict, and the recalcitrant reader may object, with a 
recently deceased man of letters, that a sense of humour is not one 
of the cardinal virtues. We think otherwise ; and the easiest way 
to enforce onr view-point is to disregard our Burke and draw up 
an indictment against a whole nation. 

What causes (to parody a recent Frenchman's book) the 
inferiority of the Anglo-Saxon 1 What is the hidden inferiority of 
the great race that produced a Shakespeare and a Nelson — a raoe 
whose exploits are known to the Seven Seas, whose pigheadedness 
is made manifest from China to Perul What is that peculiar 
British weakness which makes Benan gird at the ''two thick 
vdumes which enchanted the English reverends,** which gives 
Heine his two immortal reasons for not living in England, which 
makes Emerson speak of " a Providence that does not treat with 
levity a pound sterUng " t The answer can be put into a sentence. 
The true British mind has no antenn» for indirectitudes. This is 
the Alpha and the Omega of civilisation — ^to hear the hdnU of the 

But the Hint does not always come from the Empyrean. 

There is a maddening type of indirectness which does not iH!evail 

among the angels of Heaven. It prevails among those women 

who can be called angels by courtesy only. Every reader of " A 

Fearful Besponsibility " remembers Mrs. Elmore. I am firmly 

convinced that that gifted lady's methods of introducing a topic 

ought to be a sound cause for divorce. Mr. Howells, with delicious 

ircmy, pretends that the Ftofessor's melandioly was due to the 

rescue of a girl from matrimonial suicide. But the wise reader 

knows better. The Professor was dying of prolonged endurance 

of Mrs. Elmore's society. 

What to do with the Mrs. Elmores? I believe that diplomatic 


hinting could be trained oat of people if they were caught young. 
At least five out of every ten people could learn not to acquire 
"that exasperating quality known as tact" The thing is well 
enough in Mr. Meredith's novels ; in real life it does nothing but 
shorten the temper. I have said that women are the chief sinners ; 
and perhaps feminine education ought to include the art of saying 
a plain thing in a plain way. Scarecrow specimens could be 
coUected for viva voce correction, until an automatic habit of 
getting to the point was acquired. The worst of it is that small 
books on Getting on in the World, and kindred subjects, are 
distinctly given to the encouragement of "Tact." One little 
manual of savoir-faire recommends the example of the hostess who 
explained to the superfluous lady that they were "a gentleman 
short." I sui^x)6e Dr. Johnson's remark to the author of a 
translation, " I do not say that it might not be made a very good 
translation," ought to take the medal among observations of this 

In brief. The Hint> like the Ghost, is common to the two 
ends of human society. Indirectness is the supreme virtue of the 
saint and the incurable vice of the semi-savage. Read your 
Thucydides on the diplomacy that preceded the Peloponnesian 
War, and you are irresistibly reminded of the Bryce and Dunsey 
scene in " Silas M^'ner." Read your Euripides, and the Higher 
Indirectness dimples on every page. The "Alcestis" is one long 
wink. And this leads to one more relevant aphorism. The Hint 
is the supreme achievement of Literature. Can you put a wink 
on paper! Then you are of the world's Immortals. Shakespeare 
could do it. Browning could do it. Plato, Thackeray, Ibsen, 
Meredith — all have this in common, if they have nothing else — 
this knack of instantaneous freemasonry with the reader, the dodge 
of the atmospheric Hint. The stiletto of the scoundrel, the 
avowed tool of the fool, the window towards Heaven of the saint^ 
the Giotto's circle of the man of letters — such is the Hint. 


PROSE, 1907 168 


If it be trae^ as Socrates says, that " tbe wrong use of wwds 
begets a great evil in the soul,'' then with regard to this word 
'^hint" some of us are indeed in evil case. For while— to speak 
for myself — when I hear it I am fiUed with the same mysterious 
thrills and the same pleasing sensation of alarm at I know not 
what that I feel at the words ''conspiracy," "secret passage," or 
" snbterranean " — yet I cannot find that it la of the same import 
to many, or indeed to any, of those around me. Can it be that I 
am wholly wrong and am thus harbouring an evil in my soulf 
For here I hold in my hand a plain and cheerful book entitled 
"A Hundred Hints to Housewives; or, How to Make the Home 
Happy," and I find within its pages neither cryptic utterances nor 
Sphinx-like suggestions, but straightforward paragraphs to teach 
me ''How to boil potatoes," ''How to remove ink-stains from 
furniture," and so forth. 

And when I have hardly recovered from my surprise, I am 
asked, it may be, by my family to " give the cook a hint to put 
less salt in the soup ! " 

A hint ! To the cook ! Am I to wrap my desire in such con- 
cealing words that only a mind sensitive to the subtlety of a hint 
can understand 9 What effect could that have on the soup? But 
that is what these words express to me. 

It is clear, then, that on this point I am at variance with the 
rest of my feUows, and, arrogant as it may seem, I prefer to hope 
that somehow I am right and they are wrong. So to me this 
word will ever bring thoughts of what is elusive and delicate, and 
I shaU leave the grosser forms of hints to others. 

A hint! — too fine it almost seems to be for translation into 
words — a flutter of the eyelid — a lurking and evasive smile or 
frown — and the hint is given. This is the work of an artist and 
not to be lightly undertaken by the most of us. Tet to achieve 
Budi a masterpiece, this were to have not lived in vain. 

But a horrid fear seizes me at times, and I ask myself, " Doe 
the rare soul exist that could take so fine and dimly breathed a 


hintt'' I fear, indeed, that this work of exquisite rarity would 
but make one more noble failure. 

Andy indeed, there are moments when I wonder if it be not all 
waste labour to fashion hints at all (even of the commoner sort 
that all men will allow to be hintsX and worse waste to give them 
to any man ! For he who can take a hint, wrought by one oi 
average skill and subtlety, he, it seems to me, must stand in no 
need of any such help ; for he must surely have a mind acute and 
sympathetic enou^ to perceive his friend's desire or policy without 
an aid of this sc^ And, again, to throw away the delicate 
mechanism of a hint on any one of denser wit Ib to try to goad a 
hippopotamus with a hair. 

So in this matter of hints it seems I have no practical advice 
to give. It is quickening, no doubt, to the intellect to strive to 
weave this almost impalpable fabric ; yet it is hard to see how it 
can be used in the brisk and matter-of-£EkCt encounters and passages 
of our life. And it may be that» for all useful and marketable 
purposes, it is best for the most of us to keep to such simple 
thoughts as my ^ Housewives' Hints " supply. 

And only in some dim comer of my heart wUl I cherish the 
hope that somewhere my ideal hint exists. 


VERSE, 1904 

BfiowyiB Song 

WITH threads of finest gossamer 
To string hb fairy lyre. 
The brownie, chanting low of her 
Will lead you — ay, speed you 
To the Land of Heart's Desire. 

Through rosy mists of reverie 
Soft from the elfin choir, 
Float silver notes of harmony, 
Enthral you, and call you 

To the Land of Heart's Desire. 

Well foUow, then, on eager feet 
Gay host that cannot tire ; 
To that far country, primrose-sweet, 
Oh, sing us ! oh, wing us 
To the Land of Heart's Desire ! 


Noon of the Spbino 

Little Brown Bee on the wing, when will you tire ! 
" Not at the Noon of the Spring flushed with rose fire ! 
Look at the harvest of flowers waiting my kiss, 
Who would be counting the hours feasting like this t " 

Little Grey Bird full in tune, when will you nestt 
" Not whilst the knowledge of June giveth me rest ! 
Look at the sun-dowered dale waiting my note, 
Who ot his carols would fail, glad at the throatt " 



Little Still Butterfly white, when will you pause f 
" Not till the fall of the night giveth me cause ! 
Let me be gone on the wing, loving my way, 
Lo ! it is Noon of the Spring, but for To-day ! ^ 



When you were nine, and I was six years old. 
Do you remember how we wandered forth, 
Two small explorers, through the summer fields, 
With apple tumoTers provisioned well, 
And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass. 
In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rosef 

And how the farmer in his fury rose 
With hot red face, as ogres wore of old. 
And eyeing angrily his battered grass. 
With wingM words he drove the culprits forth. 
And swore a whipping would be theirs as well 
The next time they profaned his sacred fields? 

Regretfully we left those sunny fields 

(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose). 

And sate us down beside a little well 

That bubbled up 'midst stonework grey and old, 

And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth, 

To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass. 

Long time we lay upon the kindly grass. 

Until the cows from out their distant fields 

In sdiemn, slow procession issued forth. 

With stiff and lagging movements then we rose, 

Our little bones aweary felt, and old 

(For all the ground was damp beside the well). 

Long weary we^ passed by ere we were wdl : 
Long aching weeks ; by then the farmer's grass 
Had turned to hay, and our offence was old. 

VERSE, 1904 167 

Again we entered thoee forbidden fields, 

Bnt found no more our creamy-petalled rose, 

Thorns, only thorns, the straggling hedge brought forth. 

Sadly we turned, and sadly trotted forth, 
Our flowers were gone, and all our hopes as well ; 
Though some, consoling, said, " Tour little rose 
Will bloom again : and, not to hurt the grass, 
Tou might go skirting round the farmer's fields — 
His hand is mortal heavy, though he's old." 

StiU to Uie sunlit fields Hope speeds us forth : 
Prone on the grass, we dream that all is well : 
And so wax old, and never grasp our rose. 


Thb Wilung Molb 

How steadily the willing mole 

Works underneath the lawn, ' 
Raising his tiny mountain peaks 

To greet our eyes at dawn. 
How modestly he shrinks from praise 

Amid the day and earth ; 
Oh ! modest mole, you beat the bee 

In unassuming worth. 

"FoosoMB, Smutsomb" 

Fogsome^ Smutsome ! London docks 
Is not the place to wear clean frocks. 
Fogsome, Smutsome ! In the Strand 
You should hold your daddy's hand. 

Fogsome, Smutsome 1 London town 
Is where mummy buys a gown. 
Fogsome, Smutsome ! Toyshops too 
Are there, and they are for you. 


The Swan 

Harry and Katie 
And Jennie and John 

Went to the river to look at the swan. 
Jennie and Johnnie 
And Harry and Kate 

Got to the river a little too late. 

The Rider 

I heard a horseman 
Ride over the hilL 
The moon shone bright, 
And the night was still. 
His crest was silver, 
And pale was he, 
And the horse he rode 
Was of Ivory. 

The Bridoe of By-and-Bt 

The World is turning upside down, 

The Tears have gone awry, 

The Months have turned to Frying Pans 

With no more fish to fry. 

The Weeks have turned to Sealing WaZ| 

The Days to Apple Pie : 

Said the Old Man to the Baby, 

On the Bridge of By-and-By. 

Oh the silly days and foolish 

On Uie Bridge of By-and-By ! 


Niminy, Nominy, 

What shall we eat t 
The Cat has the custard, 

The Dog has the meat 

VERSE, 1904 169 

We oonld eat bread — 

But the GkMkt has devoured it. 
We CQold drink milk — 

But the thunder has soured it. 

We could catch fish — 

But the river is dry. 
We could have plums — 

But they're all in the pie. 
We could have pie — 

But it's burnt to a cinder. 
We could have pears — 

But the Farmer would hinder. 

Niminy, Nominy, 

What can we eat t 
What but the Dewberries 

Ripe at our feet 

The Nuesbry Cat 

Chink-a-chink chink, 

What do you think t 
The cat in the nursery has nothing to drink ; 


Don't talk to me! 
I saw her go down to the kitchen to tea. 

Pkrfobmikg Dogs 

I know a dog called Carlo, 

Who lives with Mr. Day, 
But when his master says " Come here ! " 

He always runs away. 

I know a dog called Pompey 

Who lives with Mr. CUrk, 
So lasy, he must always lean 

Against the wall to bark. 


I know a dog caUed Jacob, 

The best of aU the three, 
Who goes on trnst for bite of cake, 

And he belongs to me. 

Nbw Clothes 
Apples and pears, apples and pears. 
This is the overcoat Gregory wears. 
Chestnuts and grapes, chestnuts and grapes, 
Beal grown-up pockets and three coachman's capes. 

Peaches and plums, peaches and plums, 
He will have gaiters when winter-time comes. 
Medlars and quince, medlars and quince ; 
Gregory knows that he's dressed like a Prince. 

An Accident 

Esmeralda and little Ann 

Broke their mother's ivory fan. 

Hullabaloo! Hullabaloo! 

Oh ! they didn't know what to do. 

Esmeralda and little Ann 

Thought it would be an excellent pkn 

To tell their mother — and so would you. 

Lullabaloo ! Hullabaloo ! 


Eggy-peggy, eggy-peggy. 
Tommy's got a wooden leggy. 
Once he was a soldier Johnny, 
Now hell have to beggy-weggy. 

Henny-benny, henny-benny. 
He shall have my silver penny. 
Pve got lots and lots of money 
Poor old Tommy hasn't any. 

VERSE, 1904 171 

Tba-timx Talk 

Green trees, green trees, 
Gladys, pass the batter, please, 
Green grass, green grass, 
There's no batter left to pass ! 

Blue sky, blue sky, 
Will yoa kindly tell me why t 
White snow, white snow, 
Why, yoa ate it long ago ! 

s. 0. brkrbton 

Thb Cat and thx Kino 

For the Ck>ronation 

Passy came to town, 

In a velvet bonnet 

And a farry gown, 

<<Cats may look at kings," said she; 

" This appears a chance for me." 

Seated on a hoose-top 
As the King passed by. 
She observed him coldly 
With her cool green eye. 
Then she trotted off to see 
If there were a moose for tea. 

MsRRT Pbtsb 

Peter Pattisson popped a pin 

Into the arm of his next-of-kin ; 

And then he langhed, and he lao^^ed agam, 

For he was the merriest of men. 


"Fie ! " said Mamma, '*yoa most not poot 
And slop yoor milk and bread about ; 
Delay will only make it cold, 
Sarah ate hen, as good as gold." 


Sarah sat primly in her place, 
A happy simpw on her face. 
'* Indeed, mamma," she said, ''I feel 
So grateful for this wholesome meal 

" And if there comes a naughty wish 

For some forbidden, richer dish, 

I always set my mind at rest 

By thinking, * My mamma knows best' " 

Now Sarah bridled as she said it^ 
And clearly thought it did her credit ; 
But she was not so good, I fear. 
As she attempted to appear. 

A Nonsense Rhyme 

An elderly man in a pew 

Sat still and said nothing but « Mew ! " 

When the Beadle said *' Now ! 

None of that!" he said «« Meow t" 

Which, he fancied, was something quite new. 

The Rewabd of Qreed 

Dorothy Dunn, she purchased a bun. 

Which she hid in a secret nook, 

" For then it will be entirely for me," 

She said with a greedy look. 

But a plump little mouse, in his snug little house^ 

He laughed "Ah ha! Oh ho!" 

And alas and alack ! when she came back 

The bun-had-contrived-to-go ! 

Trotting Tommy 

Jingledy jing ! Hear the bells ring ! 
Tommy is going to visit the King ! 
First up in London, then down at Windsor. 
Tom asks the footman, "Is the Kingin, sirt" 

VEBSE, 1904 178 

Then home to supper, partridge and oake ; 
After his trot he will want a lot, 
So 111 b^ to bake. 

a. M. aioBGS 



There is no need for you to cry 

That " Golf is dull" ; just go and try : 
Don't say you ^' fail to see the fun, 
But play ; and when youVe once begun. 

Then if you can its claims deny. 

Start with a deek ; just keep your eye 
Upon the ball, and it will fly ; 
At first don't have more clubs than one— • 
There is no need. 

Only a week, and how you sigh 

(C^ swear) at << bunker *' and " bad lie," 

Keenly discuss ^* the best youVe done," 

And quite forget your horse and gun. 
Need I repeat my eulogy? 

There is no need. 

ADAM rox 

Hints to Bboinners 

Address the ball, and firmly stand. 
With temper even, aspect bland ; 
Watch, with a mind inured to B.'s 
Low jests about your hands or knees, 
The Haskell on its mound of sand. 

With all the skill at your command 
Bent to the matter next at hand. 
And not to framing repartees, 
Address the ball i 


But should its fli^t across the land 
Be otherwise than aa you planned, 

Do not ascribe it to the breeae ; 

NcMT yet, in language of bargees, 
Which is by well-bred players banned, 
Address the ball ! 




He mated man and beast ; the soul alone 
Could find no kindred thing to call her own, 
And, seeing that she wandered thus forlorn, 
He pity took — and so was Beauty born. 


Good Tastb 

Merit acquired in incarnations past. 

And now by the unconscious self held fast ; 

So the hand strikes the right chord, in the dark. 
And, codeless, runs the right flag to the mast. 


There are two kinds ; monopolists of time 
The poorer artists are content to be ; 

The higher types to greater glory climb 
And are encroaohers on eternity. 

c. simpson 


The gods have one great gift at random given ; 

They measure genius, wit, and wisdom out, 
But^ careless flung, success falls out of heaven, 

And any fool may find it in the rout. 


VERSE, 1904 176 


It's pardy temper and it's partly pain, 

ffis case is partly one of wounded pride 
Whose summer suit is ruined by the rain. 

Who travels homeward eight or nine a side. 



All night the hurtling storm assailed 
The convent walls, and when it failed 

About daybreak, the rain began. 
" A dreary dawn," as she unshuttered 
The rusty grille, the portress muttered ; 

" No day for a wayfaring man." 

But who lies here upon the stones 1 

And is she dead ? Sweet saints, she moans ! 

Ah, lay her by the fire, bring wine. 
There, her lips tremble, her cheek flushes : 
How beautiful the hair she brushes 

From those grey eyes with hands so fine. 

Sad-faoed and travel-stained was she, 
The stranger, but so fair to see : 

Perfect in rest, perfect astir, 
So richly rounded, yet so slender. 
So vigorous and yet so tender. 

It was a feast to look on her. 

But when the Abbess asked her name. 
Whither she journeyed, whence she came. 

She answOTed nothing ; but her face. 
Mutely upturned in wistful pleading. 
Her vesture torn, her feet all bleeding, 

(Gained her a shelter for a space. 

So there she sojourned while the spring 
Waxed with green bud and homeward wing, 
And from a hidden girdle drew 


MaryeUous jewels in rqi^ayment 
Of convent fare and convent raiment ; 
And with the spring her beauty grew, 

Till, as she moved by herb and bongh, 
The leaves stretched oat to touch her brow, 

The grass was loth to loose her feet ; 
And round her head flew many a swallow. 
And still a choir of birds would follow, 

And all their song was " Sweet, sweet, sweet" 

The dovecote shrined her with its doves, 
The wryneck piped her through the groves. 

The rose bloomed earlier that year. 
And now her sad looks turned to smiling, 
And, with soft ouUand songs beguiling 

All hearts, she lured the summer near. 

The sun, most royal to behold. 
Melted the air to fluid gold : 

The stranger, with unquiet breast 
About the orchard-closes straying. 
With garlands of wet leaves allaying 

Her temples, seemed to take no rest. 

Then, on one hot moon-flooded night. 
The end came swiftly — (Ah, delight 

Of antique days, whwe art thou now t) — 
From the still garden leapt a crying 
Of ''Aphrodite ! " and she lying 

Sleepless, looked out where brow by brow 

Stood one wide-mouthed, homed, shaggy-thighed. 
One bright-haired with a lyre beside. 

Calling to her athwart tiie breeze ; 
And she, the queen of lovelinesses. 
Threw down her robe, cast loose her tresses, 

And vanished, white-limbed, through th^trees. 


VERSE, 1904 177 


I scarcely know yet if I slept or woke 
When, from the yellow fog that chilled to the bone^ 
The slush, the street-lamps blinking like bleared eyes, 
I turned through a hospitably gaping door. 
Found white walls, maps, gas flaring thro' the murk, 
And people, young and old, ranged round on forms, 
Discussing — art? theology? medicine? law? 
Music ? — no ! Robert Browning, if you please. 
What he meant, what he thought, why he wrote this. 
Why, whence and wherefore used that argument. 
This metaphor,— till, tail between my legs. 
Wet boots and aQ, I shuffled out abashed. 

So now I put it squarely to myself : 
" These books, these writings, which the world thinks You, 
What are they ? " — Firsts I never sang, as birds 
Sing^ just for joy, for feel o' the warm sun. 
Smell of brown earth, — ^nor yet, one lyric throb 
Of pulsing passion, poured out half my soul 
In amorous raptures, — rather, thought and thought. 
And as I thought, the rough blocks ground themselves 
(By some strange freak in the stuff whereof I am made) 
Into the rugged seeming of a song. 

Second, I never took a single thought^ 
Cast and recast, moulded, rubbed, scraped, and filed, 
And framed the thing clear as a cameo, set 
In words calm, cold as marble ; — rather, say. 
Half hewed my figures out of the sheer rock, 
Left them in raw, half-starting into life, 
Half-sheathed in virgin granite. 

Third and last, 
I never took my stand, like the clumsy oaf 
That pulls on Punch's strings, bids Toby bark. 
Sets Jack Ketch toppling — rather, let me say. 
Took one tenae moment in the life of a man^ 


Analyaedy searched, dissected, tested, proyed, 
Just that one moment : tried, if you will, to live. 
Feel, be the man I figured — show you his heart, 
And all the marvelloas good and bad of him, 
And all the strife and straggling of his soul 
In that one motion of the wheel of Time. 
I grant, these bones, this flesh, this bodily self. 
Are always Browning, — but Fd have men hear 
Throb in my very breast, the wild heart-bounds 
Of wrung Ixion, — the slow, regular, calm, 
Too-leamdd beat of Cleon's pulses, — ^more, 
I would step out of Robert Browning's day. 
Thrust an intruding nose, like a keen hound, — 
Dwell in the chambers of another's mind. 
Walk out again, and set down as I may 
The nakedness or fulness of the land. 

Qood people, of your kindness let him be 
This man, this Browning ! — ^here's your peepshow, look ! 

There they go, Lippo, Andrea, and the rest. 

While I just stand at back and call their names ! 

The masque's name ? " Human Nature " and no more ! 


Thb Lboend of Sib Cabnaby Jenks 

Sir Camaby Jenks, in the matter of rhino. 
Was happy-go-lucky as any that I know. 

(Thrice blest is that person who prudently suits his 
Expenditure to his resources at Coutts's, 
And never gets dunn'd, sued, writted, or summoned, 
But pays all his bills with a few lines to Drummond ; 
And if these old-fashioned establishments you shun, 
And fancy the modem ''joint-stock " institution, 

VERSE, 1904 179 

It matters not where yon yonr wealth may be hoarding, 
If only yonr oostnme be fashioned according 
To jnst the right size that your doth \b affording. 
Tonr pardon, dear reader, while thus I disgress ; 
This dictum's uncommonly sound, and unless 
Ton obey it youll get in a deuce of a mess !) 

To return to Sir Camaby Jenks, of the Blues, 

Who's been to the Jews, And tried every ruse. 
But though he may promise, cajole, or abuse, 
There's never an Israelite of them renews. 
In his time, as he said, he'd got into some stews. 
But never so thoroughly into the blues ! 

It happened just then that he'd been with some cronies 

To see the performance of Miss Taglioni's 

And so it befell That night in Pall Mall, 
As he stood at his door with his hand on the bell. 
While the dock at St. James's rang out like a knell 
(It sounds rather harsh when you're not v^ry well), 
That he suddenly noticed a singular smeU. 
It was pungent, and strong, and distinctly sulphureous, 
And thou|^ not inclined, as a rule, to be curious. 
He said : *' My apartments might well be Old Scratch's ; 
Some person's been burning these new-fangled matches." 

And turned to survey £Qs rez-de-chamsSe^ 
When a touch on his arm made him look t'other way. 
And there at his back Was a steanger in black, 
With the air and aplomb of a travelling quack ; 
And a tremor ran down Sir Camaby's spine. 
The reason for which he could scarcely define. 
*' One moment, I pray," said this weird apparition, 
" Myself I present as a man of condition, 

With ftkbulous rents In the New Three per Cents ; 
I'm a very good friend to unfortunate gents. 
My income is more than you'd easily reckon, 
Fve thousands of servants to come when I beckon ; 


The world is to me but a vast pantomime, 

And I'm always assured of a denoe ol a time ! " 

*' A week with your money would right me, and I'd as 

Immense a sensation create as did Midas ; 

Indeed," said Sir Camaby Jenks, of the Blues, 

*' I should very much like to step into your shoes." 

'* Say no more," said the Stranger, " if those are your views, 

Tou won't find that I am the sort to refuse, 

So send for the Jews And tell them the news. 
Take up your acceptances, pay aU your dues ; 

With the wealth that ensues Step into my shoes, 
And farewell, Sir Camaby Jenks, of the Blues ! " 

Sir Camaby entered his rez-de-chauss^ 

And found on the table a letter to say 

That a distant relation, at Faversham Hunt^ 

Had broken his neck, and bequeathed him his *' blunt." 

Regret and relief filled Sir C, of the Blues, 

As he sat in the arm-chair to pull off his shoes. 

But his terrible language I haste to disown. 
They wouldnH came off, nor toere they his own ! 
As he tried to unfasten the diamond buckles. 
And only succeeded in bruising his knuckles. 
He heard a succession of sinister chuckles ! 

While every fresh twist That he gave with his wrist 
The tighter they grew, till he had to desist. 

The ** Globe " and the " Herald," the '* Times " and the " News," 

All '' learned that Sir Camaby Jenks, of the Blues, 

Inherited, through the regretted demise 

Of a relative, sums in the Qovemment Threes, 

That enhanced his position to one of great wealth " ; 

They " regretted to say that the state of his health 

Was such, through the shock of his relative's doom, 

As to keep him at present confined to his room." 

But his cronies M'Fuae And Lieutenant Tregooza, 
Who begged leave to doubt the last half of this news, 

VERSE, 1904 181 

When they called on him couldn't think why he should choose 
While tobeVy to lie abed, — wearing his shoes ! 
And they thought any man might his troubles surmount 
Who could claim as his own such a banking account ! 

Confined to his elegant rez-de-cTiausaSe 

For seven clear days Sir Carnaby " lay 

A-th3mkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge," all day 

Of the sinister Stranger, until, at the end 

Of the longest of weeks that he ever did spend, 

His valet awoke him, to vow and declare 

That the shoes he'd been wearing — the diamond pair — 

Had suddenly vanished, he couldn't say where ! 

And he says, ** May his dinner desthroy his digestion 
If Sir Carnaby asked him so much as a question ! " 


A moral this legend undoubted proffers : 
Don't seek to replenish impoverished coffers 
By closing with Strangers' extravagant offers. 

When you deal with a man of Sir Carnaby's inches. 

Don't be in a hurry to laugh if he flinches — 

It's thb wbabbr alone that knows where the shoe pinches. 



Tune: •' Oome^ ye lofty"* 

^ Simple shepherds, I would follow 

This same Lord whom ye proclaim : 
By what service, by what sorrow 

Did ye win to learn His name t " 
" Not by fasting, not by vigil, 

Not l^ rich oblation poured : 
While we wrought our daOy calling 

"* Fell the tidings of our Lord." 


" Wanderers from the land of morning, 

Searchers of the starry skies, 
Say what skill of art or learning 

Loosed the secret where He lies t " 
" Not by rite of dark divining, 

Nor in mystic vision sweet : 
Still our wonted quest pursuing 

We were guided to His feet." 

'* Ox and ass beside the manger, 

Worthy by your Lord to bend, 
Doubtless each to toil a stranger. 

Ye the temple's need attend ? " 
" Nay, to yoke and goad submissive, 

Aye we serve man's thankless race : 
Weary with our patient labour 

Looking up we saw His face." 

He, who thus for our salvation 

Left His wondrous throne afar, 
Asks no pomp of preparation, 

Bids us seek Him as we are. 
Faithful to our daUy duty 

Li the busy world abroad. 
Rich and learnM, poor and lowly, 

Come we all and find our Lord. 



Since the sword spake, song is silent on the sweet-stringed samisen, 
But Manchuria makes music for a myriad marching men ; 
Forth they fare from frowning Fi:gi, forth from flowery, far Fukai, 
Danger-daring, death-despising, desperate to do and die. 

VERSE, 1904 188 

High in heayen a host of heroes, holiest held of hand and heart, 
Praised with pride and prayer perpetual, for the patriot's peerless 

Watch and ward onr worthy warriors, wafted wide by wind and 

Grimly gjLeA to grasp great guerdons from the glory-granting grave. 

Conquering cannons of Kuroki on some captured crag-camp's crown. 
Tireless troops, that toil and triumph, tramping on from town to 

Bring back blessings bom of battle to the bravest and the best : 
Rich revenge on routed Russia, rescued realms and righteous rest. 



Swift through the grass she slips, rustling and swajring ; 

Flashes of silver light glance from her scales ; 
Fiercely her steely eyes, stem-set on slaying. 

Light on a shuddering shrew — his strength fails ! 

Slowly and steady her shining head rises. 

Crowning the swelling neck, lissom and strong ; 

Only her sliding tongue stillness despises — 
Hush ! through the silence soft hisses her song ! 

Mazed by the spell of unceasing sensation. 
Dazzled by sight, he still lists to the hiss ; 

Soothed by the strength of his fate's fascination, 
Sudden, he's slain ! He has suffered death's kiss ! 



With gems of rain heaven's vital forces bring 
To little, cherished seeds that long have lain 

Dim in their dreams a sweet awakening — 
With gems of rain. 


Pearla are they ? Tears of childhood's passmg pain 
As on her mother's breast the wajrwaid S^ning 

Showers sudden drops ; then kissed and toothed again, 

DewOy smOes, and hastens far to fling 

Arch-wise her scarf across the misty plain — 

Girdle of myriad haes soft quivering 
With gems of rain. 


(After Spenser) 

Yb Bridborome 

A fearefull Knight was sitting in the traine, 

Ydadd in goodly rayment, richly dight, 

Wlthoutten spot or speck ; him seemd full fayne 

To hide his sad aspect from mortall sight ; 

Speechlesse he sate, as one in parlous plight, 

And inly grond, as he the toothache had ; 

Ne buckd he upp, his henchman's charge despight. 

But ever bore a visage solemn-sad, 

For gratelie did he dread, that ever was ydrad. 

Yb Bbtdb 
A comely Mayd was prinking att her glas. 
And manie damzells hoverd at her side 
With faces sore distraught. Quoth one, *' Alas, 
Thy robe, perdie, is fashiond worlds too wide ; 
Needs must that it be chaungM." Straight she plyd 
Her cunning needle ere the Mayd was ware. 
Vainly the yreful Mayd their zeal doth chide ; 
Wotteth she wel how she oftsoones must fare 
Untill Saint George his Kirk, in that h3rmeneal Square. 

Yb Ritb 

Anon in that fair Kirk they twaine doe meet, 
A goodly building, bravely gamishM : 

VERSE, 1904 186 

Poor craven Knight ! for hym is no retreat ; 
And evermore he earns the thinge were sped, 
Or els that hee himself e were safely ded, 
And by these dismall rites disturbd no more. 
Full gingerlie he steps, with dayntie tread, 
For that the flowing garments that she wore 
Did coyl about his leggs, and him encombred sore. 

Ye Reoepoioune 

Anon, the deed being done, sweet mndck's playd 
Whiles to a statelie hall they pas forthright, 
Wherein are divers small confections layd 
That scarce could provender one hongry wight ; 
Some tarry here, but more take speedie flight 
(Postponing camall thoughts till bye-and-bye), 
Their sev'rall gifts if haply they may sight. 
An hundred Muffs their muffineers espye. 
And twice two hundred toast-racks neatly ranged lye. 

Ye Pabtinob 

Forspent the spouses stand, a wearie while, 
What time their clamorous kinsfolk them surround ; 
As wave succeedeth wave, so smile on smile 
Obedient comes. Anon with dolorous sound 
The griesly yron car comes whizzing round, 
Wherein right joyously they step to shore, 
As having, after storm, safe harbourage found. 
(Straunge charet theirs, that streweth evermore 
Such evill smells behind, and dire dismay before). 



Poor Mouse ! 'twas his ambitious wife— 
He loved her as he loved his life. 
And she would talk and shake her head — 
" We live too much apart," she said, 


" We ought — you must agree with me — 

To cultiyate aociety. 

We can't — ^you must admit we can't — 

Pass over Mrs. Elephant. 

She's sweet ! and he — such striking features 1 

They're both the most delightful creatures." 

" Just as you like," he smiled. She wrote. 

Next week, responsive to her note, 

The genial neighbours came to tea ; 

And all went very well till he — 

Dear, blind old Mr. Elephant — 

Contrived short-sightedly to plant 

His foot upon his luckless host, 

Who straightaway gave up the ghost 

His widow, common talk attests. 

Lives now by taking Paying Guests. 

Moral : If you aspire to be 
A leader in Society, 
'Twill probably at first be wise 
To keep to friends about your size. 


Faddist t 
And you, my portly friend, that talked so glib t 
Tour beefsteak's too substantial for a fad ; 
Yours is the general usage, mine the whim. 
But long prescription ne'er changed bad to good. 
Besides, I too might talk of ancient use. 
Had you forgot the captive Hebrew youths 
Who did eschew the portion of the King 
For meagre pulse, yet fairer did appear, 
More fat in flesh, Uian they all who partook? 
You, Sir, that batten on rich cates, and clog 

VERSE, 1904 187 

Tour brain with meat, and still together scrape 

Tour paltry hoard, and then caU that success, 

Qood luck, but ware the Dog-star ! NoVs the time 

When lean men thrive. Doubtless the greedy mole^ 

Shunning the light, thinks his the higher life, 

And mocks the frugal, tuneful, careless lark. 

'* But why the rule ? There lies the fad," cries one. 

Forgetting that we're all the slaves of wont. 

I eat no meat; he eats it every day. 

Besides, I make no rule but for myself ; 

I do not stuff my lentils down his throat. 

And then, your faddist always knows ; I don't. 

How do they err who think, from bondage freed 

I never cast a wistful look behind 

To where we left the flesh-pots — and the scourge ; 

Nor ever long^ when evening incense sweet 

From some domestic altar rising up 

Invades my nostrils, once again to share 

The genial unregenerate ways of men ! 



Others may joy, with frenzied knife and fork, 

To carve the flesh from fellow-creatures' bones ; 

To shut the noisy blackbird in a pie ; 

To catch the yawning oyster by the beard ; 

To wrest the limpet from his native rock ; 

Or with forc'd fingers rudo— or eke with pins — 

To drive the winkle from his humble home. 

But mine it is to follow in the train 

Of those who guileless walk the turnip-fields 

And see not further than their noses' length. 

No bloody butcher wields for me his knife ; 

No dusky lobster blushes for my lust ; 

At me no dying turtle mocks. My meals 

Are purely green, as those of brother Ass. 


And, aa I crop the yielding herbs, I dream 
Of some Elysium, soon to be, where pigs 
Shall revel endlessly in clover-fields, 
Dogs in the manger lie, and every cat 
Escape the sausage vendor and live out 
His charmM lives to the full tale of nine. 
Within the waves that lave these happy shores 
The silver sardine, unconfined, shall swim, 
Nor dream of tins. The lobster — if he likes — 
Shall lie beside the sprat, while round and round 
The rapid whiting, tail in mouth, shall whirl 
In ever-widening rings. O happy land ! 
I cull my cabbage-leaves and dream of thee, 
WhDe, all around, the onion censers fling 
Their strong insistent savours to the wind — 
The wind that whistles through my empty head. 
In at the one— out of the other ear ! 



He thought he saw a bumble-bee 

That sank into a doze ; 
He looked again and saw it was 

The source of all his woes. 
And oh ! " Alas ! that Spring," he sighed, 

" Should vanish with the rose ! " 


He thought he saw the vasty deep 

Pinned to an ironing-board ; 
He looked again and found it was 

Quite of its own acccmL 
" And do you think the pen," he said, 

*' Is mightier than the swwd ? " 


VERSE, 1904 189 

He thought he saw a breakfast egg 

Of most Qncertain date; 
He looked again and saw it was 

His education rate. 
" They also serve," he said, and groaned, 

"Who only stand and wait" 


He thought he saw a macaroon 

Expound the Rule of Three ; 
He looked again and found it was 

To be or not to be. 
*' Verb, sap.," he said, and " Quantum suH' 

"And also . . . Q. E. D." 

K. T. B. 

He thought he saw a motor-car 

Take lemon in its tea ; 
He looked again and saw it was 

"The gorgeous East in fee." 
" A rose by any other name 

Would smell as sweet," said he. 

He thought he saw a centipede 

That drove a motor-car ; 
He looked again and saw it was 

A message from the Czar. 
" Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre," he said, 

"Ne sais quand reviendra." 

He thought he saw a giddy goat 
Advance by three and three ; 

He looked again, and saw it was 
A brilliant repartee. 

" How doth — ^how surely doth," he said, 
"The little busy bee." 


He thonc^t he saw a mountain's brow 

Its deyioos way pursue. 
He kxdrad again and found it was 

A link 'twizt me and yon. 
"To-night 111 come again," said he, 

"\nth comrades brave and true." 

He thought he saw a thunderstorm 
That gazed on him and smiled. 

He looked again and saw it was 
A weary way beguiled. 

" Meet nurse methinks thou art," he cried, 
" For a poetic child." 

VERSE, 1905 

Sicilian Octave 

TO thee, between the sunset and that blest, 
Thrice blest, outshining of the moon, dear tree, 
With tender fronds a-flicker against the west. 

And happy thrills through every branch of thee, 
And stretchings of each twig, in the pure zest 
Of that clear silver glance now dawning, be 
My friendship, since thus from its evening rest 
My soul moves at my love's look, yearningly. 



Rest for a little while. 

Lay down the tool, 
Accept, Beloved, the pitying twilight cool — 
Letting remembered peace our hearts beguile, 
The solace we have gathered from the past. 
When Dusk in Eden yielded us at last 

The stillness of her smila 

This is our chosen space — 

We, who have trod 
Diviner paths, and tilled immortal sod, 
Here work the grudging soil with downcast face 
Swept with fierce winds, fr<nn naked sun athirst. 
Tangled with stubborn weeds — ^bare, scorched, accurst — 

This IB our garden place. 



And here through parching days 

We smile and weep, 
And tdred eyes to shades and pastures deep 

Of our forbidden Paradise we raise- 
Where far away, drawn from eternal hills, 
Some secret source profound for ever fills 

Her gracious waterways. 

But when, all undefiled, 

Some poor, sweet bloom 
Rewards our toD, what lightening of the gloom ! 
We clasp our treasure, glad and reconciled ! 
Yonder no joy is lost and found agaiQ, 
In Eden fields no rapture after pain, 

In Paradise, no chDd ! 

So, should some Angel say, 

'' Lo, you have dreamed ! 
No sin you sinned, and exile only seemed. 
Return ! your kingdom calls for you to^y ! " 
Beloved, I turn to where our sorrows are ; 
Though every bud in Eden were a star, { 

Here would my spirit stay ! 

needless Sword aflame ! 
Though wide the gate, 

1 would not leave the garden of my fate, 
Nor let Perfection put my tcnl to shame. 

Love I O Sorrow ! hold me safely here ; 

1 choose the love by sorrow's self made dear, 
The stony ground I claim ! 

My wayward soul resigns 

The perfect ways — 
In Death, in Pain, in dark laborious days 
Some wide and starry destiny divines. 
Far from the flicker of the Sword of Fire, 
Beyond all sin, all parting, all desire, 

A fairer Eden shines. 

VERSE, 1905 198 

So, till that jdaoe be known, 

Take solace sweet ; 
Here, children, there are daimee for your feet, 
Through scanty leaves a wand'ring wind is thrown. 
BeloTed, ihou^ hearts mnst weep^ thou^ hands mnst toil, 
Last night — ^the tempest swept the bitter soil ; 

To-day — a rose is blown. 



" Come away," he whispered, " Come away, 

LoTed-too-late, while still the flowers are springing, 
Ere yet the birds have made an end of singing. 

Ere yet our lives have seen the last of May, 
My dear, my dear ! 

In this unlighted land where spring lies dead 
Why should we miss the sweetness of the year ? 
The gate stands wide, the shadowed path is clear 
To Love's fair country where we dare not tread." 

'* Night and day," she answered, " Night and day 

1 hear the elfin voices calling, calling ; 

By sunrise, and by noon, and at dew-falling 
I hear the birds about that shadowed way 
Far louder than the voice that bids me stay. 
O pity me, for every breeze that blows 
Is faint with the intolerable sweet 
Of violets that never kissed my feet 
Or passion's heart in some ungathered rose. 
O pity me ! " she wept. And hand in hand 
They twain passed up to the Forbidden Land. 

O once, and once alone, and nevermore 

Shines any sun as by those singing streams 

And silent meres with lilies clustered o'er ; 

And meadows veiled in flowers as in a mist 

New painted with the subtle hues of dreams : 

The forest flashed all day with iris wings, 


And flitting wraiths of rose and amethyst 
Mad with the music of a thousand springs. 
At sunrise, and at noon, until dew-falling 
They heard the elfin Toioes calling, calling, 
Down-dying with the dying of the day. 
Then ''Come away,** he whispered, "Come away, 
O Loved-too-late, the gold is all turned grey, 
And gone the glamour of the sun's enthralling/* 
On the lone summit of the songless hill 
About them blew a bitter wind and chilL 
So down they hurried to the wicket-gate, 
Where the last voice cried mockingly " Too late ! " 
And o'er the locked bars leaning, hand-in-hand 
They gazed sad-eyed on the Forbidden Land. 



Are we sorry or glad, dear heart, that our travelling draws to a 
With Friendship and Fortune to bear us, has all of our voyage 
been sadt 
Look, where the sun goes down in a glory of gold and rose, 
And think of the days gone by, and say — are we sorry or gkdt 

For we twain weighed anchor together, and sailed from the port of 
We have found the country of Mirth, we have crossed the desert 
of Pain; 
And side by side we have fared through the garden of Knowledge 
and Truth, 
And touched at the Isles of life, and trod them together, we 

And of all the lands we have sought, all over our homely world. 
At one little isle alone we dared not touch or stay ; 

For we sifted the Fassicmate Isle, and I bade the sails be.furled. 
But you laid your hand on the helm, and pointed our course 

VERSE, 1905 195 

Tet I went to the stern and gazed, and over onr whitening wake 
I saw the cool wave lipping tiie beach of the Passionate Isle, 

And I heard the cataract fall, and the brown bird smgin the brake. 
And 1 longed to enter the woods, and rest in the diade awhile. 

For methought if we walked together, deaf heart, in the qniet 

WiUti the mystic twilight ronnd us, the silver moon above. 
We should find the spirit of peace that over the island broods, 

And hear in the fragrant night the unknown whisper of Love. 

But you shook your head and smiled, and a warm wind filled the 

And carried us on and away beneath the starry night ; 
The moon rode over the billows, and evening dropped her veU, 

And over our whitening wake the island sank from sight. 

But Sorrow went down with the dark, and Despair with the stars 
was set, 
And Hope sprang up from the sea in a glory of gold and rose ; 
We forgot the Passionate Isle, remembering to forget — 

Are we sorry or glad, dear hearty that our voyage is come to a 



Here, on the cliff's sheer-jutting farthest spur. 

Among the heather's bells at ease I lie. 
And seaward dream into the purple blur 

Of sun-scorched air, where meet the^sea and sky. 
And as I dream, fade cliff and sky and sea, 

Nay, I myself, while 'mid the swooning haze 
Two forms uprise ; the one I know for thee. 

The other, him who lieth here agaze. 
What though a ban hath sundered each from each, 

And left me yearning for my equal mate, 
The Sony mark of those who cant and preach. 

The sport of fortune and the toy of fate? 


This elay I spuniy and far in fancy's realms 
I shont defiance, safe from all alarms, 

While all my sonl a brimming bliss o'erwhelms, 
As to thy heart-beats pnlse my ^ifolding arms. 

The vision passes ; faint to me above 
Is borne the plash of wavelets on the strand. 

But dreaming have I communed with my love, 
And scathless trodden the forbidden land. 

H. 8. M. 


Out across the Moorland tracking — 

Through the heather, 'neath the pine — 
What have I to do with Packingt 

When, my simple meal attacking, 

From the spring I draw my wine — 
Out across the Moorland tracking — 

Tou your clothes in heaps are stacking : 

On my back I carry mine ! 
What have I to do with F^usking? 

Cease your cupboard shelves ransacking, 

Worship now at Nature's shrine — 
Out across the Mowland tracking. 

Why should you your brain be racking — 

Why should you these joys decline t 
What have I to do with F^kingt 

Little's needed, nothing's lacking 

In this life so firee, so fine — 
What have I to do with Packing; 
Out across the Moorland tracking! 


VERSE, 1906 197 


Much and long as I have tried, 
Tried to get the creatore in, 
Still my toothbrush is outmde. 

Boots and waistcoats calm abide, 

But that brash is bound to win, 
Much and long as I have tried. 

Broad my bag's mouth grows, and wide; 

Pale my face becomes, and thin ; 
Still my toothbrush is outside. 

No ! I can't its bristles hide 

In its tomb-shaped case of tin. 
Much and long as I have tried. 

Thou^ for hours I've thought that Pd 

Catch the four-fifteen for Lynn, 
Still my toothbrush is outside. 

By four-thirly 111 have died 

Uttering scarlet words of sin. 
Much and long as I have tried, 
Still my toothbrush is outside. 



There's smoke on the horizon, so they say — say they. 

The rulers in the palace are asleep or at their play ; 

One bade them 'ware the fire, but they laughed, laughed they, 

" 'TIS a mist will soon disperse when we turn that way." 

" Do ye see the smoke-wreaths curling, are ye blind, deaf, dumbf" 
'*Hsh — ^we see the smoke-wreaths curling^ and we come, come, 


There's fire on the border, and the/ve ahdn brave hearts and true ; 
The/re langhing at the weeping, for 'twas what they meant to do. 
** Well teach them how to make a fire, we'll teach them how to 

But the fire bums more fiercely for those gallant hearts and true. 

" Do ye hear the fire burning! are ye blind, deaf, dumbt " 
'* Tea ! we hear the fire burning, and we come, come, come." 

There's a blaze o'er all the country, and they cry, cry they, 
" Well quench the fire with water, for the fuel's still to pay." 
But tears are dry with weeping and a chance has passed away : 
There's an end to bondage sometime, and the end may come to-day. 

" Do ye greet the fire burning t are ye blind, deaf, dumbt " 

*' Damn 1 We greet the fire burning, and we come, come, come ! " 

There's a fiery flame in every heart and fiery work to do, 
Not for rulers now, but leaders, yea, for men and women too ! 
They've stifled us, they've trampled, we will Uve our lives anew, 
'* With Freedom and with Liberty to show us what to do— Aye ! 
To show us what to do ! " 

" Have ye felt the fire burning t were ye blind, deaf, dumb!" 
'* JTo I we felt the fire burning, and have come, come, come ! " 

K. T. 


Thou who hast suffered dumbly 

With sword and scourge oppressed, 
How long wilt thou thus humbly 

Obey a Czar's behest 1 

Red flame of wrong bums in thee, 
Red blood has stained the snow; 

Rise up-— let Freedom win thee 
To answer blow for blow ! 

VERSE, 1905 199 

The priests of Christ unfailing 

Tell how He suffered loss, 
And in His name are nailing 

The people to the cross. 

Red flame, &c. 

Earth has no salve to give thee, 

Thy wounds are of ^e sonl ; 
Thy Czars forsooth forgive thee 

For asking to be whole ! 

Red flame of wrong boms in thee, 
Red blood has stained the snow ; 

Rise up— let Freedom win thee 
To answer blow for blow ! 



For many years along yonr way, 

With nothing to divide, 
From night to night, from day to dny, 

So closely by your side, 

I walked with you, and all along, 
From every plant and tree, 

Tou plucked some little flower of song 
And gave them all to me. 

And vervain sweet I gathered you, 
Lest love should go astray ; 

Then, as the fairies softly drew 
Throng golden nets the day. 

We spoke together, you and I, 
Of brave and secret things ; 

We built love's fortress to the sky, 
And gave his warriors wings. • . . 


O lost adventoreB, loTed too well — 
O petaLs doomed to shame ! 

echoing, empty citadel 

That proudly bears your name ! 



For many years along your way, 

With nothing to divide, 
From night to night, from day to day, 

So closely by your side, 

1 walked with you, and all along, 

From every plant and tree, 
You plucked some little flower of song 
And gave them all to me. 

And 'twixt the leaves of Memory's book, 

Wherein I fondly keep 
Note of your voice, your touch, your look, 

All of your flowerets sleep, 

Till, like the Fkestan rose of old. 

As Roman poets sing, 
Tour little flowers shall each unfold 

In second blossoming — 

Tet fairer, tenderer every one 

Than in the earthly years, 
Because my love has been their sun, 

Their rain, my daily tears. 


Voices, voices, voices within and without. 
And most of them cry " Give in ! " 
But a few of them cry <' Hold out ! " 
So we hold, hold, hold, hold, 
mi the brazen world shall be turned to gold, 
And the angels come with a shout ! 

VERSE, 1905 JOl 


Sweet, like the smell of ^e wine in a fishing city, 

— (A small stone city, set round a bine-washed bay) — 

Keen, like the breath of the sea oyer wide peat-bog land, 
Tonng, like the odorous blowing of winds in May, 

BraTe, like the birth of a poet's most high desiring. 
My lady Tvaine, sang Prosper, did pass this way. 


Ah, LoTe, if youth but knew 
The limitless fair kingdom it might sway : 
The perilous cloud-peak and the sea-beach lone, 
The dim-lit forest and the meadow way. 
What worth has knowledge, dear, for me and you I 
Ah, JjoYe, had youth but known. 

B. A. BU 


Cest la Peur qui nous donne k chacun le courage, 
Et nous Taut d'affit>nter les incessants combats ; 
Cest elle qui fomente et nous souffle ici-bas 
La haine vengeresse en r^ponse k Toutrage. 

Cest range protecteur du mann dans Torage 
On quand yient k sonner Theure du branle-bas ; 
O'est la d^esse auguste entratnant sur see pas 
Lli^roume vainqueur dans un sanglant mirage. 

Cest I'aiguillon du l&che et le frein du vaillant ; 
Et c'est la conseilldre au sein fl^tri, tremblant, 
Comme Tinspiratrice inlassable et f^nde. 

Maitresse uniyerselle aux yeux hagards et f ous, 
Dont le bras nous ^treint et pourtant nous seconde. 
Tons nous te connaissons et tu nous connais toua, 

O Peur, dont le jardin, le domaine, est le monde ! 




At the gate of the year 

I gaze each way ; 
To-morrow lies here, 

There yesterday. 
These come, those fly : 
And I at the gate — what am 1 1 



Here lieth one who took the gauge of life, 
WhateTer that school or this other saith, 

Who won the radiance of a star to wife 
And has obtained the dignities of deatL 

The Sculptor has fair marble at his feet. 

The Painter has the miracles of Tyre, 
The Poet has the soiled words of the street, 

And robes them with imperishable fire. 

I sought for Loveliness when I was young, 
Singing I followed her from place to place. 

But lately have the shades of sorrow clung 
About me, and I shall behold her face. 



Rain on the roof-tops — ^yes, I hear — rain, rain. 
And tell me, will you ever cease again! 

Your Toice is of the woodland, silver-dear ; 
And tell me, will you wash the city's stain 
Out of my heart for ever, rain — ^rain t 


VERSE, 1906 «08 


Thi Song of thb Tannsb 

(After Budyard Kipling) 
When the rye rune over the pockety 

As the oont of a 7uuar-kel, 
Give eoTy my people^ and Heten 

To the gtory the people tell : 
The Song of Sixpence the Tanner 

A $ong thai ye know full weU. 

Nine are the Laws of the Hedgerow 

That Mavis, the Song Thrash, wrote ; 
For blackbirds baked in a pie-crust 

This is the law they quote : 
That the blackbird nearest the egg-cup 

Is the one that must give the note. 

The soul of the King was hungered. 

And out he spake in his wrath ; 
** Te have searched to the East for blackbirds, 

Go, search ye again to the North. 
Go, search till ye find two dozen*" 

. . . And the Word of the King went forth. 

Twenty and four were the blackbirds — 

Somebody cut the crust ; 
And out of the tiiick'ning gravy 

Each little beak was thrust 
Twenty and four were the voices . . . 

And the eoul of the King was duet ! 

A. ▲« MILNI 



Lordinges, I wd you singen of a grote^ 
And of a pouehe of reye also by rote. 
And eek of tweye doseyn birdes blake. 
That weren in a pastee wel y-bake : 


So aone thilke pastee conren was, 
Tho fooles al giui dngen in that cas : 
Me ihinketh this so delicat it is ; 
A ! kiDges mowen ete of it, ywis ! 
The kinge to his coontoiir-hoas is goon, 
To rekene of his penyes everichoon ; 
With-in hir propre bour the quene sete, 
Of breed with hony spradde for to ete ; 
And in the gardin was the lavender ^ fresshe ; 
Ther-in she hangeth clothes new y-wesshe, 
Til sodeynly doon fleigh a papejay, 
And plukked of hir noe^ weylaway ! 


{Long After Byron) 
1 want no hero— quite a common want — 

But " Sing a Song of Sixpence," not a new one, 
And '' pocketful of rye," but really can't 

Try to persoade yon that the tale's a true one. 
In nursery rhymes our childhood use to vaunt 
That, ere his Sacred Majesty could chew one. 
Twenty-four blackbirds all began to sing, 
Tho' baked in dainty dish to please the King. 
Further, that chronicle, time-honoured, told 

How in his counting-house the King was lurking. 
Counting his treasure — coppers, silver, gold — 

His Queen the while — alas ! there is no burking 
The bald, plain truth — ^within the pantry roU'd 
New bread in honey, oft her elbow jerking 
Up to her mouth, and often, on the sly. 
Sucking her fingers when no maid was by. 
And now the climax, how we longed to cry t 
One maid was in the garden, and her duty 
Was to hang out the royal wash to dry : 
Shirts, nij^tgowns, stockings, some few things of beauty, 

1 Lavender is dissyllabic =** laimdresg.'* 

VERSE, 1905 906 

And many into which we will not pry. 
Her lips no doubt looked Inscioaa, ripe, and fmity. 
And aa she patiently hong out ^e dothes, 
A wanton blackbird snapt away her nose. 

H. B. H. 


O Person's Nag! O Person's Nag f 

What makes 'ee graw zo fatt 
Whoy t feeding in the Parson's stall ; 

Tis main good feeding that ! 
2iO well as he loyes sarmon time, 

He loveth dinner bell ! 
But he al'ays zees my manger vnll 

Afore he dines himzell ! 

O PtoM)n's Nag! O P^irson's Nag! 

Whnt makes 'ee go zo slow 1 
Whoy ! him as carries Parson Biggs 

Man vair and softly go. 
For if I tries a trot, tiiee zees, 

Vair oTerhead he goes ! 
And who be I, 'onld loike to know, 

To ylatten Parson's nose? 

O Parson's Nag ! O Parson's Nag ! 

What makes 'ee get zo gray? 
Whoy I zame as grizzles Parson's hair : 

The fret of every day ! 
The horse or man as does his work. 

My measter oft has said, 
Wold Time will lay a zUver crown 

Of honoar on his head. 




** What in all the world are ye sayin' in yere whispers, 
Moidherin' my Colleen, ye winds from oyer there 1 

Whisht, be quite an' aisy ! Is there anny sinse in whisp'rin' t 
Who gev ye the ri^t to go curlin' np her hair t 

" Arrah, thin, be aff ! She can't listen to me spakin' . . . 

Faiz ! 'tis quite a power I come this night to say ! 
Gk) an' toss the reeds beyant^ rustlin' there an' laughin'. . . . 

Och ! they keeps on whisp'rin' jes' the same ould way ! " 

" Whisha, Shawn, be aisy ! 'Tis the winds I do be heedin'. 

Sure, ov all the stories 'tis theirs is always best 
Long as winds is blowin' I'd scruple to be listenin' 

To anny other thing than winds frcnn all the west ! 

" Fve no time fur coortin' whin thim same waves is whisp'rin', 
Beck'nin' up the white waves all along the shore. . . . 

Sorra thing but listens — eVn the tallest tree*tops 
Turn to hear such stories they niver heard afore ! 

'' All the little grass-stems, fiUin' up the medda, 

Ev'ry blade o' bent» the sand-hills all along. 
Turns the way the wind blows. . . . Turn an' listen too, Shawn ! 

Mortial man can't make the like o' their sweet song." 

*^ Is it listen — me ? Long as you are wid me, 
Ton are all I hear, avick, an' you are all I see ! 

Break my heart you will if you never look atowards me, 
C)ore ov all my heart, acushla, gramachree ! 

" Och ! what can I do agin the winds o' heaven ! 

Hadn't ye the waves there racin' fast and white t 
Wasn't all the wide say enough fur ye to play wid, 

But ye must come moidherin' my Colleen-Oge to-night? 

VERSE, 1906 807 

<< Quick, go on io England ! 'Tis there they're ooinin' money. 

Tom the way ye come : go back f Americay ! 
Only hungry hilLs ia here, only heth an' bogland . . . 

Steppin'-stones the moonll make across the deep green say. 

*' Couldn't clouds contint ye, flying fast as swallows! 

If ye'd only stop wance, blowin' from the west !— 
Nary time she'll listen, long as winds is playin', 

Whisp'rin' to Ould Ireland from Islands o' the Blest !" 



One lived on happy dreams and was content, 
The other fought and wrestled, sweating sore. 

Each dutiful to Nature's kindly bent, 
Each drawing nurture from her varied store ; 

This fiercely earnest, that serenely cool. 
Each thinks the other more than half a fooL 


Vista — A Riddle of the Oity 
I lit the hearths which heavenward breathe at mom, 

Though these at midnight shall be quenched and cold. 
Ephemeral fire is theirs, each day new-born, 

Tet I was never new, nor shall be old. 
All are of me : all me their parent call. 
Myself not any one, nor each, nor all 1 


Two chambers hath the heart 

Wherein apart 
Dwell Joy and Palo. 
O Joy, thy song restrain 

Lest thou shouldst keep 
Pain from her sleep. 





The bride she sat in the sunlight sheen 

T^Aimin' her yellow hair : 
It glimmered gowd on hor kirtle green, 

I wat that she was fair. 
She knotted it under the silken snood 

That she shall need nae mair. 

Then by there cam' a gangrel wife, 

Of wrinkled eld was she — 
''And will ye buy brooch or siller knife, 

My winsome lady free t 
There's muckle luck wi' a' I sell, 

And there's mair wi' a' I gie ! " 

She has chosen gems, she has chosen lace, 

And paid wi' the heavy gold. 
" Now, blessings be on your bonnie face, 

And guid wi' what I hae sold ! 
But here's a ring for your lily hand 

Worth a' the rest, thrice-told ! " 

The red stone sparkled, the red stone darkled, 

And leapt and glowed like fire 
On her lily hand the golden band. 

Was to wonder at and admire. 
The wife was gane : and she rose alane 

To seek her grey-haired sire. 

She rose up lightly, she went sae brightly, 

A maiden fair and free. 
But ere she came to her father's side, 

Sae pale and wan was she. 
She strove to tell — but there she fell 

A corpse at her father's knee ! ! 


VERSE, 1905 S09 

Bide home ! ride home ! thou bold bridegroom I 

Ride home fall heavily ! 
No loTely fere in her blushing bloom, 

Shall plight her troth to-day. 
They abroad her limbs for the lonely tomb, 

And the cold haUs of the clay ! 

Heavily, heavily o'er the moor. 

Rides home the mooming grocmi — 
When he was aware of a woman there 

Beside a bash of broom. 
" Is it thoa, my foe, halii wroaght this woe 

And a harmless maiden's doomt" 

*^ I gave the fairest of all the land 

A fine ring boaght fall dear 1 
I took that ring from my daoghter's hand, 

As she lay on her bier — 
Fall fit it was that thy gift, good lord, 

Shoald deck thy lady clear ! ! I'' 


C* BaUad^;' on the Chaucerian Model) 

A ladye sat aneath a tree, 

A wilwe tree soe grene and gay, 
Fol oft she sighed right pitoasly 

And weping seyde : Ah wel-a-day, 

My love fro me is hente away : 
I slept^ and dremed to him I flew, 

As dreming still of me he lay. 

Onlie our dremes are trew. 

Briddes that maken melodie, 

Be silent now, I do yon pray : 
Toa hertes bold in woodland free. 

No more to yon yoor does shal stray. 


O wflwe tree with leT^s grej 
Qrant me a while to wepe with yoa, 
Til fllepe ageyn my wound alky. 

Onlie our dremes are irew, 

Bat| crael Slepe, thou mockest me. 

Sin with him I may never stay, 
O Slope, I will han non of thee ; 

To gentil Delii I wend my way, 

For onlie he can sorwes sky. 
Our dayes are yvel, many or few, 

Ne linger I ne wolde ne may. 

Ofdie our dremei are trew, 

Dere Deth, who takest tendirly, 

Lyk litel babes forspent witii pky, 
Us men, who come f ol redily. 

Thy face shal never me affiray ; 

Who dost upon our wrecched cky 
Unending dremes like roses strew. 

They swetest slepe who slope alway. 
Onlie our dremes are trew. 



Es tuschelt die Ektschsacht, es raonet der Neid, 
Es liistem die gif tigen Zongen ; 
Sie treiben ihr Werk in der Dunkelheit, 
Sie rasten nicht, bis es gelongen. 
Und fragt ihr, was all das bedeute : 
** So sagen die Leute." 

Der Jiingling, er strebt nach dem goldenen Breis, 
Er macht seine N&chte zu Tagen, 
Und endlich belohnt sich der eiseme Fleiss, 
Die Brader sind alle geschkgen^ 
Wamm wohl der Sieg ihn so freate? 
'' Da staunen die lionte ! " 

VERSE, 1906 211 

Es lockt des Yersachers schmeichelndes Wmt, 
Wie klingen so siiss seine Tone ; 
'' Znm Stelldichein komm am Terschwiegenen Ort ! " 
Doch standhaft versagt sich die Schone. 
Waa war es, woTor sie sich seheate? 

Und woUt ihr sie schaun, die geftirchtete Macht, 
Der zahlloee Seelen sich neigen, 
So wandelt zom einsamen Friedhof e sacht^ 
Wo die Grftber tranern und — schweigen. 
Hierher triigt der Tod seine Bente — 
" Da liegen die Leute." 



Morning, and hearts like flame ! 

Sunrise on moor and dale ! 
Failure a far-off name ! 

Bugles, and gleaming mail ! 

Life — just a winging sail 
Under Qod's cloudless blue ! 

Ah, the wild night of gale ! 
Only our dreams are true ! 

Dreams thro' all storms the same, 

Dreams that no use can stale, 
Dreams tiiat nor age, nor shame, 

Neither death's darts assail 

How did our toil avail? 
Where the high hopes we knew 1 

Friends — ^yea, our own selves foil, 
Only our dreams are true. 


Fortune's a wantcm dame, 

Love's bat a jester frafl: 
Empty earth's load acclaim — 

So goes the world-old tale. 

Shadows that weep and waO 
Wander the world's pomp through : 

Under the sacred Teil 
Only our dreams are true. 


Prince, how earth's splendours pale ! 

Laurels are twined with rue. 
Far glows the mystic Qrail ! 

Always our dreams are true ! 



Mir waer's schon recht Aueh dir, und ihm, und Allen, 
TJnd dennoch geht es nicht. Wie soil ich's deuten, 
Dass jedem Einselnen es wuerd ge£allen, 
Nur nicht dem anonymen Yolk, den " Leuten " t 

Qem legt' ich ab — doch mindestens den Kragen — 
Im heissen Sonuner ; huellte mein Oesicht 
Bei Wind in Schleier, einen Muff wuerd' tragen 
Wenn's kalt ist Doch die " Leute " leiden's nicht ) 

Und wenn mit meinem Lieb nach laeng'rem Zwiste 
Auf f reier Strass' ich endlich word' yersoehnt : — 
Wie gem umfing ich sie, wie gerne kuesste 
Ich sie. Doch von den " Leuten " wird's verpoehnt ! 

Wenn's nur 'ne Einzahl gaeb— mir wuerd' nicht bangen 
Ein Ende macht' ich bald der Tyrannei ; 
Waer's auch ein Heer von hundert-koepf gen Schlangen, 
Ich schluege jeder jedes Haupt entzweL 

VERSE, 1905 818 

Die '* Leute 1 " — Stimmen sind's ja nor die fliiestenii 
Und selbst-ernannte Loeaer nicht'ger Fragen ; 
Schwatihaf te Unheilatifter» stets im Doestem ; 
Nicht weias man wer aie aind, nor waa aie sagen ! 

Und wenn'a dereinat ein End' nimmt mit der Erden, 
Folgte man meinem Bat, wnerd' es befohlen : 
" Ein jedea Menachenkind soil aelig werden, 
Jedoch die * Leute ' — soil der Teufel holen ! " 

JOHN ooBmoius 


{After Tefmysan^s " You ask me why^ tho* HI at eate ") 

Yon ask me why, tho' ill at ease, 
I read this volume I despise. 
Whose letters swim before my eyes 

And whose dull sentences dbplease ? 

It is the book that masters praise. 
And paint in dull scholastic tints ; 
The book (though girt with jollier prints) 

A boy must read in holidays. 

A book a schoolboy can't endure ; 

A book of men who gained renown. 

I grind the pages slowly down 
And long for lighter literature. 

Where boys were seldom t6te4-tete 
In brutal, low, offensive strife, 
But showed their birth to nobler life 

By scratching writings on a slate. 


Should banded masters use the cane 
And on this theme — ^their fav'rite— dote 
lliat we may torn out '^ men of note " 

And in the "School Prospectaa" reignt 

Oh, seat me in a cosy nook. 

Oh, put a box of chocolates nigh, 
And I will read with ecstasy 

A brighter, less "improving" book. 

w. B. FISH (Aged 15) 


It was about the deep of nighty 

And still was earth and sky. 
When 'neath the moonlight dazzling bright, 

Three ghosts came riding by. 

Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, 

lie kingdoms for them aU : 
I wot their steeds trod wearily — 

The journey was not small. 

By rock and desert, sand and stream, 

They footsore late did go : 
Now like a sweet and blessM dream 

Their path was deep with snow. 

Shining like hoar-frosty rode they on, 

Three ghosts in earth's array : 
It was about the hour when wan 

Night turns at hint of day. 

Oh, but their hearts with woe distraught 

Hailed not the wane of nighty 
Only for Jesu stiU they sought 

To wash them dean and white. 

VERSE, 1905 215 

For bloody was each hand, and dark 

With death each orbleas eye ; — 
It was three Traitors mute and stark 

Came riding silent by. 

Silver their raiment and their spurs. 

And silver-shod their feet, 
And silver-pale each face that stares 

Into the moonlight sweet. 

And he upon the left that rode 

Was Pilate, Prince of Rome, 
Whose journey once lay far abroad, 

And now was nearing home. 

And he upon the right that rode 

Herod of Salem sate. 
Whose mantle dipped in children's blood 

Shone clear as Heaven's gate. 

And he these twain betwixt that rode 

Was dad as white as wool. 
Dyed in the Mercy of his God 

White was he crown to sole. 

Throned mid a myriad Saints in bliss 

Rise shall the Babe of Heaven 
To shine on these three ghosts, I wis, 

Smit thro' with sorrows seven. 

Babe of the BlessM Trinity 

Shall smile their steeds to see : 
Herod and Pilate riding by. 

And Judas one of three. 




He g^noeB not to left^ nor yet to rights 
But gases sternly very straight ahead ; 

And if one points him omt a cart in sight 
(Being oneself replete with nervoos dread) 
He flinches not, nor pales, nor flashes red, 

Nor titter clutches at the steering bar ; 
He smiles a little scomfol smile instead — 

H^% used^ /Str, to a very different car. 

Lying upon his back, he says <Hie might 

Well use a sparking-plug more lately bred ; 
His eye gleams up with a contemptuous light — 

lliat make of carburettor's long been dead ! 

He asks, with pity, what o'clock you said 
You wanted to reach home t . . • Well, as things are, 

Tou'U not do that ; the creature must be led — 
He^i Kted^ Sir^ to a very different car. 

You wish him at the inn a shy good-night 

When he emerges from the motor-shed ; 
You hope he's comfortable — ^Yes, Sir, quite, 

But, may he say, a touch dispirited ; 

He's just been putting the machine to bed, 
And may he ask. Sir, if you're going far 

To-morrow . . . but at that point you have fled — 
Ht^a u$edi iSir, to a very different car. 


Prince, how this gentleman does proudly tread ! 

As crushed worms we, and he a most high Czar ; 
Of self-respect he stripe us, shred by shred — 

He't u$ed, Sir^ to a very different car. 


VERSE, 1906 

{A Teuton to a Kelt) 

FRESH as the years when Earth was new, 
Tet sad and strange as moonlit seas, 
Thon, changeful, dost with fire pursue 
All things in turn, that chance to please. 

Poets and heroes and wild kings 

Qave thee thy nature full of charm, 
The soul of thee, that dreams and sings, 

A potent anger, swift to arm. 

My golden idols are the food 

For thy keen laughter — ^yea, thou hast 

Qleams of a spiritual mood, 
And thoughts that wander in the Vast ! 

Fickle and voyaging as the wind, 
Of tears and mirth and vision blent, 

Then need'st the slower Teuton mind 
To hold thee to a firm intent ! 

But, Dreamer ! thou of dreamers bom. 
Thou art not worth my heart's regret, 

For thou hast laughed my love to scorn ; 
Thou art a futile thing — and yet ! 




Fame ! I ask it not, my brother ! 

'Tia a hollow bubble blown. 
Wherein one fool sees another — 

His own self distended shown. 

Though I can outsing the Syrens, 

Though my wit is razor-keen ; 
Puff your pornographic Byrons, 

Oive me solitude serene. 

Emeralds in the sunlight basking 

See my poema^ each a gem ! 
Fame ! it is not worth the asking 

While I feast my eyes on them. 

Let the rhymers print in papers 

Crudities the crowd applaud. 
Coppers may reward their capers, 

I am not by envy gnawed. 

Let their photos deck the windows, 
Let their " fame " afi^nt the skies, 

Qaudy-grand as gods of Hindoos 
Me they will not vulgarise ! 

In log-rolling rough-and-tumble 

I, too sensitive to mix. 
Wait the wreath that crowns the humble 

On the other side of Styx. 


{(hmpleHon of Two Verses by M. B. CoUridge) 

We were yowrig^ we were merry ^ we were very, very wiiCj 

And the door stood open at our feast. 
When there passed tts a woman with the West in her eyes. 

And a man vnth his back to the East. 

VERSE, 1906 219 

Behind lay the dawn with its mystery and balm, 

And the springs and the watershed, 
But hetore ns was the sea with its buoyancy and calm 

Where the beacons were burning red. 

*^ Where the dead men lie, 'tis for jrou to say good-bye " 

(The door is open for the feast), 
And the Shepherds have gone past^ and the Kings are dead at last^ 

And darkness has covered the East 

" By the ships, by the ocean, a new morning will arise, 

For the town where the lights born red." 
And we followed the woman with the West in her eyes. 

And we left our unburied dead. 

And the clouds closed again round the starlit mountain fane 

(The door is open for the feast), 
And beneath upon the plain lay the bodies of the slain 

In the dusk of the ancient East. 

A golden day rose high in a majesty of sky, 

And we drank of tiie laughter of life, 
And the children passed us by with their song and minstrelsy. 

And men with their dreams and strife. 

We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise, ' 

But the dead lay thick behind. 
And, like a bird that cries o'er the moorland as it flies, 

Came the burden and the sough of the wind. 

One by one as they heard it would the men and women rise 

(The door stood open for each guest). 
But our eyes as they passed us could not fathom their eyes 

Nor see if they turned to the West 

And the wind blew again from the distant starlit plain 

As we sat midst the broken meats. 
And the prophecies were past, and the seers dead at last, 

And around us empty seats. 


Now let me lie where the dead dog I4e$, 

Ere I eiitne dawn again at afeaet 
Where there paeees a woman wUh the Wed in her eiyee^ 

And a man with hie back to the Eaet. 

A. F. T. 


<< Mother, what is yon cloud I see, 
That hangs so dark and low t " 
<< That is the sign of Wilderness, 
My boy, where you must go ; 
(God grant the years be slow ! )" 

Five years and five years, 

Till he was ni^^ a man, 
He played about his father's fields 

And thro' the woods he ran. 

His father took his hand one day 

And said, ** My lad, now go 
And take your part in yonder town 

Where the cloud hangs dark and low." 
When the lad reached London Town 

The lights were all aglow. 

^< This is not Wilderness," he said, 

** And no dark doud I see ; 
Sure this is fairyland and bright 

With stir and gaiety." 

He saw the towers and palaces, 

In gold and marble white ; 
The great ships passing up and down ; 

And many a wondrous sight. 

He heard the songs and dances, 

He took his part with glee ; 
** 'Twas yonder was the Wilderness, 

And this is Life ! " said he. 

VERSE, 1906 5»1 

He saw the chariots rolling — 

With lords and ladies grand ; 
And maidens in their fine array 

Go by (m either hand. 

Oh, welcome was each morning, 

And welcome was each night, 
And welcome aU the livdong day 

When everything was bright 

But^ few years, and few years — 

The glow began to fade. 
The music tamed to jangling ; 

He went, as half afraid, 
The cloud his mother osed to see 

Had gathered overhead. 

And grim the streets were grown ; 

The lights burn dim and cold, 
And lichens on the marble crept, 

And mildew on the gold. 

How harsh the noises were ! 

And thicker still and dank 
The doud seemed close above him 

Until his spirit sank. 

He thought upon the pleasant fields 

Where he had used to roam, 
The meadows and the woodlands 

Around the house at home. 

And still the cloud fell lower — 

Till he arose one day 
And said, ** 111 to my father's house 

Where I was used to play." 


Alaa^ for him, that it should be ! 

— ^Alas, for me, to say — 
So thick the doad that compassed him 

— ^He never found the way. 



Sing I of London Town, 
Country folk, lass and down, 
Giles, Fatty, sit ye down. 

List to my lay. 
Ill tell you why I love 
London all else above. 
E'en though in Westbourne-grove 

I'm doomed to stay. 

Be it the winter-time. 
Snow on the trees or rime 
Then there's the pantomime 

At I)rury Lane. 
Thither in motor-'bus 
Ride we with little fuss, 
Tes, it just does for us. 

Me and my Jane. 

Be it a rainy spring, 
Country louts shivering. 
Birds all too wet to sing, 

Mist, fog, and haze : 
We do not mind a Hi, 
We can just laugh and sit 
There in the good old pit 

At matinees. 

And when in blazing heat 
Haymakers toil and sweat. 
We take a summer treat 
In Richmond Park ; 

VERSE, 1906 2S8 

Ice-cream is cheaply bought^ 
Easily swimming's taught^ 
Boatbg with joy is fraught ; 
Ain't it a lark f 

While tinder heaTy sheaves 

Poor Hodge, he groans and heaves, 

Trodging 'mid fallen leaves 

Dirty and brown, 
I go and gaily watch 
Socker or Bugby match ; 
Country t It ain't a patch 

On London Town. 

Give me the sparkling Strand, 
Looking by night so grand, 
Give me a Sousa's band. 

In shine or rain ; 
Lunch at the A. R C. 
Steamboats and L. C. C. 
Country folk envy me. 

Me and my Jane. 

You grope in some dark lane. 
Trusting to Charles' Wain, 
Gas makes our way quite plain 

In darkest night 
Slow you in wagons creep, 
Drivers always asleep, 
Enough to make one weep. 

Us trams delight 

Then, oh ! how much I'd hate 
Hearing the news so late. 
Drearily to await 


There, morning, noon, and ni^t, 
Pale green and pink and white 
Papers are all in sight — 
They neyer fail. 

Friends, come and have your fling. 
Catch sight of eyerjrthing : 
Tou'U see periiaps the King, 

Joe and C. B., 
G. B. S., a. R C, 
Qen'ral Booth, Beerhohm Tree, 
And, yes, you're sure to see 

My Jane and me. 

Come, then, from hill and dale, 
Come, leave the grassy vale ; 
Speed o'er the iron rail 

In Londcm train. 
If I're said what's not true, 
Shame's to me, not to you ; 
Come for a day and view 

Me and my Jane. 



Hast ease for me, 

Mother of sleep and dream ! Children of thine 
From idle hours, from pain, 
From toU of eager hand and brain. 

Turn to thee now and crave the Lethe-wine. 

To me the toil 

Ellling the day was welcome ; sweeter yet 
The talk of friends, the smile 
Of sunny looks. Tet now beguile 

Weary unrest of heart : let me forget. 

VERSE, 1906 9StS 

Thy temple shrine — 
Where shall I find itt Is it round me now ? 

This dnakj-ahining veil 

That shuts me in with barrier frail — 
Is it the raven tresses of thy brow t 

Ah, draw thine arm 
Closer about me — closer yet : the prize 

Of uttermost content 

la thine to give, if thou consent 
Once to reveal the secret of thine eyes, ' 

Love-light is there, 
Deeper than aught of love we think to know ; 

And wisdom's silent way. 

Unknown to toilers of the day — 
Treasures <A life thou dost alone bestow. 

Teach me to love ; 

Teach me a wiser way than I have known : 
So, when the dawn at length 
Becalls me, I shall know my strength 

Equal to aU my days, content alone. 


[NS.^The daim of (hit dama to onginalUy depends on the rtguiar 
etBtwra in ik$ 4th foot of line 3, (ucompanied by a break in ihe emu; 
and on the regviar ^'weak ending" to line 4 : both being feaituree 
dbieni from the etanm of *' Teare^ Idle Teairt^ v)hich faUe regulairlg 
into 4 Hnee + 1 Une,] 

One golden bar along the clouded west ; 
Thereunder, cold grey levels of the sea 
Ribbed with its pale reflection ; and a thread 
Of vivid gold, where the last wave^retreating 
Has burnished all the borders of the sand. 


Is this the goal whereto the stately dawn 
Was destined^ she that flecked wiUi rosy cloud 
The brown heads of the mountains t and the noon 
That o'er a pale sea, paler than the turquoisei 
Trailed her blue mantle, edged with russet mists t 

The rankM peaks, that through the day's decline, 
like purple-vested monarchs languorously 
Leaned back against the heaven, now amid 
The blended gloom of cloud and sea and valley 
Baffle the eyes and sink into the night. 

There is no stirring breeze enough to swing 

The bramble's long lean arms one inch aside 

From their true pole of being ; right and left 

Spreads such a strand that each spent ripple's heart-break 

Tliereon should sound but as a tear that fell : 

Tet one long moan possesses all the dark — 
The eldest child of Nature murmuring 
Against a changeful mother : Hush ! the Sea 
Dreams of to-day's irrevocable beauty. 
Dreams of to-morrow dim with pitiless rain. 



Deep in my heart I made 
A tomb, and there my dear dead Christ I laid. 

Forlorn despair 
Swathed Him in linen fine with spices rare. 

While that unsleeping watcher. Doubt, 
Rolled a great stone secure and set a guard without. 

Why faint, my soul ? Why fear? 
Dare through the dimness of the mom to peer 

And empty find 
That tomb where Doubt his vigil hath resigned, 

While Hope and Love in white array 
Point to the folded bands, the great stone rolled away. 


VERSE, 1906 887 


" Joy ! " shout the Seraphim ; " Joy ! " reply the Cherobim, 
Circling with triumphant hymn the great white throne ; 
*' Burst are all the prison-bars, love resumes his crown of stars, 
Pain no more his visage mars, night has flown ! " 

''Joy ! " shout the martyr throng ; " sing aloud a glad new song 
Love as death and hell is strong, fierce as flame " ; 
" Joy I " reply the captives freed ; '' this our Grod is Qod indeed. 
Pity bared His breast to bleed for man's shame." 

Rise, O saints whose blood has run, freely in the fight you won, 
Round your re-ascended Sun circling soar ! 
Warrior-like your ranks unclose, till ye shape the Mystic Rose, 
Whose dilated beauty glows, evermore ! 



Weisst Du es noch — vor vielen hundert Jahren 
Warst Du der Eonig, ich die Konigin. 
Ein schmaler, goldner Reif in meinen Haaren, 
Um meine Schultern schwerer Hermelin. 

Weisst Du, wie wir durch schwarze W&lder ritten — 
Nachts wenn der Mond durch wirre Zweige schien. 
Und seine wunderlichen Strahlen glitten 
Bleich Uber Deiner Riistimg Silber hin. 

Wir rittoi Us an unsers Reiches Grenzen, 
Und nahte dch der Mwgen, lag die Welt 
So jung vor uns, in goldnen Rosenkrttnzen 
Yon wolkenloser Sonne Licht erhellt. 


Die Welt ward alt — ^and hinter starken T<Mren 
Yerborgen achlommert die Yergangenlieit, 
Dort liegt das Kbnigreich das wir verlOTen 
Und unsrer Liebe bante M&rchenseit. 

Nun zielin wir miide dorch den Staub der Strassen, 
Und manohmal nnr erwacht in onsrem Sinn 
Bin Schimmer jener Zeit die wir vergassen : 
Da warst der Konig, ich die Eonigin. 



Yom Mond gekiisst singt ihre siissen Lieder 
Die Silberquelle dorch die hehre Nacht^ 
Yom ewig jnngen Leben, das der Lenz gebracht, 
Im dof t'gen Tale hallt es heimlich wieder. 

Und an der Quelle stillem ems'gem Weben 
Da hiilt dn Felsblock aus der Urzeit Wacht 
Auf seiner Mooebank in der Ehrfurcht Macht 
Thront eine Frau von lichtem Schein umgeben. 

Zu ihren Ftissen, andachtsvoU gekauert^ 
Schmi^ traumversunken dch ein lauschend Kind, 
Sein Auge h&ngt an ihrem Mund, dem Und 
Der Sang entstromt, der es durchschauert 

Der Sang von alten, von uralten Sagen, 
Die ewig jung die Frau dem Kinde singt, 
Der durch die Mondnacbt zauberhaft erklingt, 
Bald freudvoU bald in stillen Wehmuts Elagen« 

Kennst du die Frau aus deiner Kindlieit Tagen t 
Es ist das M&rchen, das auch dir gesungen 
Die alten Weisen, die nie ausgeklungen 1 


VERSE, 1906 5829 


When yon are old, I may regret yonr going 
With the dead years, in silence, dark and cold, 

Reyond the sound of Time's swift river flowing, 
When you are old. 

Tou may have gifts undreamt of for bestowing, 
Hidden beneath your mantle's glittering fold. 
Quick-springing seeds of Fame and Fortune's sowing. 

Tet s^ is Trust a slow plant at the growing, 

Tet still what glitters is not alwajrs gold. 
I yet may learn to love you — there's no knowing — 

When you are old ! 



A fiddler comes — twelve tunes his all 
To keep us dancing at life's ball ; 

To one sure beat he plays them through ; 

Every dancer will find them new ; 
Some — falling to keep step — will fall. 

" Hay faster, air ; we do but crawl ! " 
" Nay, slower I " others then will bawl — 
But not to heed that noisy crew 

The fiddler comes ! 

Unmoved he plays, then leaves the hall, 

And hears nor plaudits nor recall. 

His tunes once done — they are but few — 
He plays no more. New Year, 'tis you 

Who to the chief musician's stall 

A fiddler comes ! 




The old sea-ways send up their tide ; 

The battered ships to harbour ride. 
In the deep seas beyond the bar, 
Where the great winds and waters are, 

The drifting ships have dropped their pride. 

When for the morning seas they plied, 
Who but young Hope should be their goide, 
To steer them through the rocks that scar 
The old sea-ways? 

Into the port they reel and slide, 

So for a little space abide. 
Waiting the gleam of the Dawn-Star 
To seek new waters, strange and far. 

But no more shall their keels divide 
The old sea-ways. 

E. B. 


A footfall in the dripping avenue, 
light garments brushed the threshold, and I knew 
You climbed my stair and, in the vaulted gloom, 
Paused at the closM doorway of my room. 

On that one moment hung our coming years. 
Did you remember blame and scorn and tears ? 
Or in the stillness, did you half divine 
The breathless silence of your lips on mine ? 
Eternal Moment ! As its sand grains fell, 
Time was no more — ^but only Heaven and HeU. 

Was it forgiveness! Was it yea or nay? 
Tou turned and slowly — slowly passed away. 

Faint footfalls fwc and farther ! And again 
The steady hush — ^hush — of the Autumn rain. 


VERSE, 1906 881 


There are no nights, no nights like the deep nights of Spring ! 

See how God drops at last^ like some rich violet, 

Gathered at dawn from cloud-banks of the skies, 

The shattered purple of this fading day, 

Fringed by all tender stars that bring 

The sleep of every flowering thing — 

Of ail that blooms, and dies, 

And we forget 

With May! 

On roses curled 

In buds and dreams 

On garden walls 

The darkness falls 

Soft, from the under-wing 

Of Spring . . . 

And in a world 

Of stars and streams 

The nightingales 

Watch, till night fails, 

Forlorn in lonely vales 

And sing . . . 

Dawn... dawn! 

And winds astir 

Among a million flowers 

Come breathings sighing, murmuring. 

Till all the green woods rock, and fling 

Up to the sun, from golden clouds withdrawn. 

Wet boughs of willow, beech, and brave dark flr! 

O Dawn, that turns the Glass to number newborn hours, 

There are no days, no days like the blue days of Spring! 




Thi Parablb op thb Butterfly 

Hidden beneath the petals of a rose 

He lay; 
Bat when the flower her tired leaves most close 

He flew away. 

Hie parable is this : the rose was Toath, 

And he, they say, 
Was Love— I know not if they speak the truth — 

They may. 


The House op Peter Pan 

Who bnUt that house for Peter Pan t 
That like a little ship of light 
Upon a whispering sea of summer leaves 
Is anchored in the forest-night t 

Who built that house for Peter Pan t 

That house among the nightingales, 
With golden windows all athrill 
To midnight melody in tree-tope there 
Where woods below are dense and still — 

Who built itt Not the nightingales t 

The architect was Joy, I think, 
Who built a house so near the sky 
That even nightingales forget their grief 
And leave out of their song the sigh ; 

The architect was Joy, I think. 


VERSE, 1906 283 

A story would you havet WeD, let us try : 
** Once on a time there lived — " (you can supply 
The leading characters to suit your taste) — 
** And he and she " (with no unseemly haste, 
But after some preparatory prose) 
" Met ; and there followed — " what you'd all suppose. 
" And then " (to complicate the interest) 
** There came Another on the scenes, in quest 
Of — " N or M, you know. (Now plan a lot 
Of incidents developing the plot). 
** And after many brilliant conversations, 
Hairbreadth escapes and telling situations '* 
(Fill in the details of their long distress) 
" She found herself the happy bride of — " Quess ! 
/don't intend to straighten out the mess. 


The people crowded from far and wide, 

Yfiih. tribute of blossoms, to lay at each side 

Of the new-made grave — ^when the rich man died. 

And it chanced beside him a poor man slept. 

With never a flow'r — but a dog had crept 

To his feet, and a women knelt there, and wept 

At midnight an Angel passed by who said : 

" I am gathering gems for the Crowns of the Dead. 

. . . Earth's tears in Heaven are jewels instead." 

And oh 1 what wonders of shining store 

From the poor, plain grave her white hands bore ; 

Then she came to the other and stooped once more. 

And 'midst the rich blossoms which formed the pall 
The Angel plucked — ^what she first let fall — 
One pearl of pty ! and that was all. 



Thi Pbodigal Rbtubnb 

'Ullo, Faver, 'ullo, Muwer, 

Stow that gab, don't pull sich fioes, 
Iv'ry dy, some one or uwer 

'As ter git put thro' 'is pices. 
'OtstujOT gittdn' lagged fer nuffin' 

When yer've 'ardly touched the swag, 
Korl thet Inglish Jestice / Stuffin' ! 

Two munse 'ard aint much ter brag. 
Fer my feather-bed I'm achin'. 

Ready for some grubt Not *arf! 
Liver — s'welp me bob ! toiv bakin. 

Sing, what ho I the fatted calf ! 


[To be rendered with slight exaggeration of each conventional 
inflection familiar to the hearers.] 

The Boy still stands on the burning deck, and the Hetpena sails 

the sea; 
Three Fishers go forth and the cattle come home across the Sands 

of Dee; 
The Li^t Brigade goes onward still, and the Lady of Shalott sigjhs ; 
The Good News gallops from Qhent to Aix and the Ratisbon hero 


Lorraine still rides Vindictive, and the Sleeping Beauty's kissed ; 
No curfew rings and stUl one comes with gyves upon his wrist ; 
And still we hear the Bells — Sweet BeUs —and the Pied Piper play ; 
And the Little Revenge still holds her own and I'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 
And still we go to Carcassonne and still he is tired to-night ; 
And Room is made for the Leper and Excalibur gleameUi bri^t ; 
The Old Sedan Chair is waiting, and Sussex is by the Sea ; 
And if you are not contented^ how critical you must be 1 


VERSE, 1906 886 


When I was young and spring was there, 

And yoa among the violets came, 
I thought that spring was everywhere, 
That yon were sweet beyond compare, 
That pain had vanished into air, 
That singing birds would always pair. 
And I be brave and yon be fair. 
That I could fight and kill despair :— 

And now I think the same. 


Orape-Nuts will not a dinner make, 

Nor Shredded Wheat a feast ; 
Men innocent of lunch must take 

A mutton chop at least. 

* * 

Tinkle, tmkle, telephone ! 

How I wonder why I own 

Such a thing as you at all, 

Like an ear-ache in the hall ! 

To AK Eabwio which the Pobt mbt in a Strawberry 

Wee sleekit, creepin', crawlin' beastie, 
I've met thee at an evil feastie ; 
To spare thee now is not the leastie 
In my intent ! 

LiNn WKi rr iw in a Commonplaob Book of "Original" 

Be sane, young man ; because you are not clever 
Stick to the rules, not break them all day long ; 

Tou re not a genius, 'tb no use whatever — 
These things are wrong. 


Welcome t No, Nofth-eaater ; don't ask that from me ; 
I keep odes for zephyrs — only oatha for thee ; 
Go and have your frolic ovet land and tide, 
Bat^ while yon're about it^ I'll remain inside. 



* * 

I hate the dreadful hollow beyond the seventh hole ; 

All day in the sand below the niblicks hurtle and flash ; 
Hie tortured air is hot with the breathings of some lost soul ; 

And the breezes there, whenever they blow from it; whisper — 


* ♦ 

Then out spake ^rrell-Bannerman, a Minister of State, 
''To every boy in England school oometh sure as Fate ; 
And what can boy do better than discriminate the odds 
'Twizt the wishes of his father and the Cowper-Temple godst " 



* ♦ 

I caught an " Arrow " passing the Square, 
It seemed to go — ^well, anywhere ; 
But^ though swiftly it flew, the smeU 
Somehow followed it fairly well 1 


The Cloud 

Into the sky I saw a cloudlet stray, 
A little flake scarce patent to the view, 
A pausing whiteness islanded in blue, 

All airy as the Cytherean spray — 

VERSE, 1906 287 

It seemed to wait a moment on its way, 
And whiter still, and still more brilliant grew, 
Then faded into Nothing whence it drew, 

And life once more was lit by common day. 


An ashen sea whose white waves gleam 

Like flaws upon a dingy glass ; 
A bitter wind with ranoons scream, 
' And shuddering leagues of rusty grass : 
No other sound, no other sights 

But ever wild and wearily 
My own voice praying day and night 

For Death who will not come to me. 

Heb Oardbn 

Tis three feet long and one foot wide. 

Outlined with oyster-shells ; 
A pennyworth of London Pride 

In seed remotely dwells 
Beneath its strangely brick-like soil 

Wherefrom a tablenspoon. 
Rusted and bent with rain and toil. 

Looks wistful on the moon. 


Night — ^like some woman when her beauty pales^ 

Tired with long dancing to the magic bars 
Of music sweeter than all nightingales 

Breaking their hearts for love beneath the stars ; 
And wearied, too, at last of her own charms — 

Binds up her cloudy hair some careless way. 
Slides all her opals down her shining arms, 

And o'er her head draws the blue hood of day. 


Thb FntST FsoBT 

Would I had gathered thee^ rooe 1 Yesterday fair on thy ^ 
Crimaon the afternoon's dose vied in her glory with thee ! 
Light, snch as summer not knowing, left thee alone to behold — 
Thou wert all blushing and glowing mid autumn's kingdom of 

White-hooded stole out the night — first of her sisterhood chill — 
Stepp'd, in the moon's silver lights over the ridge of the hill. 
Then to the valley — mist steaming — secretly came for a kiss, 
Found thee in loveliness dreaming, kissed tiiee — and left thee like 


Oorse in the hollows, gorse aslant the leas 

A flaming glory, gold against the green, 

And blackthorn blossom striking edlver sheen 
Amid the purple of the budding trees, 
A field of daisies rippling in the breeze. 

Fair silver feathers showing gold between. 

And at thy feet the golden celandine. 
O Man, what riches hast thou like to theset 

For here's the very currency of Spring, 
The first exchange she draws upon the sod 

Honoured in golden coinage of the King, 
And met in silver from the mint of God. 

O Son of Man, confess thy self-deceit^ 

Here's the true coin, and thine's the counterfeit. 



One stood within the covert of the wood — 

Love, whose fadi face shone whiter than the dead 
Bed garlanded like flame, his wrapping red — 

Holding the cup of Love's red wine, he stood ; 

VERSE, 1906 8S9 

Deop was the sQenoe of that solitude 
Aiid gloriooB the draught. While yet unahed 
The white lake lilies drooped each scented head 

In dreaming dalliance of sweet maidenhood. 

I cast the wine-cap wide upon the wold» 
Crying in scornful splendour of my pride, 
"* Now am I lord of Life "—but that hope died. 
I saw no rose-red Love, but worn and old 
With empty cup that mocked the sunset-gold 

The dark-lurowed Death looked on me, stead&st-eyed. 



Within our cushioned pews we squat to prayer : 
— They knelt upon the flagstones hard and cold. 
The simple, sturdy worshippers of old — 

So tender are we grown, we cannot bear 

Hard chunks of doctrine for our Sabbath fare. 
The dose must be diluted, gently doled 
To these enfeebled weaklings of the fold. 

That so they may absorb it unaware. 

We deck ourselves in fair and dainty trim 
To serve our Qod the better, and thereby 

Deter the meanly clad from serving Him ; 
For how shall such poor weeds presume to sit 

Beside the flowers^ that lift their heads so high t 
— Is this true worship, or its counterfeit? 



Fancy encroaches when remembrance ebbs 
From your dear self rose-nusted with romance, 

And through the long years I have woven webs 
Of elfin beauty round your countenance. 


Bat when I cha nc ed upon joa yester ere 

I knew some disenchantment, some dismaj, 
For that yon were not like the dream I weave 

To cheer mj heart while yon are far away. 
Ah ! life ia minons of the crumbling hopes 

That were so incommunicably sweet, 
And when tibie dreamer climbs tibie airy slopes 

He finds the donded hill-top connterfeit : 
Tet since my heart is mirrored in your eyes 
I do not heed the image in the skies. 



Not to your eyes would I be counterfeit — 
As against others in mine own defence 
Building a bulwark of high consequence. 

Words and soft airs that draw men while they cheat 

Worse than I am and better by deceit 
I seem : this young, alluring innocence, 
This shallow waywardness is all pretence, 

And guards the soul of me in sure retreat. 

That soul is yours. Go, search in every part 

The dose-barred house ; here are the keys for you ; 
Go with this lighted torch and wander through ; 

Unveil the treasures of my secret heart. 

Hold me then i»st or leave me ; though we part, 
To your dear eyes alone would I be true. 



The Fool 

This man hath compassed all his heart's desire, 

Fulled down his bams that he might build them higher. 

Gained all men covet — ridies, honour, rule : 

And lo ! Heaven's final verdict is : Thou fool ! ^ 

VERSE, 1906 S41 


When I consider how the mountains keep 

Their fiery secrets under purest snow, 
And with what false similitude of sleep 

In earth's deep womb their clinkered ashes glow ; 
When on the peaceful face of dawn I muse 

In that still hour which scarce outlasts the moon, 
And think how all her sweet distillM dews 

WiU nowise quench the parchkl thirst of noon — 
Then do I understand why loye is like 

A snowy furnace and a sleep of fire, 
And how beneath its morning calm we strike 

The hot beginnings of a world's desire, 
And I perceive that love doth play a part 
In the still vexM frontiers of my heart. 



When I consider, in the noon of night, 

The stars that fret the lattice of high heaven. 
Or watch in the Occident the laggard light 

Creep o'er the shoulder of the world at even, 
With insufficiency my heart is stilled, 

That I, so dull a wight and impotent, 
Should, like a braggart, walk the green earth, filled 

With fear, that makes faint war upon content. 
But when, Prometheus-like, I grasp heaven's fire. 

Immure the impetuous flood at my command, 
And charter winds uid waves to my desire, 

Lord of the universe, erect I stand. 
Thus Nature in one substance still presents 
Strong f eeUeness and frail omnipotence. 





When I consider life, the snm of it 
I do perceive inscribed in phunest fashion 
Upon men's faces, who tibiereon have writ 
Unhappiness, despair, and wounded passion. 
Nay, ihose of gentlest heart, the yonng and ^r. 
Do sign their brows with grief, and discontent 
Sits sour on lovely lips, whose chiefest care 
Seemeth to shape themselyes for sad lament^ 
Until I too grow vexed, and conld complain 
To mine own hearty '*This life's a sorry thing ! " 
But that I think of thee, and swift again 
Have joy and taste th' eternal sweets of Spring ! 
For thou, dear love, art qneen o'er Life's mischance, 
Yet for thy crown hast all sad circumstance. 


A Saint 

He does not scorn the world God made, 

Only — his wants are few. 
Purging his soul, he strives to reach 

The angels' point of view. 

K. ▲. S. 

A Fool 

He has looked on the heavens and felt no fear ; 
He has walked the earth and found no peer ; 
His sig^t is darkened, his brow is brass, 
He sees but himself in the world's wide glass. 


VEBSE, 1906 


Interlubs aftkb Shaksspiaek 
Enter two Servrng-men^ meeting 
let Serving-mcm. How now, good Andrewt SooUi, an' yoa are 

2nd Serving-man, I thoo^t I should ha* died o' chcdced-i^ 
Why, yon must know, the Qneen hath took a wfaimsy 
To make herself a diah o' marchpane cates. 
Some bully-rook hath made away wi' theuL 
let Serving-man. I warrant ye that^ Peter. 
2nd Serving-man. By r' lakin, 

I ne'er heard yet such garboOs as they made. 
The Queen sat turning up her pretty eyes 
Like a duck i' a thunderstorm ; and so the King 
Angerly scratch'd his poll, and looked bemused. 
Then burst the rabble in, that had the man — 
And, as I live, he laid about him so 
The King took heart, and gave 'en such a buffet 
As stretched 'en flat ; and he began to howl. 
Forsooth, and beg for mercy ; and i' fecks 
"With the red flustered King, this gloadng rogue. 
And all the ladies mammering wi' fright — 
I laugh'd so sore that I was fain for mirth 
To get me hence, and ease my sides in peace. 
Alarums. Exeurtiont. 
let Serving-man. They've not left chasing 'en. Aroint thee ! 
On! [Exeunt 


{After MiUon) 
Not otherwise the fabled Ejiaye of old. 
Bent to unheard the cates of th' amorous Queen, 
In at the window clomb, or o'er the tiles. 
And (heavy peculation !) stole the tarts, 


Confection chcHce, witk whieh her skill was wont 

To recreate her sated lord, and tempt 

Nice appetite anew ; not otherwise 

The baffled King inflicted penance meet 

Of restitation, chastisement^ remorse ; 

Fall restitution, chastisement condign, 

Remorse unqualified. 

K. K. 

(After Browning) 
Do you see this pack o' cards I toss i' the air 7 
(Fifty and two, Jacynth her mark on each — 
Orease o' the dishes, polish o' the stove. . . • 
Patience hath reached the kitchen, maids have thumbs, 
And thumbs have thumbo'graphs.) I catch and twirl 
My Lady o' the Sorrows, Queen of Hearts, 
(llie prettiest trick, i' faith !) List ! there's a tale 
Who will may hear. (Were I Methuselah 
I'd make the actors speak, a book apiece.) 

The Queen of Hearts made tarts (thus runs — ^I read 
— ^The ancient chronicle) — " Not," sighed the King, 
** Like mother made " — i' the mid o' the month o' June. 
Then, for the reek o' the cookery rose i' the nose 
O' the Knave, how Knave of Hearts with tarts departs. 
Next for a touch o' the law, the voice o' the court — 
Rex et Justitia — writ of delivery : how 
Back tastes rod-thwack ; how Knave returns the tarts. 
("Jam satis— jam enough — 111 steal no more.") 

Thus far the chronicler ; the moral mine 
" Honesty "... Bah ! Go, search the copy-books ! 



Stolkn Sweets — The Knave's Tbaobdt 

(After Mr. J^ephen PhiUvps) 

In the long sultry day of blue and gold, 

The Queen of Hearts in flour thought^ and lard ; 

VERSE, 1906 S45 

Jam, too, was in her musings — thence sprang tarts, 
And from them — mischief. Oh, ingratitude ! 
The full-fed Knave of Hearts came creeping by 
And took them for the sweetness that they held, 
And the warm scent of the enclosing paste. 

*' The joy of eating, I have heard men say, 

Is doubted when men hunger *^ — thus the King, 

Agog for tarts, unto the tartless Queen. 

Then, weeping, she—" I will not baulk thy rage, 

No ! Let thy fury spend itself upon 

The thievish Knave, until he yields his prey.** 

The famished King strode forth — 

Soon with wild cries 
And bitter lamentation of sore bones, 
The Knave limped back, laden with tarts, and vowed 
To purge him henceforth of dishonesty. 



A Gknius 

A man who dares, with empty pack. 

The ways none other man has trod. 
And from his lonely quest brings back 
New coins from the Mint of God. 

An Anabchist 
The Ego and the Cosmos form a problem 

Which, in and out of season, he will strive 
To settle, by demolbhing the latter 

In order that the former may survive. 


A Fool 

A fool life's golden chance may see. 

Although he's never known to make it — 

He'll boast of it to you and me. 
But totally omit to take it. 



Purple with heather the great down rolls wide : 
Bolls dim with haze and bloom to the highway 
Drawn brown across the shimmering hillside, 
Rolb down and breaks precipitous to the bay ; 
And all above the champaign the tense air 
Burnt into worship, smitten into prayer, 
Urges its viewless wings in eager throes, 
Quivers in a tumultuous repose, 
And leaps beneath the fiery-footed tread 
Of that strong sun that ever stronger glows 
While royal August lives in lordlihed. 

The noon is hushed. No, there a moor-bird cried ; 
Far in the glen I hear a lone hart bray ; 
And the bee hums across the summertide. 
As the grand rhythm of this imperial day 
Poises upon the heights and pauses there : 
And all the earth and all the sea lie bare 
To the sheer sun and catch the gold he sows 
On cliff and city, gulf and orchard-close, 
Magnificently scattered and dispread, 
As that great almoner his alms bestows 
While royal August lives in lordlihed. 

Ah, do I dream ? I heard a pebble slide 
Down the sere channel where the brook in May 
Spilt its fresh silver with a spendthrift pride, 
And now is beggared beyond hope of pay. 
Ah, do I dream, or does that perilous stair 
Sound to the feet of travellers that fare 
Up through the oak-shocks in their yellow rows, 
Up where the old folk at their doorways dose 
And the gray steeple guards the quiet dead, 
Up where the highest garden-blossom grows, 
While royal August lives in lordlihed? 

VERSE, 1906 847 

Oh, who are these in garments richly dyed, 
Glorious in their fantastical array, 
Orange and red and purple streaked and pied 1 
Are they some wandering masquers gone astray, 
Drawn like bright senseless moths by the keen glare 
To this burnt height where gorse and heather flare 1 
These bearing sickles in brown hands and those 
Planting a banner as the pageant slows, 
A banner blazoned August in gold thread. 
When in deep song the jolly burden goes — 
"YHiile royal August lives in lordlihed." 

Then as the song swells, with a princely stride 
Comes their bluff lord with plumed crest a-sway. 
And right and left he glances, jovial-eyed. 
Serene, imperious, debonair and gay. 
Tall, ruddy, swart, with dusky-golden hair. 
And out and up the sky his trumpets blare, 
And full the jewelled oriflamme outflows, 
When he, the scorner of the frosts and snows, 
Smiles as he sees how men, well warmed and fed 
Under his reign of gold, forsake their woes 
While royal August lives in lordlihed. 


Emperor ! who shall chant thy feeble foes? 
For thee the flower of verse more brightly blows ; 
To thee be praises ever sung and said ; 
And noblest numbers may we still compose 
While royal August lives in lordlihed. 

H. L. D. 


Queen, thou art found in toiling — where the wheat 

Grows ruddy-ripe and golden in the ear. 
Where scarlet poppies fall and faint with heat^ ^ 

Where no late lark is left to call or hear. 


He sang, and sings not ; for the gcMen haze 

Of langnoroofl August {(Mb him in amase 
Fain to surcease of song ; and he must bend 
To the Noon-Queen's high hesting ; he must lend 

His myriad music to the murmurous bee. 
Sole singer he who doth all songs transcend 

The cool white wind of healing from the sea. 

Like a drift-snow in summer, wide wings beat. 

Whiter than cups of lilies, near and near 
Come the strong ships of August, winging fleet — 

The wandering birds that all the North holds dear. 
O stormy sharp sea-wind that smites and slays, 
Blow soft and sighing on their white arrays 

That they come safe before thee to the end, 

Through perilous places where no songs ascend. 
And shake from out the flowing hair of thee, 

O golden Queen, so thou thy hosts defend 
The cool white wind of healing from the sea. 

In the deep woodland thou hast place and seat 
Soft eyes like flowers, sweet and shy with fear, 

Come laughing round thee ; and thou dost entreat 
The wild-eyed water-kelpie from the mere. 

Till all thy court of dryads and of fays 

Cry fond farewell upon the summer days 
That fade like flowers whom no bees attend, 
Full days, and nights of beauty ; hither wend 

The weary loves that wander ceaselessly, 

Having dead hearts for comfort, and their friend 

The cool white wind of healing from the sea. 

Thy two fair hands are filled with largesse meet, 
With purple grapes, and radiant apples dear ; 

With golden glowing sunflowers, good to greet 
As thou art, fair and changing : for the tear 

VERSE, 1906 849 

Wars with thy lovely laughter as it plays 

FrcND thy deep eyes^ and bright brows crowned with bays 
To thy most radiant month ; wherein they blmid 
In storm or sunshine as thy heart forefend. 

And in thy light hair lying royally 

Waits, till on field or flower thou shaU it spend 

The cool white wind of healing from the sea. 

Thou standest in the orchards with quick feet 
When mellow apples from old boughs and sere 

Hang tremulous ; that ripen ere the peat 
A flying flame of purple on the year — 

Grows grey for burning in the heather ways 

When children watch for windfalls and estrays. 
When the great winds are gathering to rend 
In hideous wrath and ruin none shall mend. 

But yet Queen August is not bond, but free — 
And blowing yet, though hitherward tempests trend 

The cool white wind of healing from the sea. 

Queen August, we in street and city penned 
Where dreamless nights and dolorous dajrs offend 

In summer's aftermath, cry wearily 
Be pitiful to hear us, and to send 

The cool white wind of healing from the sea. 



" Is it not strange," I said with Benedick, 

" That this taut gut and fiddle-bow should hale 
Men's souls from out their bodies — as out of jail 

Kings have been rescued by a harper's trick ? " 

And as I spake, behold the air was thick 
With opulent music falling like a veil, 
Heavy with perfumes I must needs inhale. 

And lifeless lie — ^yet sentient as the quick. 


Then was it as if life had re-b^gon — 

My soul went forth like Tapoor from my throat — 

Flaming with sunlight, airily afloat 

Twixt sea and sky and vaatnesa, and as one 

That lightly speeds toward some pde remote 
Where sea and sky are drawn into the san. 


The Violin, all good musicians say, 
While yet in babyhood you must begin ; 
And so, beneath my little rounded chin, 
Twas promptly tucked, and I began to play 
The Violin, 

No ear had I, nor skill ; but Discipline 
Becked not of that ; and so I sawed away, 

And rent the air with Purgatorial din ; 

Pondering the while, profoundly, day by day, 
Of dark recesses, secret nooks, wherein 

I might (with Providential aid) mislay 
The Violin. 



O long-drawn sigh ! 
Bom in the looking back 
Of Orpheus on the vacant track, 
How dost thou swell, how ghost-like dost thou die ! 

O sparkling wave ! 
Art thou not from the beach 
Whose sand is gold from reach to reach, 
Where Tritons sporty and sea-nymphs haunt the cave? 

O solemn tone 1 
Dissolving earthly bars, 
Leading the soul triumphant to the stars. 
Where crowned it sits and speaks with thee alone I 

VERSE, 1906 851 

O vast accord 
O grief ! O sea ! O sky ! 
What thing is man, whose harmony 
Thus seeks thee out» and makes itself thy lordt 



A senseless stock was I but late ; 

Helpless, and blind, and dumb, I lay — 
Void, pulseless, and inanimate — 

Who am my maker's lord to-day I 

This much I owe him — till he came 

I knew not €k>d, nor Love, nor Sin : 
He laid his finger on my frame. 

And, at that touch, my soul came in. 

(What Destiny my soul awoke ? 

Out of what Evil came this Qood % 
That day an ancient law Man broke 

And made God's image from the wood.) 

I am his lord. By me alone 
His highest thoughts in speech are drest. 

His every secret is my own. 

Who lie submissive on his breast ! 

From me his sin he cannot hide ; 

I know his secret prayers and tears : 
I fling the spirit's doorways wide. 

And lo ! his inmost Self appears. 

Now, of the secrets hid in Fate, 
But one thing would I ask of God : 

What is our end — who came so late, 
I from the wood, he from the sod % 




Bind me with a cobweb speU 

That a smile shall mend or make ; 
Loye me little, praise me well. 

Love's red roses drooped and feU ; 

Hold me now, for dead Love's sake ; 
Bind me-~with a cobweb spelL 

I will hear the tales you tell — 

Nay, beware, for Joy's the stake, 
Love me little, praise me well. 

Sing me rondean, villanelle. 

Nor the sonnet's grandeur wake. 
Bind me with a cobweb spell. 

Say my ear's a pearly shell. 

Say your heart is mine to take — 
Love me little, praise me weU. 

Let no silver marriage-bell 

Ring our joyous hearts to break : 
Bind me with a cobweb spell — 
Love me little, praise me well. 



Thb Saint and the Anabchist oompa&bd 

The saint sees wickedness abound ; 
Few but himself seem safe and sound ; 
O'er others' &tes he sadly sighs. 
And patiently expects the skies. 

The Anarchist, with bomb in hand. 
Is altruistically bland : 
Let others skiey mansions find, 
But he will try to stay behind. 

VERSE, 1906 CSS 


Days dawn and sink ; moons wax to wane agam, 

And year fades into year, and all is past 

Time wanders on ; before him is a veil. 

And at his back the traversed landscape smiles, 

Like the imagined painting of a dream — 

A land of tender shades — ^untouched by sorrow ! 

Where all is finished, and yet nothing dies, 

And the broad sum of nights and days, that were, 

Melts in a golden twilight of the gods ! 

Ah me ! The weary age ! The petty toil ! 

The ordered traffic, tracked abont the land, 

To gild men's gluttony ! The pallid spirits. 

That seek Qod's jewels in the closured years. 

In fedntness from a present apathy 1 

Ay, I am faint Faith withers in a gloom. 

Where neither whisper grows, nor ghosts are pale, 

And temples falter down before the stars. 

Qive me the vision ! lift me from the dust ! 

Qreat Lord, have I not watched, apart from men. 

For glimpses of Thy splendour ? Pity me. 

Starved by this desert of the multitudes, 

Of wrangUng creeds, and bloody, smoking wars. 

And the cold march of knowledge. ... I blaspheme) 

Is not Thy voice still sweet beside the waters? 

Still dost Thou ride the uncaged tempest. Still 

There come rare moments in the range of time. 

When men are sleeping, and the winds are low, 

And all the silent wonders of the world — 

The stars, the seas, the forests, and the moon — 

Weave nameless mysteries, 'til this firm earth 

Is but a cloud, beaten by angels' wings. 

And though the spell be broken, and the dawn 

Light on the spires, and flood along the vales. 

That woke to see a thousand yesterdays, 

I know, I have not dreamed. ... I am a fool. 


Qod hath His meMungs in His silences, 
As in His thunders. Haply, I have tarried 
O'er-long in qtuet ▼allejra, conrting visions, 
While heaven hath waited in the market-place, 
With that lost music, troubling into measores. 
To thread each stray and passionate discord up 
Into a dear melody. . . The unknown city 
Waits. If it mock, why, I am blessdd still. 
The love that scourged the saints shall be my peace. 
Behold, oh God, I c<Hne. . . . How the world roan. 


Just to be still a little space, 

A little while hold back 
The feet from pressing on the race 
Along the heavy track ; 

Just to be holy for an hour, 

Just to behold the blue ; 
To reach the beauty of a dower. 

And to the dream be true ; 

Just to believe the ages press 

Toward beauty, though so marr'd ; 
Just to believe in holiness. 

Just for a day — how hard ! 

EDOAB ynm hall 
As love grows stronger and more deep, 

More seldom do I see your face ; 
Tea, even in the land of deep, 

More rardy doth your form have place. 

As love grows greater and minre true, 

More perfect in its every part, 
As oftener I think of you. 

More seldom heart beats nigh to heart. 

VERSE, 1906 S56 

How strange if at the intenseBt hour 

Of love's inevitable sway, 
When most I feel its splendid power, 

Ton should be then most far away ! 


Beyond the borderland of deep 

She flies to me, she flies to me ; 
And what the lips imprisoned keep 

Is mnrmnred of her eyes to me. 

They fade— alas ! the dream is done — 
The dream which had no goile for me ; 

And now the moon and stars and snn 
Are shadows of her smile for me. 


Not for a scanty, cautious love, spread o'er 

Long, weary years, 
I'd pray, but that ere dying I might know, 

If mortal may. 
The bliss of love unstinted, even though 

But for a day. 
And pain, despair, and hate should go before, 

And after — tears. 



How brave a thing it was to be 

A poet, when the world was young 
And every good spontaneously 

Trembled or rippled into song ! 

Alas ! the world is old— or L 

These twenty jeetn no line I've writ 
That bared my heart ; but satire dy, 

Irony, parasitic wit. 


I've learned to write with alien pen ; 

The mask a part of me is grown ; 
Ton bid me be myself again 

¥rhen all my self with yonth is flown. 

If, irony discouraging, 

A heartfelt lyric you require, 
This only song is left to sing — 

The Lyric of the Broken Lyre. 



The bdb ring wild and clashing in the steeple, 

We drowse them sweet no more ; 
No more ye hear the light-foot Little People 

Come tripping at your door. 

No more ye hear the siren-yoices crying 

Sweet-lipped along the sand ; 
In shadows of the darkling rocks low-lying 

And luring to the land 

Tour children set their stranger-songs above us, 

Forgotten utterly ; 
We may not stay where there are none to love us, 

We fly far oversea. 

Tour fathers loved our fairy-bells, set ringing 

At nights about your door ; 
But ye shall hear the Little People singing 

No more — O never more. 



O gleaming day, which mi^t be mine. 
If flesh could set its prisoner free, 

Whose beams for all creation shine. 
But not for me ; ah ! not for me. 

VERSE, 1906 S67 

The yapours of the morn arise 

Distilled from thy ambrosial breath ; 
Art thou so like to that which dies 

That in their cooling comes thy deatfat 

Ah no 1 Methinks with that which yearns 
The yearned for hath a something kin, 

And one same fire eternal bums 
In that without and this within. 

Maybe the soul when disentwined 

From this dnU sense of loss and strife 
Those dear lost sons shall joy to find 

Still gleaming in the laiqger life. 



Red poppy, that art flower of shame, 
Whoso shall know thy passion's breath 
To the dark heart of thee drink deep, 
Maketh his soul a burning flame. 

When the noon- wind with his hot breath 
Sears the still meadow like a flame, 
Thou hast the secret of the Sleep, 
The strange sweet deep that giveth death. 

The shades of those untimely dead, 
Sweet lovers that have died for scorn. 
Cry out upon thee, night and day. 
That flamest of their hearts' blood red. 

The soul of thee is dark of scorn, 
Of their young hearts thyrobe is red; 
No murmurous bees about thee stray, 
By noon or night thou art forlorn. 





When Love came fint, the door was wide ; 

I took him in and bade him rert^ 

I laid hia head upon my breast^ 
Forgot the world, and truth, and pride. 
Ah ! foolish tmst, bemocked, beguiled ! 

He kissed — ^then stabbed me as I slept, 
And waking, though my lips still smiled, 

My heart wept, my heart wept ! 

When Love came next, I tamed away, 

I would not hearken to his call, 

I locked my senses from his thrall, 
My eager spirit from hb sway. 
Yet silently, unseen, unheard. 

Some hidden hope to being sprang, 
And deep within me, like a bird. 

My heart sang, my heart sang ! 


ArrsB Long Sicknbss 

Little white thou^ts, and innocent memories. 
Now the long darkness lifts from off my brain. 

Come winging back across the troubled seas 
Like homing doves that flutter and complain. 

Half-fearfully finding themselves again 

At home, and strange where once they moved at ease ; 
Weeping the difficult ways that once were plain ; 

Little white thoughts, and innocent memories. 

So much is changed. The well-remembered trees 
No longer shade the windings of the lane : 

Familiar landmarks show by slow degrees, 
Now the long darkness lifts from off my brain. 

VERSE, 1906 269 

Tety oTery moment, is my heart more &in 

To fling the (dd contented harmonieB ; 
While happy minds, fragrant of sun and rain, 

Come winging back acroes the troubled seas. 

I seem to kneel, a child, at kindly knees : 

Kind faces smile ; kind hands put off my pain ; 

While yet my thoughts fear their old place to seize, 
like homing doves that flatter and complain. 

The glad reality grows, sweet and sane, 
Oat of the mist of doabts and fantasies ; 

And all my sad, sick fancies weary and wane. 
As yoa gain strength and grow to certainties, 
Little White Thoughts ! 


If that be love which alters with the moon, 
From all its shallow waterways I flee. 

As divers leave the profitless lagoon 

To seek for pearls in some prof ounder sea. 

If that be love which scorns the leafless tree 
When chill December reigns in place of June^ 

I here renounce it — 'tis not love for me. 
If that be love which alters with the moon. 

If that be love — to spend the pride of noon 
On shallow streams in fond frivolity 

That flags and fails through all the afternoon, 
From all its shallow waterways I flee. 

If Uiat be love which always is to be — 

The quest of youth and slippered pantaloon, 

Its mocking shoals I quit undoubtingly. 
As divers leave the profitless lagoon. 


If that be love which faids me read ita rune 
In liquid lookB or snr&oe sympathy, 

With blind intent I pass its proffered boon 
To sedc for pearls in some prof ounder sea. 

But if love is the queen of constancy, 
Whose throne from out the eternal rock is hewn^ 

Then am I of her service— bond or free ; 

Then am I love's long lover — ^late and soon — 
If that be love! 



William Tell, the second one. 
Missed the apple, shot his son. 
" Bring the twins ! " he cried, repeating, 
^ Art is long, but life is fleeting.'' 


Willie, with a fri^tful curse, 
Flung the coffee-mill at nurse, 
As it caught her on the nose, 
Father said, *^ How straight he throws." 


Maiy, in a fit of blues, 
Put the baby up the flues. 
Mother said, '* Oh, what a bore I 
Now the kitchen fire won't draw." 


Tommy, in his footbaU jersey. 
Fell into the river Mersey. 
** Ring us up from Birkenhead, 
If you get there," father said. 

"fifth villain" 

VERSE, 1906 861 


Shade your eyes to see the skirts of Summer, for she's leaying us ; 

Wave good-bye to Summer (the sands begin to sink). 
Now the woof is wearing of the web that she's been weaving us ; 

Scattered are the petals of the poppy and the pink. 
Bowing in the Autumn breeze, each, brown and blue chrysanthemum 

Nods good-bye to Sununer (the wine is on the lees) ; 
And feebly, with a faint farewell, the tardy bees their anthem 

And poise with laggard pinions o'er the pink and purple peas. 
Low on eveiy laurel bush the little birds that linger 

Are singing their doxology (the silver cord is slack) ; 
While Summer o'er her shoulder calls, and waves a rosy finger, 

" O biting breeze and bitter, occupy till I come back ! " 


Strong the prince's hands are, yet wondrous in tenderness ; 

Strong to drag their souls from the trees, 
To boom among the pines and make their waters musical. 

As the humming moan of windy seas ; 
Strong to stir to harshneBS the sibilant hoarse whispering 

Wherewith the raucous oaks complain. 
To set the Ught-foot aspens dancing and chattering. 

And pattering, like glancing rain. 
Tender his hands are : they take from his crucible 

The year's tears and hopes turned to gold ; 
Gently he drops them, the grave old memories. 

And Earth shall them for always hold. 


This is St. Martin's month, when moons and medlars are meUow ; 

Mushrooms abound in the meads, succulent morsels for men : 
Lo! where the lingering leaves of the linden are changing to 

Late in the long hiah reeds loiters a querulous wren. 


Now at the far faint aoond of the firing the form of the pheasant 

Shows o'er the fir-tree's top, foolishly flying for life : 
Now in porsnit of the fox, dear foe to the peer and the peasant, 

Fast thro' the fallow fields follows the world and his wife. 
Soon, as the son sinks low, will the land lie solemn and sober, 

Silent and still to the ear, silver and grey to the si^t ; 
Qrej is the land ; bat the glorious skies that glow in October 

Gladden the painter's sonl, gravel the gentry who write. 



Opals for October — 

Never for November 

Or December or September 

Or any other month except October — 

Opals for October ! 

Ton were bom (and I) in October, 

Wet and windy, weird and wild October, 

Sere and sad and sober ; 

You were bom (and I) in October — 

Ah, how many years ago ! 

Opals, fading faintly, for October ; 

Fading from October to October. 



I dye the forest's sombre hue 
To gorgeous reds and yellows ; 

And nectar in their veins I brew 
That pear and apple mellows. 

I spread a carpet underneath 

The canopy of beeches ; 
I twine a clambering crimson wreath 

That round the cottage reaches. 

VERSE, 1906 868 

The piromiae made when April wept, 

That gLorioQs June repeated, 
Have I, their elder sister, kept, 

And faithfully completed. 

" ACOBN " 


Father of fogs, beneath whose tread 
The winding mid-wood walks have laid 

A carpet, where the leafy dead 

Lie strown along the soaking glade, 

October, whom thine own grand gloom 

Pavilions with a pomp as proud 
As any April can assume, 

Mantled with mist, and clad with cloud. 

To thy sad state and caLoa command 

Hermes the harbinger, the lithe. 
Yields homage with uplifted hand, 

Around whose rod the serpents writhe. 



A QsNius 

Beings who walk the earth at times crowned with an inward gloiy, 
And give the world their walk's results in science, art, and stoiy ; 
Who do and say supremely well what other men can't utter, 
like other men are hard to suit in wives and bread and butter. 


* * 

Inspired, he rushes to the fray. 
To fi^t a losing fight — and win it ; 

While men of sense look on and say, 
" We'll patent this— there's money in it." 



Time fingers at her roeaiy — 

At corals, necklaoed on a string, 
The proud parade of vanity. 

Her prayers are carved in ebony. 

And gilded like a dragon's wing. 
Time fingers at her rosary. 

She intertwines them cnnningly. 

The coralled toy and holy thing, 
The proad parade of vanity. 

Ah, vain it is that falteringly 

We tell our beads, the censer swing. 
Time fingers at her rosary. 

Toys, jewels, prayers, aU will flee, 

And Hope? — the fading flowers we bring 
The proud parade of vanity. 

Life, Love, and Hate cease utterly ; 

Most vain is Death, the pallid King. 
Time fingers at her rosary. 
The proud parade of vanity. 

If the sore end of all is vanity 

And sore vexation, and if rest be sweet, 
Te gods and little fish, what fools we be ! 

What fools — to toil day-long unceaaingly, 

Straining in vain to make two short ends meet ; 
If the sure end of all is vanity. 

To radiate culture, lest the rest should see 

This — ^which we publish with each printed sheet 
(Te gods and little fish !) — what fools we be 1 

VERSE, 1906 865 

Why most the simple life be thrust on met 

Lentils and proteids, wherefore should I eat, 
If the sore end of all is — ^ranityf 

Tea, cranks, and Christian Science, £ s. d., 

Bridge and the like, these lead our questing feet : 
Te gods and little fish, what fools we be 1 

While wisdom, friendship, love abide, these three, 

Which found, could aught else found prove more complete 
If the sure end of all is vanity t 

Te gods and little fish, what fools we be ! 


When a man is really vain 

So, at least, it seems to me — 
He's amusing in the main. 

Though to others he is plain. 
To himself he'll never be, 
When a man is really vain. 

Castles that exist in Spain 

Are his only property. 
He's amusing in the main. 

Oat of what he calls his " brain " 

Hell evoke a pedigree. 
When a man is really vain. 

Let him talk of Lady Jane, 

And <<my friend the Duke of D ' 

He's amusing — in the main. 


Thoogh contempt one cant restrain 

For his vanity jmt $6^ 
When a man is rwUly vain 
He's amusing — in the main ! 


(Aft^ Kipling) 

By sharp-cut chalk lines, sheer and dean 

About the tight-drawn net, 
deai^marked upon the level green 

Our boundaries are set. 
WMk arms of gut and willow-wood 

And shot of rubber trim 
We stand in pride and hardihood 

To lift the tennis hymn : 

" Gods of the green and level sward 
Whereon the net is strung^ 

Grant us this day the game to play 
That never poet sung." 

Not ours the futile pitter-pat 

Bom in a party's flux 
Between the maid in picture-hat 

— The curate in his ducks : 
The Balham garden, cool, inert. 

Claims its own denizen, 
But dear the court of fool and flirt 

That men may strive with men. 

Not ours the pomp and circumstance 

Of cricket's dull parade. 
The slow-piled score, the long advance, 

The issue still delayed : 

VERSE, 1906 867 

But every second fraught with fate 

May watch our battie sway, 
And one short hour shall arbitrate 

The fortune of the day. 

In the long swoop of curling serves 

That trick the watchful eye, 
In the swift cut that dips and swerves 

As evening swallows fly : 
In the slow lob that tempts the foe 

And calls on him to kill, 
The hunter's craft and wile we show, 

The warrior's dauntless will. 

By subtle trick and deft finesse 

The rallies shift and sway, 
And inch by inch we strive to clinch 

In the fierce voUey-play : 
Till, when the fated hour arrives 

The smash comes hard and true, 
Or far-compelling forehand drives 

Streak, like the lightning, through. 

By the cool head and wary hand 

That waits the final blow, 
By the strong heart that can withstand 

The fierceness of the foe. 
By the lit soul and kindled rage 

And lust for dose-set war. 
We show our nation's heritage, 

Whom no mean mother bore. 

Then, ere the hours of age draw on, 
Wlule yet the world is young, 

Stand up in might to fight the fight 
That never poet sung. 





Oid Winter sent his herald in the night 

And from the laden pine-boughs, gem on gem, 
With myriad fires from the cold, glittering white 

Slip jewels that shall stud no diadem 
But lose themselves adown the shafts of light ; 
And pleasant is the plashing sound of them. 
And far below the blue lake-waters shine 
And the still Rhone goes creeping serpentine. 


When the long labour of the day is o'er, 

Where shall the measure of my peace abide ? 
Not in the laden meadow's richest store. 

Nor in the green-laid forest's stately pride ; 
Nor in the wide-flung plain, the rock-bound shore, 

The gentle stream, the full and sweeping tide. 
Nay, dreaming heart, but higher — ^heavenward more— 

In the far stillness of the mountain side. 

Adieu to Summer 

The wheat is garnered and the grape is pressed, 

And life draws inward like a snaU to shell, 
The frost is here, as weatherwise have guessed 

Or some late swallow lingered to foretell 
Adieu, sweet summer ; not for me the quest 

That takes you to the fields of asphodel. 
Here I must stay, and deem myself most blest 

Again to bid you welcome and farewell 

VERSE, 1906 S69 

Anacbbon in Samob 

He sang the deep cup rich with pnrple wine, 

He sang of love that lightly comes and goes, 
He sang the grasshopper, the tender vine. 

The bee, the early swallow, and the rose, 
He sang of loosened curls, of eyes that shine. 

And all the beauties that a lover knows. 
O dear old singer in that isle of thine. 

Was life so full of joys, so free from woes ? 



Fear not, my friend, for yet inviolate 

Tour shrine remains, wherein for one heart-beat 
Tou brought me softly, through a long-closed gate, 

And by a silent^ all un-trodden street. 
Ah I think not that a step unconsecrate 

Has marred the whiteness of that place so sweety 
I knew it holy ground, and whispered " Wait ! " 

Then, stooping, took the shoes from off my feet. 



(Originally Celebrated April 1) 

April, the first of all the months to fling 
Sweet flowery offerings at the feet of Spring, 
Growing impatient once upon a day 
That Proserpine her gifts should so delay. 
Appealed to Pluto for a reckoning. 

<' See how she comes," he said, " a phantom thing- 
A shivering ghost, a vain imagining 
Who, if I grasp, cries as she slips away : 
•AprU the First!*" 


So Huto, being in a mood to bring 
Poor Motley's feaet to times more ^Tonring, 
Decreed that all his Knights should oome to-day 
(V^th Dames for dalliance in the primroee way) 
And reinstate him Lord of Fools, and King 
April the First ! 



Since ihts^ I said, the Saget asl^ 
To know myself $haU be my tatiL 
WiUti weight and measure, mle and Une^ 
I went about this house of mine. 
No hidden cranny unexplored. 
No piece of useless lumber stored. 
Forgotten long on dusty shelf, 
But came into the light of day. 
Till I could fold my arms and say — 
My task is done^ I know myself. 

And then you came : than bolt and bar 
Tour Sesame/ was stronger far; 
Twas sullen winter, yet, meseemed, 
Throu^ every window sunshine streamed. 
Tou laid your hand against the wall. 
Another door 1 A pillared hall 1 
And through the pillars I ooukL see 
Fair rooms and large on either side, 
Wherein a king might walk with pride. 
My own, yet all unknown to me. 

Qrown wiser now, I will not say 
I know, even yet, this house of day. 
For, dearest, oft I seem to hear 
Another footstep drawing near ; 

VERSE, 1906 871 

And if this fisitaiit should be 
The Lord who holds the land in fee. 
May I dare to hope and trust 

That He who built the hoose may show 

StUl other rooms than those I know, 
Before it falls into the dust ? 



A thought came to you — half, maybe, in scorn 

And half in vague regret — 
Once, as we went knee-deep i' the purple heather ; 

How strange and how forlorn 
That we, who so long time have lived together, 
Thro' shadow-days, and laughter, and the grip 
Of work and poverty — that we should yet 

(Whom very love might surely teach) 
Have but obscure half-knowledge each of each 

For all our comradeship. 

This, in such halting speech as friends may bring 

For friends to understand, 
Tour dear voice uttered. Then, as I remember, 

Tou walked on wondering — 
Fanning perchance to flame some hidden ember 
Of new-found, glowing thought, while augel-wise 
The sunset clouds foregathered, and the land 
Was bathed in light and majesty. 
Then, turning from it all, you smiled at me, 

But with such wistful eyes. 

How were we wrapped about in solitude 

Tho' heart to heart was near 1 
Tou knew not of the things whereon I pondered, 

Nor how, by dreams pursued. 
Lone, in the wake of lone desire I wandered; 


Nor how (not in mere eadneas, bat in awe, 
In ghostly trinmph) I could baiBe fear. 

I knew not of the eager ttreee 
Wherewith yon Btmggled, haply, nor mi|^t gaeas 

The ^017 that yon aaw. 

For, if we will, we see the outward things, 

Know strangely of a man 
If he be sad, or wise, or grave, or tender ; 

The simple happenings 
That bring him joy, and the wide, sonny splendour 
Of honest acts — these know we, and the lan^ 
That is as light as foam ; and if we can 

The dark waves' depth in part we know 
And love the salt and silver spray they throw — 

But this is only half. 

There is a chamber in the soul of all — 

Profound, where twilight is. 
And round it spreads the silent void of being. 

And to this vasty hall 
If clear-eyed trust of friends shall come, unseeing 
It smiles and wanders back ; and visions pass 
Veiled, thro' that cavernous haunt of mysteries ; 

Only man's brooding self, 'twould seem, 
May catch at whiles some solitary gleam 

Darkly, as in a glass. 


"0/ the Fog" 

An exile from old London town, 
I si^ in these November days ; 

I sadly wander up and down 
My sunlit and prosaic ways. 

VERSE, 1906 S78 

I 8i|^ in these NoTember days : 

Oh ! could I leave, bat for a spell, 
My sunlit and prosaic ways, 

And sqmU the scents I love so welL 

Oh ! could I leave, but for a spell, 

The country's cloying tame delights. 
And smell the scents I love so well, 

And see the gleaming London lights. 

The country's cloying tame deli^^ts ; 

What are they t Oh, I long to go 
And see the gleaming London lights ; 

The throngs that eddy to and fro. 

What are they? Oh, I long to go 

To seek adventure 'mid the press 
— The throngs fhat eddy to and fro — 

To leave this savage wilderness. 

To seek adventure 'mid the press. 

Half hid in London's mystic pall ; 
To leave this savage wilderness ; 

Could I but answer London's call ! 

Half hid in London's mystic pall ; 

Half hid in fog, could I be lost ; 
Could I but answer London's caU, 

I would not stay to count the cost. 

Half hid in fog, could I be lost ; 

Could I but see the link-boy's flare; 
I would not stay to count the cost, 

For wild romance is hidden there. 

Could I but see the link-boy's flare, 

I'd almost hug the gay young dog ; 

For wild romance is hidden there. 

In London when she's veiled in fog. 


rd almost hug the gay young dog. 

With him for wise and knowing guide, 
In London when she's Tsiled in fog, 

Td look for tiirills along Cheapside. 

With him for wise and knowing guide, 

A flaming torch within his hand, 
I'd look for thrills along Cheapside, 

For mysteries about the Strand. 

A flaming torch within his hand. 

We'd prick and pry, like knights of old, 

For mysteries about the Strand, 
The Strand once paved, they say, with gold. 

We'd prick and pry, like knights of oldt 
Alas ! But dreams ! And not for me 

The Strand, once paved, they say, with gold ; 
I've done with London's mystery. 

Alas ! But dreams I And not for me. 

I sadly wander up and down. 
I've done with London's mystery y 

An exile from M London town. 



{From the Bankolidadd, Lib. I.) 

Charmer virumque I sing, Jack plumigeramque Arabellam. 
Costermonger erat Jack Jones, asinumque agitabat; 
In Covent Garden holus, sprouts vendidit asparagumque. 
Vendidit in CSrco to the toffs Arabella the donah, 
Qua Piccadilly propinquat to Shaftesbury Avenue, flores. 

VERSE, 1906 876 

Jam Wbitmonday adest ; ex Newington Causeway the costers 

Enunpunt multi celebrare their annual beano ; 

Quisque suum billycock habuere, et donah ferentes, 

linpositique rotis, popularia cannina singing, 
10 Happy with ale onmes — ezceptis ezdpiendis. 

Gloomfly drives Jack Jones, inoonsolabilis heros ; 

No companion habet, solus sine virgine coster. 

Per Boro', per Fleet Street^ per Strand, sic itur ad ** Empire " ; 

mine Coventry Street peragunt in a merry procession, 
15 Qua Piccadilly propinquat to Shaftesbury Avenue tandem 

Gloomily Jack vehitur. Sed amet qui never amavit ! 

En ! subito fogiunt dark thoughts ; Arabella videtur. 
Quum subit illius pulcherrima bloomin' imago, 
Corde juvat Jack Jones ; exclamat loudly *' What oh, there ! " 
20 Maiden ait " Deus, ecce deus ! " Moresque relinquit 

Post asinum sedet ilia ; petunt Welsh Harp prope Hendon. 

O fons Brent Reservoir ! recubans sub tegmine broUi, 
Brachia complexus (yum yum !) Jack kissed Arabella ; 
''Gam" ait ilia rubens, et "Gam " reboatur ab Echo; 
25 Ph>poBitique tenax Jack "Swelp me lummy, I loves yer." 
Hinc illae lacrimae ; " Jest one ! " et '' Saucy, give over." 

Tempora jam mutantur, et hats ; caligine ductus 
Oscula Jones iterat, mokoque immittit habenas. 
Conoertba manu sixteen discrimina vocum 
30 Obloquitur; cantant (ne saevi, magne policeman) 

Noctem in Old Kent Road. Sic transit gloria Monday. 


Noras.—- Beminiicenoes of Virgil in lines 1, 8, 9, 13, 20, 22, 28, 20, 
30 ; of Horace, linef 21, 22, 26 ; of Ovid, line 18 ; of Terence, line 26 ; and 
of the Pervigilium Vmen$, line 16. 

Line 1 : plmmigetxmy bedecked with feathers. Line 25 : ProponH tenax^ 
impertarbably proposing. 


Cabmen Grtllicum* — a.u.c. Dxxxvn 

Bom&ni saperbi olim to Carthage miaeront praeconem 

Carefully inatractnm to deliTer seqnentem sennon^n : 

*' No6 Romani yolumoa to challenge the Poenoe at cricket ; 

Libenter igitur choose at Carthage vel Romae the wicket." 

Statim reepondent Poeni, " Accipimus vestrum challengem ; 

Sunt Yobis nunc cineres^ sed dto we hope to avenge 'em." 

" Sit certamen apud voa, pix noetra is covered with water^ 

Ibimus vere to you — the journey through Spain is the shorter." 

Greatly gaudent Romani, et oommencebant sine mora 

Bonum undecim to choose, and added thereunto a scorer. 

Tandem dies aderat^ Romani were all in a flutter, 

Totum coelum fulgebat, for days there had not been a gutta 

Imlnris, Zephyrus flavabat, promittunt omnia portam' 

Ingentem, praedpue since Romani had just won the sortem ; 

Nonnulli dicebant that Caesar had tossed with a nummus 

Capita duo ferens, sed hoc est faciliter summus 

Libel that ever was heard, nam Caesar et uzcnr Caesaris. 

Supra suspicion ' erant, and famous for all that quite fair is. 

The Romans elected to bat et Balbus primum cepit ictum, 

Simul inivit Nero portans battum ut gladium strictum. 

Adortum aperuit Hanno qui tertift pilA abscidit 

Baculum Neronis medium — ^he suffered for playing outside it 

Jungit Balbum Cicero, well known as a lapidis murus ; * 

Hodie nevertheless nunquam videbatur securus. 

Septem vigintavit ^ tan turn, misjudged and was puncto arreptus ; 

Prozimus mox sequitur, magna arte Hannonis deceptus. 

Clades trudebatur clade till maxima pars Bomanorum 

Exierant^ and the rest were dismayed at the prospect before 'em. 

Nihilominus Caesar bene lusit with care and precision ; 

*' Cms ante " ^ dabatur tandem, arbitri a most doubtful decision. 

Omnes Romani tandem were out for a hundred and twenty, 

^ Gryllussa cricket. ' Gate = money taken for admission. 

* Plutarch's Life of Ca$ar, chap. x. * Stonewaller. 

* Scored. Viginti^ 20= score. * L.b.w. : to, **baoiilom." 

VERSE, 1906 9m 

Pauper Tiginti ^ qaidem, tho' the bowlers Romani thought plenty. 
NeBciebant Tero quantum Poeni had improved since the last time 
Manas conjnnxerant in hoc incertissimo pastime. 
Erery bowler was tried — celeres, tardi, et adunci ;^ 
Poniebantor onmes and the score mounted up like a monkey. 
Ad Tesperem tandem Hannibal shouted loudly " Jam satis, 
Ineundum ' claudo — nobis non ref ert what the gate Ib ; 
Claudimus nunc primum, as last match claudstis secundum ; " 
(Etiquette wasn't so strict when none scored Ids runs tOl he'd 

runned 'em ;) 
** Romani ad malum duocenti," so shouted the scorer. 
Fabius oepit primus, and opened his score with a f ourer. 
Successit scabies ; * the next three men made anates.^ 
Vociferant Poeni — implorant Romani Penates. 
Marcus amittit nerrum and spoons up a catch to the bowler ; 
Tum discedit Galba cruentus et linquens a molar. 
Stationem brevem ' the cauda was making till Flaccus 
Was cleverly caught in the slips et mansit invictus brave Gracchus. 
Maesti Romani ululant et exeunt omnes moerentes ; 
Domum rediverunt Poeni, elati cineresque ferentes. 

V. W. D0W8LL 

* A poor score. ■ ** Curly *' bowers. 

' I olose the innings : "ineundum " gerund of ** ineo." 

• •• Rot " set in, • " Duoks." • •♦ A short sUnd." 

VERSE, 1907 

■pLOWER of the Pear : 

Here is a poey for my Lady fair. 

Flower of the Fink : 
She is the Mirror VenuB used, I think, 

Flower of the Son : 
My Heart take courage till my Lady's won. 

Flower of the Dwale : 
Her voice enthrals the raptor'd ni^tingale. 

Flower of the Ling : 
And here's my posy, tied with silver string. 

Flower of Uie Rose : 
That's Constancy, as every lover knows. 

Flower of the Fern : 
Tells that she's ever first where'er she turn. 

Flower of the Broom : 
Means that in her the rarest graces bloom : 

Flower of the May : 
Love and Eternity were bom one day. 

Flower of the Rice : 
My Lady's charms are Pearls beyond all price. 

Flower of the Mace : 
Tells of the sweetness of my Lady's face. 

Flower of the Gorse : 
Means Kisses are in season now, of course. 

Flower of the Rue : 
Whispers that sweetest eyes are Blue, Blue, Blue. 

Flower of the Lime : 
The boat of Love floats down the stream of Time. 


VERSE, 1907 879 

Flower of the Mint : 
Her Dimple is a VeniiB' Finger-print. 

Flower of the Rush : 
Nay, speak not ; yon might make my Lady blush. 

Flower of the Yew : 
Methinks that Love's like Flowers bedeck'd with dew. 

Flower of the Bay : 
That means a Grown : and she's my Queen alway. 



Orchids when flaunted on a silk lapelle 
Bid you behold a scintillating swell. 

Dead violets, worn by workmen, may or not 
Tell of a ** mute and uncomplaining lot." 

Snowdrops to affluent aunts (who can't see far) 
Show what a blameless sort of youth you are. 

Hydrangea hanging on your sister's hat 
Speaks of the hours it took to purchase that. 

A box of lilies from a country friend 
Offers a visit for the next week-end. 

Unto your neighbours to present sweet peas 
Means to imply they can't grow ones like these. 

A bunch of daffodils brought fresh from town 
Informs your wife you're going to golf with Brown. 

Proffered judiciously, a spray of mint 
Will give a lamb-like girl a piquant hint 

Ivy unto the minx of witching charms 
Breathes the desire of your prehensile arms. 

Malmaison bouquets rigged with maiden-hair 
Reveal what heaps of cash you've got to spare. 


(Bat hawked " narcisse " to her yoa mean to ** axe " 
Annooncee you're exempt from income-tax.) 

Forget-me-nots wiU very often speak 
Things you are sorry for the following week. 

While roaes are the '* token flowers that tell" 
What Ananias never did so welL 

Lastly, for those who nurse the eternal flame 
All flowers (when out of season) will proclaim 
Love — and the market value of the same. 



I give you, ** None-so-pretty," my " Lad's-love," fresh and true. 
Must my requital ever be but " Bitter-sweet " and *' Rue " t 
I send you just a country bunch, so sweet to sight and smell. 
There, though I dare not write it, my message you may spell. 

It begs you to come home, love, from the city's seething hive 
Where *' Adder's-tongue " and "Nightshade'' are all the flowers 

that thrive. 
Where '* Pick-pockets " run rampant, and where they whisper 

" Love-in-a-mist " misleads one to the " Devil-iu-a-bush ! ** 

What boots your "Prince's Feather," whilst "Love-lies-bleeding'' 

And never a spray of " Heart's-ease " lights up your bed of care ? 
Where True Love scarcely troubles to shoot forth his "Cupid's 

For well he knows they're blunted on your cruel " Froeen Hearts." 

Bring home your " Maiden Blushes," but leave your " London 

The modest flower is famed most of all the country-side. 
Is not the humble "Traveller's Joy," the "Blessed Virgin's 

Is not the fndl wood-sorrel the " Allelijjah Flower " ? 

VERSE, 1907 Ml 

What though no " Crown Imperial " may deck your comely head, 
The "Bridal Wreath ** Tm rearing beaeeons you in its stead. 
Though all my ** Ready Money's " " Moon Shillings " round and 

With "Thyme," and "Thrift," and "Honesty," we soon will set 

that right. 

There's " Kiss-me-at-the-garden-gate " to greet you as you come, 
And o'er the doorway, bri^t as gold, there blossoms " Welcome 

With many a clump of Rosemary the border's set for you 
To tell my mistress when she weds she shall be " Master too." 

When blooms the " Farewell Summer " in the waning of the year, 
Well turn us to our fireside all bright with "Winter cheer." 
A glance out to the moorland will lighten winter's gloom. 
For " Kissing's out of season when the gorse is out of bloom." 

B. B. 


What have you said where the light wind stirs, 

Apple tree laden with snow of bloom ? 
Through the shaken silver and green of fires 

What are you saying in wizard gloom ? 
I will not hear that her brow was white, 

And her cheek rose-hued — that she dawned on me 
As you dawn in the woodland upon my sight ; 

For my heart is broken, O Druid tree. 

I heard the yellow Flag by the pool 

Say, " Thus she carried her golden head " ; 
But the Nenuphar moaned in the waters cool, 

" I cradled your loved one cold and dead." 
The Meadow-sweet breathed from the moon-pale grass 

"A dream, a perfume, a foam was she ; " 
But the Thyme on her grave was a sigh, alas ! 

From the gate of Tears and of Memory. 


Hie Hellebore^ with pale-esierald beUa^ 
The NightBhade flame in a purple round, 

WhcNW poison lurka in their crystal cells, 
Spake, " We are as Death in a love-wreath bound/' 

The Sunflower drooped in an autumn mist 

With heavy fringes of burning gold, 
The Aster carved in pure amethyst, 

The Rose dispetalled on moss and mould ; 
These seemed as ore of a delvM mine 

And rainbow jewels that had no worth ; 
They could not buy me a thing divine. 

One Hour with Her on the old brown Earth. 

But the Spring is here and the wild Inrds brood, 

O gnarlM Apple-tree, what have you said — 
That in olden days from the apple wood 

Crosses were made for the lowly dead, 
Death-coffers too from your sturdy bark? 

Ah ! one word yet — that your blossoms gleam 
(White coronals sprung from the cold and dark, 

A foam from the Sea by the Shores of Dream) 
To whisper, where in Despair I grope, 

Of the fairest Promise in all the world ; 
Yea, speak to me of the World's Qreat Hope, 

O drift of petals and buds unfurled. 



'' My door stands wide." " If every secret place 
Be open thus, lead thou me to mine own ! " 

'* Nay, love, I come not with thee. Pass alone 

Under the lintel, that no fleeting grace 

Of mine, nor any fear upon my face. 
Nor brave words uttered in too piteous tone 
Hinder thy search." Is't then so strange, unknown, 

Thy house where fancies flit in shadowy chase ? " 

VERSE, 1907 «88 

" EVn to myself anknown. Thou, my soul's lord, 
For Love's dear sake, and Truth's, entering, shalt see 

The dark, veiled thoughts, and the dim treasure hoard." 
'' I saw long since. Love lent his master-key. 

Led me through echoing archways unexplored 
To where thy white soul dwelt mysteriously." 



'' If I should build a house of ivory, 

Carved all of cedar wood, smelling of myrrh, 

Wouldst thou come in to dweU, oh wanderer ? " 

" Nay ; the long winds swing singing from the sea ; 

And the^night holds no house for thee and me. 

Out of the wreck of the wind-riven years, 

The shattered ways, the old dust dark with tears, 

I come ; night holds no house for me and thee." 

" If I should gather from the shattered ways 

The bitter dust, the broken stones of hope 

(They shine like fallen stars in the moon's blaze), 

And build my house of these on the dim slope, 

Wouldst come, pale wanderer 7 The gate stands wide." 

'* I come ; the winds sleep on the hill's long side." 



Tbllus (loquitw): 

Why fall no more thy vivifying rays, 

Bright-haired Apollo, on this hapless breast. 

Where, the long summer, 'twas thy joy to rest, 
Forgetful of thy steeds' impatient neighs t 

Now rolling mists my pleasant fields bedim, 
My towns are wrapped in pestilential haze ; 

Hasten thy laggard chariot-lamps to trim, 
And let me see once more their cheerful blaze. 


Phoebus (retpondet) : 
TelhiB ! prolific one, the fault my own is ; 
I would not stint your oomfcnrt an iota. 
But — ^trath to say — I've sold my classic pomes. 

And bonght an Airship, '' Martian," worked by motor ; 
Just now its out of gear, and being mended. 
You most have fogs until the job is ended ! 

X. J. T. 



The hour is past : Night with her shroud of stars. 
And ways ungarlanded of mortal hand, 
Thronging in silence to the moon's command 

Awaits her secret messenger from Mars. 

Why do I linger? Lo, the ethereal cars. 
The divine presences that never stand 
Flame-robed for passage to the Evening Land, 

Oleam through dim ruins of terrestrial bars. 

So mused Aconstantreda. Blind with tears 
The night- wind echoed, radiantly bright : 

Then, raising eyes that strove 'twixt hopes and fears, 
Looked up to where, clear beyond earthly sights 
'Mid flooding splendours of the gathering li^t 

Night loomed upon the margin of the spheres. 



To feel the fern-seed in the hair ; to feel. 
Freed from its boot, the chilblain pant and throb. 
To watch the kettle scheming on the hob 

Fond futile dreams to start a driving-wheel. 

To spy a stranger at the evening meal, 

While oysters moan and sardines softly sob ; 
With Bacon-Shakespeare-Rutland to hobnob 

And carve the capers with Carnegie's steel. 

VERSE, 1907 885 

My lot forbids — ihe Banns 1 Aye, there's the rab. 
For with the mbber what wild dreams arise 

Of Leopold — ^knave, king, and spade, and club, 
Hearts are not in it Seven is my size : 

Seven stars, Seven Sisters ! Heptarchy ! The chub 
Is a coarse fish but eatable in pies. 


The Sono of thb Balloonatio 
SoENi. — Boxing-night in London Street 

See Im in 'is night-gown dancin' down the street ! 
Ten to one in shillings if they ever meet ! 
Thinks 'isself a motor ! (That is why 'e skids !) 
Ain't 'e just a nightmare, fit to scare the kids t 

All right, Mr. Bobby ! we're agoin' 'ome. 
Back to dear old daddy, never more to roam ! 
'Ave you seen a turnip tomin' in the sky 
All among the starlets ? Crikey ! Nor ain't I ! 

Now, then ! 'Oo're yer ^ttin' ? Ain't we got the right? 
(Shove 'im in 'is talk-trap if 'e wants to fight !) 
Loose the 'angin' anchor ! Off we go I 'Ooray ! 
That's about the ticket ! That's the time o' day ! 

Well, good-bye, old pally I we ain't time to stop ! 
Steer 'er by tiie starboard ; mind that chimbley top ! 
See the clouds a-scuddin' on the bloomin' blast? 
Seems to me, my sonny, we're agoin' fast 1 

All the way to Richmond ! Change at Shepherd's Bush ! 
(When she starts to wobble you get out and push !) 
'And me out the vinegar ; oil 'er sparkin' plug I 
'* We're above speed limit? " Shut yer ugly mug ! 


'Oo's agoin' to stop us? 'Oo'll l&y 'ands on ost 
Think Wre just a Daimler or a blasted bos? 
Itch a ruddy comet to a shootin' star, 
Add a bit of cordite ; that is what we are ! 

Flyin' o'er the Channel ! 'Ow I loye the sea ! 
What! jon'd 'a^e a tunnel? Don't you talk to me ! 
Never swallowed med'cine, never took no piU ; 
All I ask's a crossin' that ull make me ill ! 

Cheer, my shipwrecked brothers ! What ho ! There's a sail ! 
(Shan't we get a fortune from the Daily Mail f) 
Now uncork the sardines, lay 'em on their side ; 
They ain't got no 'eads on, they ain't got no pride ! 

" England, O my England ! " (give 'or one cheer more !) 
See the niggers standin' on 'er sad seashore ! 
*' 'Ome of lUl the peoples ! " — ^Ain't no 'ome for me ! 
Fm a bloomin' outcast of soc-i-et-ee ! 

I am't got no wices — never 'ad no wits ! 
What's that ? " Work ! " Now don't yer frighten me to fits ! 
Stow it^ can't yer, kiddin' 1 Where's yer livin' wage? 
Where's yer little pension in yer 'oary age! 

See that cloud a-comin ? Wallop ! in we go ! 
Ain't it nice and coolin' ? QoUy ! Why, it's snow ! . . . 
" What am I a-doin' ? " Well, I ask you that ! 
Where's my umberella, where's my hopera 'at? 

Ho, yus ! *' So yer know me? Think yer've seed my hce ? " 

Seems to me you coppers 'aven't learnt yer place ! 

Can't old Father Chrismas waller in the snow 

But yer come and kick 'im? All right ! There, 111 go ! 

"dub myhtdd" 

VERSE, 1907 887 

A Ballad op Aktiqub Sonob 

Dark days, and a vestare of lorrow : 

Blown seas, and a gannent of grief, 
To be tossed in the tide of to-morrow, 

As the lily is rent from the leaf. 
On the diff by the edge of the coppice, 

Where the wet winds wander and weep, 
Lo, Isidores pasture of poppies — 
The Garden of Sleep. 

Who shall smell the sweet smoke of onr censers — 

Soft Slices and saTonrs of hardi 
Who shall save from the thirst that torments us 

When the Ghites of Enchantment are barred t 
Till the day-time be turned to the night-time. 

Till nights in the summer increase. 
To fulfil our Desire of the right time 
We must Ask the Police. 

I am come to the end of my tether — 

Spent leavings of foam and of brine : 
Qrown sick of the seas and the weather. 

And waters unmingled with wine. 
So, comrades, come round to my revels — 

We will paint the town crimson to-night ; 
I've some really good wh • - ky (ye div - Is !)— - 
And I am all right 


Ths Cknotaph 

The Cenotaph from out his vault 
Strode with his curfew and his banner. 

Saw the Venetian blind, bade " Halt ! " 
And whispered in Socratic manner : 


** The scaly Flagal cadence droye 
A coach and four-in-hand of nightmareB 

In high condition, for they throTe 

On cheoBe-strawB and electric-light shares ; 

" He clasp'd the absent hand of Bliss, 
And, tho' he drew the Choral nnmber, 

That sanctified Periphrasis 

Castled his king and pawn'd his lumber. 

'* Ecstatic cosmic oonsdonsness 
Abounding in the moony dimple, 

How great the glory ! ^Were it leM 
If Commonsense were subtly simple 1 

" Old Ocean dying in his bed, 
Wi^Mbg his eye with his first barrel, 

Kiss'd the sweet Accolade who fled 
From Sufl&agettes in loud apparel 

*< Voluptuous exactitude, 

Emancipating ev'ry Toter : 
But so it is, tho' it be rude, 

And doubly rude to them that motor. 

"As one that taketh forty winks 
And sippeth sermons in a journal, 

So at the bedside of the Lynx 
His Uncle's language was infemaL 

'* Strange, is it not^ that Something now 
Insistent in the Dome of Sorrow 

Catches the Hare that drives the plough. 
And overcooks it on the morrow : 

*' And stranger still It did not try. 
Speaking of Counterpoint^ to mention 

That ' Trusts ' keep best hung high and dry 
Like Haman, nicer for suspension t 


VERSE, 1907 «89 

*' The diplomatic Platitude 

Holding the Thesis by the handle, 
Toeing the heel of gratitude, 

Poulticed the Patience of the Scandal. 

<<Call not the Destiny of Life 

* Negation of Primordial Duty ' : 
Carre but the Abstract with a knife 

And Concrete is the Soul of Beauty." 

The eloquent Venetian Blind 

Drew himself up at this last notion : 
He left the Vote of Thanks behind 

But carried off the Previous Motion. 



He wandered through the luscious hUl, 

And past the radiant melody ; 
And his the morning, his the skill, 

And his the carpet of the sky ; 
Tet when he met entrancing guile 
It seemed to him not worth the while. 

She came from homes of yesterday, 

So pale, so pink, so inly grand, 
That every hillock on the way 

FeU upward like enchanted land ; 
And when they met they knew that strife 
Was but the threnody of life. 

Oh, let no man suppose that he 

Can stem Time's exquisite redress. 
Or shun the gorgeous Past to be. 

Or quit the Future looming less ; 
AU Nature bids us hasten slow. 
Or pain of echoing long and low. 


Thwef ore these two with flowery hme 

Held out a haply feTerish eye, 
Wherem there lingered mystic flame 

Which hinted love and rage gone by : 
And finally on violent lawn 
They hailed the unregenerate dawn. 

'Twas thns they met ; the hour was nought, 
And all the setting moons were new, 

While from the neighbouring sun was brought 
One darkling drop of solid dew ; 

They would have smiled, but none was near 

To mark the evaporating tear. 

^Twas thus they parted ; Earth's dull shriek 
Bang through each never-ending heart ; 

Only the poet dares to speak 

Of those who meet and those who part ; 

But why they parted, why they met, 

No man can guess it or forget 



Ho ! Miss Perkins, ring the clarion, 

Call the lodgers home to tea. 
Hark, the telephone is ringing, 

Bow the head and bend the knee. 

Lemonade and soda water. 

Gramophones all painted new 
In the rocking-chair are waiting 

For their turn at Irish stew. 

On the wings of evening wafting^ 
Cupboards play at hide and seek, 

Wardrobes in their narrow setting 
Hide a turnip and a leek. 

VERSE, 1907 891 

Pins and needles clutch a thimble, 

In a basin stamps are wet ; 
From a musty brown potato 

Voices tell ns not to fret. 

On a low and drooping willow 

Water cans all bathed in dew 
Sing in weak and trembling accents 

Metaphors to me and you. 

Soap and suds all wildly clamouring 

Wash the flannel on its nose. 
While the elephant and weasel 

Give the shoelift half a rose. 

Paperweights complain and whimper 

To a top-hat standing by ; 
And a bluebottle of learning 

Shows a tadpole how to fly. 

Motor-cars with perforation 

Chase a mangle round a bed, 
One small hen encased in marble 

Wraps a doyley round her head. 

Ha ! Miss Perkins, stay thy danging^ 

On the stair the lodgers kneel. 
While in dainty linen jerseys 

Calves' heads dine on tripe and heel. 


A Picture from Boceaeeio ('' Decamenm," Day F., Nwd I.) 

Never in story did Endymion 

Pillow on softer moss his tranckl head 

Nightly to catch the fleeting benison 
Of his divine enchantress : cooler bed 


And f ragranter, by ailTer dewdrops f ed. 
He knew not then, than now Iphigenie 

PresseB with delicate form, to shunber wed, 
EmbowerM from the noon's high brilliancy : 
While by her grassy conch melodiously 

Flashes a spring of crystal forth to flow 
Down banks of verdure to the distant sea. 

Sleep ever thus, fair maid ! Twere better so 
Than stir Oaleso's ^ heart to life and love, 
Watcher more moveless than the shadowing grove. 

Blest Cymon ! For a moment blest as none, 
Propt on thy shepherd-crook in strange amaze, 

Square-shouldered, strong, bareheaded to the sun. 
Who never till this hour has loved to gaze 
On beauly — now thy sluggard wit obeys 

The unwonted passion that thine heart reveals. 
And marvels at the old insensate days — 

Heal'd as the sorrower whom a kindness heals. 

He sees the filmy mantle that conceals 
And not conceals the glory of her frame; 

The silken quilt that exquisitely steals 

From breast to foot : and, as he sees, the flame 

Bums warmer in his rude uncivil breast^ 

"What beauteous thing is this that takes its restt" 

A dart of sweetness from her waking eyes, 

A tender mouth that bids the watcher go^ 
Half-veiled admiring and a coy surprise — 

These are the instruments that fashion woe ! 

Tet knows she not and Oyinon doth not know 
That bitterness is in the ruddiest fruit : 

Slowly she rises, and with step as slow 
Cymon — whom mocking Cyprus surnamed Brute — 
Cymon will not begone, but strives to suit 

His stride to hers : and so in silent 

^ C7mon*s real name. 

VERSE, 1907 898 

Ah ! there are times when Love is blind and mate — 

He leads her home. His eyes are on her eyes. 
So nms the tale : pity, who list to me, 
The love of Cymon and Iphigenie. 


Love hath me in a tower 

Set in the sea, 
He calls my prison his bower, 

Ah me ! Ah me ! 

He holds me in safe keeping, 

My gaoler he, 
And smiles to see me weeping, 

Ah me ! Ah me ! 

Nor can the ships beneath us 

My signals see, 
A roee-mist doth enwreath us. 

Ah me ! Ah me ! 

"The wide world holds us only," 

He whispers me, 
"Yet who, with Love, is lonely 1" 

Ah me ! Ah me ! 



There's small profit in pedlin', and nuthink in flowers 
(Kin' Friends, please assist us to make both ends meet), 

We've dodged the perlice, and 'ave tramped it f er hours — 
No, it ain't werry pleasant ter sing in the street ! 

'Ere's Maggie and Bobby we borrered^ both 'owling, 

An' liza 'as got sich a cold on 'er chest, 
We can't mike ourselves 'eard wiv these road-'ogs a-growling. 

An' 'ud gladly give you an' our Y(Acea a rest 

1 We beliere this inpiiUes a long-felt want. 


It's cold, an' we're 'angry, and, see now, if s rainin' 1 
Tore 'avin' yer teas, an' we'd orl like a cap ; 
We'd aing a lot better if we'd 'ad the trainin', 
Don't 'ide be'ind winders, bat kinly stamp op I 



As I was riding throagh the woods, a-riding in the rain. 

Within the dripping hawthorn brake a bird b^^an to sing ; 
Bat could not call my thoughts from her I once besought in vain, 
Long, long ago, in the spring. 

As I was riding throagh the dark, a-riding to the West, 
I saw the roses by the gate ungathered in the moon. 
There it was she answered me, with roses in her breast, 
Long, long ago, in the noon. 

As I was riding by the church, a-riding by the wall, 

"Surely," I said, "the strife is done, 'twas long ago she died." 
I could not find her grave to bless among the grasses tall — 
Still, from the dead am I denied 1 



In and out of the garden-maze 

(Hear the waves, the tide is fn]l). 
The lovers walked in the sodden ways 
(Love, let me go 1 ). 

" Why do you press toward the gate 1 " 

(Hear the waves, the tide is full), 
" The new moon sinks and the time is late " 
(Love, let me go !). 

" The tall ship waits with her wings spread wide 

(Hear the waves, the tide is full), 
" And mariners serve the changing tide " 
(Love, let me go !). 

VERSE, 1907 895 

** There are havens eastward and havens west 

(Hear the waves, the tide is full), 
*' Bat havens none for my heart to rest " 
(Love, let me go !). 



A hondred times I kissed the lips 

Of my yonng love and true ; 
Now over her month the slow tide slips, 
And where went down a hundred ships 

Went down my kisses too. 

A hundred times I called her back 

With a cry full long and sore, 
But the mad sea mist is on her track, 
And lost is she if she dare the wrack 

And win her to the shore. 

So am I mocked of the joy of her. 

And sport of the sea's disdain. 
For nevermore shall her spirit stir. 
And never up from the wild water 

Comes my young love again. 



When pain and care oppress my soul 
My physic is the sparkling bowl : 
Qaily I pour the tonic down, 
For Sorrow's heavy, and will drown. 

But when my heart from care is free, 
In this same course no harm I see : 
One difference I gladly note. 
That Joy is light, and so will float 

<* DEIRA * 



When the stonn- voice calls from the deep, 

When my windows with spray are wet, 
Seaward gaze I onto the west, 

The wild west whither your sails were set 
Sunset furnaces, burning low. 

Flamed forewell in the passionate sky ; 
The red tide drew you. Son o' the Winds, 

And not my heart when we said good-bye. 

I watch the wheeling wings of the gulls ; 

So the wings of your desire 
One day out of the west shall turn. 

Beating back to a shoreward fire. 
Have no fear that I will weep. 

Cling to your neck, and bid you stay ; 
I would not hold you, Son o' the Winds, 

One moment when your heart said Nay. 



Weaver, wiU you weave for me 

Whiskers for my face t 
Father's gone a-soldiering — 

I must take his place. 
Mother's in the happy land. 

Brother's on the sea ; 
No one left to fend for us, 

Only little me. 

J. H. Goamo 

VERSE, 1907 297 


Thb Grateful Hen 

Nibble and Nobble and Nancy Lee 
Wanted an egg for their Sunday tea ; 
Squeezed the hen, but the hen was dry ; 
Took her and shook her and made her cry ; 
Stroked her and coaxed her and made her a speech, 
And the grateful hen laid an egg for each. 



Apple-tree, Cherry-tree, Pear-tree, Plum, 
Tell me when will my sweetheart come. 
Come with a carriage and horses to carry me ; 
Come with the ring in his pocket to marry me ; 
Come with the key of a cottage to house me in ; 
Come with a bonnie silk gownie to spouse me in ; 
Come with a pension or come with a penny, 
He shall be welcome, more welcome than any. 
' Apple-tree, Cherry-tree, Pear-tree, Plum, 
TeU him to pack up his heart, and come. 


There was an old lady who lived in a hut, 

And she had an old goat that was nearly all butt ; 

The capers it cut in that poor little hut 

Were such as to make the old lady say " Tut ! " 

So she put it outside, and the windows she shut, 

And the poor goat was starved, that is, nearly — ^all but ! 


O come with me and see ! 
My mother keeps a bee ! 
She can't contrive to get a hive 
Or she might keep two, or three ! 

O. M. OlOBOl 




Chitter-cbatter, chitter-cbatter, 

like a little jay, 
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, 

Chattered night and day. 
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, 

When she waa quite yonng, 
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, 

Wore away her tongue. 

Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter. 

Now she's growing old, 
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, 

— So the story's told — 
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, 

(Isn't it absurd ?), 
Chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, 

Cannot say a word. 


c. & 8. 

Tommy was naughty on Sunday ; 

Tommy on Monday was worse, 
Tuesday he said, "I wiU NOT go to bed"; 

Wednesday he quarrelled with Nurse. 
Thursday, when Mother went off to the Stores 

Naughty-Boy Pills to obtain. 
Tommy turned wise, and by way of surprise 

Never was naughty again. 
Friday and Saturday — every day since — 

Tommy has been good as gold : 
Nurse took the pills to protect her from chills, 

Being a martyr to cold. 


VERSE, 1907 899 

A WoNDBR World 

I wonder if the Milky Way 

Is ever skimmed for cream ; 
I wonder if a Ni^tmare 

Has ever met a Dream. 

I wonder why the Rainbow 

Hasn't got an arrow ; 
I wonder why a Broad Bean 

Is really very narrow. 

I wonder why a weathercock 

Should sit npon a steeple ; 
I wonder what a puzzle is, 

And why it puzzles people. 


Up the road to Babylon, 

Down the road to Rome, 
The King has gone a-riding out 

All the way from home. 

There were all the folks singing, 
And the church-bells ringing. 
When the King rode out to Babylon, 
Down the road to Rome. 

Down the road from Babylon, 

Up the road from Rome, 
The King came slowly back 

All the way back home. 

There were all the folk weepLog^ 
And the church-bells sleeping^ 
When the King rode back from Babylon, 
When the King came home. 



Mr. and Mrs. Lillywhite Mouse 
Lived in a hole in the side of a honse. 
They lived upon apples and biscuits and fat^ 
And what they had over they gave to the Cat. 

R. H. 

Sing a song of sugar-sticks, brandy-balls and toffee ; 
Four-and-twenty serving-maids filling cups with coffee. 
Coffee in the coffee-cups, fingers in the jam ! 
Lawk-a-mussy, Nursey dear, what a pig I am. 

Sing a song of punishments, bed and bread and water ; 
Pussy's in old Nursey's room, drinking up her porter. 
Porter for the pussy-cat ! Nursey doesn't see. 
What will happen when she does ? Lawk-a-mussy-me. 

p. O. liAYTON 

When King Blobbytopp yawned, and his mouth opened wide. 

He never could shut it again though he tried. 

His sons took his chin and his daughters his nose, 

But even then often his mouth wouldn't dose ; 

They weren't very pleased when their help was required, 

So he had to be careful about getting tired. 

But, oh, when he sneezed it was very much worse, 
His sons and his daughters would send for a nurse ; 
He would twist and would turn, almost double would bend. 
And his sneezes — ^you'd think that they never could end. 
While his sons and his daughters would fidget and scold, 
So he had to be careful about catching cold. 



Moon, Mother Moon, there's a star in the water, 

Oh ! did you allow it to fall? 
Pick it up, pick it up, my pretty wee daughter, 

'Twill make you a glittering ball. 

VERSE, 1907 801 

Earth, Mother £arih, there's a tree in the water, 

Oh ! how can it grow upside down ? 
GK> and see, go and see, my pretty wee daughter, 

Why it stands on its head like a clown. 

Look, Mother^ look, there's a path on the water. 

Oh ! does it lead up to the sky ? 
Run along, run along, my pretty wee daughter, 

For how can you tell till you try ? 

No, Mother, no, it's so wet in the water. 

Oh ! surely you must understand ? 
Very true, very true, my pretty wee daughter. 
It's wiser to stay on the land. 

o. B. 

Mistress Mary, quite contrary, 

Soon is the Summer done, 
Tour SUver-bells and Cockle-shells 

Have all forgot the sun. 
Tour pretty maids with hanging heads 

Are kneeling in a row, 
A Silver bell has rung their knell. 

Their laps are filled with snow. 


The Orangk Cat 

The orange cat from Fairyland, from Fairyland, from Fairyland, 
All the way from Fairyland 
Once brought a box for me. 

A black bean, a blue bag^ a white stone from Fairyland, 
A remnant of a rainbow, and the twinkle of a star 

Were in the box from Fairyland, from Fairyland, from Fairyland, 
** To show you," said the orange cat, '* how nice we think you 


Wasps were in the Une bag, the blue beg from Faiiyland, 
The twinkle wouldn't twinkle, and the remnant tamed to rain. 

So, with the bean, the black bean, to Fairyland, to Fairyland 
— Paid and packed most carefolly — ^I sent them back again. 

But I still haye the white stone from Fairyland, from Fairyland, 

Hidden in my pockety for it isn't mnch to see ; 
Still it marks the day an orange cat from Fairyland, from Fairy- 

All the way from Fairyland, once brought a box fcHr me. 


A Child's Nioht-thought 

I woke before the night had gone, 

And in the great black sky. 
Silver and round and aU alone, 

The Moon was riding high. 

I wondered why she grew so fast, 

For — just the other night — 
I woke and watched her sailing past^ 

A little slip of white ! 

Nurse said she was a baby-moon 

Such a short time ago 1 
Then how has she grown up so soon, 

That's what I'd like to know! 

Man in the Moon — is it green cheese 

She eats to make her grow! 
Oh, tell me truly, if you please, 

I should 9o like to know. 


VERSE, 1907 808 

Thb Blackthorn Rhymb 

Oh, my Lady Blackthorn's a-flirting with the Spring ! 

Sing hey-ho and sing heigho, there'll be no lack in May ! 
I've heard th* Cnckoo cuckoo, but I've heard th' Robin sing — 

Apple Blossom won't be set till past Saint Dunstan's Day. 

Get your basket, Margaret^ and get your basket, Mary, 
There won't be any roses till Cuckoo's out of tune ; 

111 sail out to Spanish seas and buy a gold canary, 
So we'U be all a-smiling before the end of June ! 


Rhyme of the Meadow 

The daisy is a lady, a lady, a lady, 
The daisy is a lady, and wears a ruby crown. 
The clover la her grannie, her grannie, her grannie, 
The clover is her grannie, all in a purple gown. 

The buttercup's her lover, her lover, her lover. 
The buttercup's her lover, in armour all of gold ; 
And he will slay the thistle, the thistle, the thistle, 
And he will slay the thistle, for all his prickles bold. 

The ladysmocks are {bridesmaids, are bridesmaids, are bridesmaids. 
The ladysmocks are bridesmaids, in kirtles silver white. 
The mullens tall are tapers, are tapers, are tapers. 
The mullens tall are tapers, to give the ladies light. 

The orchis is the jester, the jester, the jester, 

The orchis is the jester, to make the ladies gay. 

The hyacinths are church bells, are church bells, are church bells, 

The hyacinths are church bells, to ring the wedding day. 

D. T. 



Thb Chika Cat 

I baTe a golden pussy cat^ her eyes are very green, 
She sits upon the mantel-shelf and always may be seen. 
She never moves her folded tail, nor ever shuts an eye, 
While I eat up my soup so quick and every one is by. 

I may not touch my pussy cat^ for she ia my best toy, 
She only may be looked at now — I'm such a little boy. 
But when I'm gone to bed at last I just lie there and wait 
Until there isn't any light and it is very late. 

And then from off the mantel-shelf my pussy comes to me, 
Her tail is all unfolded and she walks purringly ; 
She patters all across the floor, she jumps upon my bed. 
She rubs herself against my face, her tail waves on my head. 

And then I go to sleep at once, for she lies down to stay 
Until the whole of night has gone and she must creep away : 
And when I eat my porridge, then I look at her and think — 
/ know she can unfold her tail and walk and purr and blink. 

** BIDDY " 

Tommy came to London on a motor-'bus, 
He stuck in Oxford-circus 

Just the same as us. 

Tommy came to London ; he went to see the Zoo ; 
He rode upon the elephant 

Just the same as you. 

Peter Pan amazed him when he saw him fly ; 
He tried to imitate him — 

So did you and L 

Tommy travelled home again tired as could be ; 
He wants to go another day. 

The same as you and me. 


VERSE, 1907 806 


The next was nought. They say when Death draws near 
The F^tst stands all reveal'd in sudden light, 
ETen as longest vision of the night 
(The Dream of Love and Hope, or Dread or Fear) 
Fills but a moment's space. / could but hear 
The echo of that blast from ev'ry height. 

And then I knew the blind, brown wall — my hand 
Press'd to it without grasp, and (strange) but all 
My force of thought seem'd hammer'd to that wall : 
Tho' hideous forms of Death around might stand, 
I only wonder'd Who had made and plann'd 
A thing so horribly symmetrical 

How wrought he without ledge or crevice? So 
Some slimy worm up-crawling from the ground 
Might leave its track all circled round and round, 
Finding no hold at last would drop below — 
Down— down ! And so my sliding hand would go — 
It slipp'd to ev'ry echo of that sound. 

Long, long ago it seem'd I, moving free, 

Came to that dreadful spot and heard that bell 
Tolling a clanging, ghastly, fun'ral knell. 
That round brown turret wall now seem'd to be 
A thing which had for years been part of me— 
As a doom'd soul may feel a part of HelL 

I dare not turn my head, that dauntless breath 
With which I blew the blast had pass'd away. 
As all the Fkist had pass'd — and Yesterday, 

Whose only Morrow was the Dawn of Death. 

Darkness was all around and space beneath, 
Tet horror nor yet fear held greatest sway. 



But blank intense desire to feel some creek 
Or crevice— not my barter'd life to save — 
(Better the end tilian dangle o'er that grave) 

Bat in that damn'd Rotondity some kn^ 

To find. That horrible design some break 
(If wrought by Ood-made man) must surely have. 


[Part II. of " Childe Bolcmd" %$ occupied vfUh the conflict, 
and ends with the following verses.'] 

FoUed ! And the hills, as of the oft-acted scene 
Full weary, to their age-long feud repair. 
With sadly chanted requiems through the air 
Repeated : nothing is but what hath been 
And shall be — such at least it seems to mean, 
Bidding the world go on and me despair. 

Despair of what ? What hoped for ? Just a long 
life-time in searching for the Unknown spent, 
Just a short death-time left me to repent ; 
— So many dumb years, then the last swan-song, 
And that gnarled cripple's pointing now proved wrong; 
Malice and mockery his sole intent? 

Despair ? When that dark champion in my shield 
Had left his sting? Once entered no regress, 
The foeman's death, the loss of life no less 
To his assailant — may no more be healed, 
One-weaponed as the bee no second wield, 
And wrongs himself his own right to redress. 

But while the venom works its wUl, what waste, 
Methinks, against the unlovely swarming hive 
To hurl such wealth of war, whence none alive 
Returns : on either side new champions haste 
To take the field, none nearer comes to taste 
The cell-hid honey, howsoe'er they strive. 

VERSE, 1907 807 

Yet some day there's an end to the tale. (Why else 
Come one by one the champions! Were their store 
So inexhaustible, some dozen or score 
How well spared !) No : such parsimony tells 
That QOTer lance on shield loud clangs but knells 
Toward that dark tower's downfall one stroke more. 

So passes all our knighthood. The tower still 
Stands : never one in the combat vaunts to claim 
Full victory — stands but yet stands not the same 

(For one day see the last mailed champion fill 

Ton narrow port), since not alone for ill 

Unlanced Childe Bolande to the dark tower came. 




When hedgerow oaks are tipped with red. 
With hey ! the hollyhock tops the wall, 

When seven rings the sun to bed 
And yellow leaves do singly fall ; 

When eve with fog doth cloke the sedge, 

With hey ! for the round moon ripe and gold ; 

On those must sleep beside the hedge 
The autumn dewdrops trickle cold. 

When parson prays to spare the rain. 
With hey ! for harvest and fellowship ; 

And reapers drink beside the wain, 
*T]a hard, but I may get a sip. 



Mt lord rides forth with hawk and hound, 

My lady rides in purple stuff, 
While knaTe and fool who jaunt around 
Make idle chatter, as the chough 
That heeds no sour " Enough, enough ! " 
Hey ! let who will a courtier be. 
The merry wise life o' the road for me ! 
Who rides on horseback cannot spy 
The timid violet under the thorn ; 
Who wears fine clothes can never cry 
Such wares of snowy fleece new-shorn 
As I, that was not daintily bom ! 
Hey ! let who will a lordling be, 
The merry rogue's life o' the road for me ) 
My learned doctor takes the road 
In scarlet hood and tippet grey. 
His lean shanks smarting with the goad. 
For he must home ere envious day 
Hath reft his rheumy sight away ! 
Hey ! let who will a scholar be. 
The merry free life o' the road for me ! 


. . . of unconsidered trifles. 

For 'tis shrewd necessity 

Of heavenly kinship with a star, 
That we are all compelled to be 

The fools or villains that we are. 
For every fox will have his goose, 

Whatever the poulter's pang-a, 
And lover's knot is lover's noose, 

So let the world go hang-a ! 
. . . toith die and drab, . . . 


VERSE, 1907 809 


Pbbdita. Happy be you ! 

All that you speak shows fair. 
AuTOLTCUB {9ings), I was walking in the wood, 

And I thought the day was good, 

All the way. 
With the kisses of the wind, 
Came a longing on my mind, 
That my fortune I should find, 

If I may. 

We shall never sport again, 

WhUe there's kindness left in men, 

All the way. 
On the way we went before 
There were sunbeams in the straw, 
I shall never find it more. 

Though I may. 


Lasses, do you seek a charm 

Which would guard your lads from harm ; 

Which will keep you blithe and gay, 

Blithe and gay, every day t 
Come with me, and I will show 
Where the little love-charms grow. 

They are hidden in the grass. 
Where the cattle dare not pass ; 
For the cattle understand, 
Understand the stem command. 
They must ever keep away 
From the rings where fairies play. 


In the fairy rings, at night, 
With the moon to give them light, 
Trickay fairiea weave the spell, 
WeftTe the spell, and none can tell. 

How they make the loTe-charms spring 

From the grass within the ring. 



. . . and my revenue U the silly cheat. 

Open wide blue eyes and black, 
See what hideth in my pack ! 
All the gew-gaws ye may lack. 
Cherries for the saucy lasses. 
Comfits out of Venice glasses ; 
Murrey slippers for my lady, 
Ruffs and roses for a gay day ! 
m no more drink penny ale 
When I sell this futhingale. 
Where I go doth follow after 
Purses light and knavish laughter. 
Wimples dight of ciclatune, 
Broidered all with eglantine, 
Here's for every lover ! 
Clover for the country maid, 
Shepherd's purse for light-tongued jade, 
I'm a merry rover ! 
But my poses from the hedges 
Steal away poor Chloe's wages, 
Hey and welladay O ! ^ 

M. N. T. OKA.Y 

^ Some Qerman critics have discerned in the three last lines the woik 
of an inferior hand. Malone is of opinion that this song is misplaoed in 
Scene III., and should be restored to Scene IV. 

VERSE, 1907 311 


Lss Mains 

(Fro7n the French of Henry Spiess) 

The hands I see in dreamland 

My destiny allure, 
Have offered me frail roses 

And far-off lilies pure. 

The hands I fain would capture 

For these strange ministerings, 
Upon their taper fingers 

Are hung with antique rings. 

The hands to cool the fever 

Of my poor lips and eyes 
Are softer, more caressing 

Than dreams of Paradise. 

Whene'er I think I've met them, 

My soul in doubt has been ; 
Ah ! can it be that never 

Those hands in life were seen ? 

And yet, since once in dreamland 

They did my fancy fill, 
I never have forgotten — 

I wait, I wait them still. 


(From the French of Francois Coppde) 

Long ago my heart was like a Roman palace 

Built of choice granites, decked with marbles rare ; 

Soon came the passions, like a horde barbarian, 
Came and invaded it, with axe and torch aflare. 

Then it was a ruin. Not a human sound there. 
Only owls and vipers — wastes of creeping flowers. 

Porphyry, Carrara, everywhere lay broken ; 
Brambles had effaced the road between the bowers. 


Long time alone I gazed on my disaster ; 

Many a sonlees noontide, many a starless ni^t 
Passed, and I liyed there days begirt with horror. 

Till thou appearedst, white in die light ; 
Bravely then, to find a roof-tree for our two loves^ 

From the palace stones I set my hut upright. 



What of the voyage {the dreamer §aiUh) f 

How shall the brave ship go t 
Bounding waters to lift her keel, 
Winds that follow with favouring breath — 

Shall she come to her harbour so f 
Up the shimmering tidetoay steal 

As a dove hasteneth ? 
(Hush thee, dreamer, for none may know.) 

What of the voyage (the dreamer saith) t 

How shall the good ship fare? 
Ck>ld at midnight the pitiless wave. 
Winds that batter her, carrying death — 

Must she shudder in anguish there. 
Cry in the darkness for one to save. 

As a child sorroweth ? 
(Hush thee, dreamer, and fall to prayer.) 


What of the voyage {the Dreamer saith) f 

How shaU the brave Ship go t 
Bou/nding waters to lift her keel, 
Winds that follow with favouring breath — 

Shall she come to her harbour so f 
Up the shimmering tideway steal 

To the flying flags, and the bells arpeal, 
And the crowds that welcome her home from Death, 

And the harbour lights aglow ? 

VERSE, 1907 818 

What at the end of her seafaring, 

What will her tidings be? 
Lands in the light of an wnJcnoum star ? 
Midnight UKwes, and the vdnds thai bring 

Scents of the day to bet 
Lost little islands in seas afar^ 
Where dreams and shadowy waters are^ 
And the toinds are kindly, and tnaidens sing. 

To the throb of an idle sea f 

What of the voyage (the Dreamer saith) ? 

How hath the good Ship come ? 
(They answered.) The Sea is stronger than Dreams, 
And what are yoor Laughter and Hope and Faith 

To the fury of wind and foam ? — 
Wreckage of sail, and shattered beams, 
An empty htUk upon silent streams. 
By the Tides of night to the Harbowr of Death, 

So hath your Ship come Home. 


Hither to me, my Faithful, for the sheep 
Are folded, and thy happy labour done ; 

Slowly the purple shadows upward creep. 
And day hath yet her wistful hour to run, 
While she remembers the departed sun, 

Unready for the stars and dewy sleep. 

Here for a space together let us lie 

To watch the moon rise, and the singing trees 
Weave and unweave their webs across the sky 

As keeping time to their own melodies. 

Lay thy dear head in comfort on my knees : 
We never dreamed of parting, thou and I. 


The fairy torch of April's willow-gold 
Should light ua twain (so ran onr happy dream) 

Here in the upland pastures, as of old ; 
And where the wind-swept rushes fringe the stream 
October find us, and the willing team 

Hear both our Toices in the dawning cold. 

Nay, friend of mine, not so our fate is writ : 
And waking, thou must look for me in vain. 

Nor know I with what heart thou wilt submit 
To a strange hand's caressing — what dumb pain 
Shall driTe thee questing o'er the empty plain, 

Or keep thee wakeful when the stars are lit. 

And I, far off, in treasured freedom brief 
Turning in heart to greet thy loneliness. 

For mine own hurt shall find a dear relief, 
Musing on thee : and yet thou canst not guess 
How thy remembered love shall save and bless 

The friend who can but leave thee to thy grief. 



When morning dawned on the lonely shore, 
The deep gave up its plundered store. 
And there on the sunlit sands unrolled 
Lay things that glittered but were not gold I 

When pitiless noontide's blazing heat 
Poured fiercely down on the narrow street, 
All over the hill and the waving wood 
An iU wind played that blew n6f)ody good ! 

When the blood-red sun had gone burning down, 
And the lights were lit in the little town 
Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey. 
The little dog died when h£d had 7Us day. 

VERSE, 1907 816 

Tet much that glitters is gold, I wis : 
And an ill winds blow bringing untold bliss. 
And small dogs perish without a groan 
Who^d never a day to call their own ! 



All tn tht town were still asleep^ 

When the nm came up with a shout and leap. 

In the lonely streets unseen by man^ 

A little dog danced. And the day began. 

All his life he'd been good, as far as he could, 

And the poor little beast had done all that he should. 

But this morning he swore, by Odin and Thor 
And the Canine Valhalla — he'd stand it no more ! 

So his prayer he got granted — to do just what he wanted, 
Prevented by none, fur the space of one day. 

** Jam tndpiebo,^ sedere facebo," ^ 

In dog-Latin he quoth, " Euge I sophos ! hurray I " 

He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs, 
A thing that had never been heard of before. 

" For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button ! " he 
Cried, and ate all he could swallow — ^and more. 

He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps, 
And mangled the errand-boys — when he could get 'em. 

He shammed furious rabies^^ and bit all the babies,* 
And followed the cats up the trees^ a/nd then eat *em ! 

They thought 'twas the devil was holding a revel. 
And sent for the parson to drive him away. 

For the town never knew such a hullabaloo 

As that little dog raised — till the end of that day. 

1 Now we're off. * ru make them sit np. 

' Pronounce either to suit rhyme. 


WT^en the blood-red awn had gone bwmdng dawn^ 
And the lights vfere lit in the little totfn, 
Outnde^ in the gloom of the twilight grey. 
The little dog died when h^d had hie dag. 



A wet shore, gleaming with the wan drowned colour 

Of shrunken oranges, flung freights of galleons 

That pass far off. These, found with joyful crying, 

Grew for the golden orchard of the castle ; 

Shells graced the walls, and seaweed waved for pennon. 

These the child sought and found, and held for treasure. 

Glad Waves flinging in spray their jewelled treasure, 
Glory of youth, drunk with earth's gold wine-colour, 
Steeds riding to the stars, with light-flung pennon, 
Adventuring ships of hope, and prosperous galleons 
Laden with marble for a glorious castle. . . . 
These the youth found, his soul in music crying. 

From sad grey seas and the gulls* ceaseless crying 
(They mourn for battles lost, and old spilt treasure) 
Came sullen strength to hold a shattered castle. 
Came pride to face the sea's wan hopeless colour, 
Courage to sail, nor weep the dear wrecked galleons. 
These the man found, and raised a tattered pennon. 

The parting douds, each a rent flying pennon, 
Unwrapped the golden west ; the small waves, crying 
Softly on earth's dear breast, seemed tiny galleons. 
Peace-laden, bearing quiet delightful treasure 
To their wrecked son, and all sweet evening colour. 
This found he, smiling from his ruined castle. 

VERSE, 1907 817 

Night endeth war. He sure might leave the castle, 
Unbar some sally port, and sink the pennon. 
Oh, the moon's silver way, the twilight colour 
Of wide still waters I He leaned to them, crying 
" The unbarred way," and took it, seeking treasure. 
This found he, and forgot his sunken galleons. 

Thus did he lie, the captain now of galleons, 
The prince, haply, of some far radiant castle. 
The lord of all his shore's sea-driven treasure. 
Above him the dawn bore a pale young pennon ; 
About him the sea-birds made quiet crying ; 
The waves' first blue lapped him in lucid colour. 

Oh, seek ye colour, or the pride of galleons, 
Qrief s sad sweet crying, or death's spacious castle, 
By the sea's pennon ye shall find your treasure. 



A Double Refrain 

O judge not of judicial wit 

By puisne samples you have seen, 
But think what fields were freed to it 
If lawyers' tape were only green. 
For ne'er could nitro-glycerine 

Blast such dim tunnels through the head 
As judges' jokes could creep between 
If lawyers' tape were really red. 

O soon would legal humour split 

The weary suitor's siDy spleen, 
And rarely biters would be bit 

If lawyers* tape were only green. 


Bat naught aa^e bloahfol Hippoerme 
Could mollify the Tiew, 'tis said, 

Of Law within its own demesne 
If lawyers' tape were really red. 

grant the gods may give us grit 
So to forestall the unforeseen 

As no aToid the furtive writ 

If lawyers' tape were only green ! 
O grant the gods may intervene 

And keep the colour pink instead, 
In fear of what might supervene 
If lawyers' tape were really red. 


1 wonder what the world had been 
If lawyers' tape were only green, 
And whither feincy would have fled 
If lawyers' tape were really red t 


Beside the sea we plighted troth ; 

Across a twilight tender 
One large pale pUnet watched us both, 

And saw the mute surrender. 

That star shines now the roofs above 
This mild night of September ; 

It was a night, our night of love, 
like this one, you remember. 

Then, in the dark, unquiet plain, 
The lights of ships shone douUed : 

Now, streets and pavements wet with rain 
Reflect a radiance troubled. 

VERSE, 1907 819 

The city's roaring thoroughfare 

And all its ways frequented, 
Replace that star-illumined air 

And sOence seaweed-scented. 

Yes^ things have changed as years advance ; 

But if I get downhearted 
Through poverty and unromance 

(Like mists the sun has parted). 

This wonder strikes a ray divine, 

This golden thought, to save me, 
That I should dare to call you mine. 

And you should care to have me. 

And sitting in the evening gloom 

I watch young couples straying. 
Nor envy them their joy to come. 

No better fortune praying. 

Then, mounted on this friendly 'bus 

With you to be benighted. 
Oh, unwed lovers, envy us 

Who keep the troth we plighted ! 


She seemed a haven of delight 
When first she loomed upon my sight, 
A vehicle divinely sent 
To one whose vital force was spent. 
Her wheels and sides of verdant green 
Recalled each pleasant country scene 
Tho* all things else about her spoke 
Of cities and of city smoke. 
A bulky shape, an image gay. 
To jolt, to rattle, and delay. 


I found her, upon nearer view, 
A carriage, yel a wagon too. 
Her rattling movements slow to see 
And steps of pondwons industry. 
'Within her democratic breast 
Both rich and po(»r pay pence to rest. 
A carriage not too bright or good 
For hungry mortals furtive food, 
Vexatious losses, thievish wiles, 
Quarrels, infection, jeers, and smiles. 

And now I wait with pulse serene 
The world-worn, ramshackle machine. 
The horses breathing stertorous breath. 
The gasping travellers squeezed to death. 
The cushions hard, the comfort ml, 
The churlish driver surly still. 
A massive coach, securely built, 
Slow, sure, not easy to be spilt 
A rumbling vehicle, not light 
But welcome to the weary wight. 


How often I have marked it, where, 

Within its crowded lair. 

It stood " as idle as a painted ship 

Upon a painted ocean." 

How often I have climbed its winding stair. 

And marked how cumbrously it then would slip 

With slow uncertain motion 

From these safe moorings to the doubtful tide. 

Which with incessant beat, 

From street to street, 

Rolls timelessly along 

Chanting its sullen ceaseless song 

With murmured burden of unending strife. 

Then from my seat on high, 

VERSE, 1907 821 

On every side, 

I saw below me all the weltering crowd 

Of London traffic and of London life. 

The giddy hansom and the Inmbering dray, 

The blatant motor (which if law allowed 

Would ran amok among the slower fry), 

And trams which held l^eir fixed undeviating way. 

More rarely I would mark 

Beside my galleon huge a tiny skiff. 

Some temerarious cyclist who had nerve 

To steer his fragile bark 

TViih nicely calculated swerve 

Through every shoal, 

Or if 

He neared them, dexterous to avoid 

Those islands small, on each of which would stand 

In ignominious fellowship a band 

Of timid wights who wished themselves across 

Tet dared not start — when, lo ! a way was made I 

An Arm was lifted ! and that mighty stream was stayed ! 

Long live ! Long last ! Constabular Control I 

None dared revolt. 

At once I felt the pleasant jolt, 

Which bore me onwards, cease. Though at the loss 

Of precious time, some few annoyed 

Seated in cabs bewailed and cursed their fate, 

Babbling of trains for which already they were late. 

At lengtih the Arm was dropped, and on once more, 

With comfortable roll, 

To that far off suburban shore, 

My journey's end ! 

Which having reached, well pleased I would descend, 

A thought more stiffly than I scrambled up. 

And hurry home to idiare the social cup. 

While the bluff driver whom I counted friend 

Would through the evening air a cheery greetmg send. 

My omnibus is gone. Alas ! its day 


Is long flinoe done. 

I tliink they found il did not pay, 

And so— it ceased to ran. 

Fmty I sadly say, 

And watch the Vanguards hurtling on their way. 



Which is the hapi^est hour of lifet 
The hearing hour, when far withdrawn 

Night faints in silence from the strife 
Before the trumpets of the Dawn t 

Or is the hour of vision best 

When throu£^ the midnight deep and far 
The Qodhead is made manifest 

In the translucence of a start 

Or is that called the happiest hour 
When earth is sweet with Eden spice, 

And through the perfume of a flower 
We live again in Paradise t 

Or when with infinite desire 

Toung love is ripe in eyes and lips, 
And burgeons into flowers of fire 

At touching of the finger-tips? 

O hours we tremble to recall, 

O flimsy joys, O fleeting breath ! 
Perhaps the happiest hour of all 

Ib when we taste the drink of death. 



The rose I seek in no man's garden grows, 
Nor any wayside hedge its hope displays ; 
Tet, all unwearied, down the world's hijg^way 

I seek the Rose. 

VERSE, 1907 828 

Maybe in yonder darkling wood it blows, 
Or where those shining mountains climb the skies t 
Even now, perchance, before my longing eyes, 

Its promise shows. 

Perhaps beyond the dawn its beauty glows 1 
Or blossoms bright behind the sunset's fire 
The wonderful Wild Rose of my desire? 

Ah ; no man knows ! 


(Reply to "The Quest") 

I fled along the lily-path, beyond the shadows and the stars — 

Ah, but in the long-ago — with little spirit-feet ; 
Swallow-flights and windy wings went rushing by the cedar bars, 

Love-mists were about me blinding-sweet. 
(When shaU he overtake, dear my maidens 

Patience and Unforgetfulness, 
Reaching his hand to touch the milk-white robe 

And the shining tress ?) 

I hid me in the wonder-house, I locked it with a key of fire ; 

My beloved seeks me yet across the world-wide floor, 
Parching for the ages' dust and famished with the old desire 

When shall I bring him thro' the door ? 
(Knead me the honey-cakes, dear my maidens 

Patience and Unforgetfulness, 
Cast purple bunches from the loaded vine 

To the flowing press.) 

His singing wastes in bitterness, like silver brooks that run to 

His pearls are scattered like the seed upon the fruitless lands, 
But mine is my bdoved's, and his song of songs is in my mouth, 

His treasure gathered in my hands. 


(SQenoe the throbbing late, dear my maidens 

Fatienee and Unf orgetf nlnese, 
Sorely hie step is cm the lily-path 

With a clearer stress.) 

Crown him now with amaranth, and kiss in me the Unfading 

We the ageless lovers passing onward to our feast ; 
Now in the pauses of delight the song hath found a perfect dose. 

The dawn-flower shimmers in the east 
(Draw the thread from the loom, dear my maidens 

Patience and Unforgetfulness, 
Deck me for my bridal with the milk-white robe 

And the braided tress.) 



As when the sunset smites upon the vanes 
Of some far city, and a hundred fires 
Flicker and flac^ above its imminent spires 

And red gleams waken in the window-panes. 

Even so Love's valedictory splendour stains 
With what sad sunset of denied desires 
The town of healing that my heart requires. 

That pearl-clear city of the blessed plains. 

Ah, the late pilgrim finds the beaten track, 
And kindly folk to guide him to the shrine. 
And respite from his journey and his load ; 
But I may neither travel on nor back, 
Nor never shall I reach that rest of mine ; 
The sun is dead, and no man knows the road. 


VERSE, 1907 886 


(After Ben Jomon) 

Shepherdess of one fair sheep, 

Who, beside thee still abiding, 
Heeds not ways both long and steep, 

Scholar's laughter, teacher's chiding ; 
Say, what magic spell doth keep 
By thy side thy one fair sheep ? 

Leave unbarrM stall and fold. 

Love requireth no constraining. 
Bring nor crook nor sheep-dog bold. 

Love, all servile aids disdaining. 
At thy side will ever keep. 
Shepherdess, thy one fair sheep. 

rupebt bbooks 

Thb Scraps of the Lamb 

(After Pope) 

Mary (of whom the Bard and Slave I am) 

Was Mistress of a tender snow-white Lamb. 

One Master Passion glowed within his breast. 

He loved the maid, and followed her with zest. 

Did Mary smile, then all the world was gay, 

But wept she, drooped her little friend that day. 

Let Mary pet him, let her wield the rod. 

To him all one, since Mary was his god. 

To foUow her to school he set his mind, 

Where tender Twigs are bent by Trees unkind ; 

There he, unconscious, by his sportive style, 

Annoyed the Leam'd, and made the unleamid smile — 

Until Authority, upholding Law, 

Expelled the Intruder by the open door. 

He lingered near, with thrilling hope possessed. 

By Mar3r's reappearance to be blest. 


{After Pope) 

Sing, constant Muse ! and celebrate the bond 
Twixt two bright creatures, fair as they are fond. 
Roams Mary o'er the hill, or by the shore, 
Her lamb or stoiys behind or frisks before ; 
Attendant still, calmly he glides unasked 
'Mong little learners with long lessons tasked : 
The timid smile, the bolder pluck his tail. 
And Laughter's rippling breesEe swells to a gale. 
Their femled tyrant wakes ! the lamb's expelled, 
Tom Barley's homespun dusted, chaos quelled 
Pensive the outcast waits (nor wastes the hour — 
Close-cropping ev'ry academic flow*r) 
l^U Mary comes — ^with smiling, weeping orbs, 
Whose glitf ring shoVrs his milk-white fleece absorbs. 
F<»r aye their names are twined : sure none may muse 
On little Mary — and forget his dues. 


{After Calverley) 

Lamb with snowy fleece, who wander 
With your Mary every day, 

Tell me, do you ever ponder 
On the things you've made me say t 

When you dared to go to school, and 
Rile the teacher, I was glad ; 

For I hoped you'd play the fool, and 
Show some signs of being bad. 

Not a bit of it ; the peda- 

Qogue said you disturbed the class ; 
Turned you out ; and yet you led a 

Blameless life upon the grass. 

VERSE, 1907 

YoQ awaited Mary, gazing 

MOdly at the distant view. 
Lamb, I think that so amazing 

Fool as you I never knew. 




Afar — its polished surface shines, 
And many things therein I see ; 

Mayhap the sun — the moon — the 
It frames in fairy fantasy : 

But when I venture very near, 
Behold ! it mirrors only Me. 


Some one loves me — ^though you lie- 
When you say I'm fair or youthful. 
Count the wrinkles — what care I ? 

Here at least you must be truthful. 
Sometimes cruel and sometimes kind, 

Naught you ever tell me moves me ; 
Here I meet myself and find 

Some one loves me ! 


Shall I not hide thee where the shadows fall. 

Who wert my lady's ere she went away, 
That thou mayst also know the night is all 

To those who lose the colour of the day ? 

I cannot touch thee yet, because her face 

Was ever for the sun, in open skies ; 
One may not dream her in a darkened place, 

Nor miss, with thee, some vision of her eyes, 




Far from the mists of all oar pageantry 

—(The marching of sad hopes and passionate aims, 

Slain dreams, and wan, live shames, 
Travail of those who hate, because they see 
Overhead the broken floor of circumstance, 
Wherethrouj^ they feU, the stayless sons of chance) — 

Shines his still mimicry. 

He, a pure opal targe, 
Qlints with a secret smile from marge to marge. 
Because he knows that rocks in a white mom 
Prick sharp to heaven, spraying like winter thorn. 

Because, when Light is bom. 
She leans to him the splendour of her breast. 

Till, at her last behest. 

The porter of the Temple of the West 

Flings gold gates wide and shows 

The Altar of the Hose, 
Blooming for him, for him ; and well he knows 
That in him now his holy of holies glows. 

He, a blue darkness, staring at the moon. 

Shakes, with delightful fear. 
Her round wheel, turning, hums in him so near. 
The stars slide down to him, and he may hear 
Their tinkle of strange laughter in his ear : 

He ripples to the tune. 

Bend to him now, and surely shalt thou be 
One with the heaven he so smiles to hold. 
Lean to his breast, and haply shalt thou see 
The secret petals of his rose unfold. 
Trust to his arms ; the sleep he gives to thee 
Holds dreams of a de^ laughter yet untold. 
The heart of peace, an opal purity, 
Toung as the dawn, M as the stars are old. 


VERSE, 1907 829 

Seen from the side a simple ornament. 
To thee full many a stolen glance is bent 
By them that sit in front. The roving gaze 
Before thee pauses ; having paused, it stays. 
In thee men view their nearest hopes and fears, 
Her lovely eyes, his huge, misshapen ears. 
The actor conning o'er his latest part 
Moulds thy grimaces to perfect his art. 
Here Beauty finds her riches, all she's got ; 
And Riches seeking Beauty finds it not. 
Love scans the features which her swain delight. 
Shame sees itself, and trembles at the sight. 
Ambition notes the marks of sure success ; 
Conceit finds all it sought — nor more nor less. 
To fools thou showest treasures of the mind 
Deep hidden ; cowards latent courage find. 
Who could resist the charms of coquetry 
Seen by her own complacent glance in thee? 
One sees Apollo, one an hideous elf ; 
But who of all that view thee sees himself? 


Two hundred Summers is it since you swung 
First in this silver frame of wreathM Loves? 

Dim Mirror I Tou reflected, where you hung. 
Bosky Italian gardens, founts and doves, 

Ay, and much passionate Romance unsung. 

For in your tarnished deep I see the Shades 
Of dear, vain Women ; bosoms leaned to you. 

Veiled in the patterned gold of stiff brocades, 
And dark eyes questioned of this gem, that hue. 

Before the amorous hour of Masquerades. 


I know you imaged the red, poisoned Boee, 
I know yon canght the dagger's jewelled fire, 

Love was Love then ; and further you disclose 
Art, in least works, consumed with high Desire, 

For perfect^ in your wreath, each Cupid shows. 



Thy mirror is a silver gate 

To gardens of remembered youth, 
Where, rose by rose, the Past appears, 
Bedewed by none but April tears ; 
There joys run, innocent as truth, 
And Hope plays hide-and-seek with Fate. 

Thy mirror is a watchful youth, 
Who, when at last the foe appears. 
Stands, noting all that near the gate ; 
He wards each stroke of time or fate, 
Whose faithful eyes guard thine from tears. 
And steel thy soul to gaze on truth. 

Thy mirror like that lake appears. 
Wherein town-wall and temple-gate 
Are drowned with all their pride of youth ; 
There follies lie submerged by truth. 
And o'er old ruins of dim fate 
Flow recent waves of gentler tears. 



Beautiful names, what tales are told 
Of your dreams and visions and fantasies ! 

Cities whose streets are paved with gold. 
Whose walls are jasper and sardonys, 

VERSE, 1907 881 

Cobbled streets where the watcher sees 
Gay processions of knights and dames, 

Cities of palaces, cities of trees 
live again in beautiful names. 

Nombre de Dios, where Drake was bold ; 

Names that are stately melodies, 
Seville, Namancos, Bayona's hold, 

Nineveh, Snsa, Persepolis ; 
Cecily city's of harmonies, 

Carthage in rains and Troy in flames. 
These and a thousand more than these 

Live again in beautiful names. 

Bethlehem of the sacred fold ; 

Bome, stern guardian of Peter's keys ; 
Astolat, where the knights enrolled ; 

Venice, bride of the hungry seas ; 
Athens, glory of Pericles ; 

Qlastonbury of sacred claims : 
All your wonderful histories 

Live again in beautiful names. 


Cities of old ! In the centuries 

Buried and dead are your fears and shames ; 
Only your glorious memories 

Live again in beautiful names 1 



O fair and comely West Country towns, 
Tour names fall pleasantly on the ear. 

Where steep Tintagel's ruin frowns. 
From Bidef ord brave to Kentisbere ; 


Never a rival need Tmro fear, 
Rich are the orchards roand Appledore, 

The red stag harbours by Porlock Weir, 
And Widecombe nestles on DartymoOT. 

Boecastle bells the Atlantic drowns ; 

By BLartland li^t the iBshermen steer; 
Lannceston ^ was staunch in the strife for crowns ; 

And heather floarishes far and near 

Where Tavistock lies by marsh and mere. 
Morwenstow stands where the surges roar, 

Mortehoe's rocks are cool and drear, 
But Widecombe nestles on Dartymoor. 

St. Eeveme stands on Goonhilly Downs ; 

Ermington's name as its bells rings clear ; 
Honiton telleth of bridal gowns ; 

St. Jost-in-Roseland blooms all the year ; 

Falmouth harbour hath Fowey for peer, 
Gallant and famous in days of yore ; 

But best of all are the uplands sheer 
Where Widecombe nestles on Dartymoor ! 

O good West Country ! I love to hear 
Tour musical names — a noble store- 
But there is the spot I hold most dear, 
Where Widecombe nestles on Dartymoor ! 



Lo ! night came down and curtained half the world, 
And all the tired young winds went wandering 
Among the hills for rest, and found it not 
For earth was all in dreams, and Nature's arms 
Too full of sleeping things could hold no more— 

1 Pronoanced " Lannston." 

VERSE, 1907 ^ 888 

The ^alleys all their slumbering pearls of mist^ 
The plains their long-winged shadows, and the hills 
On their warm breasts the snows anconsdous held. 
And everywhere the sigh of sighs went forth : 
'* No room ! No room ! " 

Then tamed they to the skies 
In tears — the little winds — the fair-corled South, 
The brown-haired East, the West with ruddy locks, 
And the dark little North with serious eyes — 
All in their tears of utter weariness — 
And winged their drowsy flight up the steep blue. 
And found the pitiful stars with outstretched arms, 
And into them crept to be comforted. 
And hid their faces in their shining laps. 
And sobbed themselves to sleep in Qod's dear heaven. 



Thus I figure to myself the Critic, 

Wise, temperate, just, who somewhere beyond ken 

Reads o'er the stories of the Universe 

And passes final Judgment : so, at last 

He takes Our Own, and though a little weary 

Of infinite perusal, the same care 

Bestows upon it he has given before 

Unto (lefs see ! five planets to a page 

Per week : a Sun at times demands more space. 

That to eternity : work out the sum yourself), 

Marks a good passage here ; there, stops, corrects 

A comma ; reads the Last Chapter over twice. 

Then (yawning) writes, " It is the usual story 

Of mere adventure, disconnected, jerky : 

The wasted talent, nowadays so common." 

And in his wisdom thinks the Hero, Man. 

'* A wretched creature ; all his talk mere blague 


(One wonders where he picked it np) of sentiment, 

Ijnpoesible dialect^ unknown to Nature, — 

And then the style, the dreadful slipshod style I " . . 

With this he shuts us up ('* the cover's rather good ! 

Now, who on earth designed it? ") and reaches out^ 

Indifferently, a pretty book of songs 

Writ by the Morning Star ... as for Our Novel, 

Our wonderful story meant to astonish Heaven ! . . . 

What of it ? ... I own reluctantly I think 

Down there . . . you note the bend of my finger ? . , 

Down there, I say, I think it probable 

The Worms, uncritical, will like it greatly 

And eagerly take up the whole edition. 


Oh, unpretentious in design. 

Thy features can disclose 
No semblance of the blush divine 

On Daphne's cheek that glows, 
Nought like the brief, bewildering line 

Of her delicious nose. 

Yet though no beauty thou dost bear 
That outward eyes may scan. 

When shot reluctant from thy lair 
Within the torrid pan. 

Thou art unutterably fair 
Unto the inner m^n. 

How doth the thought of thee beguile 

The toiler, as he dips 
His weary pen, how fond the smile 

That plays about his lips 
Each day at blissful noon, the while 

He orders " chop and chips " ! 

VERSE, 1907 886 

And when at length inborne by some 

Demure, attendant sprite. 
Then liest unreeiating, dumb, 

Before his eager sight, 
How can imagination plumb 

The depth of his delight ? 

Tet not for me to bolt thee here 

Amid the vulgar throng, 
Enveloped in an atmosphere 

Superlatively strong ; 
Such hasty swallowings appear, 

To those who love thee, wrong. 

Nay, rather, when the fretful fuss 
That marks the day hath end, 

And from the homeward-bounding 'bus 
Rejoicing I descend, 

Let me in solitude discuss 
Thy merits, O my friend. 

Ah, sweet, when shadows soft invade 

The world at set of sun. 
To find thee on a dish displayed 

Before me, nicely done ; 
Sweet, sweet to watch thee slowly fade 

Away, till we are one ! 

Then let no cloud of jealous gloom 

Thy secret soul oppress, 
For it is but a transient bloom 

That Daphne doth possess ; 
Anon shall hurrying years consume 

Her rosy loveliness. 


Bnt in th&t hoar when mooaes creep 

Athwart ike dwindling mound. 
Where she and all her fellows sleep 

The silent seasons round, 
Thou still, O Product of the Sheep, 

Immortal shalt be found. 

B. D. 


Wind that blowest round the comer, 
Comers change, but thou not so ! 
Houses, like the men they shelter, 
Come and vanish helter-dkelter. 

Born and buried— off they go : 

Nay ! the very ground is buried 

That was trod by older men — 

Thou alone, unchanging, boldest 

Still thy post as London's oldest 

Citizen ! 

Here by daylight didst thou bellow, 
Here at midnight didst thou howl, 
When the Dinosaur would jostle 
Qiant Elks, ere both were fossil, 

And the wolf was on the prowL 
Here you roared above the forest. 

Whilst the lion roared inside. 
Here you set the Mammoth sneezing, 
Whilst the Cave-bear from your freezing 
Breath did hide. 

From the bitter Okcial Epoch 

Here you gained an extra chill. 
And I cannot but surmise it 
That you sometimes advertise it 
By some glacial samples stilL 

VERSE, 1907 887 

Here jou nipped the Drnids' noses 

Till, to hide their bluish hue, 
By a plan which somewhat odd is 
They had their entire bodies 
Painted blue. 

Here you blew the Boman soldier 

Well-nigh off the City wall, 
Till in classical orations, 
Decked with solemn imprecations. 

On thy head his wrath would fall : 
" Magnus Scotus ! What a ventus 

Round Londinium's mums blows ! 
How these tempests occidental 
Rudely tweak my ornamental 
Roman nose ! " 

Here, within his new-built Tower, 

Didst the (Conqueror thou scare. 
Fill his ears with warnings hollow, 
Pinch his nose and make him swallow 

All thine icy draughts of air. 
Great Eliza's ruffs you ruffled 

— ^And her temper — by your swoops. 
From her cheeks the powder scooping, 
Tugging at her wig, and whooping 
Round her hoops. 

Here, about the Swan of Avon, 

Didst thou boldly whirl and spin ; 
Round his forehead didst thou hover. 
As though trying to discover 

What was going on within. 
" Wind, you've cracked my lips ! " he'd mutter, 

" Blow, then, till you crack your cheek ! 
—Orack your cheek f Qadzooks! Beshrewme! 
Twere a fitting phrase for gloomy 
Lear to speak ! " 


On Elia, kindly Patron- 
Saint of all who drive the quill, 

Didst thou oft with wild embraces 

Rush from unexpected places, 
As he strolled along ComhilL 

Little cared lie ! Frolic fancies 
Round him danced an airy jig — 

Dreamland children, sweet and slender, 

Or, perchance, a tiny, tender 
Sucking-pig ! 

Wind that blowest round the OOTner, 

Blow away ! It matters not. 
Here to-day and gone to-morrow 
Still is human joy and sorrow, 

Change is still our changeless lot 
Past, avaunt ! — Be silent, Future ! 

Present ! Take me as I am. 
As for buffets — all must share 'em. 
And 111 do my best to bear 'em 
Like a Lahb. 


My friend X's prowess shames 
That of all my friends at games. 
He golfs and boats, and, as for cricket. 
He only once has lost a wicket ; 
And yet this life does not his soul attract : 
He cannot act 

T can draw like Heaven knows what, 
Paint like Titian, write like Scott 
In the twin worlds of arts and letters 
He has but few, if any, betters ; 
And yet his life is not a happy thing : 
He cannot sing. 

VERSE, 1907 889 

Z's writing is a waste of time ; 
His painting's worse — ^it is a crime ; 
At games he is a hopeless duffer ; 
He cannot sing lest others suffer ; 
Tet of the three Z is the happiest man : 
He thinks he can. 

J. A. D. 


A thrush came down our court to-day ; 

And oh ! zo sweetly a did zing, 
That when at length a flew away 

She bore my heart upon her wing. 
Westward she flew from London's gloom, 

And long I watched her flying free, 
Vor I thought she came from Kinder Combe 

Beside the golden Severn sea. 

There are the windy downs, and there 

Climbs the long, winding country roiid, 
Where the girt tipsy wains do bear 

In haying time their nodding loiUl. 
Crushing the grass of either edge, 

Zo close the chiking wheels 'ould go, 
The close-piled trusses brushed the hedge 

Where pink an' white the rases blow. 

There once I worked in DarneFs vield, 

The stuggiest lad on Mendip side ; 
And 'Mandy Gay> the farrier's cheeld, 

'Ould share my toil at haying tide. 
With me to pitch and her to rake, 

How soon the slippery straths were clear 1 
And how the jetty curls did shake 

In tender 'oris about her ear ! 


Ah 1 birdie ! is her step zo light! 

And are her coriB zo wilM jet ? 
And would she know me, if to-ni^t 

I coold win back to Zumm^setf 
Ah, no ! My limbe are thin and bent, 

The chakes are pale that were ao brown, 
When drawn by smarmy lies I went 

To try my luck in London Town. 

Fly westward, westward, pratty bird ! 

Down the long sunset roftd you come ; 
But never tell whose voice you heard 

A-dying in a London slum. 
2k)on, zoon, I'll leave this stifling room. 

And swift TU follow, flying free ; 
Till I fold my wings in Kinder Combe 

Beside the golden Severn sea. 

B. 8. TTLIS 


Spend yer time erlomg the towparth, fer ifs better than the Inine^ 
With no darn food but brittle dikes, old rum, an' salted swine, 
From the Indies where the wind is 
To the wharves on Tyne. 

Spend yer time erlomg the towparth, fer yer'll never lack fer time 
Ter blow yer gas an' lip yer lass, an' 'ear the ripples rhyme 
Thro' the lilies wur the mill is 
An' the low winds chime. 

There's the miller at the malt-'ouse, an' 'is dau^ter's at the door; 
She's a lusty wench an' wiUin, I'll be bamed, altho' yer poor 
Show yer mettle an' shell nettle 
Till yer've mide yer score. 

VERSE, 1907 841 

'Es a tidy pile put by 'im, twenty 'omers in 'is lorft, 
Four rown cows ter grize 'is medder, an' a bit o' hidle crorft 
Full o' lush room fer the mushroom 
Wen the mould is sorft 

An' in summer wen it's sunny an' the lomg wheat biller rolls, 
Then it's good ter wartch the swallers, an' the fawn gry filly foals 
Rollin' hover hin the clover 

Rarnd the 'igh-looped poles, 

Filin' far erlomg the towparth with a murmur as is sweet, 

Farst the barley an' the beetroot an' the lorfty piles o' peat, 

With a ditty ter the city 

Wur the mad wheels beat. 

Then I think o' strainin' ausers, an' the top-siles o' the ships 
All a-flutter, syrens 'ootin', crippled liners in the slips, 
QuUs as flitter in the litter 
As the slow wive lips. 

But at sea there's little comfort, little frolic, little sleep, 
Orl's a misty midnight gemble, nothin' sure an' life is cheap, 
life is stiller at my tiller 

An' the toides orl neap. 

So I've turned mi back hon silin', said good-bye ter ships at sea. 
Tike my tip an' do the sime, boy, live an' die a land bargee. 
'Ark ! she crushes, thro' the rushes 
Ter the mait-'ouse quay. 



Upon a mighty mountain slope. 
Inspired with heat and dust and hope. 

There stood a youth of eight ; 
He said, " You reckon you're a hill ? 
I guess you ain't much more'n a pill ; 


Ad' I kinder calculate 
Upon this thoasand-dollar toy 
111 find jer peak, and not employ 

Old TuDB to stand an' wait." 

With that he seized a weird machine 
Which leant with anarchistic mien 

Against a towering tree ; 
But as he touched its handle-bar 
A wild explosion sent him far 

Beyond the verb " to be." 
O reader dear ! tiiat mountain-side 
Is life ; that motor-" byke " is Pride ; 
That boy is you or me — 
Is I — but what is grammar, friends, 
Beside the tone a moral lends? 



Now, the rules to observe in a martial song, 
Which keeping you cannot go very far wrong. 
Are to always remember you're marching along ; 
That your arm or your heart or both must be strong, 
Though the day and the way to the battle be long. 

Make it clear from the start that you fear no foe, 
That youVe only to meet him to lay him low, 
That you die for your country (you love her so), 
At frequent intervals (soft here and slow), 
Then (louder) the jchorus like this, I trow : 

Do we fear, boys, fear ? 
(The metre changes here) 
Shall we fly, boys, fly? 
No, we'll conquer, boys, or die ! 

VERSE, 1907 348 

Don't fail to refer at times to the drum 
On occasions like these, its loud brum-brum, 
Blent with blast on the bugle, should never be dumb ; 
And, although to their fire you may shortly succumb. 
Don't omit the gun's roar and the bullet's hum. 

Do we fear, &c. 

A passing allusion, too, should be made 

To the home you left and the girl who stayed, 

And her probable feelings should be portrayed 

When you in a Soldier's Qrave are laid 

(At loss for a rhyme? hark, your charger neighedj). 

Do we fear, &c. 

All this is assuming you fight on shore — 
If afloat, just alter the cannon's roar 
To the billows, and change your field of gore 
To a hero's bed 'neath the watery floor. 
And if such a death doesn't win an encore 
May you never rise from it, nor I write more ! 

Do we fear, &c. 


{which may he sung to the tune " Ohitters") 
(Bbfore the Battle of S^ilamis, 480 ac.) 
Then tang the AtJientans from their warships : 

Fight, sons of Athens, fight for life and freedom ! 
Yea, by your wasted hearths and ruin'd homesteads. 
Yea, by the love of free- bom wives and children. 
Forward, and spare not ! 

Hear us, we pray, Athen^, Queen of Athens ! 
Yea, by the flashing of thy bronze-bound segis. 
Yea, by the shaking of thy awful war-spear. 
Hear us and help us ! 


Than did the other HeUenet with one voice ting : 

Fight, aona of HeUas, fight for life and freed<Mn ! 
Tea, by the proud foot of the base barbarian 
Trampling the sacred boeom of our country, 
Forward, and spare not ! 

Hear ns, we pray, ye holy gods of Hellaa, 
Tea, by your shattered shrines and broken altars, 
Tea, by the impioos onset of the Persian, 
Hear ns and help ns 1 
And the godi hearkened cmd eent victory at SalavUt, 



This is the song of the Fleet at sea. 
Battleship, cruiser, and T.B.D. 
All of us ready as ships can be 

For a sight of the Enemy's vanguard ! 

First in the battle, bearing the brunt. 

This is the song of the T.B.D. 
Built to chivy and chase and hunt^ 

Wriggle a way through the rolling sea, 

Slip through the water silently ; 
Little black devil, get in front ! 
Way for the T.B.D. ! 

This is the song, &c 

Cutting the waters, swift as the wind, 
This is the song of the Eyes of the Fleet. 

Long and narrow, for speed designed, 
Hounds of the ocean, trim and neat. 
Scour the ocean, divide and meet 

Ood help the cruiser that's left behind ! 
Way for the Eyes of the Fleet ! 

This is the song, &c. 

VERSE, 1907 845 

Strength of the Navy, strong in her pride, 

This is the song of the Battleship, 
Wind and breaker and foe defied, 

Built for power and strength and grip, 

See her bows in the water dip 
Thundering war from her deadly side. 
Way for the Battleship ! 

This is the song of the Fleet at sea. 
Battleship, cruiser, and T.B.D. 
All of us ready as ships can be 

For a sight of the Enemy's vanguard ! 


Some day I shall rise and leave my friends. 

And seek you again through the world's far ends ; 

You whom I found so fair 

(Touch of your hands and smell of your hair !) 

My only Ckxi in the days that were. 

My eager feet shall find you again, 

Thou£^ the sullen years and the mark of pain 

Have changed you wholly : but 1 shall know 

(How could 1 forget^ having loved you so ?) 

In the sad half-light of evening 

The face that was all my sun-rising. 

So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand. 

And hold you fiercely by either hand ; 

And, seeing your age and ashen hair, 

111 curse the thing that once you were. 

Because it is changed, and pale, and old, 

(Lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold !) 

And I loved you before you were grey and wise. 

When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes, 

— And my heart is sick with memories. 



My life in wintry darkness doth decline 

Since that my son no wanning grace bestows. 
Or if for one brief moment thoa dost shine. 

Thy conntenance with reddening anger glows ; 

I lie buried 'neath congealing snows 
That wrap about me like a winding-sheet 

In frigid foldings of the last repose, 
Or melted only where my heart doth beat 
Perchance 'twere best to freeze — ^perchance 'twere meet 

To suck such calour from thy frownings forth 
As might thro' stealthy husbandry of heat 

Rdease me from the rigours of thy North. 
O let me choose to cheat thee of thy fire 
And thaw thy frosts through warmth of my desire ! 

So if I choose how better shall I speed, 
If fire from fire should thus subtracted be, 

In my poor body some new hope to breed 
To overcome that Arctic lethargy t 
For every spark that I should steal from thee 

Would leave tiiee colder like a withering moon, 
The sun's frail substitute, and foist on me 

A burnished midnight when I bid for noon 

Nay, it were better I should seek the boon 
Nepenthe's juice can bring the planet-crost 

And sink into some sweet oblivious swoon 
That knows no more of either fire or frost, 

So would I slink from hell and shrink from Heaven 

To lie in Limbo with the Unforgiven. 

Yet were it all unworthy of my love 

In that deep potion to engulf its shame, 
To flee firom chills yet be afraid to prove 

What healing virtue liveth in thy flame. 

Here I wUl raise an altar in thy name 
And bring my body for thy wrath to bum, 

And thro' that ardent sacrifice reclaim 

VERSE, 1907 847 

The liberty for which my soul doth yearn. 
O let thy fires leap up to heaven and spurn 

The niggard day that keeps me prison-pent 
mi dnst to dost and fire to fire return, 

And I a flame rejoin my element, 
Free-winged to float o'er summer fields afar, 
By day thy sunbeam and by night thy star. 



Now every tree a chauntry is ; 

Love, hearken how the blackbird sings, 
And on the shadowy green, I wis. 
The maidens dance round fairy rings. 
I have quite put away 
The thought that saddened many a yesterday. 
Weave for thy spring-time wreath 
The small blue flowers that star the heath. 
Well dance and sing till evening red 
Galls us to bed. 
Yet a fresh sorrow's smart 
Doth rise within my heart ; 
And the new grief is still the old — 

That thou must die, 
Must, withering, droop unto the mould 

As blossoms lie. 
Cease, as a song sung, as a sweet tale told. 



When She smiles 
The world grows full of sunshine. 
The darkest night, the dullest day, 
Are warm and glad and bright and gay, 
The world grows full of sunshine 
When She smiles. 


When She frowns, 
WliAt cheer or hope is left yoof 
The very bravest sonl might fear, 
And deem his conscience far from clear ; 
What cheer or hope is left jon 
When She frowns! 

When She cries 
The world becomes a desert. 
And Joy itself must borrow 
The right to share Her sorrow. 
The world becomes a desert 
When She cries. 

When She laughs, 
The birds all fall to singing. 
The bods unfold, althou^^ it freeae. 
And summer t^npers winter's breeze. 
The birds all fall to singing 
When She laughs. 



Into a world of sun and snow, 
With silver hyacinths all ablow, 
And gold cups falling open wide 
To show their little stars inside, 
Cer creamy plains of primroses 
My love and I came thro' the trees. 

Both sun and moon I wished I 
The sun, to gaze on her all day ; 
The moon, to guard her as she lay — 
Both sun and moon — too far away 
To bring her harm, but oh ! too near 
To fail to bless my Dear, my Dear ! 

VERSE, 1907 849 

There, on that floor of primrosee, 
There, where green branches made a shrine 
For Love, and chaliced flowers the wine 
Of Love held up below the trees, 
With mosic given of birds and bees, 
Our loves were plighted — ^hers and mine. 

But now — where two in days of yore 

Trod raptorons that golden floor ; 

Where two hearts Love's high heaven did bring 

To the green sanctuaries of spring — 

One only, thro' all blossoming 

Gone lone and loveless evermore. 



Friend^ when you next go out to cUne^ 
If (for the walnuts and the wine 
You recollect my happiest line. 

Pray quote it. 
Only remember while you shine 
With borrowed light, the thing is mine ; 
We bards for recognition pine. 

So — let them know who wrote it I 


K. T. S. 


*' Apis Oculiis " . 

Bainbs, C. E. . 
Bayly-Jones, Jane 
Bowman, Alice . 

Brooke, Rnpert . 
Brown, Kenneth P. 
Btvn^L. y. 
Buckeridge, E. G. 

Clarke, Kate 
Crippt, A. R. . 
Crooke, Richard E. 

Cropper, Eleanor 

A True Story 30 

" And the Moral of that is " . 39, 40 
Epigrams . . 2, 9, la, 29, 103, 11 1 
Herbert Spencer's probable Defini< 

tion of a Comedy .... 16 
A Defense of Palmistrie . . • 17 


The Goose-girl and the Gander 
In Praise of Procrastination 
Miss Brown's Christmas . 
Prose Parody .... 
"And the Moral of that is " . 
Letters from the Shade of Beethoven 
Flies in the Ointment 

Kindness to Parents 

''And the Moral of that is" . 

Letters from the Shade of Beethoven 

On Hinto .... 

Swearing and Strange Oaths . 

The Troth about the Artistic Tern 

perament .... 

To the Author of" Red Pottage " 

On the Borrowing of Books 














Dalton, M. D. 
Denrnan, R. D. . 

Ego . 

Falconbe, Aonbs S. 
Fellows, Maigery 
Fliat, F. H. . 

Goodman, E. M. 
Head, Hbnry . 

Helpt, F. C. . 

HiU, Doogks P. 

HiU, M. V. 

HiU, Wilfred 

Hughes, Eilian 


"Kay" . 
Keynes, M. N. 
Kirby, Dorothy 


Lowry, H. D. . 
Lycl, P. C 

Maas, Wm. H. 
Maccoll, E. 
Malaprop^ Martha 

Fragment of an Art Critic's Letter 
to his Friend .... 
The Ape that Ignored the Past 


The Dusty Miller . 


On other People's Names 

Prose Parodies 

The Children's Party 






Story of a Psychical Phenomenon in 

the Style of Daniel Defoe . . 67 
Sentences containing all the Letters 
of the Alphabet and all the Parts 

ofSpeech 36 

On other People's Names . 127 

Solitary Meals .... 147 
The Fortunate Isles .113 

Two Naughty Boys . .141 

On Going Your Own Way 94 

On Hints 163 

The Gollywog as a Symbol of oar 

National Decadence .114 

The Vice of Consistency . . 102 

Guide to Underground Travelling . 15S 
The Use of Dreanu .137 

Solitary Meals .... 149 

How the Daddy got his Long Legs . 90 

A Meal 


Howlers 46 

Reflections of a Guy ... 44 

A Journey to the Seaside 25 
Thoughts on Looking Out of a 

Window 10 

" Eubdie ; or. The Ehns at R^cau- 

▼illiers" no 

Of Fiscal Policie . . . . i 

That Books are the Best Friends . 106 
Letter from Mrs. Malaprop to Lydia 

Languish 14 



Marbley, Heniy 

Marsh, Mabel A. 
Merriman, F. Boyd 

More, James le . 
Nbwman, Hilda 
Oragb, a. R. . 

Parkinson, E. M. 

Partridge, M. . 

Piper, Peter 

R., E. I. . 
Rotten, Violet 

Scott, Danibl . 
Sidgwick, A. H. 

Sidgwick, F. 

Stephenson, K. T. 

An Up-to-date Fable 

A Catastrophe • 

A Misunderstanding 

A Plain Tale . 

Betsy Prig and Mrs. Harris : 

for the Motion 
An Entanglement . 

The Clothes and the Men 



An October Holiday 

Flies in the Ointment 

Sentences containing all the Letters 
of the Alphabet and all the Parts 
of Speech .... 

The EKscriminator . 

On Calling a Spade a Spade . 

Dttrer's Dante .... 
Thoughts on Looking Out of 
Window .... 


The New and the Old . 
Aspects of Determinism . 
Borrowing Books 
Coincidences .... 
In Defence of Punning . 
Rudyard Kipling as a Disciple of 

Additional chapter to '* Alice through 

the Looking-glass " 
The Coropleat Vagabond 
The Inconveniences of Teeth . 

A Sulk 

Descriptive Passage without Adjec 


Interventions .... 
Jane Eyre's Diary . 
The Superstitions of Daily Life 
The Tinted Glass: A Review . 




















Stobut, J. C 

Given the Character of Polonhis, 
Ltertes, and Ophelia to find the 
Character of Mn. Polonins . 

Grimalkin and Little Edith 

In Praise of CaU .... 

Letter from Louisa Harrington to 
her Sister Caroline Strike describing 
the Count de Saldar's Courtship . 

**Scapho-Scaphegony" . 

The Philatelist .... 





Talbot, Bthbl 
Tate, Hallam 

Popularity 102 

L^ers from the Shade of Beethoven 124 

Wade, E. C 
White, £. M. 

Whiteman, Gilbert 
Wilket, D. J. . 

Williams, E. Baumer 

Fable: The Rolxn and the Sparrow 13 
Mrs. Polonios .... 65 

Definitions of En^, Hatred, and all 

Uncharitableness .... 63 
Sentences containing all the Letters 

of the Alphabet and all the Parts 

ofSpeedi 63 

In Praise of CaU .... 84 
Betsy Prig and Mrs. Harris : Speech 

against the Motion ... 4 
Expostulation with a Parent 93 

n.— VERSE 

"AcOEN" Alliterative Verse on "October" . 262 


. A Nursery Rhyme .... 298 
. A Roundel of Rain . .183 
. An Hour-Glass . .231 

. Ballade of Red Tape -3^7 
. Battle Song of the Fleet . . 344 
. De6nition : A Fool .... 245 

. De6nitions . 240, 252, 263 
. Eight Lines of Descriptive Verse . 236 
. Encore Recitation . . . .235 

. Four-Line Parodies -235 

. New Nursery Rhymes 167, 171, 172 
. Night 224 





. Nonsense Rhymes . 189, 190 

. On an Omnibus . . . 31S, 319 
. Parody: Lines written in a Common- 
place Book of *' Original " Designs 235 
. Psirody: To an Earwig which the 

Poet met in a Strawberry . •235 
. Rondeaus Redouble . . 258 

. Sicilian Octaves .... 268 
. The Battle SoDg .... 342 
. The Last Judgment . 333 

. The Violin 249 

. To the Nor'-Nor'-East . . .336 
. Villanelle of Vanities . . . 264 
Song of the Mad Lover . . 295 

. To a Looking-Glass . . .327 
Attenboroogh, Florence Gertrude Words for a Song: Noon of the 

Spring 165 

"Avis" Words for a Song : Brownie Song . 165 

Atkinson, Ethel Tindal 

B., B. A. . 

B., K. T. . 


" Babington ' 

BaU, J. E. . 

BaUlol, M. A. 
Barnes, Harold A. 

Bernard, Henry 

••Biddy" . 
Bird, M. A. 
Bowry, Wm. 

••SiJeunesseSavait" . 

Nonsense Rhyme 

Rhymed Language of Flowers . 


A Sestina of Memories . 

Nonsense Rhyme . 

The Violin .... 

The Wedding .... 

Wmdsofall the West . 

Rhyme without Reason : The CenO' 


Rhymed Language of Flowers . 

The Vegetarian's Soliloquy 

A Song . 

Three Epigrams 

A Nursery Rhyme : The 

A Villanelle of Packing 

A Modem Minnesong 

A Poem in Six Lines 

A Song of Autolycus 

A Song of Revolution 

Amoris Flosculi 

If that be Love 

Rondeau of All Fools' Day 

China Cat 






Bowrjr, Wm. 

. Shakespearian S<mnet 




. The Counterfeit .... 



. The Senses* Riddle . 



. Rhyme without Reason : A Balkid of 

Antique Songs . . . . 



. Rhyme without Reason : Sonnet 


Brcrelon, E. C. . 

. New Nursery Rhyme: Tea-time 




Brooke, Rupert . 

. A Modem Minnesong 


. A Nursery Rhyme . 



Fragment Completed 



. Mary had a little Lamb 



. The Little Dog's Day 


Burnet, W. Hodgson 

. A Nursery Rhyme . 


Parody . . • 


. VUUnelle of Vanities 

Burrou^, E. A. 

. Storm-Sunset on a Western Coast . 


Callachan, Stella 

. Encore Recitation: The Parable of 

the Butterfly . . . . 


Castle, PhiUp . 

. Four-line Epigram : Good Taste 


"CaterpUlar" . 

. The Vegetarian's Soliloquy . 


"Colquhoun" . 

. Mary had a Uttle Lamb : The Scrape 

of the Lamb . . . . 


Connan, Elsie B. 

. The Parable of the Mountain, the 

Motor Bicycle, and the Boy 


"Cwallina" . 

. Little Willie Rhyme 


Cornelius, John . 

. DieLeute 


Cunnington, S. . 

. Encore Recitation .... 


Curzon, Lord 


»9 • • 

. Translation : Ruines du Coenr . 


D., H. L. . 

. Chant Royal of August . 


D.,J.A. . . . 

. Flies in the Ointment 


D.,R. . 

. To a Mutton Chop .... 


Darton, E. L. . 

. Ballade of Beautiful Names 


>> • • 

. The Quest 


"Deira" . 

. The Panacea 


Dowell,V. W. . 

. Macaronic Verse : Carmen Gryllicum 



. Rhyme without Reason : The Song 

of the Balloonatic .... 


Edwardes, Aucb 

• A Modem Minnesong 



. At Midnight . 



Edwardes, Alice 

Edwardes, Marian 
Edwards, Osman 

" Egbert BdleviUe" 
"Eroa" . 
" Evacaiod" 
Enma, Margaret 

"Evocatus" . 

Falconbr, Aonbs S. 
Fanldmg, G. M. 

Fellowi, Margery 

Field, c" . 
•• Fifth VUlain" 
Fish, W. B. 
Fox, Adam 

"Froth" . 

Gbopfroy, Adkibn 
GeorgCi G« M* • 

Gh^, G. H. 
Goring, J. H. 

Graham, E. 
Gray, M. N. T. . 
Griffiths, £. M. . 
Gunn, William . 

INDEX 867 


Sour Grapes ai7 

, The Apple Tree . . . .281 

To a LookiDg-Glass . 329 

. Four-line Epigram : Beanty . •174 

Boshido: A Song of Japanese Honour 182 

To Miranda's Mirror . . . 330 

. The Forbidden Land . « 194 

Emphatics 290 

. Sicttian Octave .... 268 

. Little WiUie Rhyme ... 260 

. Rhyme without Reason : Sonnet . 284 

. A Nursery Rhyme .... 301 
. A Nursery Rhyme: A Wonder 

World 299 

Alliteiative Verse on "October" . 261 

. The Wicked Gift .... 208 

City Rain 202 

. Half-Knowledge .... 271 

. The Counterfeit .... 240 
. The Threshold .282 

. TheA^lin 250 

. Encore Recitation : Aftermath . 233 

Sicilian Octave .... 269 

. An Easter Song .... 227 

. Little Willie Rhyme ... 260 
. "The Dullest Book" . . .213 

Golf Rondeau : Rondeau de Remon- 

trance 173 

Nonsense Rhyme .... 188 

Le Jardin de Peur . . .201 

. A Nursery Rhyme .... 297 

New Nursery Rhyme: Trotting 

Tommy 172 

. Fragments Completed . . 312, 313 
. Nursery Rhymes . . . 296, 297 
. A Nursery Rhyme: The Grateful 

Hen 297 

. The Forbidden Land .191 

. The Counterfeit .... 239 
. A Song of Autolycus . . 310 

. Parody 236 

. Four-line Epigram : Success . . 174 


H., R. 

Hall, Edgar Vine 
Herbert, E. Hugh 
Heseltme, Michael 
Hewes, Darid 
Hill. Douglas P. 
HiU, M. V. 
Hughes, Eilian 

Hunt, J. A. 
Hunt, J. H. 

"Jim" . 

Jones, A. E. 

Kempe, Dorothy 
Kendall, Guy 

Kenny, Muriel 
Kyle John 

Layton. F. G. 

Lessing, Caren 
Lord, May 
Lyttelton, Lucy 

M., H. S. . 
Macaulay, E. R 

Sing a Song of Sixpence 

A Nursery Rhyme . 

Two Songs 

The Modem Mystic 

A Song of Autolycns 

A Song . 

Cymon and Iphigenia 

A Battle Song 

Encore Recitation: The 

Peter Pan . 
Parody . 
A Ballad of London Town 

A Modem Minnesong 
Ballade of Beautiful Names 
To a Looking-Glass 

The Queen of Hearts 

"The Wonder-House" . 

A Poem in Six Lines: Vesta — ^A 

Riddle of the City 
An Easter Song 
Childe Roland : P^ IL . 
Janus— A Riddle of Time 
Wasted Days .... 
A Christmas Carol . 


A Ballad of London Town 
Alliterative Verse on " October " 
Shakespearian Sonnet 

A Nursery Rhyme . 
A Song of Autolycus 
Mary had a little Lamb 
Pantoum . 
Das Marchen . 
Nonsense Rhyme 
A Riding Song 
A Song of Autolycus 
Love's Going . 

The Forl»dden Land 
Alliterative Verse on " October " 
Ballade of the Superior Person 

Macaulay, £. R. 

>» • 

Mackende, A. C. . 
Macnair, J. A. . 
Mare, Walter de la . 
Milne, A. A. . 
"Moelwyn" . 
Moggridge, H. W. . 

••Narcissus" . 
Newman, Hilda . 



Nicbolsc^, L. . 

••Nugent BcllcrUlc" 

Palm, August . 
Pcn,B. . 
"Pcrsis" . 
Pitt, Bernard . 

PoweU, G. H. . . 

••Protagoras" . 

R., E. 

R., G. 

R., K. A. . 

RandcU, Wilfrid L. . 
RoberU. Margaret 
Rutherford, Emily M. 

INDEX 869 


Peace and the Builder . . . 283 

Sestina of the Seashore . . . 316 

Song of Prosper the King . 201 

To a Looking-Glass ... 328 

Rhymed Language of Flowers . . 279 

Rondeau to the Old and New Year . 229 

A Ballad of Christmas . . . 214 

Sing a Song of Sixpence . . . 203 

••Granted" 289 

To a Looking-Glass . . . 329 

A Nursery Rhyme .... 304 

To a Looldng-Glass . . 327 

A Nursery Rhyme .... 300 
Encore Recitation : The Prodigal 

Returns 324 

Song 293 

The Street-Singer's Song . . 293 
A Nursery Rhyme : A Child's Night- 
thought 302 

Lawn Tennis 266 

Das Marchen 228 

An Up-to-date Fable .185 

Ilalf-Knowledge .... 270 

The Violin 251 

The Broken Lyre .... 255 

Aphrodite in the Cloister . 175 

To an Ash-tree at Moonrise 191 

Urbs Beata 324 

AlliteratiYC Verse on •• October " . 262 

Sour Grapes 218 

Cross Purposes .... 314 

Definition : A Fool .... 242 

Four-line Epigram : Discomfort 175 

Rondeau to the Old and New Year . 320 

A Nursery Rhyme .... 300 

Definition : A Saint . 242 

Love's Hazard .... 199 

Rondeau to the Old and New Year . 229 
A Nursery Rhyme : The Blackthorn 

Rhyme 303 

Childe Roland : Part II. . . . 305 


S.,CE. . . . . 

. A Nursery Rhyme : ChittcT-diatter. 

Service, Marie . 

. Die Lente . . . , - 

Sidgwick, F. . 

t» • • 

. Sing a Song of Sixpence . 

Sidgwick.R. . . . 

. The Last Hope 

SimpMMi, C 

. Four-line Epigram : Bores 

Smith, acely Fox 

. Ballade of Deathless Dream 


. Robert Browning Soliloquises . 

Snow. M 

. A Song of Autolycus 

Stephenson, K. T. . 

. On an Omnibus 

Stone, Christopher . 

. The Counterfeit 

Stone, £. D. . 

. A Poem in Six Lines 

Sorge, Roland . 

•*SybU" . . . 
T..A.F. . . . , 

The Snake .... 

. Balthasar's Feast . . . . 

T., D 

. A Nursery Rhyme : Rhyme of the 


T.,K. . . . 

. A Song of Revolution 

T..M.J. . . . 

. Voices heard in the Fog . 

Talbot, Ethel . 

. Chant Royal of August . 

„ . . , 

. Cry of the LitUe People . 


. Heart of the Poppy. 

99 • • 

. The Counterfeit 

f> • • 

. The Flirf s ViUanelle 


. The Queen of Hearts 

Thompson, £. J. 

. Alliterative Verse on ** Octobe] 


Tripp, W.J. . . 

. Mary had a litUe Lamb . 

Tylee, E. S. . 

. A Stray from Somerset . 

ff • 

. Parson's Nag . 

Vbrschoylb, C M. . 

. The Queen of Hearts 

Walkbr, E. M. 

. The Forbidden I^md 


. Son o' the Winds . 

Watson, Muriel F. . 

. A Modem Minnesong 

•1 • 

. Shakespearian Sonnet 


. The Little Winds . . 

White, E. M. . 

. Encore Recitation . 

Whitcman, Gilbert . 

. A New Ingoldsby Legend 

a • 

. Definitions .... 

it * 

. Golf Rondeau : HinU to Begin 




Wnd, Ida . 
Wilket, Henry £. 


Vmiiams, Helen B. 
Wolfe, Ffrida . 


A Villanelle of Packing ... 197 

Little Willie Rhyme ... 260 

The Queen of Hearts . 244 

A Song 258 

A Nursery Rhyme : The Orange Cat 301 

Villanelle of Vanities ... 265 

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