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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ae043b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51572 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51572) diff --git a/old/51572-0.txt b/old/51572-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 122b70e..0000000 --- a/old/51572-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8919 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of In Good Company, by Coulson Kernahan - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: In Good Company - Some personal recollections of Swinburne, Lord Roberts, - Watts-Dunton, Oscar Wilde Edward Whymper, S. J. Stone, - Stephen Phillips - -Author: Coulson Kernahan - -Release Date: March 27, 2016 [EBook #51572] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN GOOD COMPANY *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - -IN GOOD COMPANY - - - - - IN GOOD COMPANY - - SOME PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF - SWINBURNE, LORD ROBERTS - WATTS-DUNTON, OSCAR WILDE - EDWARD WHYMPER, S. J. STONE - STEPHEN PHILLIPS - - BY COULSON KERNAHAN - - - LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD - NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXVII - - - - - SECOND EDITION - - - WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND - - - - -TO - -THE HON. MRS. ARTHUR HENNIKER - - -MY DEAR MRS. HENNIKER, - -It is many years since we first met at the house of one whom we both -loved, whose memory we both cherish. It was that friend’s hope that -you and I should become, and should remain friends; and that the hope -has been realised has given me many happy hours--sometimes in your -company as my gracious hostess, sometimes, scarcely less closely in -your company, as a reader of your delightful and beautiful stories. -Were your gallant General--I remember how proud he was of those -stories--alive to-day, I should have asked to be allowed to dedicate -this book to the two of you. Now that--alas for the England that he -so faithfully loved, so nobly served--he is with us no more, may I -inscribe it to yourself and to his honoured memory? - - Yours ever sincerely, - COULSON KERNAHAN. - - - - -FOREWORD - - -One of the subjects of these studies said in my hearing, that -“Recollections” are generally written by people who have either -entirely lost their memory, or have never, themselves, done anything -in life worth remembering. - -To the second indictment I plead guilty, but my best excuse for the -publication of this volume is that I write while the first indictment -fails. My memory is still good, and the one thing which seems most -worth remembering in my life is my undeservedly fortunate friendships. - -In writing of my friends and of those with whom I was associated, -I am, therefore, I believe, giving of my best. I ought to add that -these papers were penned for inclusion in a volume of frankly -personal and intimate “Recollections.” A work of that sort is the -one book of his life in which an author is allowed some freedom from -convention. That is why I hope to be pardoned should any passage, -letter, or incident in these pages seem too intimate or too personal. - -The reason why the studies are printed separately is that the ship in -which I hope to carry the bulk of my threatened “Recollections” (if -ever that ship come to port) will be so heavily weighted a vessel, -that I am lightening it by unloading a portion of the cargo at the -friendly harbour of The Bodley Head. - -To drop figurative language and to speak plainly, I may add that, -though there is some attempt at a more or less finished portrait in -some of my pen-pictures, that of Lord Roberts is no portrait, but -merely a chronicle. His personality, at least, is too well known and -loved to need either analysis or description. - -The paper _When Stephen Phillips Read_, mere snapshot as it is of one -aspect of his personality, was not written for the present volume, -with which, indeed, it is hardly in keeping. I include it by the wish -of Mr. John Lane who, years hence, will be remembered as the faithful -friend, as well as the generous and discriminating admirer, of the -distinguished poet, of whose work it is his pride also to be the -publisher. - -Mr. Lane was anxious--knowing that my friendship with the poet was -long and close--that I should write of Stephen Phillips as fully as -I have here written of some others; but it is only under impulse -that I seek to picture the inner self and personality of my friends, -and I cannot do so while the sense of loss is comparatively new. In -the case of two of whom I have thus written, many years had elapsed -before I put pen to paper. - -At his best--as the three friends who made such unexampled and such -self-sacrificing efforts on his behalf, Sir Sidney and Lady Colvin -and Mr. Stephen Gwynn, will, I think, agree--there was something -approaching the godlike in Stephen Phillips. Of what was weak, and -worse, in him I need not here speak, since, because he so loathed -hypocrisy, he hid it from none. - -One day I hope to show Stephen Phillips as he really was, and as -not many knew him. I have heard him described as a man of brooding -and morbid aloofness. There is truth in the description, but it -is equally true to say that, at times, he could be as healthily -jovial and unconstrained, as high-spirited as a happy schoolboy. His -exquisite and extraordinary sense of humour was--I had almost written -his “salvation,” and that not only under success which, coming early -in life, might well have turned the head of a smaller man, but also -in adversity which, when it came, was as crushing as his success had -been complete. When this adversity, when tragic unhappiness, overtook -him, he bore them with courage, and reproached no one except himself. - -If as a poet he was at first overpraised, it is equally true that, -towards the end, and since his death, the splendour, beauty and -power of his poetry have often been underestimated. Time will set -that right, and will rank him, I believe, as a true and, within his -limits, a great poet. - -That Stephen Phillips, the man, gave no cause for sorrow and -concern to those of us who loved him, I do not maintain, nor would -he wish me to do so, for no one was more ready to acknowledge his -weaknesses--deeply and almost despairingly as he deplored them--and -none suffered intenser agony of remorse for ill-doing than he. - -Knowing him as I did, I unhesitatingly aver that his ideals and his -longings were noble, and that the soul of the man was good. That all -is well with him, and that he is at rest, I have no doubt. Never have -I seen such fulness of peace and such beauty on the face of the newly -dead, as when I knelt--to commend his passing soul to his Maker--by -the bed on which lay what was mortal of Stephen Phillips. All that -was weak and unworthy seemed to have fallen away as something which -never was, which never could be, a part of his true self. In death, -even his youth returned to him. As he lay there, white-robed, and -with his hair tossed boyishly over his forehead, he looked so -young that one might have thought him to be a happy and sleeping -boy-chorister, dreaming of the poet-mother whom he so loved, and to -join whom in Paradise may not his soul even then have been hastening? - - C. K. - - SAVAGE CLUB, LONDON. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - A. C. SWINBURNE 1 - - LORD ROBERTS 32 - - THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON AS THE “OGRE OF THE ‘ATHENÆUM’” 67 - - WHY THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON PUBLISHED ONLY TWO BOOKS 84 - - THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON AS AN AMATEUR IN AUTHORSHIP AND AS A - GOOD FELLOW 102 - - ONE ASPECT OF THE MANY-SIDEDNESS OF THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON 111 - - THE LAST DAYS OF THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON 126 - - WHEN STEPHEN PHILLIPS READ 139 - - EDWARD WHYMPER AS I KNEW HIM 149 - - OSCAR WILDE 189 - - S. J. STONE, THE HYMN-WRITER 236 - - - - -IN GOOD COMPANY - - - - -A. C. SWINBURNE - - Had some old Pagan slept a thousand years, - To wake to-day, and stretching to the stars - Gaunt arms of longing, called on Venus, Mars, - June and Jove, Apollo and his peers; - And heard, for answer, echoing from the spheres, - “Thy gods are gone: the gods of old are dead. - It is by Christ thou shalt be comforted, - The pitying God who wipes away all tears.” - - Such answer had there come, deaf ears, in scorn - Had turned the Pagan, and deaf ears turn we - To other voices, on this April morn, - Since he who sang the sunrise and the sea - Shall sing no more. Deaf are we and forlorn, - The gods are dead, and dead is Poetry. - - _April 10, 1909._ - - -I - -Swinburne was furious. - -I had lunched with him and Watts-Dunton at The Pines, and after I -had smoked a cigarette with the latter, the author of _Atalanta in -Calydon_ had invited me upstairs to his sanctum, that he might show -me the latest acquisition to his library--a big parchment-bound book -tied with ribbons--the Kelmscott reprint of one of Caxton’s books. He -waxed enthusiastic, I remember, over the Rape of Danae. Then he took -up the proofs of an article on John Day which he was contributing to -the _Nineteenth Century_ that he might read some passages from it. -To verify a quotation, he walked to his shelves in search of a book, -talking volubly meanwhile, and turning, as was his custom, to look -directly at the person whom he was addressing. Unlike Watts-Dunton, -whose library was a witness to the catholicity of the owner’s -interests and of his tastes, Swinburne’s library was comparatively -small and select, for he was as exclusive in regard to the books he -admitted to his shelves as he was in regard to the men and women he -admitted to his friendship. Knowing exactly, I suppose, where the -required volume was to be found, his hand went as confidently towards -it--even though his face was turned away from it, and towards me--as -the fingers of a musician go towards the keys of a piano at which -he does not look. For once Swinburne’s instincts played him false. -Taking down the book without glancing at it, and still pouring out a -torrent of words, he opened it, his eyes on my face, and shaking the -forefinger of his right hand at me, said: - -“Here it is! Listen!” and dropped his eyes upon the page. - -To my astonishment his face suddenly crimsoned, the eyes that might -once have been bright blue, but were now faded, and, in fading, -seemed to have caught and retained something of the colour of the -great seas and of the grassy fields upon which they have so often -and so lovingly lingered, glowed with green fire like that we see in -the eyes of an angry cat, and he flung the book away from him in a -tornado of wrath. He had taken down the wrong volume, an anthology, -and opened at a page on which was printed a poem by the particular -writer who, like the wearer of a red coat intruding thoughtlessly -upon the domain of an angry bull, happened at that particular moment -to be the subject of a poet’s capricious wrath--for on occasion I -have heard Swinburne speak with kindly, if contemptuous toleration, -of a writer whose damnation in this world and the next he seemed at -another time ardently to desire. - -“Of all my imitators,” he shrilled, literally quivering with the -tempestuousness of his passion, “this fellow (mentioning a poet -whose name I suppress) is the most intolerable. I claim--and you, -I know, will admit the justice of the claim--that perhaps the most -distinctive characteristic of my work in poetry is that I have taken -old and hackneyed metres, and have tried to transform them from a -mere jingle, and a mere jig-jig, into music. This pestilent ape -has vulgarised what I have done by servile imitations of my manner -and of my methods; but, what I had transformed into music, he has -transformed back into the vilest and most jigging of jingles.” - -When a poet of Swinburne’s eminence thus turns the searchlight of -criticism upon himself, and seeks to lay bare, in a few pregnant -sentences, what he considers the secret of his art and of his -success, one must necessarily be interested and even fascinated. On -this occasion, however, I was more concerned about the singular state -of nervous excitability into which my host had worked himself than -curious to draw him out by further discussion. - -Sir James Barrie says somewhere that “Temper is a weapon which we -handle by the blade,” a tragic instance of the truth of which I had -in mind at that moment. A certain distinguished writer, now dead, -who like Swinburne was a good hater, and scarcely less excitable -than he, had made, or imagined that he had made (the vagaries of -the artistic temperament are many), a deadly enemy of a fellow -craftsman and critic. Every adverse review of his work, or unfriendly -reference to himself, which appeared in the public Press, he insisted -on attributing, directly or indirectly, to the malignity of this -supposed enemy. A not ungenerous man at heart, in spite of--possibly -because of--his blaze of a temper and quickness to take offence, -the distinguished writer in question had shown much interest in a -struggling young author of his own nationality, and had not only -assisted him financially, but had been at great pains to find a -publisher for the lad’s first book, and had importuned his friends -on the Press to review the work favourably and at length. The first -notice to appear was adverse in the extreme, and the distinguished -writer instantly declared that he saw in it the hand of his enemy, -who had sought to stab at him by damning the work of a young fellow -known to be his friend and protégé. - -Flinging the paper containing the review upon the ground, he stamped -upon it, and about the room, working himself up finally into so -furious a passion that it brought on a seizure from which he never -entirely recovered, and that practically ended his career. - -“Temper is a weapon which we handle by the blade.” - -This story I had only recently heard, and had good reason for -believing. Seeing my host literally trembling and quivering in every -limb with the intensity of the excitement, and of the anger into -which he had worked himself, my one anxiety was to distract the -attention of this representative of the proverbially irritable race -of geniuses from the disturbing subject, and to soothe him back to -his normal calm. Unfortunately for me, his deafness made my task -difficult, but I chanced to hit upon a topic in which he was keenly -interested, and, little by little, he quieted down, until I could see -that he had talked himself out and was ready for the afternoon nap in -which it was his custom to indulge. - -Remembering that incident, and others like it within my knowledge, I -ask myself how it is possible to judge men and women of genius--men -and women to whose great brains the live blood rushes at a thought or -at a word; whose passions are like a laid fuse, ready to take fire -and to explode the mine at a touch--by the same standard which we -apply to the cold-blooded, sluggish-brained, lethargic and perhaps -more fortunate mortals to whom impulse is unknown, upon whom passion -has no sway, and who rarely commit themselves to any expression or to -any action, noble or mean, wise or indiscreet, without first of all -carefully weighing the results and counting up the costs. - -“It is apparently too often a congenial task,” says George Eliot in -her _Essay on Heine_, “to write severe words about the transgressions -of men of genius; especially when the censor has the advantage of -being himself a man of no genius, so that those transgressions seem -to him quite gratuitous; he, forsooth, never lacerated anyone by -his wit or gave irresistible piquancy to a coarse allusion; and his -indignation is not mitigated by any knowledge of the temptation that -lies in transcendent power.” - - -II - -Of all controversialists (and he dearly loved a verbal encounter) -to whom I have ever listened, Swinburne was incomparably the most -crushing. He fought with scrupulous and knightly fairness, never -stooping to take a mean advantage of an adversary, and listening -patiently, punctiliously even, while the other side was making its -points. But, when his turn came, he carried everything before him. -Vesuvius in eruption could not more effectually overwhelm or consume -the rubble around its crater than Swinburne could scarify or sweep -away, by a lava-torrent of burning words, the most weighty arguments -of his opponents. - -So, too, with his conversation. When he was moved by his subject, -when he talked in dead earnest, he did nothing else. He forgot -everything. In the middle, or even at the beginning of a meal, he -would lay down knife and fork, and turn to face his listener, quite -oblivious of, or indifferent to the fact that his dinner or lunch was -spoiling. - -On one occasion I happened, half-way through lunch, to mention that I -had in my pocket a copy of Christina Rossetti’s latest poem, written -in memory of the Duke of Clarence, and entitled _The Death of a -First-born_. - -Down went knife and fork as he half rose from his chair to stretch a -hand across the table for the manuscript. - -“She is as a god to mortals when compared to most other living women -poets,” he exclaimed in a burst of Swinburnian hyperbole. - -Then in his thin, high-pitched but exquisitely modulated and musical -voice he half read, half chanted two verses of the poem in question: - - One young life lost, two happy young lives blighted - With earthward eyes we see: - With eyes uplifted, keener, farther-sighted - We look, O Lord, to Thee. - - Grief hears a funeral knell: Hope hears the ringing - Of birthday bells on high. - Faith, Hope and Love make answer with soft singing, - Half carol and half cry. - -Then he stopped abruptly. - -“I won’t read the third and last verse,” he said. “One glance at it -is sufficient to show that it is unequal, and that the poem would be -stronger and finer by its omission. But for the happy folk who are -able to think as she thinks, who believe as she believes on religious -matters, the poem is of its kind perfect. Let me read that second -verse again,” and with glowing eyes, with hand marking time to the -music, he read once more: - - Grief hears a funeral knell: Hope hears the ringing - Of birthday bells on high. - Faith, Hope and Love make answer with soft singing, - Half carol and half cry. - -The last line, “Half carol and half cry,” he repeated three times, -lowering his voice with each repetition, until at last it was little -more than a whisper, and so died away, like the undistinguishable -ceasing of far-off music. - -Laying the manuscript reverently beside him, he sat perfectly still -for a space and with brooding beautiful eyes. Then rising without a -word he stole silently, softly, almost ghost-like, but with short, -swift steps out of the room. - - -III - -Though it was my privilege to count among my friends several personal -friends of Swinburne--notably the late Theodore Watts-Dunton, Philip -Bourke Marston, and the dearest and closest of all my friends, Mrs. -Louise Chandler Moulton--it was not until the first weeks of 1892 -that I met him personally. - -I was invited to lunch at The Pines, and the first thing that struck -me as I entered the dining-room and took the extended hand, which -was soft and limp, and had no sturdiness in the grasp, was the -singular charm and even courtliness of his bearing. Unmistakably an -aristocrat, and with all the ease and polish which one associates -with high breeding, there was, even in the cordiality with which -he rose and came forward to welcome me, a suspicion of the shy -nervousness of the introspective man and of the recluse on first -facing a stranger. It had passed in a few minutes, and I saw no -trace of it at any of our subsequent meetings, but to the last -his courtliness remained. I have seen him angry, I have heard him -furiously dissent from and even denounce the views put forward by -others, but never once was what, for want of a better word, I must -call his personal deference to those others relaxed. With him the -proverbial familiarity which is said to breed contempt, bred only -more consistent and insistent courtesy. To no one would he defer -quite so graciously and readily, to no one was he so scrupulously -courtly in his bearing, as to those who constituted the household -in which he lived. On the occasion of this first meeting with him -he talked with extraordinary animation, sitting up erectly in his -chair and moving his body or limbs stiffly and jerkily. He had not -long returned from his forenoon walk, and, if I may be pardoned -so far-fetched a comparison, he was like a newly-opened bottle of -champagne, bubbling and brimming over with the buoyant, beady, joyous -and joy-giving wine of morning. Watts-Dunton, always generously -ready to interest himself, and to endeavour to interest others, in -the work of a young writer of ability, was anxious to talk about my -friend, Richard Le Gallienne. He might as well, by making a stopper -of his open hand, have tried permanently to prevent the overflow of -the champagne bottle which I have used for the purpose of a fanciful -comparison. The moment he withdrew his hand, the instant he ceased to -speak of Le Gallienne, Swinburne, as represented by the newly-opened -bottle, was bubbling over again about his walk. The wine of it was in -his veins and seemed to have intoxicated him. - -“There is no time like the morning for a walk!” he declared, turning -to me with enthusiasm. “The sparkle, the exhilaration of it! I walk -every morning of my life, no matter what the weather, pelting along -all the time as fast as I can go; and it is entirely to my daily walk -that I attribute my perfect health.” - -On hearing that I, too, was a great, as well as a fast walker, -Swinburne looked me up and down challengingly, and said with a smile -that was almost like a merry boy’s: - -“Yes! but I think I could outwalk you, and get there first, for -all your six feet!” Then, turning to Watts-Dunton, he apologised -playfully for having monopolised the talk, and said, “Now tell me -about your young poet. His is certainly the most beautiful poet-face -since Shelley’s.” - -Watts-Dunton replied by reading some extracts from a “Note on -Swinburne” which Le Gallienne had contributed to _Literary Opinion_, -Swinburne listening with downbent head meanwhile. When Watts-Dunton -had made an end of it, and Swinburne had expressed his appreciation, -the latter inquired how I first came to know Le Gallienne, and -learning that when I was acting as the Editor of the English edition -of _Lippincott’s Magazine_ I had, in that capacity or incapacity, -accepted one of Le Gallienne’s first published articles, _The Nature -Poems of George Meredith_, he asked if I knew Sir J. M. Barrie, who -he considered had been much influenced by the author of _The Ordeal -of Richard Feverel_. - -“Only slightly,” I answered. “I suggested, in fact organised a -dinner to dear old F. W. Robinson, in whose magazine _Home Chimes_ -much of the early work of Barrie, Jerome K. Jerome, Zangwill, Eden -Phillpotts, G. B. Burgin, and many others, who have since come into -their own, appeared. Jerome took the chair and Barrie the vice-chair, -and the dinner was something of a record in the list of distinguished -men present, and was, I believe, one of the few functions of the sort -of which an account appeared in the _Athenæum_. It was there I first -met Barrie.” - -“Robinson of _Grandmother’s Money_,” cried Swinburne in an ecstasy -of enthusiasm. “You have mentioned the name of one of the very salt -of the earth, and one of the dearest friends of both of us here. -We contributed to the first number of _Home Chimes_. Watts-Dunton -wrote a noble Sonnet of Greeting, and I printed my Sonnet _Near -Cromer_ there. His novels, I grant, though eminently readable, as -the reviewers say, are not great. Unlike Dr. Gilbert’s, they do not -dovetail. Finishing one chapter, you are not restless and uneasy till -you have read the next, and that is a fatal defect in a novelist.” - -Speaking of Robinson and _Home Chimes_ reminded Swinburne of the fact -that it was in that unfortunately named and defunct magazine that he -had seen some of the best work of Philip Bourke Marston, the blind -poet, concerning whom I had contributed an article to the current -number of the _Fortnightly Review_. This article Swinburne had read -and wished to discuss, for, whereas my friendship with Philip Marston -was not of long standing, he had known the blind poet since the -latter was a lad of fourteen, and on the day after Philip’s death -had written a memorial sonnet which was subsequently printed in the -_Athenæum_. - -Swinburne’s remarks upon the subject of my article--though I need -hardly say I have forgotten no word of what he said--I pass over, -but what I must not pass over is the witness these remarks bore to -his extraordinary memory and to his equally extraordinary method -of reading. Reading, in fact, is not the word. Had he parsed the -article, schoolboy wise, sentence by sentence, he could not more -effectually have mastered it; had he dissected it, part by part, -surgeon-like, he could not more completely have torn the heart out of -the matter. - -Obviously Swinburne could only have read the thing once, yet had I, -the writer, been called upon, even while it was fresh in my memory, -to pass an examination on this very article, I doubt whether I -should have known half as much of it as he. Hearing him thus deliver -himself upon a casual contribution to a periodical, which, by reason -of his love and friendship for the blind poet with whom the article -dealt, had chanced to interest him, I could understand how his single -brain had been able to deal illuminatingly with so vast a volume of -literature as he had from time to time passed under review. His power -of concentration, and of pouncing, hawk-like, upon what seemed to him -to be memorable or salient, as well as his ability to recollect all -he had read, must have been extraordinary. - -A more exhaustive summing up--not, I admit, of the evidence on both -sides, but of the evidence which appealed to his individual judgment, -his individual imagination, and his individual taste--I have never -heard. Prejudiced as he was, however, in favour of Marston, he would -not go so far as Rossetti, for his last word on the subject was: - -“When Gabriel spoke of Philip’s poem, _The Rose and the Wind_, as -‘worthy of Shakespeare in his subtlest lyrical mood,’ he let his -personal affection run away with his critical judgment, and his -verdict must always be discounted by the fact that Philip was the -aptest pupil in the School of Poetry in which Rossetti was the -acknowledged master. Watts-Dunton is a much surer guide, and when -he said that ‘So perfect a lyric as _The Rose and the Wind_ should -entitle Marston to a place of his own, and that no inconsiderable -one,’ he said the true word, the deserved word, and the word which I -do not think anyone will have the hardihood to dispute.” - - -IV - -When next I met Swinburne, nearly twelve months had gone by, and, in -spite of the eager way in which at our first meeting he had talked of -the men and women and things within his own mental horizon, I should -not have been in the least surprised to find that he had practically -forgotten me. I do not say this in any spirit of mock modesty, but -because I remembered that, at that first meeting, I had mentioned, -in the course of conversation, a book by a certain author who to my -knowledge had been a visitor to The Pines on several occasions, and -so must personally have been well known to Swinburne. - -“Oh, really!” he said. “Yes, now that you mention it, I believe that -someone of that name has been so good as to come and see us. I seem -to recall him. And I seem to remember hearing someone say that he had -written something, though I don’t remember exactly what. So he has -published a book upon the subject of which we are talking. Really? I -did not know.” - -This was said with perfect courtesy, and without the remotest -intention of administering a snub either to me or to the literary -reputation of the writer in question. It meant no more than that -Swinburne lived so apart from the rest of the world, had such power -of detachment, and kept so habitually the company only of his books -and of his peers, that the personality of the rest of us left no -impression on him. - -On this occasion, only Watts-Dunton, Miss Teresa Watts, his sister, -Swinburne, and myself were present, and the talk turned at first upon -William Rossetti, with whom, in his home at St. Edmund’s Terrace, -Regent’s Park, I had spent an hour or two on the previous afternoon. -Both Swinburne and Watts-Dunton were interested to hear news of their -old friend whom both regretted seeing so seldom. They plied me with -innumerable questions in regard to his health, his plans, even in -regard to trivial details about his home life, not omitting mention -of his sister Christina’s beloved cat “Muff,” and the red plush -sofa on which Shelley was supposed to have slept, the night before -his death, and that now stands in the library. Both my hearers were -touched when I spoke of Rossetti’s affectionate words about William -Morris, for whom, though “Topsy” (as he called Morris) and he had -not met five times in twenty years, Rossetti to the last entertained -the old affection. Rossetti’s vivid recollection of the day of the -funeral of Watts-Dunton’s mother, some fifteen years before, when -there was so terrible a blizzard that he could get no conveyance -to Endsleigh Gardens--where he was then living--and had to fight -his way home on foot in a blinding snowstorm, was naturally of -special interest to Watts-Dunton. Much more was said, and many other -questions were asked, upon which I do not propose here to linger, -passing on, instead, to speak of the sudden flaming up of Swinburne -at the mention by Rossetti of William Bell Scott as having once been -a drawing master. - -“Perfectly true! Perfectly true!” interpolated Swinburne angrily, -“and a drawing master he remained to his life’s end.” - -For the remainder of my stay he talked vivaciously, and here I -should like to say that in all that has been written about his -personality--his eccentricities, excitability and exclusiveness; -his passionate love of the sea and of little children; the changes -that his political views underwent; his chivalrous championship of -his friends against all comers, and the savage onslaught upon Robert -Buchanan; his sturdy patriotism, and his historic friendships--very -little has been said of the lighter side of his nature. That he -could wield in controversy the lash of satire and irony, and wield -it mercilessly, more than one combatant has had cause to know, and -there are alive to-day ancient enemies of his whose backs must still -tingle at memory of some of his onslaughts. But of his wit and humour -in daily life and the sunny playfulness of his banter in conversation -with his friends, one seldom hears. I have known him keep the table -alive for an hour at a time by whimsical and deliciously humorous and -caustic comments on the topics--political, literary, or artistic--of -the day. - -On this particular morning he was anxious to show me a review -of _Kriegspiel_, that most remarkable novel by the late Francis -Hinde Groome, son of the famous archdeacon, the intimate of Edward -FitzGerald, with whom Frank Groome had himself been well acquainted -as a boy. - -With Groome--who, as my readers know, was, like Watts-Dunton and the -late Charles Godfrey Leland, an accomplished student of Gipsy Life, -Gipsy Language, and Gipsy Lore--I was myself on terms of friendship, -and indeed had been of some small service to him in regard to the -publication of _Kriegspiel_, knowing which, Swinburne was anxious to -hear whether I thought the review could be used to assist the sale of -the book, and so elected to go upstairs to his room to get it. - -He returned with a face like that of a schoolboy intent upon -mischief, and with a rolled up journal in his hand. After I had -read the review of _Kriegspiel_, and proposed sending it on to -the publisher, Watts-Dunton inquired, pointing to the roll which -Swinburne was still holding: - -“What have you got there?” - -“To-day’s _Graphic_,” was the reply. “I noticed it sticking out of -the pocket of your greatcoat, hanging in the hall, and peeping -inside saw that there was an illustrated supplement, _Poets of the -Day_, so I wouldn’t even look to see whether you and I are included, -but brought it here that we might all go through it together. -What heart-burning and hair-tearing there will be in the poetical -dovecotes, in regard to who is in, and who is out! Why didn’t you -tell me of it before?” - -“Because I didn’t know anything about it,” was the reply. “It was -from Kernahan’s coat, not mine, that you took it. We all pick each -other’s brains in Grub Street, but picking pockets is quite another -matter.” - -Swinburne apologised, but held on to the _Graphic_ tenaciously. Then -he opened it, smoothed out the page, and ran through the pictured -poets, cataloguing them, complimenting them or chaffing them upon -their appearance or their poetry, even improvising suitable epitaphs -for their obsequies in Westminster Abbey, or composing, on the -spur of the moment, Nonsense Verses and Limericks that hit off -with delicious humour or mordant irony the personal or poetical -peculiarities of the different “bards,” as he called them. - -Now that he, and so many of these “bards” are, alas, gone, I -hesitate to repeat in cold blood, and so long after, what was said -on the spur of the moment, and among friends. But, tantalising as -it may be to the reader, especially if that reader be a poet, and -so possibly an interested party, to be told merely of witty sayings -of which no specimen is forthcoming, I must hold my hand, as I have -been compelled to hold it in other pages of these Recollections. -We have it on the authority of Mr. Clement Shorter that one must be -indiscreet to be entertaining, and I agree with him so far as to -admit that, in Recollections, the best must always be that which -remains unwritten. - -After Swinburne had exhausted the _Graphic_, I produced, from the -pocket of the pirated greatcoat, yet another journal, to which -a certain critic had contributed a somewhat feeble article upon -the work and poetry of Swinburne himself. I read it aloud, to the -accompaniment of ironic laughter on the part of Watts-Dunton, Miss -Watts and myself, but Swinburne, though he had hugely enjoyed it, and -had interpolated sly comments of exaggerated gratitude, said, when I -had made an end and with a wave of dismissal: - -“It is meant kindly, and when the intention is so obviously kind one -must not be too ungenerously critical.” - -Thereafter we talked of Ireland, Swinburne having only recently -learned or recently realised that I hailed from that land of poets -turned politicians. I suspect that the fact of my nationality was -responsible for much of his kindness to me, for, laugh at us as -many Englishmen may and do, in their hearts they have a sneaking -liking for men and women of Irish birth. I had said that I should be -leaving soon after lunch, and after he had bidden me good-bye, and -had retired for his afternoon sleep, he returned, not once, but two -or three times, and with an impulsiveness which was almost Irish, to -speak again and yet again of Ireland and especially of Irish poetry. - -It had been my good fortune the night before to take in Mrs. Lynn -Linton to dinner at the beautiful and hospitable home of Sir Bruce -and Lady Seton at Chelsea, and Mrs. Lynn Linton and I had talked much -of Ireland. Mentioning this to Swinburne, he said that he had once -written to Mrs. Lynn Linton remonstrating violently with her about -an article of hers on Ireland, and he had reason to believe that his -words had not been without effect, as, since then, Mrs. Lynn Linton -had come to think as he had on that question, and was of opinion that -Gladstone, Morley and Harcourt ought to have been impeached for high -treason. Reverting to books, he said that nothing so beautiful about -Ireland had been written as the Hon. Emily Lawless’s novel _Grania_, -then fresh from the press. He had bought a number of copies to send -to his own friends, as well as some to send to his aunt, Lady Mary -Gordon, for distribution in her circle. He went on to say that his -old friend, Dr. Whitley Stokes, had shown him some of the Irish songs -which were sung to the tunes to which Tom Moore afterwards wrote his -“mawkish and sentimental songs.” One of these, Swinburne said, had -since been reprinted in the _Academy_. - -“And as poetry I can only compare it to the Book of Job--and what -more superlatively splendid praise can I offer than that?” - -Here Watts-Dunton put in a word for Wales and incidentally for -Scotland, which reminds me that I ought to say that Watts-Dunton’s -share in this, and in other conversations, was no less interesting, -though less erratic and more considered than Swinburne’s. - -Switched off thus from Ireland to Scotland, Swinburne launched -out into enthusiastic praise of the islands of Rum and Eig, the -nomenclature of which, he said, was phonetically and fatally -suggestive of a nourishing, if nauseous drink, not to be despised, he -understood, after an early morning swim, and declared that the one -thing which made him regret he was not a man of wealth was that he -could not afford to yield to the desire of his heart, and spend half -his time cruising in a yacht around the western islands of Scotland. - - -V - -Perhaps the most treasured possession on my bookshelves is a volume -in which Swinburne has inscribed my name and his own. The volume in -question is his _Studies in Prose and Poetry_, and as, among the -contents, there is an article devoted entirely to a consideration -of the merits and defects of _Lyra Elegantiarum_, in the editorial -work of the last edition of which it was my honour and privilege -to collaborate with the original compiler, the late Mr. Frederick -Locker-Lampson, I may perhaps be pardoned for referring to it here. - -The fact that Swinburne was making _Lyra Elegantiarum_ the subject of -an important article (it appeared first in the _Forum_) was told to -me when I was lunching one day at The Pines, and naturally I carried -the news of the compliment which his book was to receive to Mr. -Locker-Lampson. - -“Compliment!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it will be a compliment. Any -editors might well be proud that the result of their labours should -be the subject of an article by Swinburne. But pray heaven he be -merciful, for I fear our expected compliment is like to turn out to -be something of a castigation.” - -Mr. Locker-Lampson was not far wrong, for, when the article appeared, -we found that Swinburne had as roundly rated the editors as he had -generously praised. - -I sent Swinburne a copy of the édition de luxe, a gift with which he -was delighted, and indeed procured other copies to give to friends -and relations, one in a binding of his own designing being, I think, -for his mother. When next I was at The Pines, he inquired whether Mr. -Locker-Lampson and I were pleased with his review. - -“How could we be otherwise than pleased by any article upon the book -by the author of _Atalanta in Calydon_?” I replied. - -“But you were pleased with what I said?” - -“Of course, but you must forgive me if I say that it was very much as -if a schoolmaster had called up a boy out of the class, and, after -lavishing undeserved praise upon him for good behaviour, had then -taken him across his knee and thrashed him soundly for abominably bad -conduct.” - -He dived among the litter of papers, reviews, letters and manuscripts -upon the floor, for a copy of his article, and then read aloud: - -“‘There is no better or completer anthology in the language. I doubt -indeed if there be any so good or so complete. No objection or -suggestion that can reasonably be offered, can in any way diminish -our obligation, either to the original editor, or to his evidently -able assistant Mr. Kernahan.’ - -“Doesn’t that please you?” he enquired. - -“Immeasurably,” I said. - -“And there is more of it,” he went on, reading detached passages -aloud. “‘The editors to their lasting honour ... the instinctive good -sense, the manly and natural delicacy of the present editors ... this -radiant and harmonious gallery of song.’ And so on and so on.” - -“Yes,” I said, “it is the so ons that I’m thinking of. Suppose we -dip into them.” Then I took the article from his hand and read as -follows: “‘If elegance is the aim or the condition of this anthology, -how comes it to admit such an unsurpassably horrible example as the -line--I refrain from quoting it--which refers to the “settling” of -“Gibson’s hash”?... The worst positive blemish--and a most fearful -blemish it is ... will unluckily be found, and cannot be overlooked, -on the fourth page. Sixth on the list of selected poems, is a copy -of verses attributed to Shakespeare--of all men on earth!--by the -infamous pirate, liar, and thief, who published a worthless little -volume of stolen and mutilated poetry, patched up and padded out -with dreary and dirty doggrel, under the preposterous title of _The -Passionate Pilgrim_.... Happily there is here no second instance--but -naturally there could not have been a second--of such amazing -depravity of taste.’ - -“In fact,” I said, “your review of the book recalls to my mind the -familiar lines by Bickerstaff, which are to be found in this very -volume: - - When late I attempted your pity to move - What made you so deaf to my prayers? - Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, - But why did you kick me downstairs? - - -You remember Jeffery Prowse’s lines about someone being -‘problematically sober, but indubitably drunk’?” I went on. “The -‘dissembling’ of ‘your love’ in the opening sentences of your article -may be ‘problematical,’ but the ‘kicking’ of us ‘downstairs,’ and out -of the door later on, is as ‘indubitable’ as is the fact that the -book is profoundly honoured by being reviewed by Algernon Charles -Swinburne at all.” - -With that parting shot, at which he laughed heartily, I bade him -good-bye and came away, to find on returning to my home, a letter -from Mr. Locker-Lampson which, as it has no word that can be -considered private, and deals with matters of general literary -interest, as well as with some of the strictures by Swinburne that -have been quoted above, I venture to append: - - NEWHAVEN COURT, CROMER, - _17th Oct._ - - DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I have just been reading the _Forum_ for October, and I think - that altogether we may be satisfied with A. C. S.’s article. - - I venture to think that he rather overrates Landor and underrates - Calverley. - - We should not have inserted ‘Youth and Art’ [the lines by - Browning referring to ‘Gibson’s hash’ to which Mr. Swinburne took - such objection] or ‘The Passionate Pilgrim’ or Croker’s ‘Miss - Peel.’ We ought to have put in Pope’s ‘I know a thing.’ - - I remember talking to Tennyson about Dirce, and he said it was - too classical for English taste. I do not think many people would - care for it, but perhaps it might be added. Stygean _Set_ is not - a cultivated expression, not better than _lot_, and if Dirce was - a shade it did not matter whether Charon forgot himself or not. - - I really feel much obliged to Mr. Swinburne for whom I have - sincere regard. Perhaps if you see him you will tell him of my - obligation. - - His article strengthens my decided opinion that the book is a - _very_ difficult one to edit. All the experts have different - ideas about it. Lang, Swinburne, Gosse, Dobson, and Palgrave are - all opposed. - - I hope you are quite well. - - Always truly, - F. L. L. - - -VI - -In all my conversations with Swinburne, I cannot recall one instance -of his interrupting a speaker. He would, it is true, go off at a -conversational tangent, as when, talking of Francis Hinde Groome -and Suffolk, he interpolated apparently irrelevant remarks upon -the curious names of some Yorkshire villages, having presumably -only discovered that morning that one of these villages bore the -delightful name of “Beggar my Neighbour.” But, though one could see -by his flashing eye that the hounds of utterance were chafing and -fretting to fling themselves upon the quarry, he invariably waited -till the other speaker had made an end of it before letting go the -leash. To everything that Watts-Dunton said, then or at any time, he -listened almost as a disciple might listen to a master, and again -and again he urged me to use any influence I had with the author of -_Aylwin_ to induce him to give that then unpublished work to the -world, and to allow his _Athenæum_ essays to be collected and issued -in book form. - -“Only,” said Swinburne at a white heat of enthusiastic admiration, -“if every page, on which they were printed, represented a hundred -pound bank-note; if the back and the sides of the cover were of the -finest beaten gold--that would not be too costly a raiment for the -noblest critical work, dealing with first principles, that has ever -been given to the world.” - -That this was Swinburne’s deliberate opinion of the value of his -brother poet’s and brother friend’s work, and was not the expression -of a moment’s enthusiasm, I have reason to know, for he used similar -expressions in my presence on many occasions. I observe, too, -that Mr. James Douglas, in his book _Theodore Watts-Dunton, Poet, -Novelist, and Critic_, quotes Swinburne as describing Watts-Dunton as -“the first critic of his time, perhaps the largest minded and surest -sighted of any age”--a judgment which, as Mr. Douglas reminds us, -Rossetti endorsed. - -Watts-Dunton, rumpling up his hair with one hand, tried to turn the -conversation into other channels, but Swinburne was obdurate. - -“You, who know Walter’s magnificent, magician-like power of -concentrating into the fourteen lines of a sonnet what no other poet -could have said with equal power and felicity in forty, will agree -with me when I tell you what perhaps you do not know, for he never -speaks of it himself. When he was a young man, he lost a manuscript -book of poems of which he had no copy. By these lost poems the world -is, I believe, as poor as if Gabriel Rossetti’s early poems had never -been recovered from his wife’s coffin. It was an incomparable loss to -literature, a loss which can never be replaced.” - -I did not know of these lost poems, for, intimate as I had been -with Watts-Dunton for many years, he had never even hinted at their -existence, or rather at their non-existence. But, except to admit -the loss and to make light of it, he refused to be drawn either by -Swinburne or by myself, and turned the conversation upon the former’s -_Ode to Music_, written, I think, for the opening of the Chicago -Exhibition. But of this Swinburne, in his turn, refused to talk, -averring that he had clean forgotten it--that a task like that, once -completed, he never thought of again, and that his mind was full at -the moment of his Tennyson Threnody. - -On this occasion I saw yet another side of him. I had brought with me -two bunches of exquisite flowers--arum lilies, lilies of the valley, -snowdrops and some exotics--one for Miss Teresa Watts, one for -Swinburne. A flower was to him as it had been to Philip Marston, the -one unchanging and perfect thing in a changing and decaying world, -as fair, as fresh and as immortal as in the days of our youth. In an -ecstasy of delight, he took the flowers from my outstretched hand as -reverently as the communicant takes into his hands the consecrated -bread of the sacrament, as tenderly as a young mother takes into her -arms her new-born child. He bent his head over them in a rapture -that was almost like a prayer, his eyes when he looked up to thank -me for the gift alight and brimming over with thoughts that were not -far from tears. For many minutes he sat holding them, turning them -this way and that, too rapt in his worship to speak or to think of -anything else. - -Then he turned to Miss Watts with his courtly bow. - -“As you have been as equally honoured as I, you will not think me -robbing you if I carry my bunch away with me to put them in water and -to place them in my own room. I want to find them there when I wake -in the morning.” - -He rose in his quiet way, the flowers in his hand, bowed again to -Miss Watts and myself and left the room. In a few minutes the door -reopened, but only wide enough to let him slip through, and he stole, -rather than walked, to the chair, where he seated himself among us -again, almost as noiselessly as a card is shuffled back to its place -in the pack. - - -VII - -“Watts-Dunton writes poetry because he loves writing it,” said -Swinburne to me once. “I write poetry, I suppose, to escape from -boredom.” - -There is truth in the statement, but there is more behind the -statement than appears at the first glance. - -New and incoming tides of poetry lapped at his feet each morning, and -the incoming of each new tide of poetry was to him as fresh, pure, -crystalline-sweet, and free, as is the tide that rolls in upon the -shore each day from the vastnesses and the sweetnesses of the central -sea. - -Hence he gave himself up to it, plunged in it, sported in it, with -the zeal and rapture of a boy. Had the call to think poetry, dream -poetry, write poetry, plunge himself into poetry, come to him as part -of a set task, had he been compelled, in the mood or out of the mood, -to take up poetry as an occupation, he would have turned from it as -the sea-loving swimmer turns from a stagnant pool. It would have been -to him the “boredom” of which he had spoken, not the “escape from -boredom.” - -I have said that the impression I formed of him after my first visit -was that of a man who lived in a world of his own--a world which, -so far as his body was concerned, was, with the exception of his -experiences on and by the sea, bounded, for the greater part of -his later life, by the four walls of his home, and by the limits -of his daily walk, but which, in the imaginative and mental sense, -was illimitable. Human and normal in passion, and in every other -respect, as I believe him to have been (so far, that is to say, as -genius, which by overbalancing one side of a man’s nature, inevitably -necessitates some underbalancing on the other, ever _can_ be said to -be normal), he had seemed to me, on the occasion of that first visit, -a creature of other flesh and blood than ours, an elusive ethereal -poetic essence, rather than a man of like passions to our own. - -It had seemed to me as if the busy world, in which other men made -love and married, begot children, bought and sold, laboured and -schemed--though it lay outside his very door--was a million miles -away from the monastic quiet of the book-lined room in which he lived -and dreamed and wrote. - -I do not say that it was so. All I say is that it had seemed so to me -on that first meeting, but I am not sure that the impression I then -formed was accurate. - -I came away feeling as if I had been in the company of a creature -living in an unreal world, whereas now I think that, to the man -whom I had left behind in that book-lined room, life was infinitely -more real than it is to us. I had left behind me, given over to -ecstatic abandonment to the mood of the moment, and believing -intensely in the reality and actuality of all which that mood called -forth, or created, _a child at play with his toys_, for in spite of -the magnificence and the maturity of his intellect (may I not say -_because_ of the magnificence and the maturity of his intellect?) -the child lived on and was alive to the last in Algernon Charles -Swinburne as it lives in few others. - -What he had meant when he spoke of writing poetry “to escape -from boredom” was that he was a tired child turning for comfort, -self-forgetfulness and consolation to his toys; and to him (happy -man!) even his life-work, even Poetry itself, was, in a sense, a -toy. That was why to the last he turned to it--an old man in years, -though I could never bring myself to think of him as old--with such -eager and childlike anticipation. The child heart, which could -exult and build up dreams around his toys, remained; but his toys -were changed--that was all. That was why he so loved and was so -loved by children. They recognised him, bearded man as he was, as -one of themselves. That was why he was so instantly at home with -them, and they with him. That, too, was why he so revelled in Mr. -Kenneth Grahame’s _The Golden Age_--not with the mild reminiscent -and ruminant interest and pleasure of a staid grown-up, chewing -the cud of childhood, but with a boy of ten’s actual and intense -identification with, and abandonment of himself to the part he was -acting, and with all a boy of ten’s natural and innate love of fun -and of mischief. I have seen him literally dance and caper and -whistle (yes, whistle) with all an eager boy’s rapture, over some -new toy treasure-trove, in the shape of a poem, by himself or by a -friend, a “find” in the shape of a picture, a print, or a coveted -first edition, picked up, during his rambles, at a stall. - -“Eccentricity of genius,” you say? - -Not at all. It meant merely that _his boyhood was as immortal as his -genius, as ineradicable as his intellectual greatness_. - -Warm as was my regard for Algernon Charles Swinburne the man, -profound as is my admiration of him as a poet, I am not sure that to -this child-side of him must not be attributed much that was noblest -and most lovable in his noble and lovable personality, as well as -much that was loftiest and most enduring in his work. - -Of him we must say, as Mr. William Watson has so finely said of -Tennyson, that he - - Is heard for ever, and is seen no more; - -but in seeking, for the purpose of these Recollections, to conjure -the living man before me, in striving to recall my conversations -with him, and in remembering, as I always do and shall remember, his -great-heartedness, I am reminded of what Watts-Dunton once said to me -in a letter. - -“You will recall,” he wrote, “what Swinburne was remarking to you -the other day, when we were discussing the envy, hatred and malice -of a certain but very small section of the literary craft. ‘Yes,’ -said Swinburne, ‘but these are the intellectually-little writing -fellows who do not matter and who do not count. The biggest men, -intellectually, are always the biggest-natured. Great hearts go -generally with great brains.’” - -And I think--I am sure--that the saying is true. - - - - -LORD ROBERTS - -“ORDERED OUT” - -In Memoriam: Roberts, F.M., V.C. - -DIED ON SERVICE, 1914 - - “When I was ordered out----” - _Lord Roberts, in a letter to the writer._ - - - Prouder to serve than to command was he: - “When I was ordered”--thus a soldier’s soul - Answered, as from the ranks, the muster roll, - When came the call: “England hath need of thee.” - - At Duty’s bidding, not by Glory lured, - For peace, not war, he strove; and peace was his-- - Not the base peace which more disastrous is - Than war, but peace abiding and assured. - - Thereafter followed long, untroubled years, - Wherein some said: “See rise the star of peace, - The morn of Arbitration. Wars must cease. - Away with sword and shield--Millennium nears!” - - “_Keep shield to breast, keep bright your sword, and drawn!_” - Rang out his answer. “_On the horizon’s rim - I see great armies gather, and the dim, - Grey mists of Armageddon’s bloody dawn!_” - - Few heeded, many scoffed, some merry grew, - And “Dotard!” cried, because, for England’s sake - For whom his son lay dead, he bade her wake, - And a great soldier spoke of what he knew. - - Yet spoke--distasteful task!--against his will; - Death he had dared, but dared not silent be-- - That were to England blackest treachery-- - Wherefore he spoke: _his voice is sounding still!_ - - Even the while he spoke, the while they mocked - (With silent dignity their taunts were borne), - Europe, that laughing rose, as ’twere at morn, - At night, distraught, and in delirium rocked. - - As the hung avalanche is suddenly hurled - Down the abyss, though but a pebble stirred, - So a crowned monster’s will, a Kaiser’s word, - Plunged into Armageddon half a world, - - And Chaos was again. Crashed the blue skies - Above, as if to splinters. Was God dead? - Or deaf? or dumb? or reigned there, in His stead, - Only a devil in a God’s disguise? - - Staggered and stunned, our England backward reeled - A moment. Then, magnificent, erect, - Flashed forth her sword, her ally to protect, - And over prostrate Belgium cast her shield. - - Above the babel of voices, mists of doubt, - Rang forth his stern “To arms!” England to nerve; - Too old to fight, but not too old to serve, - Again he hears the call--is “ordered out.” - - “Roberts!” the voice was Duty’s, arm’d and helm’d, - “To France! where India, greatly loyal, lands - Her stalwarts, and the bestial horde withstands - That raped and ravaged, burned and overwhelmed - - “Heroic Belgium. Roberts, ’gainst the foe - No voice like thine can the swart Indians fire - To valour, and to loyalty inspire; - Roberts! to France!” Came answer calm: “I go.” - - Nor once reproached: “I warned. You gave no heed,” - Nor pleaded fourscore years--“Ah, that I could!” - He who had England saved, an England would, - Only of England thought, in England’s need. - - Then, where, on high, God captains legions bright - (On earth is Armageddon, and in hell-- - May it not be?--Satan leads forth his fell - And fallen hosts, the heavens to storm and smite?) - - Yea, from on high, from heaven’s supreme redoubt, - Came the last call of all, far-sounding, clear; - God spoke his name; he answered: “I am here.” - Stood to salute; again was “ordered out.” - - From Camp to Camp he passed--beyond the sun’s - Red track, to where the immortal armies are, - Honoured of God, Hero of peace and war, - Amid the thunder-requiem of the guns. - - C. K. - - -I - -It was a score or more years ago, and at the Old Vagabond Club (now -merged into the Playgoers) that I first met Lord Roberts. When he -became the President of the Club, we celebrated the event by a dinner -at which he was the guest of honour and Jerome K. Jerome was the -Chairman. As one of the original members of the Club and as a member -of the Executive Committee, I was introduced to the great soldier. -All I expected was a bow, a handshake, and a “How-do-you-do,” but -Lord Roberts was as good as to be more gracious and cordial than any -great soldier, even if an Irishman, ever was before--so at least it -seemed to me--to a scribbler of sorts, whom he was meeting for the -first time. He was, in fact, so very kind that I was emboldened to -ask a favour. Among the guests was a young officer in what was then -the Artillery Volunteers. I knew it would immensely gratify him to -meet the Field-Marshal, so towards the close of the conversation I -ventured to say: - -“It has been a very great honour and pleasure Lord Roberts, to me -to meet you and to have this talk. I wonder whether you’ll think me -trespassing on your kindness if I ask to be allowed to present an -acquaintance of mine? He is a Volunteer Officer, a junior subaltern -in the Artillery, and to meet you would, I am sure, be a red-letter -day in his life. Would you allow me to present him?” - -“Why of course. I shall be delighted. Bring him along by all means,” -was the reply. - -The young man was accordingly presented. The reader will hardly -believe me when I say that this Volunteer Subaltern of Artillery -thought well to instruct the Master Gunner in the science of gunnery, -and in fact to tell the Field-Marshal what in his, the Volunteer -Subaltern’s, opinion was wrong with the British Army. - -Had Lord Roberts replied civilly but curtly, as some in his place -would have done: “You think so, do you? Oh indeed! Very interesting, -I’m sure. Good evening,” and walked away, one could hardly have -wondered. But no, he heard the other out with perfect courtesy, if -with resignation, and in his own mind, no doubt, with amusement. - -I reminded Lord Roberts of the incident when I came to know him -better, and he replied with a laugh: - -“I recall the matter perfectly, for I like to think I have a -retentive memory. Of course I was, as you say, amused at the young -man’s assurance and confidence in his own military knowledge. Many -very young men are prone either to too great diffidence or to too -great assurance. I think, on the whole, I incline to envy the young -man with plenty of assurance, especially as I was disposed to be -diffident myself at his age, as many of us Irishmen, for all our -seeming confidence, are. But in any case I owed it to you, who had -introduced him, as well as to myself, to treat him outwardly at least -with courtesy and consideration.” - -That was Lord Roberts’ charming and kind way of putting it; but to -me, a young man myself when the incident happened, it was a lesson in -fine breeding and in fine manners on the part of a great soldier and -great gentleman. - -I heard afterwards that the Volunteer Subaltern of Artillery, in -speaking at a Distribution of Prizes to members of his corps, the -very evening following upon his one and only meeting with the -Field-Marshal, made frequent use of such phrases as “When I was -talking to Lord Roberts about the matter,” “What I told Lord Roberts -ought to be done,” and so on, no doubt to his own satisfaction and -possibly with the result that the members of the audience were for -the first time made to realise what a very important figure he -was in the military world. Later on, however, some one who knew -the facts wrote to him suggesting that the book for which the -world was literally panting was a work from his pen entitled _My -Recollections of Lord Roberts_, and when the Boer War broke out, a -telegram, purporting to come from Lord Roberts, urging the Volunteer -Artilleryman to take supreme command in South Africa, was dispatched -to him by a playful friend. I have no doubt the young man, who will -now be getting elderly, would be the first to laugh at his own -youthful self-confidence, and that if this paper should by any chance -meet his eye, he will pardon me for thus, and for the first time, -telling the tale in print. - -Here is an instance of Lord Roberts’ kindness to and interest in -younger men. A Territorial Captain--his brother, an officer in the -Regular Army, told me the story--was taking part in a Field Day -with his battalion in Berkshire. His instructions were that he was -to hold a certain line of country at all costs. It so happened that -the attack developed in a direction which made it necessary for him -hurriedly to advance his men to a flank and away from his reserves, -whom he had posted where they were under cover and out of sight of -the enemy. The young officer (he was a junior subaltern recently -joined) in command of the reserves evidently had very mistaken ideas -in regard to discipline. His idea appeared to be that discipline -consists in staying where you were originally told to stay, like -the “boy on the burning deck” in the poem of _Casabianca_, until -receiving orders to another effect. Needless to say, the very reverse -is true. Soldiers to-day are taught clearly to observe events and to -act on their own initiative should unexpected developments arise. -Seeing that the tide of war was drifting the Firing Line and its -supports away from the reserves, the duty of the officer commanding -the reserves was, not to remain stodgily where he had originally -been placed (to do that would be less obedience to discipline than -a breach of discipline), but while keeping the reserves directly in -signalling communication with the Firing Line, as well as under -cover and out of sight of the enemy, so to alter his own dispositions -as to be ready to reinforce and to reinforce quickly when called upon -to do so. - -This, however, he failed to do, and when his superior officer, -finding himself hard pressed, signalled for the reserves, there was -no reply. - -Unfortunately there was neither a galloper nor a cyclist at hand to -carry a message. “If I don’t get my reserves here in half an hour,” -he said, “I shall lose the position, and the loss of this position -may mean, probably will mean, victory for the enemy all along the -line. It shan’t be so if I can help it. Now what can I do?” - -Hurriedly but keenly he scanned the rolling Berkshire down around -him. Towards the north, on the whity-brown high road that curved -outward in a huge half-circle from the point where he was standing, -he saw a cloud of dust. “A motor! and coming this way!” he exclaimed. -“Follow me, Brown.” (This to a non-commissioned officer.) Stooping -low, so as not to offer a target to the enemy, he sprinted northwards -in a line which intersected the high road, at the nearest point which -the oncoming car must pass. - -The motor was almost on him as he reached the road, and leaping into -the centre held up his hand. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to the -occupant, “but I’m in command of troops holding this position. We’re -attacked in force, and my reserves are some distance away along the -road in the direction you have come, near a copse. I’ve signalled -for reinforcements, but they have not kept up their communications. -I have neither a galloper nor a cyclist. If I get my reinforcements -here in half an hour, I can hold the position. If I don’t, I lose it, -and losing it means everything to the enemy. I wonder whether you’d -be so very good as to lend me your car for a few minutes to carry a -message!” “With the greatest pleasure,” said the occupant. Turning to -the chauffeur he said, “You are entirely at this officer’s disposal. -I shall walk on, and you can pick me up when he has done with you.” -As he spoke he got out of the car, and as he lifted his cap, in -response to the young officer’s salute and hasty word of thanks, the -latter recognised Field-Marshal Lord Roberts. - -A day or two later, the great soldier was celebrating his eightieth -birthday, and received a letter from the officer in question. It was -to remind Lord Roberts of the incident, to apologise for the liberty -the young officer had taken in stopping the car, to thank him warmly -for his kindness, and to mention that the reserves had been brought -up at the double and in time to save the position. The officer -concluded by asking to be allowed to congratulate the Field-Marshal -on attaining his eightieth year and to express the hope that the -great soldier might be spared to celebrate many similar anniversaries. - -A reply came almost by return of post. - - DEAR CAPTAIN ----, - - Many thanks for your letter and kind congratulations on my 80th - birthday. I was delighted to be of assistance, and am even more - delighted to learn the successful result of that assistance. You - did the right and only thing in stopping my car. If ever you - are this way and disengaged, I hope you will call and give me - the pleasure of making the further acquaintance of so good and - resourceful a soldier. - - Yours truly, - ROBERTS. - -After my first meeting with Lord Roberts at the Vagabond Club, I saw -no more of him--except for a mere handshake and “How-do-you-do?” at -a military function--for many years. Then I chanced, in April, 1910, -to contribute to the _London Quarterly Review_ an article on National -Defence. It was addressed specially to Nonconformists, one of the -opening paragraphs being as follows: - - I do not for a moment believe that Nonconformists are one whit - less patriotic than any other great religious body, but I - fear there is some misconception on their part--due no doubt - to the intolerance and the exaggeration of some of us who - champion the cause of National Defence--in regard to our aims - and our purposes. It is in the hope of removing some of these - misconceptions that I pen the present paper. - -The article I did _not_ send to Lord Roberts, nor did I draw the -attention of anyone connected with the National Service League of -which he was President to it. I did nothing directly or indirectly -to bring it under anyone’s notice. Yet a few days after the _Review_ -appeared, I received the following letter from him. The Rev. R. Allen -of whom he speaks, I may say, was, and still is, an entire stranger -to me, and I to him: - - ENGLEMERE, ASCOT, BERKS, - _April 4, 1910_. - - DEAR SIR, - - The Rev. R. Allen, a friend of many years’ standing, has been - good enough to send me a copy of the _London Quarterly Review_ - for this month, and to draw my attention to the first article, - written by you on “How to Defend England.” - - I am _delighted_ with the article itself, and with the very clear - and convincing way in which you have put forward the advantages - of military training and discipline for all our able-bodied young - men as affecting not only the position of Great Britain as a - World Power, but the individual moral and physical improvement of - the men of the nation. - - But I am still more delighted that such an article should be - allowed to appear in a Journal published from the Wesleyan Book - Room. I am quite at one with you in believing that Nonconformists - are not one whit less patriotic than any other great religious - body, but that there is some misconception on their part in - regard to the aim and purpose of those who advocate universal - military training for Home Defence. - - My hope is that such misconception may be removed and that every - Briton, whatever his position and whatever his sect, will realise - the necessity for taking the defence of his country seriously. - - Such articles as yours will do much to effect this, and to open - the eyes of those who are now blind to England’s needs and - England’s dangers before it is too late. - - Yours truly, - ROBERTS. - -Other men as greatly concerned in great matters as Lord Roberts was -cannot always spare time to acknowledge and to show appreciation of -work for a good cause, which is brought directly to their notice. -Lord Roberts could find time, or perhaps I should say made time to -write graciously about work the doer or the author of which had done -nothing to bring that work under the Field-Marshal’s eye. - -Thenceforward, no work of mine in the cause for National Defence was -allowed to pass unrecognised, once it came under the notice of Lord -Roberts--and not very much happened of which in some way or another -he did not come to hear. - -He followed the doings even of the rank and file under his command, -and, like the great leader of men that he was, he thought none of -them too humble to be honoured and heartened before going into -battle, by a message from himself. - -For instance, I was asked to give an address on National Defence to -a great gathering of men--some 1500 or more as it turned out--at -an Assault-at-Arms in the Kursaal at Worthing. Naturally I never -trespassed upon such a busy man’s time by writing to him, unless in -answer to a letter from himself, or unless I had something important -of which to speak. So as I had not heard from Lord Roberts for some -time, and had had no cause to write to him, I did not suppose he as -much as knew of the Worthing meeting. Yet in opening the proceedings, -the Mayor announced that he had just received a telegram from Lord -Roberts to the effect that he was delighted I was to be the speaker -that night, and warmly commending what I had to say to the attention -of the audience. - -Such a message and from such a quarter, did more to assure me--an -entire stranger to my audience--a welcome and a friendly hearing than -I could otherwise have hoped to receive. - -One “Lost Chord” in the way of an unread message from Lord Roberts I -often regret. - -In the company of Mr. Neville P. Edwards, then an organising -secretary of the National Service League, I went as an Honorary -Helper of the League on three caravan tours in Kent and Sussex. - -The last tour closed only a week or two before the outbreak of -war, and Lord Roberts, who followed our progress with the keenest -interest, sent us on several occasions by letter or by telegram -a special message to deliver in his name to our audiences. These -messages directly warned his fellow-countrymen of the imminence of -war and of the necessity for preparation. Remembering that in the -towns we often had an audience of one or two thousand, and even in -the villages, of some hundreds, there must be many persons who now -recall the weightiness and the gravity of the great soldier’s words. -And I venture to add that no one whose privilege it was to hear them -is likely ever to forget the equally grave, eloquent, and memorable -words which fell from the lips of Mr. Rudyard Kipling--who by his -single pen has done more to awaken the young manhood of the nation -to England’s needs than any other writer living or dead--when he -presided over one of our meetings. It seemed to me one of the ironies -of fate that in the very caravan from which Lord Roberts’ message -and Mr. Kipling’s words--both urgent warnings of imminent war--had -been delivered, I should a few weeks later set forth as an Honorary -Recruiting Officer in search of men to fight in the very war which -Lord Roberts and Mr. Kipling had so faithfully foretold. - -Before taking the chair and introducing Mr. Edwards and myself to our -audience, Mr. Kipling said to me: - -“I have just had a telegram from the Chief. He sent his thanks to -me for presiding at the meeting, and asks that I convey his thanks -to Edwards and to you. It is a very interesting and characteristic -message, and I will read it when making my closing remarks to the -meeting at the end.” - -It so happened that the latter part of the meeting was a Lantern -Slide Lecture by Mr. Edwards. His last slide was a portrait of the -King, seeing which some one started “God Save the King,” and the -audience, taking this as ending the meeting, broke up, and so we lost -not only Lord Roberts’ telegram, but Mr. Kipling’s equally coveted -closing words. - -In nothing that I attempted for the cause that was so near to his -heart, was Lord Roberts more keenly interested than in a controversy -in the spring and summer of 1914 between an opponent of National -Service, a very distinguished divine and scholar, and myself. My -opponent’s article was headed, “Why we cannot accept conscription,” -and mine “Why we support Lord Roberts.” To a reprint of the -controversy in booklet form, published immediately after the outbreak -of war, the Rev. John Telford, B.A., contributed an Editorial -Foreword, in which he said: - -“This discussion of the question of national armaments aroused -extraordinary interest among a very wide circle of readers, as -it appeared in _The Magazine of the Wesleyan Methodist Church_ -in March, April, May and June of this year. It also led to much -correspondence in other journals. No one then dreamed of the terrible -significance which events were to attach to the subject.... Here -are Mr. Kernahan’s words, printed last March, before any shadow had -fallen across the sun. He says: ‘I have studied the question at home -and abroad with as much closeness as was possible, and the more -closely I study it the more convinced I am that we are well within -the possibility of one of the most awful disasters that ever befell a -great nation.’ In the light of to-day that is a remarkably verified -warning.” - -This controversy, on account of the importance attached to the issues -involved, Lord Roberts followed with exceptional interest. One -passage of arms between my opponent and myself I may be permitted to -quote, since it centres around Lord Roberts himself. - -“Mr. Kernahan proves,” my critic wrote, “that his special hero, -Lord Roberts, is a truly Christian man. I would not question it for -a moment. And yet--so terrible a power has familiarity with war to -blind men’s eyes to its satanic wickedness--it was Lord Roberts who -uttered in our Free Trade Hall at Manchester the cynical sentence -about Germany’s right to strike when her hour came, which shocked -even convinced conscriptionists on his platform. I wonder whether -Lord Roberts approved of the way Germany struck when her hour came -in 1870! Strange indeed to hear a Christian man echoing the very -sentiments of Bismarck, who was so proud of the cunning lie by which -he tricked France into a disastrous war!” - -My reply I venture to quote, since Lord Roberts was so good as to say -it exactly interpreted his views and his position. - -“Lord Roberts,” I wrote, “claimed no such ‘right’ for any nation -wantonly and wickedly to force war upon another. He pointed out that -when one nation has decided, for reasons of her own (possibly because -she is ambitious and determined to play a great part in history), to -force a war upon another nation, which possibly may decide to resist, -if only because she is determined to hold to her own--the policy -is that adopted by Germany. That policy--as a student of history -as well as a soldier, Lord Roberts had to admit that it is often a -winning policy--is to strike at what has been called the selected -moment, or in other words, when she (Germany) is at her strongest, -and the nation which she wishes to overthrow is weak. It was because -Lord Roberts knew that this was and is Germany’s policy, and because -he wellnigh despairs sometimes at the criminal apathy of his -fellow-countrymen, and because he knows the consequences which must -almost inevitably follow, that he felt compelled, under a terrible -sense of responsibility, to speak out thus plainly. Had he, knowing -what he does of Germany’s ambitions, intentions, and strength, and -of England’s ignorance, weakness, and unpreparedness, elected to -maintain a cowardly and traitorous silence--then, and not till then, -would he be guilty of the ‘cynical’ and ‘satanic’ wickedness of which -my opponent speaks.... For the latter cannot deny that Germany has -not gone back in her ambition or in her strength since 1870. On the -contrary, she has gone on, not only in piling up an army which, as -Mr. Churchill warned the nation, is now four and a half millions in -number, but also in the most strenuous effort to create a vast Navy, -which she has said must be, shall be, greater than ours. With her -huge army she needs no Navy for defence. It is, as has been said, a -‘luxury’ and is meant for attack, whereas to us a Navy is a matter of -life and death. And my opponent knows that we have twice held out the -hand of friendship to Germany with proposals to stay this insane race -in armaments, and that her reply was more battleships, more soldiers, -more guns.” - -I do not print this passage here to reopen an old controversy, but -because--though the details of Lord Roberts’ proposals will, in the -light of recent events, require considerable modification--the main -issues raised by him abide and must be reaffirmed. Here in England -we have short memories. It is possible that in the bewildering -happenings of the war and in the breathless interest with which, at -its end, the shifting of frontiers and the striking of great balances -will be watched, there is the danger, if only from reaction, that we -slackly fall back into our previous national inertia and national -apathy, and that the little puddles of party politics (dirty puddles -for the most part) once again matter more to us than to hold sacred -and inviolate the great Empire and these world-trusts which God has -seen well to commit to Britain’s charge. - - -II - -I have heard many noble tributes paid to Lord Roberts, but I remember -none which touched him more than that of Sir William Robertson -Nicoll at the Whitefriars’ Club. Lord Roberts was the club guest, -that brilliant author and journalist Mr. John Foster Fraser being -Chairman. I had the honour of being in the Vice-Chair. - -The toast of Lord Roberts’ health was seconded by Sir William -Robertson Nicoll, who was meeting the Field-Marshal for the first -time. The Whitefriars’ dinner to Lord Roberts was merely a compliment -to a great soldier. Not all of those present would have shared the -views he entertained upon the question of National Service, and -controversial issues were carefully excluded. Speaking, therefore, -of Lord Roberts as a soldier, as a writer, and as a man, Sir William -Robertson Nicoll, in one of the most graceful and generous tributes -to which I have ever listened, assured him that by no class was our -guest held in greater honour and affection than by the Nonconformists -of this country and of every denomination. Lord Roberts knew that -many Nonconformists differed from him in politics and upon the -question of National Service, of which he was the acknowledged -champion, and Sir William’s tribute so gracefully phrased, so -obviously sincere in its expression of personal reverence and -affection, touched and gratified him deeply. - -That he felt a little sore, in regard to the misunderstanding of his -views by some Nonconformists, is clear, I think, from a letter to me -which lies before me as I write. - -I happen to be a Churchman myself, but for the last eight or nine -years before the war I devoted no inconsiderable portion of my time -in trying to put the case for National Defence, as advocated by the -Field-Marshal, before my many friends in the Nonconformist Churches, -and I am glad and grateful to remember that, while not sharing my -views, the editors of the great Nonconformist and Free Church organs -gave me for the most part--there were exceptions--full opportunity -to “state a case.” In April, 1913, a prominent Free Churchman of -Hastings asked me to speak at the Brotherhood meeting in that town. -I told him frankly that I dislike public speaking, but would do so -if I were permitted to speak upon the subject of National Defence. -My friend demurred, but it was finally arranged that I should first -give a reading from a tiny booklet of my own, and after that I should -speak for twenty minutes on the subject that lay so near my heart. - -As this was the first occasion upon which an address upon National -Defence was to be given at a Brotherhood meeting, Lord Roberts took -deep interest in the matter. He was, indeed, so anxious to remove any -misunderstanding which existed that he sent me a special message to -deliver in his name to my audience. The message was in the form of a -letter to myself, and as it puts his views very plainly, I print it -here in full. - - ENGLEMERE, ASCOT, - BERKS, 12.4.13. - - DEAR MR. KERNAHAN, - - I am very glad to learn that when asked to speak at the - Brotherhood Meeting which is to take place in your own town on - Sunday the 20th instant, you refused to do so unless you were - allowed to deal with the question of National Service. - - I know that there are many very well-meaning people who think - that all military training is an abomination, and who are - convinced that the life of youth in barracks is a continued round - of vice and immorality of all kinds. I am prepared to admit that - this certainly was true 200 years ago, and possibly it was true - even at the beginning of the last century. During Marlborough’s - wars we know from history that the ranks of the Regular Army were - filled up by taking broken men of all kinds, and forcing them - into the service. - - Any man who was really on his last legs--broken debtors, tramps - and vagabonds, condemned felons--these and such as these were - forced into the ranks. Can it be wondered if the Army got a bad - name? and, as we know, there is nothing so hard to live down - as a really evil reputation. But all this is changed and has - been changed for some years. Have we not heard that the Chief - Constable of the county of Cambridge announced, after the Army - manœuvres, that although 45,000 men had been turned loose in the - area for which he was responsible, yet not a single accusation - for wrongdoing had been brought against any of these soldiers? - Have not the papers just recently told us that 10,000 men taken - at random from the garrison at Aldershot have been billeted - upon the inhabitants in the Hartley district, that these men - were willingly received by the people of the district in their - houses, and that again, in this instance, there has not been one - complaint of misconduct? I must confess that I am pained, as well - as surprised, when I find that those who profess, and profess - very loudly, that they are followers of Christ, should still - look upon the defenders of their country with such unchristian - suspicion and dislike. - - I should like you to read out to the meeting the following - extract which occurs in an article on “Germany and the Germans,” - by Mr. Price Collier. It can be found in the current issue of - _Scribner’s Magazine_: “Military training makes youths better and - stronger citizens and produces that self-respect, self-control - and cosmopolitan sympathy which more than aught else lessen the - chances of conflict. I can vouch for it that there are fewer - personal jealousies, bickerings, quarrels, in the mess room or - below decks of a warship, or in a soldiers’ camp, than in many - Church and Sunday School assemblies, in many club smoking-rooms, - in many ladies’ sewing and reading circles. Nothing does away - more surely with quarrelsomeness than the training of men to get - on together comfortably. Each giving way a little in the narrow - lanes of life, so that each may pass without moral shoving. - There are no such successful schools for the teaching of this - fundamental diplomacy as the sister-services: the Army and the - Navy.” - - Here is another extract [Lord Roberts then goes on himself] from - a New Zealand paper which was forwarded to me by a friend in that - Dominion: “The Rev. W. Ready, the well-known Methodist Minister, - took up a strong stand on the subject of military training at a - meeting of the Society of Friends held in Auckland last week. - Mr. Ready, who was present by invitation, was taken to task for - some remarks he had made on the subject at the recent Methodist - Conference. He thereupon explained to the meeting his attitude - at the Conference. There was a time, he had told the Conference, - when he held the opinion that camps were very immoral, and not - places to which youths should be sent; but since he had had his - sons attending camp as Territorials, he had been converted into - believing that these camps were moral and were well-regulated. - Every instinct of his moral nature went against compulsory - training, but he had his sons in the Territorials. At this point - there were cries of ‘Shame’ from the assembled members of the - Society of Friends, but Mr. Ready stuck to his guns and declared - that he was not going to advise his boys to break the law, - merely because he objected on principle to military training. - The Defence Act was now the law of the land, and he would no - more advocate his sons breaking the law than he would support - the English Suffragettes in their militant tactics. This is - both sound ethics and common sense, and Mr. Ready has done the - community a service in emphasising the duty of every man to obey - the law. The change in his opinions on the subject of camps is - interesting and gratifying, and should be noted by those who - profess to be so concerned about their evil influences.” - - I sincerely hope that your discourse at the Brotherhood Meeting - will help to dissipate the suspicions against military life and - all connected with it. - - Yours very truly, - ROBERTS. - -Lord Roberts made some appreciative remarks about my own work in -the cause of National Defence. These I took the liberty of omitting -when reading his letter at the Brotherhood Meeting, and I venture to -follow a similar course in transcribing it here. Otherwise this very -interesting letter is given exactly as he wrote it. - -That the great soldier should, in his eighty-first year, have been -at the pains to write so lengthy a letter for one of the rank -and file, merely, of his supporters to read at a meeting held in -a Nonconformist Church, bears witness not only to Lord Roberts’ -unwearying energies, but also to his earnest desire, one might even -say his anxiety, that the case for National Defence should be fully -and fairly put before his fellow Britons of the Free Churches. Had -he lived to see the magnificent response made by every denomination -of the Free Churches--not even excepting some members of the Society -of Friends--in sending the flower of its young manhood to the heroic -task of subduing the monster of Prussian militarism, it would have -added gladness and thankfulness to his “Nunc Dimittis,” when within -sound of the guns the hero-soul of the great soldier, patriot and -Christian, passed into the presence of his God. - -Here I may perhaps be allowed to say a word about a prayer which has -often been attributed to Lord Roberts, and was in fact, soon after -his death, printed by a leading religious journal as “composed by -the late Lord Roberts and presented by him to the soldiers serving -under his command in the South African war.” The same prayer has -repeatedly been attributed to Lord Roberts in magazines, books and -newspapers; and, as the correspondence which I have permission to -quote will show, I shall be following Lord Roberts’ own wishes in -doing what I can, once and for all, to set the matter right. - -Here is the prayer as given in the religious journal of which I have -spoken: - - Almighty Father, I have often sinned against Thee. Oh, wash - me in the precious blood of the Lamb of God. Fill me with Thy - Holy Spirit, that I may lead a new life. Spare me to see again - those whom I love at home, or fit me for Thy presence in peace. - Strengthen us to quit ourselves like men in our right and just - cause. Keep us faithful unto death, calm in danger, patient in - suffering, merciful as well as brave; true to our Queen, our - country, and colours. If it be Thy will, enable us to win victory - for England; but, above all, grant us a better victory over - temptation and sin, over life and death, that we may be more than - conquerors, through Him who loved us and laid down His life for - us, Jesus our Saviour, the Captain of the Army of God. Amen. - -The first appearance of the prayer as by Lord Roberts was, I believe, -in a volume published some years ago at Kansas City, U.S.A., and -edited by Dr. Stephen Abbott Northrop. It was entitled _A Cloud of -Witnesses_, and I had from the first my suspicions about the prayer’s -authenticity, for, though I never think or thought of Lord Roberts as -other than a deeply religious man, I found it difficult to think of -him as one who elected to write prayers for publication. Mentioning -the matter to Lord Roberts himself one day, I found him very much -mystified by what he heard. “I have not the slightest recollection of -ever writing a prayer,” he protested, and, later on, when writing on -another matter, he recurred to the subject, asking me if I could send -him a copy of the prayer. I did so, and received the following letter: - - ALMOND’S HOTEL, CLIFFORD STREET, - LONDON, W. - - (The only undated letter I ever remember receiving from Lord - Roberts.) - - DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I am afraid I cannot claim the honour of writing the beautiful - prayer you found in the _Cloud of Witnesses_--at least I think - that is the name of the book you mentioned--but I am away from - home and have not got your letter by me. - - I thought it might have been the prayer General Colley wrote - before “Majuba,” but it is not. - - I should like to find out where the author of the book got the - prayer, and why he gave me as the writer of it. - - Yours very truly, - ROBERTS. - -My reply was to send Lord Roberts the book to see for himself. He -returned it, carefully packed and addressed in his own handwriting, -with the letter which I here transcribe: - - ALMOND’S HOTEL, CLIFFORD STREET, - LONDON, W., 1.2.14. - - DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I return _A Cloud of Witnesses_ with many thanks. - - It is very curious about the prayer. I have no recollection of - writing it, and I am wondering how Dr. Abbott Northrop got hold - of it. What a fine collection of sentiments and opinions he has - got together! - - Yours sincerely, - ROBERTS. - -There, so far as I was concerned, the matter dropped, but when next -I saw Lord Roberts he again expressed his curiosity in regard to the -mystery by which the prayer was attributed to him, and his desire to -unravel it, asking me if I heard any more of it to let him know. - -That I was of some service to him in the matter was due more to -chance than to any mystery-unravelling merit of my own. - -A friend who is interested in religious work among soldiers lent -me a little book, with the request that I would look into it and -return it at my leisure. I opened the volume somewhat indifferently, -and the first thing to catch my eye was the very prayer which Lord -Roberts and I had been discussing. The book stated that it had been -written by the late Archbishop Alexander for the use of the troops -in South Africa, and so exactly expressed the faith and feelings of -Lord Roberts that he had it printed at his own cost and sent it to -his various officers, asking them to distribute it to all ranks under -their command. - -That the prayer was ultimately attributed to the Field-Marshal -instead of to the Archbishop I diagnose thus: Even though “Tommy” -was specifically informed that it was composed by Archbishop -Alexander--to “Tommy” that information meant little or nothing. But -to “Tommy” the fact that it had been specially sent to him by his -beloved “Bobs” would mean everything; and so, no doubt, it became -known as “Lord Roberts’ prayer,” and as “Lord Roberts’ prayer” it -came to the knowledge of the editor of _A Cloud of Witnesses_, and -was printed in good faith by him over the Field-Marshal’s signature -in that book, whence it was reproduced, equally in good faith, in -other prints. - -But to recur to the little book in which I found the prayer -attributed, and rightly, to the Archbishop. With the owner’s -permission I sent it to Lord Roberts to see for himself how, in my -opinion--and he entirely agreed with me--the mistake originally -arose. His reply has a characteristic touch, for though he went -out to South Africa to take supreme command, his soldier-like way -of putting it is “When I was ordered out.” Nor is the reference to -failing memory without pathos to those whose smallest service to the -cause he had so at heart--National Defence--was never forgotten by -one of the greatest-hearted and most generous of men and of chiefs. - - ALMOND’S HOTEL, CLIFFORD STREET, - LONDON, W., _15th Feb., 1914_. - - DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I cannot think how I could have forgotten about the prayer, for I - myself asked the Primate to write it. I knew him well, and I was - greatly struck by the few verses he wrote about “War” shortly - after the trouble in South Africa had commenced. - - When I was ordered out I wrote to the Primate and asked him to - write out a short prayer. I had some thousand copies printed and - distributed. - - I am so glad you discovered who the author was, although your - doing so proves and makes me sad to think that my memory is not - so good as I thought it was. - - I am returning your little book. I wish I could have kept it. - - Yours sincerely, - ROBERTS. - -My next meeting with Lord Roberts was twelve days later, and was -at No. 10 Downing Street, Mr. Asquith’s official residence. Lord -Roberts said, among other things, in the talk we had together on that -occasion that he was very much indebted to me for the promptness with -which I had unravelled the mystery about himself and the Archbishop, -and went on gravely: - -“I very much dislike having attributed to me a prayer which I did -not write. It is not, as you know, that I do not believe in prayer. -I have humbly asked God’s help and guidance in everything that I -undertook all through my life, and never more so than now, when I am -an old man, and His call may be very near. But----” he hesitated a -moment, “offering up a brief prayer--it may only be the words ‘God -help me!’--before going into action, or in some time of difficulty, -is one thing; and sitting down to write, to print and publish a -prayer for others is quite another thing--for a soldier, at least. -That was why I asked my friend the Archbishop to compose the prayer. -It was for him, God’s minister, a clergyman, not for me, a soldier, -to do it.” - -Lord Roberts then asked me to advise him how best to prevent a -recurrence of the error by which the prayer was attributed to him. I -replied that if he wished I would on his behalf write to the editor -of _A Cloud of Witnesses_ pointing out the mistake, and suggesting -that an erratum slip, making the correction, be inserted in all -copies of the book already printed, and that the Archbishop’s name -replace that of Lord Roberts in any future edition. - -“I shall be so much obliged if you will,” he said gratefully. “May I -leave it to you, and will you let me know when you hear from him?” - -I promised to do so, and carried the promise into effect, sending -Lord Roberts, when I received it, the editor’s reply, in which, -after expressing regret for the error, he undertook to do what was -proposed. That Lord Roberts felt strongly about the matter, and was -most anxious that the correction should be made, will be seen by the -following letter which I received the morning after I had seen him at -Downing Street: - - ENGLEMERE, ASCOT, BERKS, - _28th Feb., 1914_. - - DEAR KERNAHAN, - - Thanks for your letter of the 21st instant and for sending me the - little book, which I wish I could have kept. Would it be possible - to communicate with the author of the book you sent me in which - the prayer of the Primate of Ireland appeared under my name? I - should like to have this corrected, as it is quite wrong that I - should have the credit of being the author of such a beautiful - prayer when I was only the indirect means of it being written. - - (Thus far Lord Roberts’ letter was typed. Then in his own strong, - clear, firm hand the letter concluded as follows): This letter - was dictated before I met you yesterday. I only send it as a - reminder. - -I may just add in conclusion that “the little book” which he twice, -almost wistfully, said he wished he could have kept (if I remember -rightly it told, among other things, of his son’s death in South -Africa) was by the courtesy of the friend from whom I had borrowed -it, reforwarded to Lord Roberts, and was by him gratefully and gladly -acknowledged. - - -III - -Even as an old man--though none of us who knew and loved him could -ever bring ourselves to think of Lord Roberts as old--his energy was -amazing, and the amount of work he got through was stupendous. His -mere correspondence alone would have kept any other man going all -day and with no moment to spare for the many great issues with which -his name was connected. He accomplished so much because he practised -in his own life the organisation, if not indeed the National Service -which he preached to the nation--the organisation which, as he -foresaw, would be so tremendous a driving power behind Germany when -the time came for her to force a war upon this country, the war -which he even more clearly foresaw. - -As an instance of how Lord Roberts systematised his days, I may -mention that a friend of mine and his, recently returned from -Bulgaria, wished to see him to put certain military facts before him, -and also, if I remember rightly, to present him with some interesting -trophies of the war which he knew the Field-Marshal would prize. He -wrote accordingly and asked for an appointment. Lord Roberts replied -by return of post, from Almond’s Hotel, Clifford Street, W., to say -that he was then in town but was returning to Ascot the following -day. “If it will be saving you a railway journey--and I know what a -busy man you are,” he wrote, “to see me here at the Hotel, instead -of at Ascot, by all means let it be so. But I am afraid, if not too -early for you, it must be at 8.30 in the morning, as the rest of my -day is already mapped out.” - -My friend smiled sadly in telling me the story. “As a matter of -fact,” he said, “8.30, and even later, generally sees me tubbing, -shaving, or at best breakfasting, but if 8.30 was not too early for -a great soldier who had turned 80 to be up, and ready to receive -visitors, I could hardly plead that 8.30 was too early for me,” and -the appointment was made. - - -IV - -Like most Irishmen, Lord Roberts had a keen sense of humour. At a -public dinner at which I was present he had for a near neighbour, at -the high table, Lord Willoughby de Broke, who in his after-dinner -speech had occasion to refer to the Territorial Army. - -“If I am asked,” he said, “whether a young man should join the -Territorial Army, my answer is invariably ‘Yes,’ and for three -reasons. The first reason is that he will, perhaps for the first time -in his life, be coming under the salutary influence of Discipline, -and I say confidently and without fear of contradiction, that there -is no finer influence for a young fellow than that of Discipline.” - -These were sentiments that appealed to a soldier, and of the many -approving cries of “Hear! Hear!” which came from all parts of the -room, none rang more whole-heartedly than those of Lord Roberts. - -“My second reason,” went on the speaker, “is that the young man will -thereby be discharging a patriotic duty. To-day we are all thinking -too much of our rights, rarely of our responsibilities, and in my -opinion every able-bodied young fellow, whether he be a duke’s son, -a draper’s son, or the son of a costermonger, should be trained to -defend his country against an invader in her hour of need.” - -Once again Lord Willoughby de Broke was expressing the very -sentiments with which Lord Roberts’ name was so closely associated, -and again it was the great soldier’s “Hear! Hear!” which was most -emphatic. - -“And lastly,” concluded the speaker, “my reason for advising every -young fellow to join the Territorial Army is that it gives him a -chance of--getting away from his wife for a night or a week or a -fortnight without putting him to the trouble of hashing up some -silly excuse which she knows is as palpably a fake and a lie as he -does himself.” - -Thus far Lord Willoughby de Broke had spoken with such grave -earnestness that we were all prepared as heartily to endorse his -third reason as his previous ones. Lord Roberts had, in fact, raised -his right hand above his left to applaud when the speaker sprang this -surprise upon us, and especially upon those of us who were married, -for the dinner was graced by the presence of Lady Willoughby de Broke -and Lady Roberts, as well as by other ladies, the wives, daughters, -and sisters of those present. - -For one second the company, if I may so phrase it, “gaped” -open-mouthed at the trap into which they had been led, and then there -was a great roar of laughter, in which no one more heartily joined -than did Lady Willoughby de Broke, Lady Roberts, and Lord Roberts -himself. - -I recall another and grimmer instance of Lord Roberts’ sense of -humour. On February 27, 1914, he introduced to the Prime Minister a -Deputation whose object was to plead the cause of National Service. -When I say that it was a great occasion I am not expressing my own -opinion, but that of a distinguished member of the Deputation who has -since written and published in pamphlet form an official account of -the proceedings. - -“Those of us who look forward,” he writes, “to an early fruition of -the hopes which we have cherished and the aims for which we have -worked for so many years past, will ever look back upon Friday, the -27th of February, 1914, as a milestone, a red-letter day in the -History of National Service. - -“All the circumstances conspired to stamp a great occasion with the -greatness which belonged to it. The importance of the Cause needs no -illustration from the present writer. In Lord Roberts’ well-known -words, ‘National Service means not only national safety; it means -national health, national strength, national honour, and national -prosperity.’ - -“The Deputation included some of the greatest and most distinguished -men of the day, and--a most significant and important factor--the -greatness was in nearly every case not inherited but achieved by -conspicuous service in the fields of national and imperial endeavour. -Three Field-Marshals, including our veteran leader who has carried -our flag to victory with honour in Asia and Africa and served King -and country for fifty-five years; two Admirals of the Fleet, one -of whom was in command of the International Forces at Crete, and -the other commanded the International Naval Forces in China at the -time of the Boxer Rebellion; an ex-Viceroy of India, prominent -representatives of the Church and of Nonconformity; the editor of one -of the most influential weeklies, and representatives of literature, -science, and industry.” - -Of this Deputation I was, by Lord Roberts’ personal invitation and -wish, a member, and as I arrived in good time I had an opportunity of -some conversation with him in the ante-room before we passed into the -Library in which Mr. Asquith was to receive us. - -Seeing that one of his hands was swathed in bandages, I inquired the -reason. - -“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said smilingly. “I’ve often been accused -of having too many irons in the fire, but this time it is a case of -having a hand too much in the fire. Just before leaving my hotel this -morning, my foot slipped on the marble paving of the hall, and in -falling forward and trying to save myself, I thrust my hand between -the bars of the fire, and so got a bit of a burn. But it’s a mere -nothing, and of no consequence.” - -So far from being, as Lord Roberts said, a mere nothing, I have -since heard that the burn was, on the contrary, excessively painful, -but all through the lengthy and trying ordeal of introducing the -different members of the Deputation, listening to, and commenting -upon what was said, as well as listening to and replying to the Prime -Minister’s very important and brilliantly able speech, Lord Roberts -was the alertest, cheeriest, and most watchful of those present. A -burn that would have distressed and possibly have distracted the -attention of a much younger man, and that must necessarily have -caused constant and severe pain, the gallant old soldier, then -nearing his 82nd year, treated as of no consequence and dismissed -with a lightly uttered jest. To the last it was of others, never of -himself, that he thought. On this particular occasion he was pleading -(to use his own words) “as plainly as an old man has the right to -speak, in the face of emergencies which would be far less terrible -to him personally than to generations of Britons yet unborn.” That -was not many months before his death, and though I saw and talked -with Field-Marshal Earl Roberts, V.C., on other and later occasions, -I shall to my life’s end picture him as I saw him then--his burned -and bandaged hand throbbing with pain of which he showed no single -sign, thrust behind him and out of sight, as eloquently, gravely, -almost passionately, he warned his hearers of a possible national -disaster, the consequences of which would be “far less terrible to -him personally than to generations of Britons yet unborn.” - - - - -THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON AS THE “OGRE OF THE ‘ATHENÆUM’” - - -It was, I believe, George Meredith who, when the author of _Aylwin_ -changed his name from Theodore Watts to Theodore Watts-Dunton, spoke -of him as “Theodore What’s-his-name,” and added that he supposed his -friend had made the change lest posterity might confound Watts the -poet with Watts the hymn writer. - -Posterity, unlike Popularity--who plays the wanton at times and -cohabits with unlawful mates--keeps chaste her house from generation -to generation and needs no hint from us to assist her choice. Her -task is to rescue reputations from the dust, no less than to “pour -forgetfulness upon the dead,” and none of us alive to-day may predict -what surprise of lost or rescued reputations Posterity may have in -store. - -Over one of these reputations it is surely possible to imagine -Posterity--I will not disrespectfully say scratching a puzzled head, -but at least wrinkling in perplexity her learned brows. She will -discover when straightening out her dog’s-eared literary annals -that the name of one writer, who at the beginning of the last -decade of the nineteenth century had a great if somewhat esoteric -reputation among his brother authors, was not then to be found in -any publisher’s list, and for the somewhat curious and incontinent -reason that at that time he had published no book. It was not until -the publication of _Aylwin_ that the name of Theodore Watts, or -as he afterwards elected to be called Watts-Dunton, became widely -known outside what are sometimes not very felicitously described as -“literary circles.” - -To-day the tremendous issues of the Great War have, as it were, at -a besom stroke of the gods, brushed into one box, to set aside, -upon a shelf, all the trappings, furniture and paraphernalia -of non-industrial arts and the like. Authors, artists, actors, -musicians, professors, as well as the mere politician, are, and -rightly, relegated to the back of the stage of life, and it is the -soldier and the sailor--not by their own seeking--who bulk biggest in -the public eye. But in those days of little things--the last decade -of the last century--and outside the so-called “literary circle” of -which I have spoken, there were other and outer circles of men and -women much more keenly interested in books and authors, especially -in the personality of literary celebrities, than would be possible -in these days of tragic and tremendous world-issues. In such circles -many curious, interesting and even romantic associations were woven -around the name of Theodore Watts. - -He was known to be the personal friend of Tennyson, Matthew Arnold, -James Russell Lowell, Browning, and William Morris. Dante Gabriel -Rossetti and George Meredith had in the past made their home with -him at Chelsea, and Swinburne had been his house mate for many years -at Putney. Rossetti and Swinburne had written and spoken of him in -terms which to outsiders seem extravagant, and both had dedicated -some of their best work to him. It was also known that he had lived -for some time with gipsies, was one of the three greatest living -authorities on gipsy lore and the gipsy language, and had been the -friend of George Borrow. This curiosity was stimulated by the fact -that Watts-Dunton was then very rarely seen at literary dinners or -functions, and was supposed more studiously even to avoid publicity -than some of his craft who might be named were supposed to seek it. -Cryptic allusions in the literary journals, reviews, and magazines -to a long-completed novel, deliberately and cruelly withheld from -publication, and tributes to his encyclopædic knowledge, did not a -little to increase this curiosity. - -Thus far the reputation which Theodore Watts had attained did -not altogether belie him, but there was yet another “Theodore -Watts”--“Watts of the _Athenæum_” he was sometimes called--who had -no existence except in the imagination of certain small literary fry -by whom he was popularly supposed to be something of a “Hun” of the -pen, a shark of the literary seas, who preyed upon suckling poets. -I remember a morning in the early nineties, when I was to lunch at -Putney with Watts-Dunton and Swinburne. Being in the neighbourhood -of Temple Bar about eleven, I turned in for a cup of coffee and a -cigarette at a famous Coffee House, then much frequented by editors, -journalists, poets, rising authors and members of the literary staff -of the publishing houses and newspaper offices in or around Fleet -Street, as well as by members of the legal profession from the Temple -and the New Law Courts. - -At the next table sat a young man with long hair, a velveteen jacket -and a flowing tie. He was talking so loudly to a friend, that unless -one stopped one’s ears there was no choice but to overhear the -conversation. - -“Seen this week’s _Athenæum_?” he asked his friend. - -“Not yet. Anything particular in it?” was the reply. - -“Only a review of my poems.” - -“Good?” - -“Bad as it can be--bad, that is, as four contemptuous lines of small -print can make it. A book, which as you know represents the thought, -the passion and soul-travail of years; a book written in my heart’s -blood--and dismissed by the _Athenæum_ in four contemptuous lines!” - -There was a pause too brief, if not too deep for tears. Then: -“Theodore Watts, of course!” he added between set teeth. “I expected -it. Everyone knows he is so insanely jealous of us younger men that -he watches the publishers’ lists for every book by a young poet -of ability to pounce upon it, and to cut it up. What has he done, -I should like to know, to give him the right to pronounce death -sentences? Why, the fellow’s never even published a book of his own. - -“Shall I tell you why? He _daren’t_. There is a novel called _Aylwin_ -written and ready to publish many years ago. Murray has offered him -a small fortune in advance royalties, I hear.” - -Again the young man paused dramatically and looked darkly around the -room, not apparently from fear of his being overheard, but because he -wished to invite attention to the inner and exclusive knowledge which -he possessed. Then, in an ecstasy of anger that had a fine disregard -for so trivial a matter as a confusion of metaphors, he thundered: - -“Because that viper Theodore Watts has stabbed so many of us in -the back anonymously in the _Athenæum_, he daren’t bring out his -novel. He can never say anything bad enough about a ‘minor poet,’ -as he scornfully calls us, but he knows that some of us do a little -reviewing, and that we are waiting for him to publish his book that -we may get a bit of our own back.” - -It so happened that I had in my pocket that morning a letter from -Watts-Dunton deprecating the slating in the _Athenæum_ of a book of -minor poetry by a friend of mine, and I remembered a sentence in the -letter. “By minor poet, meaning apparently a new and unknown poet,” -which prefaced a generous if discriminating and critical appreciation -of my friend’s poems. - -To intrude into a conversation between strangers was, of course, as -much out of the question as to make known to others, without first -obtaining the writer’s permission, the contents of a letter written -to myself. Otherwise I could easily have convinced the aggrieved -young poet, not only that it was not Theodore Watts who had cut up -his book, but that so far from being a literary Herod and a slayer of -the poetic innocent, he was, as a matter of fact, Herod’s literary -antithesis. As the writer of the letter and those mentioned in it are -no longer with us, no harm can be done by printing part of it here: - -“Like the rest of us, our Philip was mortal, and, like all of us, he -could be harsh. I got Maccoll to let him review the minor bards. He -was so terribly severe upon most of them that I was miserable; and I -fear that I had to ask Maccoll to be chary in sending them to him, -or at least I got M. to remonstrate with him for his extreme and -unaccountable harshness. My sympathies, as you know, are all with the -younger men. I love to see a young poet, or for the matter of that -_any_ young writer, get recognition. - -“Robinson is the only fogey-brother I boom. Please tell him when -you see him that if I do not write to him much, it is not because -of any cooling of love. Thirty years ago he knew me for the worst -correspondent in the world. The first letter he ever wrote to me -(in sending me his novel _No Church_) I answered at the end of six -months. I wish I could help it, but I can’t. My friends have to take -me with all my infirmities on my head.” - -“Our Philip,” I may say, was Philip Bourke Marston, the blind -poet; “Robinson” was F. W. Robinson, the novelist--both friends -of Watts-Dunton and mine--“Maccoll” was the then editor of the -_Athenæum_. - -Had I known Watts-Dunton better (it was in the early days of our -long friendship that this Coffee House incident happened), I should -studiously have refrained from mentioning the matter to him. But -thinking it would do no more than amuse him, I was so unwise as -to tell the story over the luncheon table. Swinburne was vastly -amused, and rallied his friend gleefully for being what he described -as “the ogre of suckling bardlings,” but Watts-Dunton was visibly -distressed, and took it so much to heart that I had cause to regret -my indiscretion. He brooded over it and rumbled menacingly over -it, recurring to the matter again and again, until lunch was over, -vowing that it mattered nothing to him what this or that “writing -fellow” thought of him as a fellow writer, but that to be credited -with cruelty, and with willingness to give pain, to the younger -generation, with whom he was so entirely in sympathy, was monstrous, -was unthinkable, and was cause for cursing the day he had ever -consented to review for the _Athenæum_. - -Here are some extracts from another letter in which he reverts to the -matter, and also incidentally gives an interesting peep of Swinburne -and himself on holiday: - -“The crowning mistake of my life, a life that has been full of -mistakes, I fear, was in drifting into the position of literary -reviewer to a journal, and not drifting out for a quarter of a -century. I not only squandered my efforts, but made unconsciously a -thousand enemies in the literary world whom I can never hope now to -appease until death comes to my aid. Swinburne sends you his kind -regards. He and I are here staying at one of the lovely places in -the Isle of Wight, belonging to his aunt, Lady Mary Gordon. It is a -fairy place. Her late husband’s father took one of the most romantic -spots of the Undercliff and turned the shelves of debris into the -loveliest Italian garden reaching down to the sea. It is so shut in -from the land that it can be seen only from the sea. It puts, as I -always say, Edgar Poe’s _Domain of Arnheim_ into the shade. I know of -nothing in the world so lovely. I have been writing a few sonnets, -but Swinburne does nothing but bathe.” - -This reference to Swinburne idling reminds me of another letter I -received from Watts-Dunton, in which he pictures yet another great -poet, Tennyson, hard at work and at eighty-two. The letter has no -bearing on the matter immediately under discussion, but by way of -contrast I venture to include it here: - - ALDWORTH, HASLEMERE, SURREY, - _26th Sept., ’91_. - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - My best thanks for your most kind letter which has been forwarded - to me here where I am staying with Tennyson. When I get home I - will write to suggest a day for us to meet at Putney. Tennyson, - with whom I took a long walk of three miles this morning, is in - marvellous health, every faculty (at 82) is as bright as it was - when his years were 40. He is busy writing poetry as fine as - anything he has ever written. He read out to me last night three - poems which of themselves would suffice to make a poet’s fame. - Really he is a miracle. This is a lovely place--I don’t know how - many miles above the level of the sea--bracing to a wonderful - degree. - - Ever yours, - THEODORE WATTS. - -The accepted tradition of Watts-Dunton as what Swinburne had called -the ogre of the _Athenæum_ goaded him, was a bugbear and a purgatory -to him to his very life’s end. - -“I see that you mention Mr. William Watson as a friend of yours,” he -wrote to me. “---- who was here the other day, greatly vexed and even -distressed me by telling me that Mr. Watson is under the impression -that I have written disparagingly of his work. Why, it was I who at -a moment, when Rossetti refused to look at any book sent to him, -persuaded him to read _The Prince’s Quest_ years ago, and got him -to write to the author (for though a bad correspondent myself, I am -exemplary in persuading my friends to be good ones). It was I who -wrote to Fisher Unwin when he sent me _Wordsworth’s Grave_, urging -him to reprint _The Prince’s Quest_.” - -Not once but a score of times he spoke to me of his high admiration -of some of Mr. Watson’s poems, as well as of poems by Stephen -Phillips, John Davidson, Mrs. Clement Shorter, and many others of the -younger poets. His championship of a certain other writer of verse -who shall be nameless, involved him in a controversy which was like -to end in a personal severance between himself and his correspondent. - -“What you said about ---- is specially amusing,” he wrote, “because -on the very morning after you were here I got a letter from an -acquaintance abusing me to such a degree that I am by no means -sure it will not end in a personal severance. And all because -I was backing up one whom he describes as the most impudent -self-advertising man that has ever claimed to be a poet. According -to the irate one, he has nobbled not only New Grub Street complete, -but also sub-edits the ---- and writes himself up there, and devotes -his time to paragraphing himself in the ----! I pointed out in my -answer that to me, who do not read these organs, save slightly, that -the question of physical power and time presented itself and made me -sceptical as to the possibility of a man who has produced many verses -of late, and good ones to boot, being such a prolific rival of Mr. -Pears and Mr. Colman, and as I said so in rather a chaffy way, my -correspondent has taken umbrage. But oh, ‘these writing fellows!’ as -Wellington used to call the knights of the ink-horn.” - -I suspect that it was what Watts-Dunton calls his “chaffy way” more -than his championship of the verse-maker which gave offence to -his correspondent. His humour was of the old-fashioned Dickensian -sort, but heavier of foot, more cumbrous of movement, occasionally -somewhat grim, and rumbling, like distant thunder, over a drollery. -It is possible that what he meant for playful raillery at his -correspondent’s exasperation that a verse-maker should enter into a -competition with Mr. Colman and Mr. Pears, by advertising his wares -in the same way that they advertise mustard or soap, was taken as a -seriously meant reproof. Be that as it may, for I did not hear the -sequel of the controversy, Watts-Dunton, so far from being the ogre -he was painted, was, on the contrary, something of a fairy godmother -to many a young and struggling poet of parts. But even so he found -that poets not of the first rank are hard to please. - -Acknowledging the receipt of a presentation copy of verses from an -acquaintance of his and mine, I chanced to inquire whether Theodore -Watts was likely to review the book in the _Athenæum_. “God forbid!” -wrote the poet in reply. “If so, he would simply make my unfortunate -book the peg upon which to hang a wonderful literary robe of spun -silk and fine gold. He would begin--omitting all mention of me or my -book--with some generalisation, some great first principle, whether -of life, literature, science or art, no one, other than himself or -the God who made him, could ever be sure beforehand. In his hands it -would be absorbingly fresh, learned, illuminative and fascinating. -Thence he would launch out into an essay, incomparable in knowledge -and in scholarship, that would deal with everything in heaven or on -earth, in this world or the next, other than my unhappy little book. -He would, in fact, open up so many worlds of wonder and romance, in -which to lose himself, that I should think myself fortunate if, at -the end of his review, I found my name as much as mentioned, and -should count myself favoured were there as much as one whole line in -the whole four page essay in the _Athenæum_ about my little book.” - -I am free to admit that there is much that is true in the analysis -of Watts-Dunton’s method of reviewing, and that he was aware of this -himself will be seen by my next quotation. It so happened that he -did, much pressed though he was at the time, put his own work aside, -and review the book in question in the _Athenæum_. He did so from the -single desire to forward the interests of a young poet. - -Here is part of a letter which he afterwards sent to me upon the -subject. The review itself I did not see, but that it was upon the -lines anticipated and failed to satisfy the poet in question is very -clear. - -“My method of reviewing, though it is well understood by the -more famous men, does not seem to please and to satisfy the less -distinguished ones; and this makes me really timid about reviewing -any of them. But I believe, indeed I am sure, that my methods of -using a book as an illustration of some first principle in criticism -gives it more importance, attracts to it more attention than any more -businesslike review article of the ordinary kind would, because my -speciality is known to be that of dealing with first principles. - -“I am just off again to Dursley in Gloucestershire to visit, with -Swinburne, his mother and sister, who are staying there. - -“I think I have satisfied myself that Shakespeare’s evident -familiarity with Gloucestershire is owing to his having stayed at -Dursley with one of the Shakespeares who was living there during his -lifetime. The Gloucestershire names of people mentioned by him are -still largely represented at Dursley and the neighbourhood, and the -description of the outlook toward Berkeley is amazingly accurate.” - -But Watts-Dunton had cause to regret his kindly action in departing -from his almost invariable rule to review only poets of the first -standing, nor was he allowed, free from irritating distractions, -peacefully to pursue his researches into Shakespeare’s associations -with Gloucestershire. The poet wrote again--this time to complain -that the review was not sufficiently eulogistic. Watts-Dunton sent me -the letter with the following comment: - -“What the devil would these men have? I suppose we are all to fall at -their feet as soon as they have written a few good verses and discuss -them as we discuss Sophocles, Æschylus, and Sappho. Does this not -corroborate what Swinburne was saying to you the other day about the -modesty of the first-rate poet and the something else of the others?” - -After Watts-Dunton’s return from Gloucester, I was lunching with -Swinburne and himself at The Pines, and the aggrieved poet called -in person while I was there. Swinburne, who hated to make a new -acquaintance, and not only resolutely refused himself to every one, -but, when Watts-Dunton had visitors with whom he was unacquainted, -frequently betook himself to his own sanctum upstairs until they were -gone, happened that morning to be in an impish mood. At any other -time he would have stormed at the bare suggestion of admitting the -man to the house. But on this particular morning he took a Puck-like -delight in the hornets’ nest which Watts-Dunton had brought about -his ears by what Swinburne held to be an undeserved honour and -kindness to an undeserving and ungrateful scribbler, and he wished, -or pretended to wish, that the poet be admitted. He vowed, and before -heaven, that a windy encounter between the “grave and great-browed -critic of the _Athenæum_” and the “browsing and long-eared bardling -with a grievance” would be as droll as a comedy scene from _A -Midsummer Night’s Dream_. - -Watts-Dunton--outwardly smiling indulgently at his friend’s whimsical -and freakish mood, but inwardly by no means regarding the matter in -the light of a jest, and not a little chafed and sore--declined to -see the caller then or at any other time. - -“Reviewing poets other than those of the first rank,” he protested, -“is the most thankless task on God’s earth. The smaller the man is -intellectually, the harder, the more impossible he is to please, -and the greedier he is of unstinted adulation. Strain your critical -sense and your generosity to the point of comparing him to Marlowe or -Marvell, and he will give you to understand that his work has more -of the manner of Shelley. Compare him to Shelley, and the odds are -he will grumble that it wasn’t Shakespeare, and I’m not sure that -some of them would rest contented with that. I have tried to do a -kindness, and I have succeeded only in making an enemy. That fellow -is implacable. He will pursue me with hatred to the end of my life.” - -Yet in this particular instance, as in many others, Watts-Dunton’s -error had been only on the side of excessive generosity, for which -Swinburne had taken him to task. Swinburne himself, it is idle to -say, was a Jupiter in his judgments. He was ready to vacate his -own throne and hail one poet as a god, or utterly to overwhelm -another with a hurled avalanche of scorn. But at least he reserved -his laudation and his worship, or else his “volcanic wrath” and -thunderbolts, for his masters and his peers. He delivered judgment -uninfluenced by the personal element or by kindly sentiment and easy -good nature. Watts-Dunton’s good-hearted efforts to find something -to praise in the work even of little men occasionally annoyed -Swinburne, and drew the fire of his withering criticism upon the -target of their work. It was the one and only thing upon which I -knew them to differ, and in this connection I should like to add a -word upon the relationship which existed between these two brothers -in friendship and in song. Ideal as was that relationship, it had -this drawback--that it tended to “standardize,” if I may so phrase -it, their prejudices upon purely personal, as apart from critical or -intellectual issues. - -Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks in _The Professor at the Breakfast -Table_ of “that slight inclination of two persons with a strong -affinity towards each other, throwing them a little out of plumb when -they sit side by side together.” - -This saying has a mental as well as a physical application. It is -surprising, as I have elsewhere said, how entirely Watts-Dunton’s -individuality remained uninfluenced by his close association with -two men of such strongly-marked and extraordinary individuality as -Rossetti and Swinburne. One reservation must, however, be made. On -certain personal matters the plumb of Watts-Dunton’s judgment was apt -slightly to be deflected out of line by Swinburne’s denunciation. If -Swinburne thundered an anathema against some one who had provoked -his wrath, Watts-Dunton, even if putting in a characteristically -indulgent word for the offender, was inclined--if unconsciously and -against his better judgment--to view the matter in the same light. - -Similarly, if Watts-Dunton had some small cause of complaint--it -might even be a fancied cause of complaint--and Swinburne heard -of it, the latter’s attachment to his friend caused him so to -trumpet his anger as to magnify the matter to undue importance in -Watts-Dunton’s eyes as well as in his own. - -In this way and in this way only the association between Watts-Dunton -and Swinburne was to the advantage of neither, as the mind of the one -reacted sometimes upon the mind of the other to produce prejudice -and to impair judgment. I have no thought or intention of belittling -either in saying this. It is no service to the memory of a friend -to picture him as a superman and superior to all human weakness. -But if Watts-Dunton was not without his prejudices and literary -dislike, he was as a critic the soul of honour, and would not write -a line in review of the work of the man or woman concerning whom he -had justly or unjustly already formed an unfavourable opinion. As a -reviewer he set a standard which we should do well to maintain. He -was no Puritan. To him everything in life was spiritually symbolic, -and nothing was of itself common or unclean. The article in which -he dealt with Sterne’s indecencies shirks nothing that needed to be -said upon the subject, but says it in such a way as to recall Le -Gallienne’s happy definition of purity--as the power to touch pitch -while remaining undefiled--for in all Watts-Dunton’s spoken no less -than in his written word, there was no single passage, no single -line, which one could on that score regret. In his poems the red -flambeau of passion and the white taper of purity burn side by side -on one altar. His innate love of purity, his uncompromising attitude -towards everything suggestive or unclean, were among his most marked -characteristics as writer and as man. It is well for literature that -one of the greatest critics of our day should have thus jealously -guarded the honour of the mistress whom he served. As a poet, he was -of the company of those who, in his own words: - - Have for muse a maiden free from scar, - Who knows how beauty dies at touch of sin. - -He kept unsullied the white shield of English Literature, and his -influence for good is none the less lasting and real because it can -never be estimated. - - - - -WHY THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON PUBLISHED ONLY TWO BOOKS - - -With the exception of a few articles and poems reprinted in brochure -form from encyclopædias and periodicals, Watts-Dunton in his lifetime -published two books only--_Aylwin_ and _The Coming of Love_. A -successor to the former is in existence, and will shortly be issued -by Mr. John Lane. Were Watts-Dunton still alive, the book would, I am -convinced, even now be in manuscript. Part definitely with a book, -that it might go to press, he would not, so long as a chance remained -of holding on to it, to dovetail in a poem or a prose passage, -perhaps from something penned many years ago, or to rewrite, amend, -or omit whole chapters. I have seen proofs of his as bewildering in -the matter of what printers call “pulling copy about” as a jigsaw -puzzle. _Aylwin_ itself represents no one period of the author’s -lifetime, but all his literary life, up to the actual final passing -for press. - -This is true also of the new book _Carniola_, commenced, under the -title of _Balmoral_, as far back as the days before Watts-Dunton left -St. Ives to come to London, and, upon it, he was more or less at work -up to the last. It takes its new title from the hero, who, the son of -an English father and an Hungarian mother, was christened Carniola, -after the Hungarian town of that name where he was born. - -The story I have not read in its entirety, but I know that -Watts-Dunton considered the love interest stronger even than in -_Aylwin_, and his pictures of life more varied and painted in upon a -wider canvas. - -The portions I have seen strike me--remembering, as has already been -said, how little Watts-Dunton’s personality and literary manner -were influenced by any of the great contemporaries with whom he was -intimately associated--as more Borrovian than anything else he has -written. - -This applies particularly to the conversations. Unlike some later -novelists, who aim at crispness in conversational passages, by so -“editing” what is said as to “cut” the inevitable and necessary -commonplaces of conversation, and record only what is witty, -epigrammatic and to the point, Watts-Dunton, like Borrow, sets all -down exhaustively--the “give and take” of small talk, with all the -“I saids” and “he saids” in full, and with illuminating little -descriptions of the gestures and feelings of the speaker. - -This gives a reality and naturalness to the dialogue, which we -miss, for all their smartness, crispness, and epigram, in the work -of certain more modern novelists, reading whom, one is inclined to -wonder whether two ordinary mortals ever did, in real life, rattle -off, impromptu, quite so many brilliant repartees, and clever -epigrams, in so short a time. - -Very Borrovian too are the open-air and nature-loving passages of -_Carniola_, and the gypsy scenes of which there are many. Readers of -_Aylwin_ will be interested to meet with a gypsy girl, Klari, drawn -from real life, who, in Watts-Dunton’s opinion, is more beautiful -and more attractive than Sinfi Lovell of _Aylwin_ and _The Coming -of Love_. Those who had any personal knowledge, or have read the -books, of one of the most fascinating and romantic figures and fine -scholars of his time, the late Francis Hinde Groome, will find him -drawn--Watts-Dunton believed faithfully--in the character of Stormont. - -Another striking piece of characterisation is the wheelwright, -Martin, whose “religiosity”--not to be confounded with the sincerity -and unselfishness of a truly religious man or woman--is narrow, -self-seeking, cruel, and Calvinistic. - -“Make a success--and run away from it!” said a great and experienced -publisher to me one day. Watts-Dunton made a great success with -_Aylwin_. It will be interesting to see whether by following _Aylwin_ -with a second novel of Bohemian life--the character on which he -has lavished most care is that of an Hungarian gypsy, a Punch and -Judy showman, and the scene is laid partly in England and partly in -Hungary--Watts-Dunton will prove the publisher to be, in this case at -least, wrong. - -The rest of Watts-Dunton’s contributions to literature must be sought -for in back numbers of the reviews, magazines and critical journals, -and as Introductory Studies and Essays prefixed to reprints. That a -man of his enormous and many-sided knowledge should apply himself to -the craft of letters practically from early manhood to extreme old -age, and leave only two published volumes behind him, establishes -surely a record in these days of over-publication. One cannot wonder -that his readers and admirers should ask that he be more adequately -represented on their bookshelves by the collection, into permanent -volume form, of his many incomparable articles and essays. Until that -is done, I may perhaps be permitted to point out that in a sense -such a work already exists. The literary harvest of Watts-Dunton’s -life has been reaped, winnowed, and garnered into one volume which, -indeed, is not only a volume but a Watts-Dunton library in itself. - -I refer of course to Mr. James Douglas’s _Theodore Watts-Dunton, -Poet, Novelist and Critic_, a work which with all its faults, and -it has many, is of remarkable interest. I do not say this because -Mr. Douglas has told us everything that can be told, and much that -it was unnecessary to tell about the life and work, the memorable -friendships and the literary methods of the author of _Aylwin_, but -because Mr. Douglas has with infinite care and pains harvested, -sifted, winnowed, and gleaned the whole field of Watts-Dunton’s -literary labours. The portion of the book in which the fine gold -of his writings upon Wonder as the primal Element in all religion; -upon the first awakenings in the soul of man of a sense of Wonder, -or perhaps I should say upon the awakening, the birth, of a soul -in man by means of Wonder; the noble exposition of the Psalms, the -Prayer Book, and of the Bible in its relation to the soul and to -the Universe; the analysis of Humour; the portions that deal with -Nature and Nature-Worship; with the methods and Art of great writers -in poetry and prose, and with First Principles generally--these in -themselves and by themselves make Mr. Douglas’s book unique. - -I am not sure, indeed, that it will not eventually do more for -Watts-Dunton’s reputation as a thinker than the publication of a -whole library of his collected writings. For in his contributions to -the periodical Press, Watts-Dunton is apt sometimes to be diffuse. -He becomes befogged, as it were, with the multitudinousness of his -own learning. His “cogitations”--the word is more applicable to most -of his work than “essays”--were so prodigious, branched out into -such innumerable but always fascinating and pregnant side issues, -as to bewilder the ordinary reader. In Mr. Douglas’s book with -such judgment are the passages selected, that we get the best of -Watts-Dunton in a comparatively small compass, clarified, condensed, -and presented with cameo clearness. It contains, I admit, not a -little with which I would willingly away. I tire sometimes of gypsies -and gorgios and Sinfi Lovell, as I tire of the recurrence of the -double-syllabled feminine rhyming of “glory” and “story,” “hoary” and -“promontory,” in some of the sonnets. - -Mr. Douglas quotes Rossetti as affirming of Watts-Dunton that he -was the one man of his time who with immense literary equipment was -without literary ambition. This may be true of the Theodore Watts of -Rossetti’s time. It is not altogether true of the Watts-Dunton whom I -knew during the last quarter of a century. - -The extraordinary success of _Aylwin_, published, be it -remembered--though some of us had been privileged to see it long -before--in 1898, when the author was 66, bewildered and staggered -Watts-Dunton, but the literary ambitions which that success aroused -came too late in life to be realised. Though a prodigious and -untiring worker, he was unsystematic and a dreamer. The books that -he intended to write would have outnumbered the unwritten volumes of -Robert Louis Stevenson. Had Stevenson lived longer, his dream-books -would one day have materialised into manuscript and finally into -paper and print. He was one of those whom Jean Paul Richter had in -mind when he said: “There shall come a time when man shall awaken -from his lofty dreams and find--his dreams still there, and that -nothing has gone save his sleep.” Stevenson worked by impulse. His -talk and his letters--like too plenteously-charged goblets, which -brim over and run to waste--were full of stories he was set upon -writing, but from which on the morrow he turned aside to follow some -literary Lorelei whose lurings more accorded with the mood of the -moment. - -“I shall have another portfolio paper so soon as I am done with this -story that has played me out,” he wrote to Sir Sidney Colvin in -January, 1875. “The story is to be called _When the Devil was Well_. -Scene, Italy, Renaissance; colour, purely imaginary of course, my own -unregenerate idea of what Italy then was. O, when shall I find the -story of my dreams, that shall never halt nor wander one step aside, -but go ever before its face and ever swifter and louder until the pit -receives its roaring?” - -But Stevenson worked of set purpose, and, for the most part, sooner -or later in another mood, went rainbow-chasing again, hoping to -find--like the pot of gold which children believe lies hidden where -the rainbow ends--his broken fragments of a dream that he might -recover and weave them into story form. - -Sometimes he succeeded; sometimes he found that the vision had wholly -faded, or that the mood to interpret it had gone, and so more often -he failed. But Watts-Dunton was content only to dream and, alas, to -procrastinate, at least in the matter of screwing himself up to the -preparation of a book. In that respect he was the despair even of his -dearest friends. - -Francis Hinde Groome wrote to me as far back as January, 1896: - -“Watts, I hope, has _not_ definitely abandoned the idea of a Life of -Rossetti, or he might, he suggests, weave his reminiscences of him -into his own reminiscences. But I doubt. The only way, I believe, -would be for some one regularly day after day to engage him in talk -for a couple of hours and for a shorthand writer to be present to -take it down. If I had the leisure I would try and incite him thereto -myself.” - -I agree with Groome that that was the only way out of the difficulty. -Left to himself, I doubt whether Watts-Dunton would ever have -permitted even _Aylwin_, ready for publication as it was, to see the -light. Of the influences which were brought to bear to persuade him -ultimately to take the plunge, and by whom exerted, no less than of -the reasons why the book was so long withheld, I shall not here -write. Mr. Douglas says nothing of either matter in his book, and the -presumption is that he was silent by Watts-Dunton’s own wish. This, -however, I may add, that were the reasons for withholding the book -so long fully known, they would afford yet another striking proof of -the chivalrous loyalty of Watts-Dunton’s friendship. One reason--it -is possible that even Mr. Douglas is not aware of it, for it dates -back to a time when he did not know Watts-Dunton, and I have reason -to believe that the author of _Aylwin_ spoke of it only at the time, -and then only to a few intimates, nearly all of whom are now dead--I -very much regret I do not feel free to make known. It would afford an -unexampled instance of Watts-Dunton’s readiness to sacrifice his own -interests and inclinations, in order to assist a friend--in this case -not a famous, but a poor and struggling one. - -If his unwillingness to see his own name on the back of a book was -a despair to his friends, it must have been even more so to some -half-dozen publishers who might be mentioned. The enterprising -publisher who went to him with some literary project, Watts-Dunton -“received,” in the words of the late Mr. Harry Fragson’s amusing -song, “most politely.” At first he hummed and haw’d and rumpled his -hair protesting that he had not the time at his disposal to warrant -him in accepting a commission to write a book. But if the proposed -book were one that he could write, that he ought to write, he became -sympathetically responsive and finally glowed, like fanned tinder, -touched by a match, under the kindling of the publisher’s pleading. -“Yes,” he would say. “I cannot deny that I could write such a book. -Such a book, I do not mind saying in confidence, has long been in my -mind, and in the mind of friends who have repeatedly urged me to such -work.” The fact is that Watts-Dunton was gratified by the request and -did not disguise his pleasure, for with all his vast learning and -acute intellect there was a singular and childlike simplicity about -him that was very lovable. Actually accept a commission to write the -book in question he would not, but he was not unwilling to hear the -proposed terms, and in fact seemed so attracted by, and so interested -in, the project that the pleased publisher would leave, conscious -of having done a good morning’s work, and of having been the first -to propose, and so practically to bespeak, a book that was already -almost as good as written, already almost as good as published, -already almost as good as an assured success. Perhaps he chuckled at -the thought of the march he had stolen on his fellow publishers, who -would envy him the inclusion of such a book in his list. Possibly, -even, he turned in somewhere to lunch, and, as the slang phrase goes, -“did himself well” on the strength of it. - -But whatever the publisher’s subsequent doings, the chances were -that Watts-Dunton went back to his library, to brood over the idea, -very likely to write to some of us whose advice he valued, or more -likely still to telegraph, proposing a meeting to discuss the project -(I had not a few such letters and telegrams from him myself); -perhaps in imagination to see the book written and published; but -ultimately and inevitably--to procrastinate and in the end to let the -proposal lapse. Like the good intentions with which, according to the -proverb, the road to perdition is paved, Watts-Dunton’s book-writing -intentions, if intentions counted, would in themselves go far to -furnish a fat corner of the British Museum Library. That he never -carried these intentions into effect is due to other reasons than -procrastination. - -It is only fair to him to remember that his life-work, his _magnum -opus_, must be looked for not in literature but in friendship. -Stevenson’s life-work was his art. “I sleep upon my art for a -pillow,” he wrote to W. E. Henley. “I waken in my art; I am unready -for death because I hate to leave it. I love my wife, I do not know -how much, nor can, nor shall, unless I lost her; but while I can -conceive of being widowed, I refuse the offering of life without my -art; I _am_ not but in my art; it is me; I am the body of it merely.” - -Watts-Dunton’s life-work, I repeat, was not literature nor poetry, -but friendship. Stevenson sacrificed himself in nothing for his -friends. On the contrary, he looked to them to sacrifice something -of time and interest and energy on his behalf. Watts-Dunton’s whole -life was one long self-sacrifice--I had almost written one fatal -self-sacrifice--of his own interests, his own fame, in the cause of -his friends. His best books stand upon our shelves in every part -of the English-speaking world, but the name that appears upon the -cover is not that of Theodore Watts-Dunton, but of Dante Gabriel -Rossetti and Algernon Charles Swinburne. He wrote no Life of either, -but how much of their life and of their life’s best work we owe to -Watts-Dunton we shall never know. Their death was a cruel blow to -him; but, had he died first, the loss to Rossetti and to Swinburne -would have been terrible and irreparable. Just as, to Stevenson, -life seemed almost unimaginable without his art, so I find it hard, -almost impossible, to picture Swinburne’s life at The Pines, failing -the sustaining and brotherly presence of Watts-Dunton. Often, when -Watts-Dunton was ailing, I have come away from there with a sinking -at my heart lest it should be Watts-Dunton who died first, and I can -well believe that, long ago, a like dread sometimes possessed those -who loved Rossetti. Cheerfully and uncomplainingly, Watts-Dunton gave -his own life and his own life’s work for them, and his best book is -the volume of his devotion to his friends. - -The sum of that devotion will never fully be known, but it was as -much at the service of the unknown, or those who were only little -known among us, as of the famous. He had his enemies--“the hated -of New Grub Street” was his playful description of himself--and -some of them have not hesitated to hint that he attached himself -barnacle-wise or parasite-wise to greater men than himself for -self-seeking reasons. Borne thither on their backs--it was sometimes -said--he was able to sun himself upon Parnassian heights, otherwise -unattainable; and being in their company, and of their company, he -hoped thus to attract to himself a little of their reflected glory. -The truth is that it was not their abilities nor their fame which -drew Watts-Dunton to Rossetti and to Swinburne, but his love of the -men themselves, and his own genius for friendship. Being the men they -were, he would first have been drawn to them, and thereafter have -come to love them just as wholly and devotedly had they to the end of -their lives remained obscure. - -So far from seeking the company or the friendship of the great, he -delighted in making friends in humble ranks of life. - -Anyone who has accompanied Watts-Dunton on a morning walk will -remember a call here at a cottage, a shop, or it may be an inn -where lived some enthusiastic but poor lover of books, birds or -children, and the glad and friendly greetings that were exchanged. -If, as occasionally happened, some great person--great in a social -sense, I mean--happened to be a caller at The Pines, when perhaps a -struggling young author, painter, or musician, in whom Watts-Dunton -was interested or was trying to help, happened to be there, one -might be sure that, of the two, it would not be the great man who -would be accorded the warmer greeting by Watts-Dunton and--after -his marriage--by his gracious, beautiful and accomplished young -wife. What he once said of Tennyson is equally true of Watts-Dunton -himself. “When I first knew Tennyson,” he said, “I was, if possible, -a more obscure literary man than I now am, and he treated me with -exactly the same manly respect that he treated the most illustrious -people.” Watts-Dunton who, in his poems and in his conversation, -could condense into a sentence what many of us could not as -felicitously convey in a page, puts the whole matter into two -words, “manly respect.” Unless he had good cause to do otherwise, -he, no less than Tennyson, was prepared to treat others with “manly -respect,” irrespective of fame, riches, or rank. That is the attitude -neither entirely of the aristocrat nor of the democrat, but of the -gentleman to whom what we call “snobbishness” is impossible. - -One more reason why Watts-Dunton’s contribution to “Letters” in -the publishers’ lists runs to no greater extent than two volumes, -is that so many of his contributions to “Letters” took the form of -epistles to his friends. The writing of original, characteristic and -charming letters--brilliant by reason of vivid descriptive passages, -valuable because used as a means of expressing criticism or conveying -knowledge--is an art now so little practised as likely soon to be -lost. - -Watts-Dunton’s letter writing was possibly the outcome of his habit -of procrastination. To put off the settling down in dead earnest to -some work which he felt ought to be done, but at which he “shied,” he -would suddenly remember a letter which he thought should be penned. -“I must write So-and-so a line first,” he would say, which line, when -it came to be written, proved to be an essay in miniature, in which -he had--carelessly, and free from the irking consciousness that he -was writing for publication and so must mind his words--thrown off -some of his weightiest and wisest thoughts. He protested throughout -his life that he was a wickedly bad correspondent. None the less -he wrote so many charming and characteristic letters that, could -they--and why not?--be collected, they would add yet another to the -other reputations he attained. - -Swinburne, in recent years at least, did not share his friend’s -predilection for letter writing. The author of _Atalanta in -Calydon_ once said to me, almost bitterly, that had he in early and -middle life refrained from writing and from answering unnecessary -letters--unnecessary in the sense that there was no direct call or -claim upon him to write or to answer them--there would be at least -twelve more volumes by him, and of his best, in the publishers’ -lists. One letter which arrived when I was a guest at The Pines led -Swinburne to expound his theory of letter answering. It was from a -young woman personally unknown to him, and began by saying that a -great kindness he had once done to her father emboldened her to ask -a favour to herself--what it was I now forget, but it necessitated a -somewhat lengthy reply. - -“The fact that I have been at some pains to serve the father, so far -from excusing a further claim by the daughter, is the very reason -why, by any decent member of that family, I should not again be -assailed,” Swinburne expostulated. - -“She says,” he went on, “that she trusts I won’t think she is -asking too much, in hoping that I will answer her letter--a letter -which does not interest me, nor concern me in the least. She could -have got the information, for which she asks, elsewhere with very -little trouble to herself and none to me. The exasperating thing -about such letters,” he continued, getting more and more angry, “is -this. I feel that the letter is an unwarrantable intrusion. Out -of consideration to her father I can’t very well say so, as one -does not wish to seem churlish. But, in any sense, to answer her -letter, necessitates writing at length, thus wasting much precious -time, to say nothing of the chance of being dragged into further -correspondence. It is one’s impotency to make such folk see things -reasonably which irritates. I have to suppress that irritation, -and that results in further irritation. I am irritated with myself -for being irritated, for not taking things philosophically as -Watts-Dunton does, as well as irritated with her, and the result is -the spoiling of a morning’s work. She will say perhaps, and you may -even say, ‘It is only one letter you are asked to write.’ Quite so. -Not much, perhaps, to make a fuss about. But” (he pounded the table -with clenched fist angrily) “multiply that one person by the many who -so write, and the net total works out to an appalling waste of time.” - -My reply was to remind him of N. P. Willis’s protest that to ask a -busy author to write an unnecessary letter was like asking a postman -to go for a ten miles’ walk--to which I added, “when he has taken -his boots off.” Swinburne had never heard the saying, and, with -characteristic veering of the weather-vane of his mood, forgot alike -his letter-writing lady and his own irritation, in his delight at a -fellow sufferer’s happy hit. - -“Capital!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together gleefully. -“Capital! The worm has turned, and shows that, worm as he is, he is -not without a sting in his tail!” - -In his later years Swinburne wrote few letters except to a relative, -a very intimate friend, or upon some pressing business. The uninvited -correspondent he rarely answered at all. For every letter that -Swinburne received, Watts-Dunton probably received six, and sooner -or later he answered all. The amount of time that went in letters, -which in no way concerned his own work, or his own interests, and -were penned only out of kindness of heart, was appalling. Had he -refrained from writing letters intended to hearten or to help some -friend or some young writer, or to soften a disappointment, the books -that are lost to us--a Life of Rossetti, for instance--might well -be to the good. If a book by a friend happened to be badly slated -in a critical journal--and no calamity to a friend is borne with -more resignation and even cheerfulness by some of us who “write” -than a bad review of a friend’s book--Watts-Dunton, if he chanced to -see the slating, would put work aside, and sit down then and there -to indite to that friend a letter which helped and heartened him -or her much more than the slating had depressed. I have myself had -letters from fellow authors who told me they were moved to express -sympathy or indignation about this or that bad review of one of my -little books--the only effect of their letter being to rub salt into -the wound, and to make one feel how widely one’s literary nakedness -or even literary sinning had been proclaimed in the market place. -Watts-Dunton’s letters not only made one feel that the review in -question mattered nothing, but he would at the same time find -something to say about the merits of the work under review, which -not only took the gall out of the unfriendly critic’s ink, but had -the effect of setting one newly at work, cheered, relieved, and -nerved to fresh effort. - -I do not quote here any of these letters, as they are concerned only -with my own small writings, and so would be of no interest to the -reader. Instead, let me quote one I received from him on another -subject. A sister of mine sent me a sonnet in memory of a dead poet, -a friend of Watts-Dunton’s and mine, and, having occasion to write -to him on another matter, I enclosed it without comment. Almost by -return of post came the following note, in which he was at the pains, -unasked, to give a young writer the benefit of his weighty criticism -and encouragement: - - “My thanks for sending me your sister’s lovely sonnet. I had no - idea that she was a genuine poet. It is only in the seventh line - where I see an opening for improvement. - - To _a_ great/darkness and/in a/great light. - - It is an error to suppose that when the old scansion by quantity - gave place to scansion by accent, the quantitative demands upon a - verse became abrogated. A great deal of attention to quantity is - apparent in every first-rate line-- - - The sleepless soul that perished in its prime, - - where by making the accent and the quantity meet (and quantity, - I need not remind you, is a matter of consonants quite as much - as of vowels) all the strength that can be got into an iambic - English verse is fixed there. Although, of course, it would make - a passage monotonous if in every instance quantity and accent - were made to meet, those who aim at the best versification give - great attention to it.” - -This is one instance only out of many of his interest in a young -writer who was then personally unknown to him; but in turning -over for the purpose of this article those letters of his, which -I have preserved, I have found so many similar reminders of his -great-heartedness that I am moved once again to apply to Theodore -Watts-Dunton the words in which many years ago I dedicated a book -to him. They are from James Payn’s _Literary Recollections_. “My -experience of men of letters is that for kindness of heart they have -no equal. I contrast their behaviour to the young and struggling, -with the harshness of the Lawyer, the hardness of the Man of -Business, the contempt of the Man of the World, and am proud to -belong to their calling.” - - - - -THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON - -AS AN AMATEUR IN AUTHORSHIP AND AS A GOOD FELLOW - -TWO SIDES OF HIS MANY-SIDEDNESS - - -The one thing of all others upon which Watts-Dunton set store was -good-fellowship, which he counted as of greater worth even than -genius. If ever he went critically astray, if ever intellectually he -overrated his man, it was because he allowed his heart to outride his -head. Once convince him that this or that young writer was a good -fellow, and, born critic though he was, even criticism went by the -board in Watts-Dunton’s intellectual estimate. If I illustrate this -by a personal experience it is not to speak of myself, but because, -though I have personal knowledge of many similar instances, in this -instance I have the “documents” in the case before me. It concerns -the circumstances by which I first came to know Watts-Dunton. - -In the New Year of 1885 there appeared the first number of a weekly -(afterwards a monthly) magazine with the somewhat infelicitous if -not feeble title of _Home Chimes_. It was edited and owned by F. W. -Robinson, then a popular novelist. To the first number Swinburne -and Theodore Watts contributed poems, and in that now dead and -forgotten venture the early work of many men and women who thereafter -became famous is to be found. For instance, Jerome K. Jerome’s _Idle -Thoughts of an Idle Fellow_ as well as his _Three Men in a Boat_ -first saw the light there. There, much of Sir James Barrie’s early -work appeared, for I once heard the author of _A Window in Thrums_ -say, though I do not suppose he meant to be taken too seriously, that -there was a time when to him “London” meant the place where _Home -Chimes_ was published. There, early work by Eden Phillpotts, Israel -Zangwill, G. B. Burgin, and a host of others who have since “come -into their own” was printed, and there, I may say incidentally, part -of my own first little book appeared. - -“Yes,” Robinson once said to me reminiscently, “it is true that -Jerome, Barrie, Phillpotts, Zangwill, Burgin and yourself all more -or less ‘came out’ in _Home Chimes_, but I have my doubts sometimes -whether the whole of you ever raised the sale of the magazine by so -much as a number.” - -“On the contrary,” I replied, “my own opinion is that, between us, we -killed it.” - -Be that as it may, Robinson lost heavily upon _Home Chimes_ and was -hit even harder by the death of the “three-decker”--I mean by the -ousting of novels in three volumes at thirty shillings in favour of -novels in one volume at six shillings. The change, indeed, caused -such a drop in his income that he decided to look about him for -another means of livelihood outside literature, and when, soon after, -an Inspectorship of H.M. Prisons became vacant, he decided to apply -for the appointment. For this he had special qualifications, as he -had for years closely and critically studied our Prison System and -had, in fact, written and published much upon the subject. Knowing -how eager he was, for pecuniary reasons, to secure the appointment, -and being anxious to do what I could to assist his candidature (I -plead guilty to “log-rolling” in this most justifiable instance), I -asked the late Mr. Passmore Edwards, proprietor and editor of the -_Echo_, the only halfpenny evening paper in those days, to let me -write a sketch of Robinson in the “Echo Portrait Gallery” to which I -was a contributor. In this sketch--it was signed “C. K.” merely--I -touched, purposely, upon Robinson’s close study and special knowledge -of the workings and defects of our Prison System. My article was seen -by Theodore Watts, who wrote Robinson a letter which the latter sent -on to me. It was as follows: - - MY DEAR ROBINSON, - - I have been delighted by a notice of you in the _Echo_, which I - am told is by Coulson Kernahan. That must be a charming fellow - who wrote it. Why don’t you collect your loyal supporters around - you (there are only two of us, Kernahan and Watts) over a little - dinner at your Club? - - Yours ever, - THEODORE WATTS. - -“Robinson, if you had not been the most modest and delicate-minded -man in contemporary literature, you would have trebled your fame and -trebled your income. That is what C. K. says of you, but I have said -it for a quarter of a century.” - -This was the beginning of my long friendship with Watts-Dunton, and -I enter thus fully into a merely trivial and personal matter for -the reason that the letter I have quoted is very characteristic of -the writer. “Good fellowship” was, I repeat, the first article in -Watts-Dunton’s creed. His very religion was based upon it. He once -said to me that were it not that some good men and women would see -irreverence where he meant none, and of which he was by temperament -and by his very sense of wonder incapable, he should like to write an -article “The Good-fellowship of God,” taking as his text the lines of -Omar Khayyám, in which the old tent-maker speaks of those who picture -a “surly” God: - - “And daub His Visage with the Smoke of Hell; - They talk of some strict testing of us--Pish! - He’s a Good Fellow and ’twill all be well. - -“To word it thus may sound profanely to some ears,” commented -Watts-Dunton, “but old Khayyám was only trying to express in his -pagan way--though I suspect there is as much of FitzGerald as of -Omar in the rendering--his belief in the loving Fatherhood of God -which is held by every Christian. In fact ‘good-fellowship’ stands -to Shakespeare’s ‘cakes-and-ale’-loving, and jolly fraternity, for -the ‘Human Brotherhood’ of which the stricter church and chapel going -folk speak, and I suspect that there is sometimes less acrimony and a -broader human outlook over cakes and ale in an inn than there is over -urn-stewed tea, bread and butter and buns in some of the Church or -Chapel Tea-meetings that went on when I was a boy.” - -My article about Robinson was merely an attempt to set out his -qualifications for the post of Inspector of Prisons. Those -qualifications were many and my space was limited. Hence the article -was as dull and stodgy a recital of facts as ever was written. There -was as much in it from which to infer that the writer was a “charming -fellow” as there is in a rice pudding by which to prove that the cook -can sing divinely. But Robinson was a “good fellow.” My article, -among other things, made that at least clear. According to the gospel -of good-fellowship as held by Watts-Dunton, a good fellow could be -appreciated only by a good fellow, just as he once wrote to me, “My -theory always is that a winsome style in prose comes from a man whose -heart is good.” I had shown appreciation of his friend, and, partisan -and hero of friendship that he was, he was willing to take the rest -on trust. Rightly to appreciate his friend was to win Watts-Dunton’s -heart at the start. - -One sometimes hears or sees it stated that Watts-Dunton was -indifferent alike to literary fame and to criticism, adverse or -favourable. No one who knew him other than very slightly could think -thus. Watts-Dunton was, in scriptural phrase, “a man in whom was no -guile.” He was transparently ingenuous of thought and purpose and did -not attempt to conceal his gratification at the success of _Aylwin_ -or the pleasure which a discriminating and sympathetic appreciation -afforded him. This only added to the respect and affection of his -friends. It would have wounded us to think that the man we bore -intellectually in such profound reverence, personally in such deep -affection, could play the _poseur_ and affect to despise the deserved -success and recognition which his work had won. W. E. Henley is said -to have thanked God that he had “never suffered the indignity of a -popular success.” Henley deserved success, popular or otherwise, if -ever writer did, for he never stooped to do less than his best, nor -sought to achieve by shoddy means the success which thus attained -is indeed to be despised. But a success deservedly won, even if a -so-called popular success, every writer in his heart desires. To -pretend otherwise is mere insincerity. It is not “playing the game,” -for even the pursuit of Letters is none the worse for a touch of the -English sporting spirit. It is indeed the chief reproach of those -of us who follow the craft of Letters that we are “artists” rather -than sportsmen. Englishmen fight the better and write the better for -seeing alike in writing and in fighting something of a “game.”[A] -Literature is a race in which every competitor hopes, and rightly, -to come in first. If he be fairly beaten on his merits, he will -admit and ungrudgingly, if a sportsman as well as a writer, that -the better man has won. This does not mean he is content tamely to -sit down under defeat. It means, on the contrary, harder work and -severer training, so that on other occasions, by redoubling his -exertions, he himself may be the man who wins on his merits. And if -he fail again and yet again, instead of sneering at the prize as -worthless, he will, if he ever heard it, recall the story of the -two artists. A very young painter, who afterwards became great, -stood in his obscure and struggling days, when no one had heard his -name or would look at his pictures, before the greatest canvas of -the greatest painter of the time. The grandeur of the work, alike -in conception and in execution, staggered him. Possibly there was -despair at his heart as he asked himself how could he, too poor for -proper opportunity of study, too poor even to afford a model, or to -buy oils, ever hope to emulate such a masterpiece as this. But at -least there was at his heart no meanness, no envy, no disposition -to belittle or to grudge the other his high place. Throwing back -his head, with flashing eyes and a throb in his voice he exclaimed -proudly, radiantly, “And I, too, am an artist!” - - [A] This was penned before the war. - -But when Henley, who strained and strained splendidly to carry -off the first prize--and missed--belittles its value, and would -have us to believe that he is better pleased to carry off “the -last event”--the “Consolation Prize”--of “never having suffered -the indignity of a popular success,” we distrust his sportsmanship -and his sincerity. Watts-Dunton never posed after that manner. He -was glad of his success and proud of it. It was because success, -instead of increasing his literary stature in his own eyes as -not infrequently happens, only made him increasingly modest and -diffident, that he was sometimes supposed to care nothing for his -literary laurels. In one respect his success was something of a -disappointment to him, not so much because it illustrated the truth -of Goethe’s saying--nearer seventy than sixty as Watts-Dunton was -when he achieved that success--“the wished-for comes too late,” but -because it was not the success he expected and to which he believed -himself most to be entitled. - -Mr. Douglas calls his book on Watts-Dunton _Theodore Watts-Dunton, -Poet, Novelist, and Critic_, and the description and the order in -which those descriptions appear were of Watts-Dunton’s own choosing. -It was first as a poet, secondly as a novelist, and only thirdly, -if at all, as a critic, that he wished and hoped to be remembered, -whereas those who held the balance of values in letters were inclined -to reverse that order and to place the critic first and the poet last. - -Watts-Dunton was--I would emphasise this point strongly--an amateur -in letters to the last, never the professional “literary man.” It is -because he was by temperament the amateur, not the professional, that -he took his success so seriously and did not conceal a certain almost -childlike gratification (which was not vanity) that it afforded -him. Your shrewd professional writer would have spent less time in -contemplation of his success, and more in seeking how best to exploit -and advertise that success to his professional advantage. - -Watts-Dunton, on the contrary, took the success of _Aylwin_ very much -as a young mother takes her firstling. He dandled it, toyed with it, -hugged it, not altogether without something of the wonder and the -awe with which a fond mother regards her firstborn. An amateur, as I -say, and to the last he could hardly believe his own ears, his own -eyes, at finding that his work had a high “market” value, and that -one publisher was ready to bid against another for his next book. -Truth to tell he was not a little flustered by it all. “Hostages to -posterity” of his sort carried responsibilities with them, not the -least of which was the expectation that he would follow up _Aylwin_ -with other books. I remember the portentous, almost troubled knitting -of his brows when perhaps a little maliciously I hinted that it -was no use his bringing out new editions of _Aylwin_, or brooding -over new prefaces for new editions of the same novel. “What your -public and your publishers demand from you,” I said, “is _Aylwin’s_ -successor, not new editions, but a new book.” - -“Ah!” he said with deep meaning--no one could put so much into an -“ah” as he--and, figuratively, collapsed. - - - - -ONE ASPECT OF THE MANY-SIDEDNESS OF THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON - - -I have often been asked by those who did not know Theodore -Watts-Dunton what was the secret of the singular power he appeared to -exercise over others and the equally singular affection in which he -was held by his friends. - -My answer was that Watts-Dunton’s hold upon his friends, partly -personal as it was and partly intellectual, was chiefly due to his -extraordinary loyalty. Of old, certain men and women were supposed to -be possessed of the “evil eye.” Upon whom they looked with intent--be -it man, woman, or beast--hurt was sooner or later sure to fall. - -If there be anything in the superstition, one might almost believe -that its opposite was true of Watts-Dunton. He looked upon others -merely to befriend, and if he did not put upon them the spell, not of -an evil but of a good eye, he exercised a marvellous personal power, -not, as is generally the case, upon weaker intellects and less marked -personalities than his own, but upon his peers; and even upon those -whom in the world’s eye would be accounted greater than he. That any -one man should so completely control, and even dominate, two such -intellects as Swinburne and Rossetti seemed almost uncanny. I never -saw Rossetti and Watts-Dunton together, for the former had been -dead some years when I first met Watts-Dunton, but my early literary -friendships were with members of the little circle of which Rossetti -was the centre, and all agree in their testimony to the extraordinary -personal power which Watts-Dunton exercised over the poet-painter. -But Swinburne--and here I speak with knowledge--Watts-Dunton -absolutely dominated. It was, “What does Walter say about it?” -“Walter thinks, and I agree with him, that I ought to do so and so,” -or, “Let us submit the matter to Watts-Dunton’s unfailing judgment.” - -Here, for fear of a possible misunderstanding, let me say that, if -any reader assume from what I have just written that Swinburne was -something of a weakling, that reader is very much mistaken. It is -true that the author of _Atalanta in Calydon_ was a greater force -in intellect and in imagination than in will power and character, -but he was not in the habit of deferring to others as he deferred -to Watts-Dunton, and when he chose to stand out upon some point, -or in some opinion, he was very difficult to move. It was only, in -fact, by Watts-Dunton that he was entirely manageable, yet there was -never any effort, never even any intention on Watts-Dunton’s part to -impose his own will upon his friend. I have heard his influence upon -Swinburne described as hypnotic. From that point of view I entirely -dissent. Watts-Dunton held his friends by virtue of his genius for -friendship--“Watts is a hero of friendship,” Mr. William Michael -Rossetti once said of him--and by the passionate personal loyalty -of which I have never known the equal. By nature the kindest of -men, shrinking from giving pain to any living creature, he could -be fierce, even ferocious, to those who assailed his friends. It -was, indeed, always in defence of his friends, rarely if ever in -defence of himself--though he was abnormally sensitive to adverse -criticism--that he entered into a quarrel and, since dead friends -could not defend themselves, he constituted himself the champion of -their memory or of their reputation, and even steeled himself on more -than one occasion to a break with a living friend rather than endure -a slight to one who was gone. “To my sorrow,” he writes in a letter, -“I was driven to quarrel with a man I loved and who loved me, William -Minto, because he, with no ill intentions, printed certain injurious -comments upon Rossetti which he found in Bell Scott’s papers.” - -It was my own misfortune, deservedly or undeservedly, to have a -somewhat similar experience to that of Professor Minto; but in my -case the estrangement, temporary only as it was, included Swinburne -as well as Watts-Dunton. In telling the story, and for the first -time here, I must not be supposed for one moment to imagine that any -importance attaches or could attach to a misunderstanding between -such men as Swinburne and Watts-Dunton and a scribbler of sorts like -myself, but because a third great name, that of Robert Buchanan, -comes into it. - -It is concerned with Buchanan’s attack upon Rossetti in the famous -article _The Fleshly School of Poetry_, which appeared anonymously -(worse--pseudonymously) in the _Contemporary Review_. Not long -after Buchanan’s death I was asked to review Mr. Henry Murray’s -_Robert Buchanan and other Essays_ in a critical journal, which I -did, and Swinburne and Watts-Dunton chanced to see the article. To -say that they took exception to what I said about Buchanan, would -be no description of their attitude, for Swinburne not only took -exception but took offence and of the direst--so much so as to make -it necessary that for a season I should discontinue my visits to The -Pines. - -And here let me interpolate that I entirely agree with Mr. James -Douglas when he says in his volume, _Theodore Watts, Poet, Novelist -and Critic_, “It would be worse than idle to enter at this time of -the day upon the painful subject of the Buchanan affair. Indeed, I -have often thought it is a great pity that it is not allowed to die -out.” But when in the next sentence Mr. Douglas goes on to say, “The -only reason why it is still kept alive seems to be that, without -discussing it, it is impossible fully to understand Rossetti’s -nervous illness about which so much has been said,” I am entirely out -of agreement with him, as the quotation which I make from my article -will show. Since Mr. Douglas _has_ reopened the matter--he could -hardly do otherwise in telling the story of Watts-Dunton’s literary -life--I have the less hesitation in reprinting part of the article -in which I endeavoured to clear Buchanan of what I held, and still -hold, to be a preposterous charge. I may add that I quite agree with -Mr. Douglas when he says that we must remember “the extremely close -intimacy which existed between these two poet friends (Rossetti and -Watts-Dunton) in order to be able to forgive entirely the unexampled -scourging of Buchanan in the following sonnet, if, as some writers -think, Buchanan was meant.” - -Mr. Douglas then quotes the sonnet _The Octopus of the Golden -Isles_, which I do not propose here to reprint. That Buchanan was -meant is now well known, and in fact Mr. Douglas himself says in -the same chapter that Watts-Dunton’s definition of envy as the -“literary leprosy” has often been quoted in reference to the case -of Buchanan. My article on Buchanan is too long to give in its -entirety, and, even omitting the passages with no direct bearing -upon the misunderstanding which it caused, is lengthier than I could -wish. My apology is, first, that in justice to Watts-Dunton and to -Swinburne I must present their case against me ungarbled. Moreover, -as the foolish bogey-story--like an unquiet ghost which still walks -the world unlaid--that Buchanan was the cause of Rossetti taking to -drugs, the cause even of Rossetti’s death, is still repeated, and -sometimes believed, I am not sorry of another and last attempt to -give the bogey its _quietus_. Here are the extracts from my article: - - “Mr. Murray quotes evidently with appreciation Buchanan’s tribute - to his ancient enemy Rossetti, I do not share Mr. Murray’s - appreciation, for Buchanan’s tribute has always seemed to me more - creditable to his generosity than to his judgment. He speaks of - Rossetti as ‘in many respects the least carnal and most religious - of modern poets.’ - - “Here he goes to as great an extreme as when he so savagely - attacked Rossetti as ‘fleshly.’ About this attack much nonsense - has been written. We have been told that it was the cause of - Rossetti’s taking to chloral; and I have heard even Rossetti’s - death laid at Buchanan’s door. To my thinking talk of that sort - is sheer nonsense. If Rossetti took to chloral because Buchanan - called his poetry ‘fleshly,’ Rossetti would sooner or later have - taken to chloral, had Buchanan’s article never been written. But - when Buchanan in the fulness of his remorse calls Rossetti ‘the - most religious of modern poets’ he is talking equally foolishly. - - “Rossetti ‘the most religious of modern poets’! Why, Rossetti’s - religion was his art. To him art was in and of herself pure, - sacred, and inviolate. By him the usual order of things was - reversed. It was religion which was the handmaid, art the - mistress, and in fact it was only in so far as religion appealed - to his artistic instincts that Rossetti can be said to have had - any religion at all. - - “And when Buchanan sought to exalt Rossetti to a pinnacle of - purity he was guilty of a like extravagance. That Rossetti’s - work is always healthy not even his most enthusiastic admirers - could contend. Super-sensuous and southern in the warmth of - colouring nearly all his poems are. Some of them are heavy with - the overpowering sweetness as of many hyacinths. The atmosphere - is like that of a hothouse in which, amid all the odorous - deliciousness, we gasp for a breath of the outer air again. There - are passages in his work which remind us far more of the pagan - temple than of the Christian cloister, passages describing sacred - rites which pertain not to the worship of the Virgin, but to the - worship of Venus. - - “Buchanan was a man who lived heart and soul in the mood of the - moment. He had a big brain which was quick to take fire, and at - such times, both in his controversies and in his criticism, he - was apt to express himself with an exaggeration at which in his - cooler hours he would have been the first to hurl his Titanic - ridicule. - - “It may seem ungenerous to say so, but even his beautiful - dedicatory poem to Rossetti strikes me as a lapse into false - sentiment. - - _To An Old Enemy_ - - I would have snatched a bay-leaf from thy brow, - Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head; - In peace and tenderness I bring thee now - A lily-flower instead. - - Pure as thy purpose, blameless as thy song, - Sweet as thy spirit may this offering be; - Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong, - And take the gift from me. - - “After Rossetti’s death, ten months later, Buchanan added the - following lines: - - Calmly, thy royal robe of Death around thee, - Thou sleepest, and weeping brethren round thee stand; - Gently they placed, ere yet God’s angel crowned thee, - My lily in thy hand. - - I never saw thee living, oh, my brother, - But on thy breast my lily of love now lies, - And by that token we shall know each other, - When God’s voice saith ‘Arise!’ - - “That this is very beautiful every one will admit, but is it true - to picture those who most loved Rossetti as placing Buchanan’s - lily of song in his dead hand? I think not. Nor can those - who know anything of the last days of Rossetti reconcile the - facts with Buchanan’s imaginary picture of a sort of celestial - assignation in which, by means of a lily, Rossetti and his - ancient enemy and brother poet shall identify each other on the - Last Day? - - “I am well aware that I shall be accused of bad taste, even of - brutality, in saying this; but, as Mr. Murray himself alludes - to this ancient quarrel, I must protest that false sentiment - is equally abhorrent--as Buchanan would have been the first to - admit. Now that Buchanan has followed Rossetti where all enmities - are at an end, it is right that the truth about the matter be - spoken, and this unhappy assault and its not altogether happy - sequel be alike forgotten. - - “Robert Buchanan’s last resting-place is within sight of the sea. - And rightly so. It is his own heart that Old Ocean seems most to - wear away in his fretting and chafing, and the wearing away of - their own heart is the most appreciable result of the warfare - which such men as Buchanan wage against the world. - - “That he did not fulfil his early promise, that he frittered - away great gifts to little purpose, is pitifully true, but if he - flung into the face of the men whom he counted hypocrites and - charlatans, words which scorched like vitriol, he had, for the - wounded in life’s battle, for the sinning, the suffering, and the - defeated, words of helpful sympathy and an outstretched hand of - practical help. - - “Mr. Murray has shown Buchanan to us as he was; no hero perhaps, - certainly not a saint, but a man of great heart and great brain, - quick to quarrel, but as quick to own himself in the wrong; a - man intensely, passionately human, with more than one man’s - share of humanity’s weaknesses and of humanity’s strength, a - sturdy soldier in the cause of freedom, a fierce foe, a generous - friend, and a poet who, in regard to that rarest of all gifts, - ‘vision,’ had scarcely an equal among his contemporaries. - - “I must conclude by a serious word with Mr. Murray. Disagree - with him as one may and must, one cannot but admire his fearless - honesty. None the less I am of opinion that in the following - passage Mr. Murray’s own pessimism has led him to do his dead - friend’s memory a grievous injustice. - - “‘From the broken arc we may divine the perfect round, and it - is my fixed belief that, had the subtle and cruel malady which - struck him down but spared him for a little longer time, he would - logically have completed the evolution of so many years, and have - definitely proclaimed himself as an agnostic, perhaps even as an - atheist.’ - - “Mr. Murray’s personal knowledge of Buchanan was intimate, even - brotherly; mine, though dating many years back, was comparatively - slight. But I have read Buchanan’s books, and I know something of - the spirit in which he lived and worked, and I am convinced that - Mr. Murray is wrong. It is not always those who have come nearest - to the details of a man’s daily life, who have come nearest to - him in spirit, as Amy Levy knew well when she wrote those lines, - _To a Dead Poet_, which I shall be pardoned for bringing to my - readers’ remembrance: - - I knew not if to laugh or weep: - They sat and talked of you-- - ’Twas here he sat: ’twas this he said, - ’Twas that he used to do. - - ‘Here is the book wherein he read, - The room wherein he dwelt; - And he’ (they said) ‘was such a man, - Such things he thought and felt.’ - - - I sat and sat, I did not stir; - They talked and talked away. - I was as mute as any stone, - I had no word to say. - - They talked and talked; like to a stone - My heart grew in my breast-- - I, who had never seen your face, - Perhaps I knew you best. - - “Buchanan was, as every poet is, a creature of mood, and in - certain black moods he expressed himself in language that was - open to an atheistic interpretation. There were times when he - was confronted by the fact that, to human seeming, iniquity - prospered, righteousness went to the wall, and injustice, vast - and cruel, seemed to rule the world. To the Christian belief that - the Cross of Christ is the only key to the terrible problem of - human suffering, Buchanan was unable to subscribe, and at times - he was tempted to think that the Power at the head of things - must be evil, not good. It seems to me that at such times he - would cry out in soul-travail, ‘No! no! anything but that! If - there be a God at all He must be good. Before I would do God the - injustice of believing in an evil God, I would a thousand times - sooner believe in no God at all!’ Then the mood passed; the man’s - hope and belief in an unseen beneficent Power returned, but the - sonnet in which he had given expression to that mood remained. - And because the expression of that mood was permanent, Mr. Murray - forgets that it was no more than the expression of a mood, and - tells us that he believes, had Buchanan lived longer, he would - have become an atheist. - - “Again I say that I believe Mr. Murray to be wrong. Buchanan, - like his own Wandering Jew, trod many dark highways and byways - of death, but he never remained--he never could have remained--in - that Mortuary of the Soul, that cul-de-sac of Despair which we - call Atheism. - - * * * * * - - “This is not the place in which to say it, but perhaps my editor - will allow me to add how keenly I felt, as I stood by the - graveside of Robert Buchanan in that little God’s acre by the - sea, the inadequacy of our Burial Service, beautiful as it is, in - the case of one who did not profess the Christian faith. To me it - seemed little less than a mockery to him who has gone, as well as - a torture to those who remain, that words should be said over his - dead body which, living, he would have repudiated. - - “Over the body of one whose voice is silenced by death, we - assert the truth of doctrines which living he had unhesitatingly - rejected. It is as if we would, coward-like, claim in death what - was denied us in life. - - “In the case of a man whose beliefs were those of Robert - Buchanan, how much more seemly it would be to lay him to rest - with some such words as these: - - “‘To the God from Whom he came, we commend this our friend and - brother in humanity, trusting that what in life he has done - amiss, may in death be forgotten and forgiven; that what in life - he has done well, may in death be borne in remembrance. And so - from out our human love, into the peace of the Divine love, we - commend him, leaving him with the God from Whom, when we in our - turn come to depart whither he has gone, we hope to receive like - pardon, forgiveness and peace. In God’s hands, to God’s love and - mercy, we leave him.’” - -Re-reading this article many years after it was written, I see -nothing in it to which friendship or even affection for either -Rossetti or Buchanan could reasonably object. - -This was not the view taken by Swinburne and Watts-Dunton. It so -happened that I encountered the latter in the Strand a morning or -two later, and more in sadness than in anger he reproached me with -“disloyalty to Gabriel, disloyalty to Algernon, and disloyalty to -myself.” - -I replied that touching Rossetti, as he did not happen to be the -King, had never so much as heard of my small existence, nor had I -ever set eyes upon him, to accuse me of disloyalty to him, to whom -I owed no loyalty, struck me as a work of supererogation. And, as -touching Swinburne and Watts-Dunton himself, honoured as I was by -the high privilege of their friendship, I could not admit that -that friendship committed me to a blind partisanship and to the -identification of myself with their literary likings or dislikings or -their personal quarrels. - -My rejection of the penitential rôle, to say nothing of my refusing -to take the matter seriously, seemed to surprise and to trouble -Watts-Dunton. While protesting the regard of every one at The -Pines for me personally, he gave me to understand that Swinburne -in particular was so wounded by my championship as he called it of -Buchanan, that he would have some trouble in making my peace in that -quarter, and even hinted that an arrangement, by which I was either -to lunch or to dine at The Pines within the next few days, had better -stand over. - -Naturally I replied--I could hardly do otherwise, as I did not see -my way without insincerity to express regret for what I had written -about Buchanan, though I did express regret that it had given offence -to Swinburne and himself--that that must be as he chose, and so we -parted, sadly on my side if not on his; and I neither saw nor heard -from anyone at The Pines for some little time after. Then one morning -came the following letter: - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - Don’t think any more of that unpleasant little affair. Of course - neither Swinburne nor I expect our friends, however loyal, to - take part in the literary quarrels that may be forced upon us. - But this man had the character _among men who knew him well_ of - being the most thorough sweep, and to us it did seem queer to see - your honoured name associated with such a man. But, after all, - even he may not have been as black as his acquaintances painted - him. Your loyalty to us I do not doubt. - - Yours affectionately, - THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. - -This was followed by a wire--from Swinburne--asking me to lunch, -which I need hardly say I was glad to accept, and so my relationship -to the inmates of The Pines returned to its old footing. - -Since it was Swinburne much more than Watts-Dunton who so bitterly -resented what I had written of Buchanan, I am glad to have upon my -shelves a volume of _Selections from Swinburne_, published after his -death, and edited by Watts-Dunton. The book was sent to me by the -Editor, and was inscribed: - - “To Coulson Kernahan, - - whom Swinburne dearly loved, and who as dearly loved him. - - From Theodore Watts-Dunton.” - -My unhappy connection with the “Buchanan affair” had, it will be -seen, passed entirely from Swinburne’s memory, and indeed the name of -Robert Buchanan, who was something of a disturbing element even in -death, as he had been in life, was never mentioned among us again. -How entirely the, to me, distressing if brief rift in my friendship -with Watts-Dunton--a friendship which I shall always count one of the -dearest privileges of my life--was closed and forgotten, is clear -from the following letter. It was written in reply to a telegram -I sent, congratulating him on celebrating his 81st birthday--the -last birthday on earth, alas, of one of the most generous and -great-hearted of men: - - THE PINES, PUTNEY, S.W. - _Oct. 20th, 1913._ - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - Your telegram congratulating me upon having reached my 81st - birthday affected me deeply. Ever since the beginning of our - long intimacy I have had from you nothing but generosity and - affection, almost unexampled, I think, between two literary - men. My one chagrin is that I can get only glimpses of you of - the briefest kind. Your last visit here was indeed a red-letter - day. Don’t forget when occasion offers to come and see us. Your - welcome will be of the most heartfelt kind. - - Most affectionately yours, - THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON - - - - -THE LAST DAYS OF THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON - - -The pathetic side of the last two or three years of Watts-Dunton’s -life was that he had outlived nearly every friend of youth and middle -age, and, with the one or two old friends of his own generation who -survived, he had lost touch. Tennyson, Rossetti, Swinburne, William -Morris, Browning, Matthew Arnold, Borrow, William Black, Dr. Gordon -Hake, Westland and Philip Marston, Jowett, Louise Chandler Moulton, -William Sharp, James Russell Lowell, George Meredith, were gone. -Mr. William Rossetti, the only one of the old fraternity left, -now rarely, he tells me, leaves his own home. In any case he and -Watts-Dunton had not met for years. Mr. Edmund Gosse, once a frequent -and always an honoured visitor to The Pines, was rarely if ever there -during the years that I came and went. - -It was between Swinburne and Mr. Gosse that the intimacy existed, -though by both the inmates he was to the last held in high regard. -Mr. Gosse would have the world to believe that he grows old, but no -one who knows him either personally or by his writings can detect -any sign of advancing years. On the contrary, both in the brilliance -of his personality and of his later intellectual achievements, he -appears to possess the secret of eternal youth. It was neither -oncoming years nor any lessening of friendship between him and -Swinburne which was responsible for Mr. Gosse’s defection, but the -fact that he had added to his other duties that of Librarian to -the House of Lords. This, and his many and increasing official and -literary activities, kept, and keep him closely occupied, and so it -was that his name gradually, insensibly, dropped out of the list of -visitors at The Pines. - -Mr. Thomas Hake was with Watts-Dunton to the end, and indeed it was -not a little due to the help of “The Colonel” (the name by which -from his boyhood Mr. Hake was known at The Pines on account of his -cousinship with and his likeness to Colonel, afterwards General -Charles Gordon) that Watts-Dunton accomplished so much literary work -in his last decade. Some of the younger men, Mr. Clement Shorter, -accompanied now and then by his poet-wife, Mr. James Douglas, Mr. -Henniker-Heaton, Dr. Arthur Compton-Rickett, and Mr. F. G. Bettany, -remained in touch with The Pines until Watts-Dunton’s death. I met -none of them there myself, as after I went to live a long way from -London my own visits were less frequent, and being a friend of older -standing, with memories in common which none of the newer friends -whom I have mentioned shared, it was generally arranged that I was -the only guest. That there was no forgetfulness or lessening of -friendship on Watts-Dunton’s part towards the friends whom he now -rarely met, is evident by the following extract from a letter in -reply to a question on my part whether it would be possible for him -to be my guest at one of the Whitefriars’ Club weekly gatherings. - -“I should look forward,” he said, “to seeing some of the truest and -best friends I have in the world, including yourself, Robertson -Nicoll, Richard Whiteing, and Clement Shorter. And when you tell -me that F. C. Gould is a Friar (the greatest artistic humorist now -living in England) I am tempted indeed to run counter to my doctor’s -injunctions against dining out this winter. - -“The other day I had the extreme good luck to find and buy the famous -lost water-colour drawing of the dining-room at 16 Cheyne Walk, with -Rossetti reading out to me the proofs of _Ballads and Sonnets_. I -am sending photographs of it to one or two intimate friends, and I -enclose you one. The portrait of Rossetti is the best that has ever -been taken of him.” - -Of all the friendships which Watts-Dunton formed late in life none -was so prized by him as that with Sir William Robertson Nicoll. As it -was I who made the two known to each other, and in doing so, removed -an unfortunate and what might have been permanent misunderstanding, I -may perhaps be pardoned for referring to the matter here. - -The name of Sir William coming up one day in a conversation, I -discovered to my surprise that Watts-Dunton was feeling sore about -some disparaging remark which Sir William was supposed to have made -about him. I happened to know how the misunderstanding came about, -and I told Watts-Dunton the following true story, illustrating how -easily such misunderstandings arise, and illustrating too the petty -and “small beer” side of “literary shop” gossip. It concerned an -editor and an author. The author employed a literary agent, who -offered the editor one of the author’s stories. “I have set my face -against the middleman in literature,” the editor replied. “If Mr. ----- likes to offer me his story direct, I’ll gladly take it, and pay -his usual price per thousand words, but buy it through an agent I -won’t.” - -This came to the ears of the author, who remarked: “That’s rather -unreasonable on ----’s part. I buy, through an agent, the periodical -he edits. I don’t expect him to stand in the gutter, like a newsboy, -selling me his paper himself at a street corner, and I don’t see why -he should object to my offering him my wares by means of an agent.” - -This not unfriendly remark was overheard by some one, who told it -to some one else, who repeated it to another person, that person in -his turn passing it on, and so it went the round of Fleet Street and -certain literary clubs. The copper coinage of petty personal gossip, -unlike the pound sterling coin of the realm, becomes magnitudinally -greater, instead of microscopically less, by much circulation. -Instead of infinitesimal attritions, as in the case of the coin, -there are multitudinous accretions, until the story as it ultimately -started life, and the story as it afterwards came to be told, would -hardly recognise each other, at sight, as blood relatives. By the -time the innocent remark of the author came to the ears of the editor -concerned, it had so grown and become so garbled, that its own father -would never have known it. “Have you heard what So-and-so the -author said about you?” the editor was asked. “He said that he hoped -to live to see you in the gutter, selling at the street corner the -very paper you now edit.” Not unnaturally the editor’s retort was -uncomplimentary to the author, who, when the retort came to his ears, -expressed an opinion about the editor which was concerned with other -matters than the editorial objection to the middleman in literature, -and so a misunderstanding (fortunately long since removed) arose in -good earnest. - -I should not put this chronicle of journalistic small beer--a -version as it is of the famous Three Black Crows story--on record, -were it not that it was exactly in the same way that an innocent -remark of Sir William Robertson Nicoll’s had been misrepresented to -Watts-Dunton. This I did my best to explain to the latter, but not -feeling as sure as I wished to be that all soreness was removed, -I asked him to lunch with me at the Savage Club, and then invited -Dr. Nicoll, as he then was, to meet him. There was at first just a -suspicion of an armed truce about Watts-Dunton, in whose memory the -supposed attack upon himself was still smouldering, but his interest -and pleasure in the conversation of a student and scholar of like -attainments to his own soon dispelled the stiffness. A chance but -warmly affectionate reference to Robertson Smith by Dr. Nicoll drew -from Watts-Dunton that long-drawn “Ah!” which those who knew him well -remember as meaning that he was following with profound attention and -agreement what was being said. - -“Why, I knew that man--one of the salt of the earth,” he -interpolated. Then he added gravely, more reminiscently than as if -addressing anyone, “I had affection for him!” Leaning over the table, -his singularly brilliant and penetrating eyes full upon the other, he -said almost brusquely, “Tell me what you knew of Robertson Smith!” - -Dr. Nicoll responded, and within five minutes’ time the two of them -were talking together, comparing notes and exchanging experiences and -confidences like old friends. As we were parting, Watts-Dunton said -to me: - -“You are coming to lunch on Monday. I wish I could persuade our -friend Nicoll here to accompany you, so that Swinburne could share -the pleasure of such another meeting as we have had here to-day.” - -The invitation was accepted by Dr. Nicoll with the cordiality with -which it was offered, and I may add with the usual result, for the -intervener. “Patch up a quarrel between two other persons--and find -yourself left out in the cold,” Oscar Wilde once said to me. I had -merely removed a misunderstanding, not patched up a quarrel, but the -result of my bringing Watts-Dunton, Nicoll, and Swinburne together -was that, on the occasion of the first meeting of all three, they -had so much to talk about, and talked about it so furiously, that I -had cause to ask myself whether the “two” in the proverb should not -be amended to “three,” so as to read “Three’s company; four’s none.” -Thereafter, and to his life’s end, Watts-Dunton could never speak too -gratefully or too appreciatively of Sir William Robertson Nicoll. -He came indeed to hold the latter’s judgment alike in literature and -scholarship, as in other matters, in the same admiration with which -Swinburne held the judgment of Watts-Dunton himself. - -Thus far it is only of Watts-Dunton’s friends that I have written, -reserving the last place in my list, which in this case is the first -in precedence, for the only name with which it is fitting that, in my -final word, his name should be coupled. I have said that the pathetic -side of his later years was that he had outlived so many of the men -and women he loved. To outlive one’s nearest and dearest friends must -always be poignant and pathetic, but in other respects Watts-Dunton’s -life was a full and a happy one, and never more so than in these -later years, for it was then that the one who was more than friend, -the woman he so truly loved, who as truly loved him, became his wife. -In his marriage, as in his friendships, Watts-Dunton was singularly -fortunate. Husband and wife entertained each for the other, and to -the last, love, reverence and devotion. If to this Mrs. Watts-Dunton -added exultant, even jealous pride in her husband’s intellect, his -great reputation and attainments, he was even more proud of her -beauty and accomplishments, and his one anxiety was that she should -never know a care. When last I saw them together--married as they -had then been for many years--it was evident that Watts-Dunton had -lost nothing of the wonder, the awe, perhaps even the perplexity, -with which from his boyhood and youth he had regarded that mystery of -mysteries--womanhood. His love for her was deep, tender, worshipping -and abiding, albeit it had something of the fear with which one might -regard some exquisite wild bird which, of its own choice, comes -to the cage, and, for love’s sake, is content to forgo its native -woodland, content even to rest with closed wings within the cage, -while without comes continually the call to the green field, the -great hills and the glad spaces between sea and sky. Be that as it -may, this marriage between a young and beautiful woman--young enough -and beautiful enough to have stood for a picture of his adored Sinfi -Lovell of _Aylwin_, whom, in her own rich gypsy type of beauty, Mrs. -Watts-Dunton strangely resembled--and a poet, novelist, critic and -scholar who was no longer young, no longer even middle-aged, was -from first to last a happy one. It is with no little hesitation that -I touch even thus briefly and reverently upon a relationship too -sacred and too beautiful for further words. Even this much I should -not have said were it not that, in marriages where some disparity of -age exists, the union is not always as fortunate, and were it not -also that I know my friend would wish that his love and gratitude to -the devoted wife, who made his married years so supremely glad and -beautiful, should not go unrecorded. - -The last time I saw Watts-Dunton alive was shortly before his death. -I had spent a long afternoon with Mrs. Watts-Dunton and himself, -and at night he and I dined alone, as his wife had an engagement. -In my honour he produced a bottle of his old “Tennyson” port, -lamenting that he could not join me as the doctor had limited him -to soda-water or barley-water. When I told him that I had recently -been dining in the company of Sir Francis Carruthers Gould, and -that “F. C. G.” had described soda-water as “a drink without a -soul,” Watts-Dunton was much amused. But, his soulless drink -notwithstanding, I have never known him talk more brilliantly. He -rambled from one subject to another, not from any lack of power -to concentrate or lack of memory, but because his memory was so -retentive and so co-ordinating that the mention of a name touched, -as it were, an electric button in his memory, which called up other -associations. - -And by rambling I do not mean that he was discursive or vague. No -matter how wide his choice of subject, one was conscious of a sense -of unity in all that Watts-Dunton said. Religion might by others, and -for the sake of convenience, be divided into creeds, Philosophy into -schools of thought, Science into separate headings under the names of -Astronomy, Geology, Zoology, Botany, Physics, Chemistry and the like, -but by him all these were considered as component parts--the one -dovetailing into the other--of a perfect whole. One was conscious of -no disconnection when the conversation slid from this science, that -philosophy, or religion, to another, for as carried on by him, it -was as if he were presenting to the observer’s eye merely different -facets of the precious and single stone of truth. His was not the -rambling talk of old age, for more or less rambling his talk had been -ever since I had known him. - -It was due partly also to his almost infinite knowledge of every -subject under the sun. The mere mention of a science, of a language, -of a system of philosophy, of a bird, a flower, a star, was, as -it were, a text upon which he would base one of his wonderful and -illuminating disquisitions. His grasp of first principles was so -comprehensive that he was able in a few words to present them boldly -and clearly for the hearer’s apprehension, whence he would pass -on to develop some new line of thought. His interests were to the -last so eager and youthful, that even comparatively unessential -side-issues--as he spoke of them--suddenly opened up into new and -fascinating vistas, down which the searchlight of his imagination -would flash and linger, before passing on, from point to point, to -the final goal of his thought. - -Rossetti often said that no man that ever he met could talk with the -brilliancy, beauty, knowledge, and truth of Watts-Dunton, whose very -“improvisation” in conversation Rossetti described as “perfect” as a -“fitted jewel.” Rossetti deplored, too, on many occasions his “lost” -conversations with the author of _Aylwin_--lost because only by -taking them down in shorthand, as spoken, could one remember the half -of what was said, its incisive phrasing, its flashing metaphors and -similes, and the “fundamental brain work” which lay at the back of -all. - -I am always glad to remember that on this, my last meeting with -Watts-Dunton, he was--though evidently weakening and ailing in -body--intellectually at his best. He revived old memories of -Tennyson, Rossetti, Browning, Lowell, Morris, Matthew Arnold, and -many another. He dwelt lovingly once again but with new insight -upon the first awakening of the wonder-sense in man, and how -this wonder-sense--the beginning whether in savage or in highly -civilised races of every form of religion--passed on into worship. -Our intercourse that evening was in fact more of a monologue, on -his part, than of the usual conversation between two old friends, -with interests and intimates in common. I was indeed glad that it -should be so, first because Watts-Dunton, like George Meredith (whose -talk, though I only heard it once, struck me if more scintillating -also as more self-conscious), was a compelling and fascinating -conversationalist, and secondly because his slight deafness made the -usual give-and-take of conversation difficult. - -Not a little of his talk that night was of his wife, his own devotion -to her, and the unselfishness of her devotion to him. He spoke of -Louise Chandler Moulton, “that adorable woman,” as he called her, -whom Swinburne held to be the truest woman-poet that America has -given us. He charged me to carry his affectionate greetings to -Robertson Nicoll. “Only I wish I could see more of him,” he added. -“It’s hard to see so seldom the faces one longs to see.” - -And then, more faithful in memory to the dead friends of long ago -than any other man or woman I have known, he spoke movingly of “our -Philip,” his friend and mine, Philip Marston. Then he took down a -book from a little bookshelf which hung to the right of the sofa -on which he sat, and, turning the pages, asked me to read aloud -Marston’s Sonnet to his dead love: - - It must have been for one of us, my own, - To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread. - Had not my tears upon thy face been shed, - Thy tears had dropped on mine; if I alone - Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known - My loneliness; and did my feet not tread - This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled - For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan. - - And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain - To think of thine eternity of sleep; - To know thine eyes are tearless though mine weep. - And when this cup’s last bitterness I drain, - One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep-- - Thou hadst the peace, and I the undying pain. - -His only comment on the poem was that long and deeply-breathed “Ah!” -which meant that he had been profoundly interested, perhaps even -profoundly stirred. Often it was his only comment when Swinburne, -head erect, eyes ashine, and voice athrill, had in the past stolen -into the same room--noiseless in his movements, even when excited--to -chaunt to us some new and noble poem, carried like an uncooled bar of -glowing iron direct from the smithy of his brain, and still intoning -and vibrating with the deep bass of the hammer on the anvil, still -singing the red fire-song of the furnace whence it came. - -We sat in silence for a space, and then Watts-Dunton said: - -“Our Philip was not a great, but at least he was a true poet, as well -as a loyal friend and a right good fellow. He is almost forgotten -now by the newer school, and among the many new voices, but Louise -Chandler Moulton and Will Sharp, and others of us, have done what -we could to keep his memory green. We loved him, as Gabriel and -Algernon loved him, our beautiful blind poet-boy.” - -When soon after I rose reluctantly to go, a change seemed to come -over Watts-Dunton. The animation faded out of voice and face, and was -replaced by something like anxiety, almost like pain. - -“Must you go, dear fellow, must you go?” he asked sorrowfully. “There -is a bed all ready prepared, for we’d hoped you’d stay the night.” - -I explained that I was compelled to return to Hastings that evening, -as I had to start on a journey early next morning. Perhaps I had let -him overexert himself too much in conversation. Perhaps he had more -to say and was disappointed not to be able to say it, for he seemed -suddenly tired and sad. The brilliant talker was gone. - -“Come again soon, dear fellow. Come again soon,” he said, as he held -my hand in a long clasp. And when I had passed out of his sight and -he out of mine, his voice followed me pathetically, almost brokenly -into the night, “Come again soon, Kernahan. Come again soon, dear -boy. Don’t let it be long before we meet again.” - -It was not long before we met again, but it was, alas, when I -followed to his long home one who, great as was his fame in the eyes -of the world as poet, critic, novelist and thinker, is, in the hearts -of some of us, who grow old, more dearly remembered as the most -unselfish, most steadfast, and most loving of friends. - - - - -WHEN STEPHEN PHILLIPS READ - - -I - -One afternoon in the nineties, I called upon my friend Mrs. Chandler -Moulton, the American poet. She had taken a first-floor suite of -rooms in a large house in the west of London, in which other paying -guests were also just then staying. I was shown into the reception -room attached to Mrs. Moulton’s suite, and was told that she would -be with me in a few minutes. Almost immediately after, another of -Mrs. Moulton’s friends, Madame Antoinette Sterling, called, and was -shown into the room where I was waiting. We had met before, and fell -to chatting. Madame Sterling happened to mention the piece in her -repertoire, which was not only her own favourite, but was also that -which, in her opinion, best suited her voice. When I said that by -some chance I had been so unfortunate as to miss hearing her sing it, -she replied quickly: - -“If that is so, I will sing it for you now.” - -Then she rose, and drew herself up statuesquely--as it were to -“attention”--and to her full height, a striking figure. Grant Allen -once said to me that he suspected she had a strain of Red Indian -blood in her veins. If that be so--I do not know--it showed itself in -a certain proud imperturbability of bearing, and by the fact that -she stood, if not exactly stock-still, at least almost motionless -and gestureless. It showed itself, too, in the high cheek-bones; in -the swarthiness of her complexion, and the snaky smooth coils of -black hair that, parted low and loosely over the brow, toned down, -and softened into womanliness, the almost masculine massiveness -of the strong purposeful features. Throwing back her head, like a -full-throated thrush, and with her hands clasped simply in front of -her, she began to sing, low and flute-like at first, but as she went -on letting her glorious voice swell out in an organ-burst of song. - -The effect was singular. The London season was at its height, and -the house was full of visitors, chiefly, I believe, Americans. When -Madame Sterling began to sing, we could distinctly hear the buzz of -conversation coming up from the floor below. Overhead, one could hear -the restless movement of feet, and sounds like those which come from -a kitchen--the chink of china and the clashing together of knives, -forks, and spoons, as if in preparation for a meal--were also audible. - -But as the first few notes of the rich, full, noble, and far-carrying -contralto rang out, the chatter of voices below, the shuffle of feet, -or of furniture overhead, even the necessary commonplace, vulgar -sounds that came from the basement and the kitchen, were suddenly -checked, shamed, and silenced; and, as the singer’s voice deepened -into full diapason, one almost fancied that not only the men and -women gathered together in different rooms under that one roof, -but the very house itself, even the dead and inanimate pieces of -furniture, were strained and stilled in listening silence. - -I am reminded of this old-time and almost forgotten incident -by an “Impression of Stephen Phillips,” contributed under the -initials “H.W.B.” to the _Outlook_ of December 18, 1915, by Mr. -Horace Bleackley, the distinguished novelist. Just as that noisy -boarding-house was at first surprised, and then, as it were, -frozen into a strange, almost uncanny silence by Madame Sterling’s -marvellous notes, so, by the majesty of spoken words, Stephen -Phillips compelled an unwilling company to a like hushed and awed -reverence. - -“It was an evening party in an undergraduate’s rooms at Christ -Church, Oxford, about twenty-seven years ago,” writes Mr. Bleackley. -“It was a decorous gathering--not a ‘wine’--but there had been music -and mirth, and none of us were at all inclined towards serious -things. Suddenly the host announced that a member of the Benson -Company--several of whom were our guests on this occasion--would -give a recitation. A grave and thoughtful young man rose before us, -with the features of a Greek god, whom most of us recognised at a -glance (for we all had been at the theatre that week) as the Ghost in -_Hamlet_. Somewhat resentfully we relapsed into silence, few showing -any signs of enthusiasm, for scarcely any of us had the slightest -doubt that we were going to be bored. - -“For twenty minutes the actor held us spellbound. His voice was -musical and his elocution that of a consummate artist. But this -we had realised before. It was not the charm of his diction that -enthralled us, but the melody of his verse--fresh and pure from -the heavenly spring. And when he had finished there were awestruck -whispers--which I seem to hear still--even from the Philistines: ‘It -is his own poem!’ Few of that company can have been surprised when, -about a decade later, all the world had hailed Stephen Phillips as -one of the greatest of living poets.” - -Mr. Bleackley’s “Impression” was gathered long before Phillips had -reached the plenitude and the maturity of his power, for the poet -was then a very young man, leaving Cambridge as he did without -taking a degree, and joining his cousin’s Sir F. R. Benson’s touring -theatrical company. Those who heard Phillips at his prime and at -his best, will agree with me that his rendering of poetry cannot be -described by such words as “reading,” “recitation,” or “recital.” -The plain unexaggerated fact is that by mere words his rendering of -poetry cannot be described. - -I am not writing of his acting, nor of his public reading, for, -excellent and memorable as were both, I doubt whether those who have -heard and seen Phillips only upon the stage, or the platform, have -any idea what he was like at his best--and at his best he never -was in public. It was in his own or in a friend’s home, and in the -company only of intimates, of whose sympathy and understanding he -was assured, that Phillips was his natural self, and therefore, his -natural self (alas, that he was not always that natural self!) being -inherently noble, at his highest and best. I have heard spiritualists -assert that the presence of one single person of unsympathetic -temperament has made it impossible to attain the necessary trance -condition on the part of the medium, and so has brought a séance to -nought. - -Whether that be so or not I cannot say, for I have no knowledge -of spiritualism, but I recall occasions when Stephen Phillips had -been strangely disappointing, and, in explaining his failure to me -afterwards, he said: - -“I couldn’t help it. That man or that woman’s very presence spoilt -everything and put me off. I seemed to feel his or her cold and -fish-like eyes fastened upon me as I read. I was all the time as -aware of that person’s boredom as sailors are aware, by the change in -the coldness of the atmosphere, of approaching bergs. Worse, I was -like a skater, fallen into a hole under the ice; who can find no way -out, but is held down and drowned under a roof of solid and unbroken -ice. One man, one woman, like that in my audience, or even in a room, -keeps me self-conscious all the time, and so makes poetry impossible; -for poetry, high poetry, is the sublimation, the exaltation, of the -senses into soul. It is the forgetting of self, the losing, merging -and fusing of one’s very individuality into pure thought, and into -visions and revelations of the Truth and the Loveliness that are of -God.” - - -II - -It has been my fortune to know not a few poets. It has been my fate -to play listener while they, or most of them, read aloud their -verses. To them, presumably, some sort of satisfaction was to be -derived from the self-imposed task; otherwise I should not have been -thus afflicted. To me the case was one of holding on, directly under -the enemy’s artillery and without returning his fire, the casualties -in my own moral garrison being heavy. I was in fact for the most part -as severely punished as was Stephen Phillips on one occasion of which -he told me. - -The wife of a friend of his was chatting in her drawing-room one -afternoon with two or three callers, among whom was Phillips. To them -entered the host her husband, who, drawing the author of _Marpessa_ -aside, whispered to him, “Come along, Phillips, let’s enjoy -ourselves!” - -“I was rather tiring of the drawing-room talk,” said Phillips, in -relating the incident, “and my host’s alluring words were like Hope. -They told a flattering tale. ‘Rumour has it,’ I said to myself, ‘that -there are in his cellars some bottles of port upon which it is good -to look when the colour is tawny in the glass. Nectar for the gods, -was the way one connoisseur described it. Does this mean that my host -is going to crack a bottle in my honour? Does this mean he is going -to fit me out with one of those choice cigars which he has also the -reputation of possessing?’ ‘Come along, Phillips, and let’s enjoy -ourselves!’ were his words. - -“And what do you think happened? He lured me away to a dark and -chilly library, and read Francis Thompson’s poems to me for three -mortal hours. If that is his idea of enjoying himself it isn’t mine!” - -Nor mine, I hasten to add, unless the reader were Stephen Phillips -himself, to listen to whom was the most exquisite artistic pleasure -imaginable. I agree with Mr. Bleackley that it was not Phillips’s -voice, nor his diction, nor his art that enthralled the hearers, but -I question whether Mr. Bleackley is right in attributing the effect -produced to the fact that the poet was speaking his own poem. For -that effect was the same whether the poem were by Phillips himself -or by Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, or Swinburne. In ordinary -conversation Phillips’s voice was not notably beautiful. It was -clear, musical, resonant, and finely modulated--that was all. Had -one done no more than talk with him, I am not sure that his voice -would thus far have impressed itself upon the memory. But in speaking -poetry, his voice was as different from the voice to which one was -accustomed in conversation as is a lit taper from the same taper -when unkindled. Poetry kindled the taper of his soul to flame, as -only poetry could. His genius was more supremely evident at such -times--that is to say, when he was _living_ poetry, when he was, as -it were, caught up and filled by some Pentecostal spirit of poetry -outside himself--than when he was, in travail and labour, if under -the pure impulse of inspiration, creating poetry. Then from the man -to whom we were listening the fetters of the senses (alas, that those -fetters should sometimes hold so closely and so heavily as to drag us -downwards to earth!) seemed to fall away, and his soul to soar back -to the heaven whence he had fallen. - -He would begin to read or to recite with slow unemotional -deliberateness--the enunciation perfect, and the voice exquisitely -modulated--but at first there was just a suspicion of a chant, an -incantation, as if by a spell to call up the Spirit of Poetry before -us. It was beautiful, it was the perfection of elocutionary art, but -for the time being it seemed cold and afar from us and our lives, -like the frozen marble beauty of Greek statuary. Soon his voice would -deepen, and the room become strangely still. It was the listeners -now who reminded one of statuary, for each sat unmoving, scarcely -breathing, every sense, every thought, centred on the reader who, his -great eyes ablaze, yet all unseeing, sat as if in a trance. This was -no longer Stephen Phillips, our friend and intimate with whom we had -walked and talked. - -All of us know what it is suddenly and unexpectedly to hear that we -shall see on earth, no more, a friend, who but yesterday was with -us, and of us, alive and well, his familiar and happy self. “No! -No! He is not dead! It cannot be! It must not be!” we cry out when -first told--as if death were something unnatural and abnormal; as if -it were but some oversight, some mistake, against which we have but -to enter our protest, to move High God to set it right. But even as -we thus cry out, even as we stagger back under the shock, and turn -sick and faint--so unendurable is our first sense of pity for the -dead--even then our pity passes, for we know it is we, the living, -not the dead, who are in need of pity. Even then and thus early (so -instantly ancient is death, once we realise that it has come) some -strange new majesty, august and awful, has come between our friend -and us, as if to withdraw him an æon and a world away. - -And for the moment, and while the spell was upon him, and upon us, -the soul of Stephen Phillips, when he was thus entranced by poetry, -seemed scarcely less far-removed from us, and from our little world, -than are the newly dead. For though to no mortal has the soul of a -man been visible, to some of us who have listened to Stephen Phillips -in those rare moments, it seemed as if _the soul of a man had at -least become audible_. - -Then, in some vague way, one’s thoughts wandered back to the time -when God walked in the Garden in the cool of the evening, and His -Voice was heard by mortals. For then the exigencies of Time and Space -were abrogated. The little room, wherein the poet sat and read, while -we listened, was so strangely transformed for us, that we saw the -vision of Dante and Milton unfold themselves before our eyes. The -poet could so speak a word as to make it seem like the Spirit of God -breathing upon the face of the waters, and calling new worlds into -being. He could so speak that single word as to make it almost a -world in itself. - -When in Swinburne’s second chorus in _Atalanta in Calydon_ Phillips -came to the lines - - He weaves, and is clothed with derision, - Sows, and he shall not reap, - His life is a watch or a vision - Between a sleep and a sleep, - -with the last word “sleep,” as it came from Stephen Phillips’s lips, -the very world itself seemed to close tired eyes, to wander away into -unconsciousness, and finally to fall on sleep. - -James Russell Lowell once said that if Shakespeare be read in the -very presence of the sea itself, his voice shall but seem the nobler, -for the sublime criticism of ocean; and the words recall Stephen -Phillips to me as I write, for in his voice, when he was deeply -stirred by poetry, there was something measured, unhasting, majestic, -like the vastness of great waters, moving in flood of full tide under -the moon. - -I have tried to give the reader some idea of his rendering of -poetry, and I have failed, for, as I have already said, it cannot be -described. Some godlike spirit, outside himself, seemed, in these -supreme and consecrated hours, suddenly to possess him, and, when the -hour and the consecration were past, as suddenly to leave him. But, -while that hour lasted, there was only one word for Stephen Phillips, -poet, and that word was Genius. - - - - -EDWARD WHYMPER - -AS I KNEW HIM - - -I - -Though I head this article “Edward Whymper as I Knew Him,” I prefer -first to write of Edward Whymper as he was before I knew him--or -rather before he knew me. In the town where he and I were then living -he had been dubbed “Bradlaugh turned Baedeker” by one resident who -insisted on Whymper’s likeness to the late Charles Bradlaugh, and -was aware that the Great Mountaineer had written various “Guides.” -Another name by which he was known was “The Sphinx,” possibly because -of his silence, his aloofness, and the mystery with which he was -supposed to surround himself. To the good folk of the town he was -indeed always something of an enigma. In the street he stalked -straightforwardly along, looking only in front of him, set of mouth, -stony of eye and severe of brow, if anyone either spoke to, or stared -at him. On the journey up to London, when most people read their -morning paper, he was rarely seen with a newspaper in his hand, but -stared, pipe in mouth, out of the window, except when going through -proofs or working at papers which he produced from a black leather -bag, without which he was never seen in the train. On the journey -down, when work for the day was done, his would-be sociable fellow -passengers found Whymper taciturn and reticent, responding, or rather -not responding, to any conversational advance, if possible, in a -monosyllable. - -The town in question was Southend, where he lived in Cliff Town -Parade, and I, ten minutes’ walk away at Westcliff. Though he -contended that there was no place within fifty miles of London with -such fine air, and though he never wearied (like Robert Buchanan, -who, as well as his brother poet, Sir Edwin Arnold, was at one -time a resident of Southend) of extolling the atmospheric effects -of sunshine and shadow upon the saltings, and though (again like -Buchanan, who had said as much to me) he vowed that nowhere else -in England were there to be seen more glorious pageants of sunrise -and sunset--to the people of Southend, especially to his fellow -travellers on the railway, he had taken an implacable dislike. When -in London I was first introduced to him, he and I fell out upon -the subject. Hearing that I lived at Southend, he asked me whether -I did not agree with him that nowhere else would one meet such -objectionable folk as those who journeyed backward and forward to -town. - -I replied that though Southend had no claim to be the home of rank -and fashion (overrun as it was and is, during the summer months, -by swarming hordes of East End trippers), I had found my fellow -travellers and the residents generally--of the middle classes as they -admittedly were--cordial, sociable, and kindly, and that for my part, -so far from feeling as he did, I liked them and had many friends -among them. - -This for some reason exasperated Whymper, who launched out in fierce -abuse of his unoffending fellow townsmen. - -“My good sir,” he stormed, “I ask you where else in England, where -else in God’s world if you like, will you come across such a -collection and crew of defaulting solicitors, bagmen, undischarged -bankrupts, shady stockbrokers and stock jobbers, potmen, pawnbrokers -and publicans as on that particular railway which you and I use?” - -I did not agree with him, and told him so plainly if courteously, -whereupon, seeing that I was more amused than annoyed by his -storming, he suddenly turned good-tempered, diverted the conversation -into other channels, and when we parted was quite friendly. - -His attitude on this occasion, as I afterwards discovered, was -characteristically Whymperian. He could respect a man who stood up -to him and was undismayed by his storming; he had “no use,” as the -Americans say, for one who was ready cheaply and insincerely to -profess himself entirely in agreement. He would at any time rather -be bearded than humoured, and the fact that on our first meeting I -refused to be browbeaten was, I now believe, one of the reasons why -he and I thereafter became good friends. - -One picture of Edward Whymper, as I saw him many times, is vivid in -my memory. The morning train to town is on the point of starting, -the guard has waved his flag, blown his whistle, and is urging -late comers to “hurry up.” Along the platform, indifferent to the -guard’s frantic arm-waving, never lengthening his step by so much -as one inch, never quickening his pace by as much as by one second, -but strolling as leisurely as if the train were not to start for an -hour, and looking at each carriage for the face he is seeking, walks -a closely-knit, sturdily-built man of middle height. His dress is -unusual, as he is well aware, accounting for it once by reminding me -of a great nobleman who, equally eccentric in the matter of dress, -remarked, “Where I live, every one knows who and what I am, so it -doesn’t matter what I wear. In London no one knows who and what I am, -so I am equally free to please myself.” - -More often than not Whymper, when going to town, wore a black -greatcoat over a woollen sweater, and had a brown seal fur cap with -lapels pulled down over the ears and fastened under the chin, for, -like many who have spent much time in Canada, he felt colder in the -damp and foggy climate of England, even when the temperature is -moderate, than he did in the drier, clearer atmosphere of the Great -Dominion, and when the thermometer stands at 40 degrees below zero. - -But unusual as are a fur cap and sweater, when worn as I have -seen Whymper wear them even when journeying to London, at the -height of the season, they struck one as less incongruous than the -ill-brushed, out-of-date silk hat in which, with black leather or -cloth leggings, he occasionally weirdly arrayed himself. He sees -my face at the window, stops, and, as leisurely as he had walked, -enters the carriage and seats himself opposite to me, his back to -the engine. To me he merely nods, or if on that occasion inclined -to be loquacious, goes so far as to say “Good morning,” but never -another word. The other occupants of the compartment he either -entirely ignores or favours with a baleful glare. Then he puts his -bag upon his knee, produces a packet of biscuits, and, looking out -of the window all the time, munches them with jaws that move as -rhythmically and methodically as if run by clockwork. His breakfast -of dry biscuits finished, he dives into his bag for a flask, solemnly -unscrews the stopper, as solemnly lifts the flask to his mouth, takes -a drink, smacks his lips, replaces the stopper in the flask and then -the flask in the bag, snaps the lock and puts the bag at his side. -This done, he fishes in his pocket for pipe, tobacco and matches, -charges and lights his pipe, takes with evident enjoyment two or -three long draws at it, sniffing possibly with relish and with open -nostrils at the smoke which rises from the bowl, settles himself -comfortably in his corner, and then, and not till then, turns to me -with a cheery “Well, and how are you this morning?” I reply with -equal cheeriness, and probably the whole way up to town we talk--only -we two--incessantly. - -But had I, _before_ he had munched his biscuits, swigged at his -flask, replaced the latter in his bag, lit his pipe and settled -himself in the corner, addressed him in any way, I should have had -the shortest of answers, and the chances are that for the rest of the -journey he would have remained silent. That was Edward Whymper’s way, -and a man who liked more to have his own way I never met. My liking -was for himself, not for his ways; but since it was his whim to be -let alone, to speak to no one and to be spoken to by no one until -he had breakfasted and lit his pipe, I was quite willing so to let -him go his own way, knowing that soon the oracle would speak of its -own accord, and would say many things which were well worth anyone’s -attention and hearing. - - -II - -“In the _Memoir of Tennyson_ by his son, there will be a letter--only -one--to myself,” said Whymper to me in 1897. “Except for the fact -that it was one of the last, if indeed not the very last letter -Tennyson penned, it doesn’t strike me as being important enough for -inclusion. But it has a curious history. I had sent Tennyson a copy -of one of my books, _Travels among the Great Andes of the Equator_. -Here is his reply. I’ll read it to you: - - ‘DEAR SIR, - - ‘Accept my thanks for your most interesting volume. I don’t think - I have been higher than about 7000 feet, and so I look on your - Chimborazos and Cotopaxis with all the greater veneration. - - ‘Yours very truly, - TENNYSON.’ - -“Now you can hardly call that a characteristic or even a particularly -interesting letter,” continued Whymper, “but the writing appears to -have given the poet some trouble, for the present Lord Tennyson tells -me that, after his father’s death, he found several drafts of it, I -think he said six, in a blotting pad. It was, as I say, one of the -last, if not the very last letter Tennyson ever wrote, and one of two -things about it is true. Either his approaching end had so affected -his powers that he found it difficult to frame even an ordinary -letter of acknowledgment, or else, realising that his letters would -one day inevitably be collected and printed, he was too fastidious an -artist to let even a casual note of thanks come from his pen without -striving to impart to it some touch of distinction and originality, -some turn of a phrase which would give a hint of the power and the -personality of the writer. What’s _your_ solution of the problem?” - -As I had no solution to offer, Whymper told me another story of -Tennyson, which by this time may or may not--I do not know--have -got into print.[B] But even if so--since I first heard it when it -was quite new, and since stories of the sort get varied in the -telling--there is some probability that Whymper’s version is the -correct one. I set it down, as nearly as I can recollect, as he told -it. - - [B] Since this was written, I have told the story in a brief - sketch of Whymper that was published in a monthly magazine. - -At a garden party, a rather gushing young girl went up to the hostess -and said: “Oh, is that really, as I’m told, Lord Tennyson sitting -there by himself smoking on that rustic seat?” “Yes, my dear, that is -he,” was the reply. “He occasionally does me the honour of calling to -see me, and dropped in, not knowing that I was entertaining to-day.” -“Oh, I should so like to meet him. Do introduce me,” said the girl. -“My dear, Lord Tennyson hates to be bothered by strangers,” answered -the hostess. “And one reason perhaps why he comes to see me is that -he knows I never exploit him in that way.” “Oh, but I should love to -be able to say I’ve met him,” persisted the other. “Well, _say_ you -have met him and leave it at that,” was the answer. “Here you are and -there he is, so it won’t be altogether untrue. He won’t trouble to -contradict it if he ever heard it, which is not likely, and I’m sure -I shan’t.” - -The girl, however, would take no refusal. Nothing would content her -but actually meeting and speaking to Tennyson, so losing patience -her hostess said: “Very well. If he is rude to you--as he can be -to people who force themselves upon him--your blood be upon your -own head. You can’t say I haven’t warned you. Come along.” “Lord -Tennyson,” said the hostess when the two had walked together to the -seat where the Laureate was smoking, “this is Miss B----, daughter of -an old friend of mine, who is very, very anxious to have the honour -of saying How-do-you-do to you.” “How-d’you-do?” responded Tennyson -gruffly, and scarcely looking up. - -Seating herself beside him the girl attempted awkwardly to carry -on some sort of conversation, but, as all she got in reply was an -occasional “Humph!” or else stony silence, she lost her nerve and -began, schoolgirl-wise, to wriggle and fidget in her seat. Then -the Great Man spoke. “You’re like the rest of them,” he grunted, -“you’re laced too tightly. I can hear your stays creak.” Abashed and -embarrassed the girl withdrew. Later in the afternoon Tennyson came -behind her, and laying a hand on her shoulder, said kindly, “I was -wrong just now, young lady. It wasn’t your stays I heard creaking, -but my braces. They’re hitched up too tightly. Sorry.” And he lounged -away. - -The story may not be new and may not be true, but Whymper found huge -enjoyment in the telling of it, possibly because he had himself the -reputation of sharing Tennyson’s dislike to the intrusive stranger. -To speak plainly indeed, Whymper could be very rude, as witness the -following incident. He invited me once to accompany him to a lecture -given by a great climber. Soon after we had entered the hall and -before the lecture commenced, a man, whom Whymper told me later -he was sure he had never set eyes on, bustled up to where we were -sitting, and extending a hand said effusively: - -“Oh, how-do-you-do, Mr. Whymper? You won’t remember me, but I had the -pleasure of meeting you in Switzerland.” - -“No, I certainly don’t remember having had the pleasure of meeting -you,” was Whymper’s caustic reply. “And I assure you my memory is of -the best.” - -“Ah, I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me,” answered the other still -unabashed. “It was at Zermatt. I knew your friend Leslie Stephen very -well.” - -“Possibly,” answered Whymper drily. “The question is whether my -friend Mr. Leslie Stephen would be equally sure that he knew _you_.” - - -III - -If ever a man carried out in practice the precept: “To know yourself -is wisdom; not to know your neighbours is genius,” that man was -Edward Whymper. - -He had, it is true, a knack of scraping and continuing acquaintance -with neighbours and fellow residents entirely out of his own station. -From a barber, a bird stuffer, a boatman or a net-mender he would -acquire a lot of out-of-the-way information, and indeed would chat to -them by the hour, if not exactly with joviality, at least without the -somewhat pompous precision which at other times and in other company -he affected. But during the thirteen years in which I was living at -Westcliff and Whymper was living at Southend, I was, I believe, the -only neighbour or fellow resident whose home he ever entered or who -was invited to visit his house. If I use the word “house” rather -than “home” of the building in which he passed much of his life, it -is not merely because he had chambers at St. Martin’s House, Ludgate -Hill, but because a more unhomelike place than Whymper’s Southend -residence can hardly be imagined. To ensure solitude and quiet he -had made an arrangement by which he took practically the whole of -what is called an “apartment house.” It was a tall building with -basement rooms below and at least three storeys above. In the top -storey Whymper himself lived, and in the very bottom, the basement in -fact, his housekeeper or landlady and her family had their rooms. -All the intervening storeys were by Whymper’s command left vacant. -The windows, except the basement, were curtainless, and Whymper’s -own room was carpetless and barrack-bare except for a few necessary -pieces of furniture, and photographs of his own taking--peaks he had -climbed, mountain wastes and wildernesses he had explored, scenes -on the Canadian Pacific Railway and the like. On the floor was a -rolled-up mattress, to which he pointed. “That,” he said, with a -queer smile twisting at the turned-down corners of his mouth, “is my -bed. The rugs and pillow are inside. At night I unroll the thing, and -there I am. What could be simpler?” - -And here I may remark that his habits in the matter of sleeping were, -like his habits in the matter of meals, unusual. Four o’clock in -the afternoon was his favourite and not unfrequent hour for dining, -after which he would sometimes go to bed, getting up again late in -the evening for the nocturnal rambles which he loved. I have often -heard him expatiate eloquently on the joys of finding himself afoot -and alone when more conventional folk were abed, and I have known him -extend his tramps from past midnight till day was breaking. - -That he and I came eventually to know each other well, and to see -each other frequently was due, I am convinced, entirely to the fact -that after our introduction, except to nod when we passed in the -street or met at the railway station or in the train, I left him -severely alone. That, as I now know, though I was unaware of it -at the time, was the surest passport to his favour. Rude even to -bearishness as he could on occasion be, Whymper would sometimes go -out of his way to show courtesy and even to enter into conversation -with an entire stranger. But in all such cases _the advance must -come from him_. If it came from the other, he was at once on his -dignity, withdrawing as instantly into his shell as an alarmed -snail. No curled hedgehog could present a more prickly front than -when in a train, in a club, or elsewhere, some representative of -the lion-hunting fraternity, or of that class of person who dearly -loves to claim acquaintance with a celebrity, made overtures to him; -whereas, left to himself, it often happened that, like the hedgehog, -he would of his own accord uncurl. - -It was so in my own case. Instead of merely nodding when we met, he -took to stopping to exchange a few words, telling me on one occasion -that I had very much alarmed him. - -“How?” I inquired. - -“I have been reading a little book of yours, called _A Book of -Strange Sins_,” he answered. “From the moment I first heard of it -I was in terror lest my own most secret and dearest sin had been -exposed and laid open to the light of day. But in searching its pages -anxiously and fearfully, I was relieved, not to say reprieved, to -find that my particular vices have escaped your notice.” - -Then, finding that though making no claim to be a mountaineer I had -done some small amount of climbing in Switzerland and elsewhere, -and finding, moreover, that I made no further advances, he took to -joining me on my way backward and forward to the station, becoming -more and more friendly at each meeting, and finally he got in the -habit of looking out for me that he and I might travel up and down -together. Then he wrote: - -“Come and crack a flask with me on Sunday next any time you like -after 8.30 p.m.” - -I accepted the invitation, of which he again reminded me when I met -him in the street next day. - -“Don’t forget,” he said, “that you are supping with me on Sunday any -time that suits you after half-past eight.” - -At half-past eight on Sunday I was with him. - -“I know you are a smoker,” he said, producing a parcel of fat and -long Manilla cigars, each carefully cased in silver paper. - -They had been in his possession, he told me (I could well believe -it), for twenty-five years, and better cigars I have never smoked. -Then, as he happened to be in the mood for talking and I am a good -listener, he talked incessantly, incisively and brilliantly till -nine, ten, eleven had come and gone, when frankly I began to feel -hungry, and no sign of supper. Twelve and half-past twelve came, -and I fear my attention wandered, for I was trying to recall the -condition of the joint which had done duty among my own hungry family -some twelve hours before. Should the same joint have reappeared at -the table for the usual Sunday night “cold supper,” the chances were -that on returning home I should be reduced to piratical raids upon -the larder in search of bread and cheese. - -“And now, what do you say to supper?” said Whymper, laying down -the pipe at which he had been puffing with curious and rhythmic -regularity. - -In smoking, as in everything else, he was methodical, and had one -counted the seconds that passed between each puff, the intervals -would have been nearly identical. - -Had I answered him truthfully I should have replied, “Say? What can I -say except ‘Thank heaven!’ and that I’m starving?” instead of which I -answered with apparent politeness but hidden irony: - -“Thank you. When you’re quite ready.” - -I regretted it the next moment, for, taking me too literally at my -word, he resumed his pipe, relighted it, and pointing the stem at a -photograph of himself upon the mantelshelf, remarked: - -“I’m extraordinarily particular about small matters. Does anything -strike you in that portrait?” - -“It’s a very good likeness,” I sighed, with a strange sinking of the -inner man, “and very characteristic, inasmuch as you are smoking, if -I mistake not, that very pipe.” - -He smiled cryptically. - -“Does nothing else strike you? Look again!” - -I groaned inwardly, but looked. - -“And the same suit?” - -“Anything else?” - -“Well,” I said desperately, “you look so cheerful, so well fed and so -happy, that I can only suppose you had just had your supper. Now as I -lunched at one o’clock and haven’t had as much as a sup of tea since, -I’m horribly hungry, and in want of mine.” - -Saying no more than a mere “Come along,” and carrying the pipe and -the photograph in his hand, he led the way into the next room, where -supper--all cold--was upon the table. But such a supper! Anchovies, -chicken, calves’ foot jelly, clotted Devonshire cream and other -delicacies, with rare old Burgundy and the best of champagne. - -When I had been abundantly helped, Whymper took up the photograph, -and again pointing at it with the pipe-stem, said: - -“What I wondered was whether you’d notice that the smoke coming from -the bowl of the pipe has been painted-in upon the negative. There -was no smoke visible in the original picture. When you get to know -me better you’ll find that I’m slow and methodical but minutely -accurate, even about little things. I think you told me once that -you set some store by the many signed portraits that have been given -to you by your literary friends. Since the portrait was the cause of -keeping you from your supper, and if you’d care to add so uncouth -a face as mine to your gallery, I’ll give it you. But I’ll sign it -first.” - -It was well that he had warned me that he was slow and methodical. -Never was there such a business as the signing of that portrait. -First he carefully washed and examined his pen, trying it at least -half a dozen times upon a sheet of note-paper. Then the ink did not -run as freely as it should, and further protracted operations of a -cleansing and refilling nature were necessary. Next a book on which -to rest the picture and a blotting-pad had to be found and placed in -position. Then, after further and repeated trial-trips of his pen -upon the harbour waters of a sheet of note-paper, he launched his -craft upon the big seas and settled down seriously to the business of -signing the photograph. Had it been a death-warrant or a cheque for -£100,000 to which he was momentously affixing a signature, he could -not have gone to work more carefully. In a round, neat, clerkly hand -he slowly and laboriously penned his name “Edward Whymper” with the -date beneath the portrait--and the deed was done. - -I have described thus lengthily the slow and methodical way in which -he set about signing this photograph for the reason that, trivial -as the incident may seem, it is illustrative of the character and -methods of the man. He walked slowly, thought slowly, worked slowly, -and talked slowly, not because of any sluggishness of brain or body, -but because every word, every action, was calculated and deliberate. -It was because he was so slow that he was so sure. Just as in -mountaineering he never moved a step until he was certain of the -foothold in front of him, so in conversation he never spoke before he -thought. - -Artist as he originally was by profession, lecturer and mountaineer -as, either by chance or by circumstance, he afterwards became, by -temperament he was essentially a man of science; and even in casual -conversation he hated what was slipshod, random, or inexact. He was -an admirable listener to anyone who was speaking from knowledge; and -I have often admired the courtly, if somewhat stately, attention -he would accord to those who spoke, and with authority upon some -subject on which Whymper himself was not an expert. But when the -conversation was mainly in his hands, he liked to feel that he was -chairman as well as principal speaker at the meeting, and would -never allow the talk to run off at a tangent. If his companion -ventured an opinion upon some side issue which the conversation had -suggested, Whymper would pull him up magisterially by interposing, -“You were saying just now that you thought so and so. We will, if you -please, confine ourselves to that side of the matter before opening -up another.” Courteously as he phrased it, his “if you please” was -peremptory rather than persuasive, and so in a sense was merely -formally polite. - - -IV - -Of all the men I have ever known, none so habitually refrained from -talking shop as Whymper. Hence of Whymper the mountaineer--and -mountaineering was in a sense with him a profession--as well as of -Whymper the artist and the lecturer, I have nothing of interest -to say. One reason perhaps is that of mountaineering I know -comparatively nothing and of art even less. Of Whymper the lecturer -I am more competent to speak, as for ten years I was his fellow -lecturer, constantly either preceding or following him upon the same -platform all over the country. We were both in the hands of the same -agent, I might say the only agent, for Mr. Gerald Christy may be said -to control the lecture field and practically to be without a rival. -Hence as a fellow Christy minstrel (as Mr. Christy’s lecturers, -musicians and entertainers are sometimes called) Whymper and I -might be supposed occasionally to compare notes. But though he was -interested to hear of my lecturing experiences he rarely spoke of his -own. - -Of one provincial platform and Press experience, however, he was -incontinently communicative and explosive. He lectured for a Young -Men’s Society (not the Y.M.C.A. as was stated in some subsequent -Press notices) at the Claughton Music Hall, Birkenhead. At either -side of the platform was a door leading into a small room for the -use of artistes. In the room on the right a cheerful fire had been -hospitably lit, by order of the committee, the unoccupied room on -the left being without a fire and in total darkness. Between these -two rooms and leading out of each, was a flight of stairs, meeting -in the centre and then continuing in one flight down to the ground -floor of the building, where was a back exit. Whymper, who was given -to “exploring” on a small scale, as well as a vast one, must needs -find out what was in the unlighted room as well as in the lighted -and fire-warmed room which had been placed at his disposal. (“Please -bear in mind,” the secretary of the society subsequently wrote to me, -“that he had no business to be poking into the place at all.”) - -Having examined, so far as he could in the dark, the unoccupied room, -Whymper then opened the door leading out to the stairs, the flare -of the fire on the opposite side throwing into shadow the staircase -which lay between the two rooms. Thinking that there was a level -passage from one room to the other, he made to walk along it, and -fell head first down the stairs, severely injuring his shoulder. So -severe indeed was the injury, that the lecture had to be abandoned, -and Whymper to be taken in a cab to his hotel and put to bed, where -he remained a week. He was extremely angry and exasperated with the -committee and the secretary, who were in no way to blame, but his -exasperation then was as nothing to his fury when in a newspaper he -read a notice of the incident. It was headed “One of Life’s Little -Ironies,” and was to the effect that “though Mr. Whymper, who had -made the first ascent of the Matterhorn when four of his companions -had lost their lives, had probably climbed more dangerous peaks than -any man living or dead, and without any serious mishap to himself, -it was surely one of life’s little ironies that he should receive -his most serious hurt by falling off a platform while peacefully and -presumably safely addressing a Y.M.C.A. audience in the provinces.” - -In one of Mr. W. W. Jacobs’s delightful books he tells of a bargee -whose language in hospital was so awful that “they fetched one of -the sisters and the clergyman to hear it.” As an Irishman who dearly -enjoys the spectacle of “wigs on the green,” I could have wished that -the secretary and some of the committee of the Young Men’s Society -in question could have been present as I was when the newspaper -paragraph quoted first came to Mr. Whymper’s notice. The secretary -humorously suggests that the fact that Whymper demanded payment of -his doctor’s bill and hotel expenses from the society, only to be -politely told that the accident was no affair of theirs, probably -played some part in adding to the irritation and explosiveness with -which Whymper read the paragraph and commentary upon the accident. - -One other accident that befell him--though not in connection -with lecturing--I may relate. He was, as every one knows, a keen -naturalist as well as an entomologist, and when returning from Canada -brought with him a squirrel, which in the seclusion of his cabin he -used often to set free that he might study its ways as he studied -the ways of all creatures whether free or in captivity. Aboard ship -he was less able to indulge his eccentricities in the matter of -unconventional hours for meals and for work than when on shore, but -even there he would often read or work far into the night, making -up for the consequent loss of sleep by snatching a nap at an hour -when the majority of his fellow passengers were most wide awake. On -one such occasion Whymper forgot to return the squirrel to its cage; -and in frolicking round the cabin, and leaping from floor to berth, -the little creature, having no fear of its master, scampered along -his prostrate form, and in passing scratched slightly the sleeper’s -face. Apparently the squirrel had picked up some poisonous matter in -the curve of its sharp claw, which getting into the scratch poisoned -Whymper’s face, so that for weeks, as he said, he was hideous to -behold, and had, I believe, to cancel certain lecturing engagements. - -“All my worse hurts,” he said to me when describing the incident and -waxing warm at the memory of the lecturing accident, to which I have -already referred, “came to me from some trivial cause. When there -is real danger ahead, no one is more careful, more wary, or watchful -than I. Luckily there was no member of the Young Men’s Society -present on this occasion, or the reptilian who sent paragraphs to the -Press: ‘Edward Whymper, the Great Mountaineer, falls off a lecturing -platform and seriously injures himself,’ would have earned a -scurrilous half-dollar by paragraphing the Press with an announcement -headed, ‘Edward Whymper badly wounded by a squirrel.’” - -I assured him that it was the nimble journalist, not any member of -the Young Men’s Society, who was responsible for the paragraph in -question, but his wrath at the memory of the incident was not to be -appeased, and, to whatever deserving institutions he may have left -legacies, I do not anticipate that the Society in question was among -them. - -Whymper, as I have said, never or rarely talked shop, but he did -talk--though never egotistically--of himself. He told me that he came -of a Suffolk family, but could trace his descent, though he still had -hopes of doing so, no farther back than his great-great-grandfather. -The men of his race rarely married. When they did marry they were -nearly always the fathers of girls. His brother Frank was, he told -me, Postmaster-General of India. Speaking of his own extraordinary -physical activity and stamina, he said that he had actually walked -the entire length of the Canadian-Pacific Railway, being nearly -killed once while doing so. I gathered that he had made more money -out of certain businesses in which he was interested, especially -a colour-printing process, than from either lecturing or books, -though his books and guide-book have of course had a great sale, and -early editions of his mountaineering works fetch high sums among -collectors. Unlike some authors, so far from having any grievance -against publishers, he said that of Mr. John Murray he could not -speak too highly, and that “going one better,” as he put it, than -Mrs. Bishop, the great traveller--who left in her will her copyrights -in token of her appreciation and gratitude to Mr. Murray--he proposed -while he was alive to make Mr. Murray a present of the copyright of -some of his books. This purpose he did not, I now understand, carry -into effect during his lifetime, but I believe I am correct in saying -that at his death his copyrights were bequeathed to Mr. Murray. -Speaking of his own career, he said that not mountaineering, nor -exploring, nor authorship so fascinated him and gratified him as his -discoveries in geology. - -One of his geological anecdotes concerned a fossil forest in -Greenland, which, when Whymper heard of it, he at once set out to -explore. There he found a large fossil cone which he was at great -pains to split into two halves, that he might the better examine -it. It was sent to a certain famous German professor, an expert of -world-wide reputation in fossil flora, who wrote saying that he -attached much importance to the find, and asked Whymper to come to -see him, which Whymper did. Producing the split cone, the professor -pronounced it a magnolia, in fact two magnolias and of different -species. “No, no,” said Whymper. “One magnolia. There can’t be any -doubt about that.” “You are mistaken,” said the professor curtly, -annoyed at being contradicted. “I have put both under the microscope, -and I assert positively that they are of a different species.” “One,” -repeated Whymper. “Two,” insisted the other. Then Whymper joined the -two halves. - -Next to geology Whymper seemed most interested in aneroids. It was -a subject on which he--by no means a boastful man--claimed to be -an expert and on which he purchased every book that was issued. -Especially prized by him were two books on aneroids, one bought in -Rouen, the other in Geneva by a Monsieur Pascal, whom Whymper said -was generally believed to be the writer Blaise Pascal, but was in -reality only a relative. - -Of his mountaineering experiences he said but little, and never once -during the thirteen years that I knew him did he of his own accord -refer to the historic Matterhorn tragedy. He did, however, tell me of -the circumstances under which he became a mountaineer. - -“It was purely accidental,” he said. “The idea of climbing had never -occurred to me, one reason being, as you who have done some climbing -yourself will readily appreciate, that it costs money; and I was -then a young fellow with all his way to make in the world, and was -looking out for a means to make money, not to spend it, and was in -fact rather at my wits’ end to know how to earn a livelihood. The -profession I was supposed to follow was art, and even thus early my -draughtmanship and woodcut work were, I think I may say, creditable. -Anyhow, more than one person who was competent to judge thought so, -and in fact said so. It was owing to somebody saying so that I got -the job which led to my becoming a mountaineer. There was a feeling -among climbers that the record of their work required illustrating. -They’re human like the rest of the world, and some of them fancied -that it would add to the éclat, the importance, and the heroism of -their achievements if they could be depicted crossing a crevasse -that yawned like a blue hell below them, holding on for dear life -and like a fly to a wall against a perpendicular rock, with a sheer -abyss and drop of a thousand feet beneath them, or skyed upon some -heaven-piercing and hitherto inaccessible peak that made unclimbing -folk turn sick and giddy to think of. - -“You know the sort of thing--Professor Tyndall crossing the Great -Crevasse, on this or that mountain, Mr. Leslie Stephen negotiating -the most difficult and dangerous pass on t’other one, or somebody -else setting the British flag on a hitherto unsurmounted peak. The -question was how to do it and whom to get to do it. To-day they’d do -it by photography; but photography wasn’t then what it is now, and it -was evident that their man would have to be a capable draughtsman, -and that he’d have to be a man of nerve, stamina and power of -endurance, as he also would have to do some climbing. Well, to cut -a long story short, some one who had chanced to see my work in art -and to think well of it, suggested me as a likely man. I was glad -of a job and jumped at it, but once having started climbing, as I -necessarily had to, in six months I had climbed peaks that no one -else had ever attempted; and that is the history in brief, if not the -whole story, of how I became a climber.” - - -V - -Edward Whymper was a man of few friends, I had almost written of no -friends, for though he was upon what, in the case of another man, -would be described as terms of friendship with many of the world’s -most distinguished workers, and though he enjoyed their company and -their intercourse as they enjoyed his, I should describe the bond -which held him and them together as “liking” and interest in each -other and in each other’s achievements rather than as friendship -in the closer sense of the word. The mould into which he was cast -was austere, stern, and could be forbidding. He was a “marked” -man wherever he went; and in all companies a man of masterful -personality, who inspired attention and respect in every one, -and something like fear in a few, but who, except in the case of -children, rarely inspired affection. That he was aware his manner -was not always conciliatory--was in fact at times forbidding--seems -likely from a story which I have heard him tell on several occasions -and always with infinite gusto. - -“I was walking up Fleet Street one day,” he began, pursing his lips, -mouthing and almost smacking them over his words as if the flavour -were pleasant to the palate, “when I chanced to see a sixpence lying -upon the ground. Now according to the law of the land, anything we -find in the street is in a public place and must be taken to the -nearest police station. I wasn’t going to be at the bother of picking -up a sixpence merely to take myself and it to the police station, so -I cast an eye around and walking just behind me I saw a poor ragged -devil without so much as a shirt to his back or a pair of shoes to -his feet. I didn’t require to speak or even to point to the sixpence. -I just caught the fellow’s eyes and looked with my own two eyes at -the sixpence upon the pavement. That was quite enough. He followed my -glance, saw the coin lying there, knew that my glance meant ‘You can -have it if you like,’ and my good fellow was down on it in a moment. -Well, I didn’t stop to let the fellow thank me, but just walked on. -It so happens, however, that I’m peculiarly sensitive to outside -impressions. If I’m in the street and some one is taking stock of me, -even though I can’t see them, I’m conscious of it in a moment. If I’m -in a hall, listening, say, to a lecture, and some one behind me has -recognised me, or is interested in me for any reason, I’m just as -aware of it as if I had eyes in the back of my head. Well, I passed -up Fleet Street, and along the Strand till, approaching Charing -Cross, I became suddenly aware that some one behind was watching me -as if for a purpose. I turned, and there was my ragged, shirtless, -bootless devil of a tramp, who had followed me all that way, poor -devil, I supposed to thank me. So I thought it decent to slow my -pace, and when he was just alongside of me I half turned to give him -the chance to speak, and waited to hear what he had to say. What -do you think it was? To express his thanks? Not a bit. When he was -level with me, he hissed, almost spat in my ear, ‘You blank, blank, -blankey blank, blank! too blanky proud blank, are you? to pick up a -sixpence--blank you!’ - -“That, I said to myself at the time,” continued Whymper, “is all the -thanks you get for trying to do a good turn to the British vagrant. -But, on thinking it over, I’ve come to the conclusion that there was -something unintentionally offensive or shall we say patronising, in -the way I looked at the man and then at the sixpence--something which -he resented so bitterly that he had to follow me all that way to spit -it out.” - -Another incident, which amused him at the time, happened when he -and I had walked out from Southend to Shoeburyness, a distance of -some four miles. It was on a Sunday morning, and when we arrived at -Shoeburyness he remarked: - -“I had some very salt bloaters for breakfast. Do you mind if, Sunday -morning as it is, I call at the first inn to slake my thirst?” - -“Of course not,” I replied. - -As it was within the prohibited hours when inns are closed except to -_bona fide_ travellers--by which is meant those who have travelled -three miles from the place where they slept the previous night--we -found the inn door closed. Whymper knocked sharply and loudly at -it in his usual masterful way, and, when it was opened by a frowsy -looking fellow in shirt sleeves, said dryly, in more senses than one: - -“I am thirsty and want a drink, please.” - -“Are you _bona fide_ travellers?” inquired the fellow. - -“Well,” remarked Whymper partly to the fellow and partly to me, -“there was a time early in my career when some doubts were cast upon -my qualifications as a mountaineer and even, upon my word, in regard -to my statement as to what had happened, but, this is the first time -I have been challenged in regard to my being a _bona fide_ traveller. -I’ll say nothing about the qualification of my friend here, but -considering that since the last time I passed this hostelry I have -travelled some seven or eight thousand miles, I think I’m entitled -to describe myself as a traveller in a very _bona fide_ sense. As -a matter of fact, we have come from Southend this morning, which I -believe is outside the statutory three miles. Do I look, my good -fellow, like a man who’d tell you a lie about a thing like that?” - -“I don’t know,” replied the man looking Whymper very hard in the -face, “but I’ll tell you what you do look like if you wish. You look -to me like a man who if he’d made up his mind to have a drink would -have it whether he was a _bona fide_ traveller or not, and wouldn’t -let no one else stop him from having it, and that’s more.” - -“I observe, my man,” said Whymper sententiously, as the door was -opened to admit us, “that you are no indifferent judge of character, -but I am curious also to know whether you are disposed to have a -drink yourself.” - -The man’s answer, in Parliamentary parlance, was in the affirmative. - - -VI - -At what I am now about to say of Edward Whymper, he would himself -either have hooted with cynical ridicule or else would have heard -with a slow and cold smile of amused scorn, but to me his was a sad, -gloomy, if not indeed a pathetic figure. I do not say this because -he was a lonely man--and in all life I have met no one who was -quite as lonely as he--but because he walked always in the shadow -of self. I am not implying that he was selfish, for he was not. In -his business transactions--albeit not an easy man to “best,” and -not above driving a hard bargain with those whom he distrusted--he -was not only as good as his word, but was the soul of integrity and -honour. Prepared as he was to fulfil his share of the contract to -the letter, he expected and required that others should do the same. -Yet when dealing with those who had treated him handsomely he could -be quixotically generous. Even to those to whom he owed nothing, he -did many unselfish kindnesses for which he expected no gratitude, and -was prepared to go unrequited. While the professional mendicant was -sternly and mercilessly shown the door, the deserving poor he was -always, if stealthily and secretly, ready to help. - -Yet, looking back on him as I knew him all those years, I ask myself -whether there was really one being in the world who really “mattered” -to Edward Whymper, or by whose death his serenity would have been -disturbed. It was Robert Montgomery, I believe, who wrote a poem in -which he pictured the tragic loneliness of “the last man” left alone -in the world. - -Had it been possible, by some such universal cataclysm as, say, a -world-wide earthquake, for every living creature, with one exception, -to perish off the face of the earth, and had Edward Whymper been that -one exception, I verily believe that, whistling softly to himself at -the wonder of it all, he would, with untrembling fingers, calmly have -filled and lit his pipe, and have sat down, were anything left to sit -upon, to contemplate the ruins of a world, and then, first of all, to -consider how to get his next meal, and, after that, to think out how -to accommodate himself to the unusual and inconvenient circumstances -in which he found himself. Nor would he have forgotten, with such -instruments as happened to be within reach, to take such astronomical -and meteorological bearings as he thought would prove valuable in the -interests of science. - -It is of course preposterous and inconceivable to suppose any such -situation as I have imagined, and some of my readers may reasonably -suppose that I am either laughing at them or wishing them to laugh -at Whymper or myself. I assure them I am doing nothing of the -sort, for, with no inconsiderable knowledge of the man, I honestly -believe that in such circumstances he would have behaved exactly -as I have said. They are magnificent, those qualities of absolute -self-dependence, self-containment and self-contentment which Whymper -possessed, but to me at least and at times they seemed almost -superhuman. He walked, as I have said, in the shadow of self; was -content so to walk, and apparently had no conception of and no wish -to live a life to the happiness or sorrow of which it was in the -power of others to contribute. A man who can so isolate himself is -possibly to be envied, even if it never occurred to him that he is -also to be pitied. Yet in spite of the fact that he was perfectly -satisfied with his lot in life, and in living that life according to -the cut-and-dried system by which he ordered it, and in spite, too, -of the fact that he would have assured one that he was, and indeed -believed himself to be, a happy man, Edward Whymper was, as I have -said, not only the loneliest but the most pathetic human creature I -have ever known. - - -VII - -Whymper’s comments upon his contemporaries and their work were -always exceedingly penetrative. Of some he spoke very generously but -never effusively, of others critically and of a few sarcastically. -I well remember the cynical smile with which he called my attention -to an inscription in a presentation volume. It had been sent to -him by a well-known writer, of whom I say no more than that he had -once held a very distinguished position in the Society of Authors. -The inscription ran: “To Edward Whymper, Esq. with the author’s -complements,” and as I write, I seem to see Whymper’s squarish finger -stubbed under the guilty “e” in compliments. No one did he seem to -hold in greater respect and regard than Mr. Edward Clodd, of whom -he once spoke to me as “not only a profound thinker and scholar and -brilliant writer, but a loyal and true friend and the intimate -associate of many of the great men of our time.” I remember once -inviting Whymper to be my guest at a dinner in town, and mentioning -that Clodd was to be of the party. - -“You know,” said he, “how generally I hum and ha when anyone asks me -to a function or a dinner, and that I’d rather at any time dine on -bread and cheese and in pyjamas (which he often wore in the house) -here in Southend than be at the trouble of getting into a black coat -and journeying up to London to eat a ten-course dinner. But, if Clodd -is to be one of your guests, I’m your man.” - -I had only three guests, Whymper, Mr. Clodd, and Mr. Warwick Deeping, -and the two older men who had not met for a very long time had so -much to say about celebrities who were the friends of both, and -of historic former meetings, that Deeping (always a silent man by -choice) and myself (host though I was) were content for the most part -to listen. Apart from his wish to see an old friend whom he held in -great respect, Whymper had, if I am not mistaken, another and more -personal reason for accepting my invitation to meet Clodd at dinner, -which is why I refer to that otherwise unimportant function. - -And this brings me to a somewhat painful incident of which, when -Whymper was alive, I was occasionally reminded, always to his -disparagement, by literary friends. If I touch briefly upon it here, -it is not because I wish to rake up an old story, which, inasmuch as -it concerns two distinguished men who are both dead, might very well -be forgotten, but because since Whymper’s death it has again been -going the rounds, and because I have an explanation to put forward in -regard to what happened. - -Whymper was on a certain occasion--it is no use mincing -matters--unpardonably rude to one whom Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once -described to me as “the most modest, the most unassuming, and at -the same time the most learned man I have ever known”--the late -Grant Allen. It was my privilege to know and to be the guest of -Grant Allen in his home, and I am of opinion that he was not only -the most modest, most unassuming, and most learned, but also the -gentlest, most generous, and most lovable of men. Meeting Whymper at -a dinner--I was not present, but in common, I expect, with some of -my readers I have heard the story often--Allen quite innocently, and -never dreaming that the question could give offence, asked Whymper -concerning the historic accident on the Matterhorn, to be told curtly -that the accident was his own business, and he did not choose to -discuss it. - -Unpardonably rude, as I have said, as such a reply was, and to such a -man as Allen, that rudeness is, I fancy, capable of explanation. To -those who knew Whymper only slightly and--overlooking the sensitive -breathing nostrils, so wide and circular at the opening--saw only -the cold hardness of his face and eyes, the rat-trap-like snap of -mouth and jaw, he seemed a man of iron; and this impression the story -of his indomitable courage, his dogged determination to succeed -where others had failed, went far to confirm. That such a man, a man -rough-hewn as he seemed out of block granite, and with sinews of -steel, could be cognisant of the fact that he had “nerves,” much -less could suffer from them, would occur to no one. None the less, I -happen to know that the shock of that tragedy in early life among the -Alps, when, powerless to help them, he had to stand inactively by and -see his companions hurled to certain death, left its mark upon him -to the end of his life, and was sometimes re-enacted in his dreams. -In his later years, when his iron constitution began to weaken and -when his nerves were less steady than of old, any sudden reference to -that early tragedy would, in his more irritable moments, annoy and -anger him, and I am convinced that it was in such conditions his rude -and surly rebuff to Grant Allen was spoken. That Whymper afterwards -regretted it I have reason to know. I believe that it was because -Clodd was the close and devoted friend of Allen, and had, moreover, -been present when the rebuff was administered, and had been pained -by it, that Whymper was anxious to meet Clodd, either for the reason -that--indifferent as he generally was to what others thought of -him--he was for once anxious to efface any bad impression that the -incident had created, or because he hoped to have some opportunity of -speaking of Allen (he was too proud a man to have written to Allen -direct) in such a way as to mend matters. - -That this is not mere surmise on my part I am convinced from what -I have myself heard Whymper say and from the way he afterwards -spoke of Allen. He was, as I say, a proud man, a taciturn man, and -sometimes a rude man, but at heart he was just; and unnecessarily and -undeservedly to have given pain to another troubled him as much, if -not more, than anything _could_ trouble one whom few things outside -himself could affect. - -Since writing the above I ventured to submit a draft of this paper to -my friend Mr. Clodd, whose very interesting reply I have permission -to quote as written: - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I read the enclosed last night. Like Cromwell, Whymper would say, - “Paint me, warts and wrinkles and all,” and you have done as he - would have wished, producing a faithful and withal sympathetic - portrait. - - I have just queried an obscure sentence here and there, but - have not touched the punctuation, which I presume has had your - attention in the original. - - I don’t know whether the Tennyson story has appeared in print. - Edmund Gosse told it to me years back. Of course the son wouldn’t - admit anything conveying an idea of his father’s gruffness. When - I referred to the _Life_ as a Biography, Meredith said to me, - “Don’t call it that: ’tis only a Eulogy.” What I now remember - about the Allen rebuff is that Whymper had been lecturing in - various places, and that Allen--who was thinking of making money - that way--asked him about his fees. And this Whymper wouldn’t - tell him. On the same occasion, Hardy being of the company, - Whymper narrated in detail the Matterhorn catastrophe, which gave - Hardy the impetus to a sonnet. Whymper was the only man Hardy - ever expressed the desire to meet again--hence their coming to me - in the Easter of 1910. - - You truly assess him as a lonely man, but there was a soft place - under a hard shell, and this comes out in the tenderness towards - children and all helpless things of which you speak. I am glad to - have your witness to his liking for me. His visits to me remain a - cherished memory. - - Yours sincerely, - EDWARD CLODD. - -I was under the impression, before receiving Mr. Clodd’s very -interesting letter, and from what Grant Allen told me of the rebuff, -that it was the latter’s question about the Matterhorn which caused -the trouble. But the incident happened under Mr. Clodd’s roof, and -his memory is not likely to fail him. Possibly Allen had already -annoyed Whymper by asking to be told the story of the Matterhorn, -and the inquiry about lecture fees following upon that provoked -Whymper’s ready wrath. That he should thereafter voluntarily have -described the ice accident to Mr. Thomas Hardy (at mention of whose -honoured name I stand respectfully at salute) in no way surprises -me, and in fact confirms what I have said in an earlier section of -this paper to the effect that “the advance must always come from -Whymper himself,” that he was not indisposed to talk when left to -himself, but was quick to suspect any appearance of being “exploited” -or “drawn.” That he resented having questions about the Matterhorn -catastrophe suddenly sprung upon him I have reason to know, for I -have more than once heard him snub, almost savagely, a tactless -inquirer. Allen’s question about fees (he was the last man in the -world to be impertinent) may seem to some readers unwarrantable, but -none of us in Mr. Christy’s list made any secret of the matter, as -Allen--himself a lecturer, but not for Mr. Christy--was aware. On the -contrary, Whymper asked me, soon after I first met him, what fees I -received, telling me in return what his own handsome payments were. - -There we will leave the comparatively trivial incident of his -rudeness to Allen. I should not have written thus lengthily of it, -but for the receipt of Mr. Clodd’s letter, and because my picture -of Whymper depends, for any faithfulness it has, not upon bold -strokes of the brush, but upon the slow and careful painting in of -comparatively unimportant but none the less cumulative details. - -Edward Whymper was a man whom it was easy to misjudge, and was so -misjudged of many if only for the reason that he would go out of his -way to flatter, to please, or to pay court to none, or to be other -than his natural self to all those with whom he was brought into -contact. Rank and title, great social position, the power of the -purse and the power of the Press, nor his own self-interests, could -ever move Edward Whymper to seek the favour of those who for their -own sake, or for the sake of what they have done, he did not already -respect. Secure in the knowledge of his own just and honourable -dealings with all men, and seeking only the approval of his -conscience, he was content to go his own way in the world, a strange, -strong, lonely, but in many respects a remarkable man--I think in -force of character and determination the most remarkable man I have -ever known. To me, as to many others of whom I am aware, he did many -kindnesses and showed constant friendliness, and if in the opinion -of my readers I seem but ill to have requited these kindnesses and -that friendliness, by drawing a faithful rather than a flattering -picture of the man as I knew him, it is because he was too sincere, -too honest, too genuine, too fearless to wish it otherwise. Let me, -however, in concluding this sketch, give one more picture of him as I -often saw him--a picture which I have purposely kept to the last for -the reason that it shows him in a light which is probably all unknown -to those who did not see him in his home and in his daily life, and -because it is a memory of him upon which I like to linger. - -Born bachelor as he always seemed to me--I left Westcliff shortly -before his marriage, and did not know him and cannot imagine him -as a married man--he was extremely fond of and invariably kind to -children. With children he was another being, and, grim as he could -be to grown-ups, children invariably liked and trusted him. My -earliest experience of this was on the evening after my first supper -with him. He had been to town, and, as I was walking towards the -station to purchase an evening paper, I saw him stalking in front -of me, arrayed in a black greatcoat and top hat and black leather -leggings. In one hand he carried his bag, and by the other he clasped -the hand of a tiny girl-child, poorly clad and hatless, whom he -stooped to comfort as tenderly as could any woman, and in fact took -out his own handkerchief to wipe away her tears. The little mite, who -hailed from East London, had been sent by some charitable person -for a week by the sea to one of the many Holiday Homes for the Poor -in Southend. How she had become lost I do not remember, but lost she -certainly was, learning which Whymper had comforted, quieted, and -coaxed her into telling him where her temporary home was, and when -I met him he was on his way to take her there. My own stepson, then -a lad of twelve and a cadet on H.M.S. _Worcester_, was devoted to -him, being especially proud that the greatest of mountaineers was at -the trouble of giving him lessons in climbing. Up and down the cliff -slopes of Southend, Whymper marched the lad, impressing upon him the -importance of always going at one steady and uniform rate, never, -except under exceptional circumstances when haste was absolutely -necessary, forcing the pace or indulging in sprinting; teaching him -to walk from the hips mechanically and machine wise, so that no -strain was put upon the heart and lungs, and instructing him in the -control and use of the breath. When after the holiday the boy went -back to the _Worcester_, he sent Whymper his autograph book, asking -him to inscribe his name therein. In it, the man whom some people -thought grim, surly, and morose, wrote: “I have been dying to see you -again. When _are_ you coming along? Edward Whymper. Feb. 24, 1905.” - -The boy whom Whymper always spoke of as his “friend” is at this -moment serving his King and country in France as a soldier, throwing -up his post in Canada directly war was declared. He is too young to -feel--as some of us who are young no longer now, alas, feel, as has -been said, that old friends are the best, and it is to the grave we -must go to find them; but he is only one of many to whom, when they -were children, the dead man showed constant kindness, and who will to -their life’s end hold the name of the great mountaineer, who was also -a true child-lover, in honour, gratitude, and affection. - - - - -OSCAR WILDE - - - “To the memory of one who by some strange madness, beyond - understanding, made shipwreck of his own life and of the life of - others; one of whom the world speaks in whispers, but of whom I - say openly that I never heard an objectionable word from his lips - and saw in him at no time anything more vicious than vanity; to - the memory of - - OSCAR WILDE, - - actor (in a great life tragedy as in everything else), artist (in - more crafts than one, including flattery), poet, critic, convict, - genius, and, as I knew him, gentleman: I dedicate these pages in - memory of many kindnesses.” - -In these words I wished, soon after Wilde’s death, to dedicate a -book, but the publisher of the book in question was obdurate. He -would not, he said, have Wilde’s name on the dedication page of any -work issued by him, and went so far as to urge me not to fulfil -the intention I had even then formed of one day writing a chapter -on Oscar Wilde as I knew him. Yet in Oscar Wilde as I knew him, as -stated in the above dedication, except for his vanity there was no -offence. - -The preface, since my relations with the publisher of whom I speak -were pleasant and friendly, I withdrew. If I have let sixteen years -elapse before writing the chapter, it was for no other reason than -that I felt the thing could wait--would perhaps be the better for -waiting--and that the pressure of other work kept me employed. - -But one day a man, who to my knowledge has eaten Wilde’s salt -and received many kindnesses from him in the season of Wilde’s -prosperity, called to see me concerning some literary project. On -my shelves are books given and inscribed to me by Wilde and signed -“from his sincere friend,” and on my mantelshelf stands a portrait -similarly inscribed and signed. Seeing this portrait, my caller -observed: - -“If I were you I should put that thing out of sight, and, if you -happen at any time to hear his name mentioned, I should keep the fact -that he had been a friend of yours to yourself.” - -That decided me to write my long delayed chapter. I begin by a -protest. In his very interesting _Notes from a Painter’s Life_, my -friend Mr. C. E. Hallé speaks of Wilde’s “repulsive appearance.” -At the time of Wilde’s conviction some of the sketches of him, -presumably made in court and published in certain prints, did so -portray him, possibly because, as he was just then being held up -to public execration, so to picture him fitted in with the popular -conception. Mr. Hallé wrote “after the event” of Wilde’s downfall, -when it is easy not only to be wise, but also to see in the outer -man some signs of the evil within. But from the statement that -Wilde’s appearance was “repulsive” I entirely dissent. It is true -there was a flabby fleshiness of face and neck, a bulkiness of body, -an animality about the large and pursy lips--which did not close -naturally, but in a hard, indrawn and archless line--that suggested -self-indulgence, but did not to me suggest vice. Otherwise, except -for this fleshiness and for the animality of the mouth, I saw no -evil in Wilde’s face. The forehead, what was visible of it--for -he disposed brown locks of his thick and carefully parted hair -over either temple--was high and finely formed. The nose was well -shaped, the nostrils close and narrow--not open and “breathing” as -generally seen in highly sensitive men. The eyes were peculiar, -the almond-shaped lids being minutely out of alignment. I mean by -this that the lids were so cut and the eyes so set in the head that -the outer corners of the lids drooped downwards very slightly and -towards the ears, as seen sometimes in Orientals. Liquid, soft, large -and smiling, Wilde’s eyes, if they seemed to see all things--life, -death, other mortals and most of all himself--half banteringly, met -one’s own eyes frankly. His smile seemed to me to come from his -eyes, not from his lips, which he tightened rather than relaxed in -laughter. His general expression--always excepting the mouth, which, -its animality notwithstanding, had none of the cruelty which goes so -often with sensuality--was kindly. - -The best portrait I have seen of Wilde is one in my possession -which has never been published. It was taken when he was the guest -of the late Lady Palmer (then Mrs. Walter Palmer), with whom I had -at the time some acquaintance. She was a close friend of Wilde -(who christened her “Moonbeam”) and of George Meredith (whom she -sometimes half-seriously, half-playfully spoke of as “The Master”). -In the portrait, Lady Palmer is seated with Meredith, Mrs. Jopling -Rowe being seated on her right and Mr. H. B. Irving on her left. -Behind Meredith’s chair stands Wilde with Miss Meredith (afterwards -Mrs. Julian Sturgis), Sir J. Forbes-Robertson, and I think Mr. David -Bisham on his right. The portrait of Wilde, if grave, is frank, -untroubled, and attractive, for, when he chose to be serious, the -large lines of his face and features sobered into a repose and into -a massiveness which were not without dignity. Too often, however, -Dignity suddenly let fall her cloak, and Vanity, naked and unashamed, -was revealed in her place. - -Yet there is this to be said of Wilde’s vanity, that its very -nakedness was its best excuse. A loin-cloth, a fig-leaf would have -offended, but it was so artlessly naked that one merely smiled and -passed on. Moreover, it was never a jealous or a malicious vanity. -It was so occupied in admiring itself in the mirror that the smile -on its face was never distorted into a scowl at sight of another’s -success. Wilde’s vanity, I repeat, was as entirely free from venom -as was his wit. No one’s comments on society, on the men and women -he met, the authors he read, were more incisive or more caustic, but -I remember none in which the thought was slanderous or the intention -spiteful. - -_A propos_ of Wilde’s vanity, here is a story told me long ago by -Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer, who then held a post of some sort in -connection with the Masters in Lunacy. Visiting the Zoological -Gardens one day--in his private capacity, I assume, not in -connection with the Lunacy Commission--he entered the Monkey House. -Within the big cement wire enclosure a certain liveliness--the war -phrase seems to have come to stay--was evident. What it was all about -Colonel Spencer did not know, but with one exception the occupants -were very excited, leaping wildly from end to end of the cage, and -from top to bottom, jabbering, groaning, snarling, emitting shrill -shrieks of terror or hoarse howls of rage. - -The one exception was an evil-looking and elderly monkey which sat -humped and brooding in a corner, absolutely motionless except for -the twitching of his nostrils and the angry way in which he switched -his eyes first upon what he apparently thought to be the staring -human idiots outside, and then at the capering and noisy monkey -imbeciles within. “What’s the matter with that monkey?” Colonel -Spencer inquired of a keeper. “Is he ill? He seems too bored even -to scratch.” The keeper shook his head. “No, he isn’t ill, sir,” -he answered. “Wot’s the matter with ’im, sir? Why, wanity.” Then -stirring up the sulking monkey with his cane, he added, “’Ere, get -up--Hoscar Wilde!” - -One day it was Wilde’s caprice to amuse himself by talking the most -blatantly insincere nonsense, directed against my own political -views, and deliberately intended to “draw” me. He was in his most -exasperating mood, exuding, or affecting to exude, egotism at every -pore, and fondling, or making pretence to fondle, his vanity as -some spinsters fondle a favourite cat. At last I could stand it no -longer, and wickedly told him the story of Colonel Spencer’s visit -to the Monkey House at the Zoo and the keeper’s comment about the -sulky monkey. “Wot’s the matter with ’im, sir? Why, wanity. ’Ere, get -up--Hoscar Wilde.” - -So far from being annoyed, Wilde simply rocked, or affected to rock -with delight. - -“I hoped once,” he said, “to live to see a new shape in -chrysanthemums or sunflowers, or possibly a new colour in roses, blue -for choice, called after me. But that one’s name should percolate -even to the Zoological Gardens, that it should come naturally to the -lips of a keeper in the Monkey House, is fame indeed. Do remind me -to tell George Alexander the story. It will make him so dreadfully -jealous.” - -And I answered grimly: - -“Your game, Wilde!” - - -II - -My friendship with Wilde was literary in its beginnings. Flattered -vanity on my part possibly contributed not a little to it, for when I -was a young and--if that be possible--a more obscure man even than I -am now, Wilde, already famous, was one of the very first to speak an -encouraging word. Here is the first letter I received from him: - - 16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA. - - DEAR MR. KERNAHAN, - - If you have nothing to do on Wednesday, will you come and dine at - the Hotel de Florence, Rupert Street, at 7.45--morning dress, and - chianti yellow or red! - - I am charmed to see your book is having so great a success. It is - strong and fine and true. Your next book will be a great book. - - Truly yours, - OSCAR WILDE. - -This letter, it will be observed, is undated. Apparently Wilde -never dated his letters, for of all the letters of his which I have -preserved not a solitary one bears a date, other perhaps than the -name of the day of the week on which it was written, and that only -rarely. He had the impudence once at a dinner-party, when taken to -task by a great lady for not having answered a letter, to reply: - -“But, my dear lady, I never answer or write letters. Ask my friend -there, whose faithful correspondent I am.” Then turning to me, he -said, “Tell Lady ---- when you heard from me last.” - -As I had heard from him that morning, I dissembled by saying: - -“How can I answer that, Wilde, for among my other discoveries of the -eccentricities of genius I have discovered that genius, at least as -represented by you, never dates its letters. I never had one from you -that was dated.” - -Not long after the receipt of this first letter, I proposed to write -what I may call a “grown-up fairy story,” and asked Wilde whether -I might borrow as sub-title a phrase I had once heard him use of a -fairy tale of his own making--“A Story for Children from Eight to -Eighty.” He replied as follows, then, as always, with a capital _D_ -for “dear”: - - 16 TITE STREET, - CHELSEA, S.W. - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I am only too pleased that any little phrase of mine will find a - place in any title you may give to any story. Use it, of course. - I am sure your story will be delightful. Hoping to see you soon. - - Your friend, - OSCAR WILDE. - -My story written and published, I despatched it cap in hand -to carry my acknowledgments to the teller of supremely lovely -fairy stories--imagined, not invented--from whom my own drab and -homespun-clad little tale had impudently “lifted” a beautiful -sub-title to wear, a borrowed plume, in its otherwise undecorated hat. - -Here is Wilde’s very characteristic reply. It needs no signature to -indicate the writer. No other author of the day would have written -thus graciously and thus generously: - - 16 TITE STREET, - CHELSEA, S.W. - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I should have thanked you long ago for sending me your charming - Fairy Tale, but the season with its red roses of pleasure has - absorbed me quite and I have almost forgotten how to write a - letter. However, I know you will forgive me, and I must tell you - how graceful and artistic I think your story is--full of delicate - imagination, and a symbolism suggestive of many meanings, not - narrowed down to one moral, but many-sided, as I think symbolism - should be. - - But your strength lies not in such graceful winsome work. You - must deal directly with Life--modern terrible Life--wrestle with - it, and force it to yield you its secret. You have the power and - the pen. You know what passion is, what passions are. You can - give them their red raiment and make them move before us. You can - fashion puppets with bodies of flesh and souls of turmoil, and so - you must sit down and do a great thing. - - It is all in you. - - Your sincere friend, - OSCAR WILDE. - -That Wilde was an artist in flattery as well as an egotist, is not -to be denied, but when quite early in our friendship I was shown by -a certain woman poet a presentation copy of Wilde’s book of poems -inscribed “To a poet and a poem,” and within the next few weeks saw -upon a table in the drawing-room of a very beautiful and singularly -accomplished woman, the late Rosamund Marriott-Watson (“Graham -Tomson”), who was a friend of Wilde’s and mine, a fine portrait of -himself also inscribed “To a poet and a poem,” I was not so foolish -as to take too seriously the flattering things he said. - -Egotist as Wilde was, his was not the expansive egotism which, in -spreading its wings to invite admiration, seeks to eclipse and to -shut out its fellow egotists from their own little place in the -sun. Most egotists are eager only for flattery and applause. Wilde -was equally eager, but he was ready for the time being to forget -himself and his eagerness in applauding and flattering others. Not -many egotists of my acquaintance, especially literary egotists, -write letters like that I have quoted, in which there is no word of -himself, or of his own work, but only of his friend. - -The last letter I ever received from Wilde is in the same vein. It -is as usual undated, but as the play to which it refers was his -first, _Lady Windermere’s Fan_, I am, by the assistance of Mr. Stuart -Mason’s admirably compiled _Oscar Wilde Calendar_, enabled to fix the -date as the middle of February, 1892. - - HOTEL ALBEMARLE, - PICCADILLY, LONDON. - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - Will you come and see my play Thursday night. I want it to be - liked by an artist like you. - - Yours ever, - O. W. - -Wilde came to see me, I think, the morning after the production of -the play, or at all events within a morning or two after, and hugged -himself with delight when, in reply to his question, “Do tell me what -you admired most in the play,” I said: - -“Your impudence! To dare to come before the footlights in response to -enthusiastic calls--smoking a cigarette too--and compliment a British -audience on having the unexpected good taste--for your manner said as -plainly as it could, ‘Really, my dear people, I didn’t think you had -it in you!’--to appreciate a work of art on its merits! You are a -genius, Wilde, in impudence at least if in nothing else.” - -“And you are a plagiarist as well as a flatterer,” he replied. “You -stole that last remark from a story you have heard me tell about -Richard Le Gallienne. I’m going to punish you by telling you the -story, for, though you stole part of it, I am sure you have never -heard it. No one ever has heard the story he steals and calls his -own; no one ever has read--the odds are that he will swear he has -never heard of--the book from which he has plagiarised. Our friend -Richard is very beautiful, isn’t he? Wasn’t it you who told me -that Swinburne described him to you as ‘Shelley with a chin’? I -don’t agree. Swinburne might just as well have described himself as -‘Shelley without a chin.’ No, it is the Angel Gabriel in Rossetti’s -National Gallery painting of the Annunciation of which Richard -reminds me. The hair, worn long and fanning out into a wonderful halo -around the head, always reminds me of Rossetti’s angel. However, my -story is that an American woman, in that terribly crude way that -Americans have, asked Richard, ‘Why do you wear your hair so long, -Mr. Le Gallienne?’ Richard is sometimes brilliant as well as always -beautiful, but on this occasion he could think of nothing less banal -and foolish to say than ‘Perhaps, dear lady, for advertisement.’ ‘But -you, Mr. Le Gallienne! You who have such genius!’ Richard blushed and -bowed and smiled until the lady added cruelly--‘for advertisement!’” - -Wilde was quite right in saying I had heard the story before. It -had been told me as happening to himself in America in the days when -he wore his own hair very long, and I am of opinion that it was much -more likely to have happened to Wilde, who was both a notoriety -hunter and an advertiser, than to Le Gallienne, who is neither. - -_A propos_ of Wilde’s love of advertising, I once heard the fact -commented upon--perhaps rudely and crudely--to Wilde himself. Just -as I was about to enter the Savage Club in company with a Brother -Savage, who was well known as an admirer of Dickens, we encountered -Wilde, and I invited him to join us at lunch. - -“In the usual way,” he answered, “I should say that I was charmed, -but out of compliment to our friend here, I will for once condescend -to quote that dreadful and tedious person Dickens and answer, ‘Barkis -is willin’.’ Where are you lunching--Romano’s?” - -“No,” I said, “the Savage Club.” - -“Oh, the Savage Club,” said Wilde. “I never enter the Savage Club. -It tires me so. It used to be gentlemanly Bohemian, but ever since -the Prince of Wales became a member and sometimes dines there, it is -nothing but savagely snobbish. Besides, the members are all supposed -to be professionally connected with Literature, Science, and Art, and -I abhor professionalism of every sort.” - -My Dickens friend, who shares every Savage’s love for the old club -(he told me afterwards, whether correctly or not I do not know, that -Wilde’s aversion was due to the fact that his brother Willie Wilde -had unsuccessfully put up for membership), was annoyed by what Wilde -had said both about the club and about Charles Dickens. - -“I can understand your dislike of professionalism--in advertisement, -Mr. Wilde,” he said bluntly. “And, since you have condescended -to stoop to quote Dickens, I may add that, in the matter of -advertisement, Barkis as represented by Wilde is not only willing but -more than Mr. Willing the advertising agent himself. Good morning.” - -One other story of Wilde and Le Gallienne occurs to me. Wilde held -Le Gallienne, as I do, in warm liking as a friend and in genuine -admiration as a poet; but, meeting him one day at a theatre, bowed -gravely and coldly and made as if to pass on. Le Gallienne stopped -to say something, and, noticing the aloofness of Wilde’s manner, -inquired: - -“What is the matter, Oscar? Have I offended you in anything?” - -“Not offended so much as very greatly pained me, Richard,” was the -stern reply. - -“I pained you! In what way?” - -“You have brought out a new book since I saw you last.” - -“Yes, what of it?” - -“You have treated me very badly in your book, Richard.” - -“I treated you badly in my book!” protested Le Gallienne in -amazement. “You must be confusing my book with somebody else’s. My -last book was _The Religion of a Literary Man_. I’m sure you can’t -have read it, or you wouldn’t say I had treated you badly.” - -“That’s the very book; I have read every word of it,” persisted -Wilde, “and your treatment of me in that book is infamous and brutal. -I couldn’t have believed it of you, Richard--such friends as we have -been too!” - -“I treated you badly in my _Religion of a Literary Man_?” said Le -Gallienne impatiently. “You must be dreaming, man. Why, I never so -much as mentioned you in it.” - -“That’s just it, Richard,” said Wilde, smilingly. - -Here is a recollection of another sort. About the time when Wilde’s -star was culminating, he boarded a Rhine steamer on the deck of which -I was sitting. The passengers included a number of Americans, one -of whom instantly recognised Wilde, and seating himself beside the -new-comer, inquired: - -“Guess, sir, you are the great Mr. Oscar Wilde about whom every one -is talking?” - -Smilingly, but not without an assumption of the bland boredom which -he occasionally adopted toward strangers of whom he was uncertain, -Wilde assented. The other, an elderly man wearing a white cravat, may -or may not at some time have been connected with a church. Possibly -he was then editing some publication, religious or otherwise, and -in his time may have done some interviewing, for he plied Wilde -with many curious and even over-curious questions concerning his -movements, views, and projects. The latter, amused at first, soon -tired. His eyes wandered from his interviewer to scan the faces of -the passengers, and catching sight of me made as if to rise and join -me. - -The interviewer, who had not yet done with him, and was something -of a strategist, cut off Wilde’s retreat by a forward movement of -himself and the deck-chair, in which he was sitting, so as to block -the way. It was apparently merely the unconscious hitching of one’s -seat a little nearer to an interesting companion, the better to -carry on the conversation, but it was adroitly followed by a very -flattering remark in the form of a question, and Wilde relapsed -lumpily into his seat to answer. For the next few minutes I could -have imagined myself watching a game of “living chess.” Wilde, -evidently wearying, wished to move his king, as represented by -himself, across the board and into the square adjacent to myself, -but for every “move” he made his adversary pushed forward another -conversational “piece” to call a check. At last, shaking his head in -laughing remonstrance, Wilde rose, and the other, seeing the game was -up, did the same. - -“It has been a real pleasure and honour to meet you, sir,” he said. -“Guess when I get home and tell my wife I’ve talked to the great -Oscar Wilde she won’t believe me. If you would just write your -autograph there, I’d take it as a kindness.” He had been searching -his pockets while speaking for a sheet of paper, but finding none -opened his Baedeker where there was a blank sheet and thrust it into -Wilde’s hand. - -The latter, with a suggestion in his manner of the condescension -which is so becoming to greatness, scrawled his name--a big terminal -Greek “e” tailing off into space at the end--in the book, and bowing -a polite, in response to the other’s effusive, farewell, made -straight for a deck-chair next to me, and plumping himself heavily -in it began to talk animatedly. - -Meanwhile, the interviewer was excitedly going the round of his party -to exhibit his trophy. - -“Oscar Wilde’s on board, the great æsthete!” he said. “I’ve had a -long talk with him. See, here’s his own autograph in my Baedeker. -There he is, the big man talking to the one in a grey suit.” - -The excitement spread, and soon we had the entire party standing in -a ring, or perhaps I should say a halo, around the object of their -worship, who though still talking animatedly missed nothing of it -all, and by his beaming face seemed to enjoy his lionising. I suspect -him, in fact, of amusing himself by playing up to it, for, seeing -that some of his admirers were not only looking, but while doing -their best to appear not to be doing so were also listening intently, -his talk struck me as meant for them as much as for me. He worked off -a witty saying or two which I had heard before, and just as I had -seen him glance sideways at a big plate-glass Bond Street shop window -to admire his figure or the cut of his coat, so he stole sideway -glances at the faces around as if to see whether admiration of his -wit was mirrored there. - -Then he told stories of celebrities, literary or otherwise, of whom -he spoke intimately, called some of them, as in the case of Besant -and Whistler, by their Christian names, and so tensely was his -audience holding its breath to listen, that when at Bingen he rose -and said, “I’m getting off here,” one could almost hear the held -breath “ough” out like a deflating tyre. - -No sooner was he gone than the interviewer seated himself in the -deck-chair vacated by Wilde, and inquired politely: - -“Are you a lit-er-ary man, sir?” - -“Why, yes,” I said, “I suppose so, in a way. That’s how I earn my -living.” - -“May I ask your name?” - -“Certainly,” I said (meaning thereby “you may ask, but it does not -follow that I shall tell you”). “I am afraid ‘Brown’ is not a very -striking name, but don’t tell me you have never heard it, for there -is nothing so annoys an author as that.” - -He was a kindly man, and made haste to reassure me. - -“I know it well,” he protested. “Yours is not an uncommon name, I -believe, in England. It is less common in the States. Your Christian -name is--is--is--?” - -“John,” I submitted modestly. - -His brow cleared. “Exactly,” he nodded. “I know it well.” - -Then he seemed uncertain again, and looked thoughtfully but -absently at a castle-crowned hill. I imagine he was running through -and ticking off as the names occurred to him the list of all the -illustrious John Browns. Possibly he thought of the author of _Rab -and His Friends_, and decided that I was too young. Possibly of Queen -Victoria’s favourite gillie, who was generally pictured in kilts, -whereas I wore knickerbockers. - -“You have published books?” he asked. - -I nodded. - -“Only in England perhaps?” - -“No, they have been issued in America too.” - -“Sold?” - -“The people who bought them were,” I said. - -“Tell me the name of one of your books, please.” - -I shook my head. - -“Can’t. Not allowed.” - -“Not allowed? Why not?” - -“Because,” I answered, rattling off the first nonsense which came -to my head, “I’m a member of the famous ‘Silence Club,’ the members -of which are known as the W.N.T.S.’s. You have heard of the club of -course, even if you haven’t heard of me?” - -“Yes,” he said. “I feel sure I have; but I was never quite sure what -it meant. What does W.N.T.S. stand for?” - -“It means ‘We Never Talk Shop.’ An author who so much as mentions -the title of his book except to his publisher, his bookseller, or an -agent is unconditionally expelled.” - -Then I delivered my counter-attack. He had mentioned to Wilde that -he hailed from Boston. It so happens that at my friend Louise -Chandler Moulton’s receptions I had met nearly every eminent Boston -or even American author, so I put a few questions to my interviewer -which showed an inner knowledge of Boston and American literary -life and celebrities that seemed positively to startle him. He -was now convinced that I was a celebrity of world-wide fame, and -that such a comet should come within his own orbit, without his -getting to know as much as the comet’s name, was not to be endured -by a self-respecting journalist. He literally agonised, as well as -perspired, in his unavailing efforts to trick, wheedle or implore my -obscure name from me. For one moment I was minded to tell him my name -if only to enjoy the shock of its unknownness, but I resisted the -temptation and, tiring in my turn as Wilde had tired, I rose and said -that as I was getting off at the next stopping place I would wish him -“Good day.” He did not even ask for John Brown’s autograph. He even -seemed suddenly in a hurry to get rid of me, the reason for which I -afterwards discovered. He had, I suppose, heard me tell Wilde that -my luggage was on board; and the last I saw of him was in the boat’s -hold, where he was stooping, pince-nez on nose, over the up-piled -bags, boxes, dressing-cases and trunks, painfully raking them over, -and every moment hoping to be rewarded by finding mine labelled -“Robert Louis Stevenson,” “Rudyard Kipling,” “Algernon C. Swinburne” -or “Thomas Hardy.” I trust he found it. - -When we were back in town I told Wilde my own adventure with the -interviewer after the former had left the boat. His comment was: - -“It sounds like a terrible serial story that I once saw in a -magazine, each chapter of which was written by a different hand. -‘The Adventures of Oscar Wilde, by himself, continued by Coulson -Kernahan.’ How positively dreadful!” - -I wonder what Wilde will have to say to me, if hereafter we should -discuss together the brief and fragmentary continuation of his own -story which in these Recollections I have endeavoured to carry on? - - -III - -Once when Wilde, a novelist and I were lunching together, and when -Wilde, after declaring that the wine was so “heavenly” that it should -be drunk kneeling, was discoursing learnedly on the pleasures of the -table--how the flesh of this or that bird, fish or beast should be -cooked and eaten, with what wine and with what sauce, the novelist -put in: - -“If I were to adapt Bunyan, I should say that you ought to have been -christened Os-carnalwise Wilde instead of plain Oscar.” - -“How ridiculous of you to suppose that anyone, least of all my dear -mother, would christen me ‘plain Oscar,’” was the reply. “My name -has two O’s, two F’s and two W’s. A name which is destined to be in -everybody’s mouth must not be too long. It comes so expensive in the -advertisements. When one is unknown, a number of Christian names are -useful, perhaps needful. As one becomes famous, one sheds some of -them, just as a balloonist, when rising higher, sheds unnecessary -ballast, or as you will shed your Christian name when raised to the -peerage. I started as Oscar Finghal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde. All -but two of the five names have already been thrown overboard. Soon -I shall discard another and be known simply as ‘The Wilde’ or ‘The -Oscar.’ Which it is to be depends upon one of my imitators--that -horrid Hall Caine, who used to be known very properly as Thomas -Henry; quite appropriate names for a man who writes and dresses as he -does. I can’t say which he does worse as I have never read him, but -I have often been made ill by the way he wears his clothes. - -“And, by the by, never say you have ‘adapted’ anything from anyone. -Appropriate what is already yours--for to publish anything is to make -it public property--but never adapt, or, if you do, suppress the -fact. It is hardly fair to Bunyan, if you improve on him, to point -out, some hundreds of years after, how much cleverer you are than he; -and it is even more unfair, if you spoil what he has said, and then -‘hold him accountable.’” - -“That, I suppose,” said the novelist drily, “is why when you said -the other day that ‘Whenever a great man dies, William Sharp and the -undertaker come in together,’ you suppressed the fact that the same -thing had already been said in other words by W. S. Gilbert.” - -“Precisely,” said Wilde. “It is not for me publicly to point out -Gilbert’s inferiority. That would be ungenerous. But no one can blame -me, if the fact is patent to all.” - -Mention of Sir W. S. Gilbert prompted the other to say that a friend -of his had occasion to take a cab at Harrow where the author of _The -Bab Ballads_ had built a house. Driving from the station to his -destination, his friend noticed this house, and asked the cabman who -lived there. “I don’t know ’is name, sir,” said the cabman. “But I do -know (I have driven ’im once or twice) that ’e is sometimes haffable -and sometimes harbitrary. They do say in the town, sir, that ’e’s -wot’s called a retired ’umorist, whatever that may be.” - -From Harrow the conversation shifted to the neighbouring city of St. -Albans, where I was then living. - -“That reminds me,” said Wilde, turning to me, “that I want to run -down to St. Albans once again to bathe my fingers in the mediæval -twilight of the grey old Abbey. We two will come to you to-morrow. -You shall meet us at the station, give us lunch at your rooms--a -cutlet, a flask of red chianti and a cigarette is all we ask--and -then you shall take us over the Abbey.” - -“I shall be delighted,” I said, “but do you remember my meeting you -the other day when you were coming away from the Royal Academy? I -asked you how you were, and you replied, ‘Ill, my dear fellow, ill -and wounded to the soul at the thought of the hideousness of what in -this degenerate country, and these degenerate days, dares to call -itself Art. Get me some wine quickly, or I’m sure I shall faint.’ -Well, I’m living in bachelor diggings where it would be highly -inconvenient to have dead or dying artists on hand or lying about. -The pictures on show in my bachelor rooms, like the furniture, are -not of my selection. If you were wounded by what you saw in the -Academy, you would die at sight of one work of art on my walls. It is -a hideous and vulgar representation of ‘Daniel in the Lions’ Den,’ -done in crude chromo, four colours.” - -Wilde affected to shudder. - -“How awful!” he said. “But I can think of something more awful even -than that.” - -“What’s that?” I asked. - -“A poor lion in a den of Daniels,” was his reply. - - -IV - -A factor in Wilde’s downfall was, I am sometimes told, evil -association, but if so it was a factor on which I can throw no light, -as if evil associates he had I saw nothing of them. - -Louise Chandler Moulton sings of - - This brief delusion that we call our life, - Where all we can accomplish is to die, - -and of the many figures in the literary, artistic, and social world -of the day whom I met in Wilde’s company, some have achieved death, -some, knighthood (Mr. Stephen Phillips once said in my hearing, -he was not sure which was the better--or the worse), and some, -distinction. Of the remainder, the worst that could be said against -them is that they have since come a crash financially, as Wilde -himself did. It was only in money matters that I ever had cause to -think Wilde immoral. - -In setting down these recollections and impressions I do not write -as one of his intimates. We were friends, we corresponded, I dined -with him and Mrs. Wilde at 16 Tite Street, and he with me, and we -forgathered now and then at clubs, theatrical first nights, and -literary at homes; but the occasions on which we met were not very -many, all told; nor did I desire more closely to cultivate him, and -for two reasons. One was that the expensive rate at which he lived -made him impossible as other than a very occasional companion, and -the other was that “straightness” in money matters is to me one -of the first essentials in the man of whom one makes a friend. On -this point Wilde and I did not see alike. He laughed at me when I -said that, while counting it no dishonour to be poor, I did count -it something of a dishonour deliberately and self-indulgently to -incur liabilities one might not be able to meet. In his vocabulary -there were few more contemptuous words than that of “tradesman,” -as the following incident, which I may perhaps be pardoned for -interpolating, will show. - -When _The Picture of Dorian Grey_ was in the press, Wilde came in to -see me one morning. - -“My nerves are all to pieces,” he said, “and I’m going to Paris for -a change. Here are the proofs of my novel. I have read them very -carefully, and I think all is correct with one exception. Like most -Irishmen, I sometimes write ‘I will be there,’ when it should be ‘I -shall be there,’ and so on. Would you, like a dear good fellow, mind -going through the proofs, and if you see any ‘wills’ or ‘shalls’ -used wrongly, put them right and then pass for press? Of course, -if you should spot anything else that strikes you as wrong, I’d be -infinitely obliged if you would make the correction.” - -I agreed, went through proofs, made the necessary alterations, and -passed for press. Two or three days after I had a telegram from -Paris. “Terrible blunder in book, coming back specially. Stop all -proofs. Wilde.” I did so, and awaited events. Wilde arrived in a -hansom. - -“It is not too late? For heaven’s sake tell me it is not too late?” -he affected to gasp. - -“Oh, make yourself easy. It was not too late. I stopped the proofs,” -I answered. - -“Thank God!” he exclaimed theatrically, throwing himself into a -chair and making a great show of wiping away the perspiration from a -perfectly dry brow. “I should never have forgiven myself, or you, had -my book gone out disfigured by such a blunder--by such a crime as I -count it against art.” - -Then in a faint undertone, as if the thing were too unholy to speak -of above one’s breath, he said: - -“There’s a picture framer--a mere tradesman--in my story, isn’t -there?” - -“Yes,” I said. - -“What have I called him?” - -“Ashton, I think. Yes, Ashton,” I answered. - -He simulated a shudder and seemed to wince at the words. - -“Don’t repeat it! Don’t repeat it! It is more than my shattered -nerves can stand. Ashton is a gentleman’s name,” he spoke brokenly, -and wrung his hands as if in anguish. “And I’ve given it--God forgive -me--to a tradesman! It must be changed to Hubbard. Hubbard positively -smells of the tradesman!” - -And having successfully worked off this wheeze on me, Oscar became -himself again, and sat up with a happy smile to enjoy his own and my -congratulations on the exquisiteness of his art. - -Wilde’s contempt for tradesmen, as instanced in this anecdote, I did -not share. Once, when he had spoken thus contemptuously because a -shopkeeper was suing a certain impecunious but extravagant artist -acquaintance of his and mine for a debt incurred, I told Wilde that -even if I despised “tradesmen” as he and the artist did, I should -despise myself much more were I to defraud a despised tradesman by -ordering goods for which I had neither the means nor the intention -to pay. He was not in the least offended, perhaps because the remark -suggested an aphorism--the exact wording I forget, but it was to the -effect that only mediocrity concerned itself with tradesmen’s bills, -that a writer of genius, whether a playwright or a novelist, ran into -debt as surely as his play or his book ran into royalties. I remember -the occasion well, though I do not remember the phrasing of his -aphorism, for on that particular morning he had, for the first time -within my experience, shown less than his usual nice consideration -for others which--whether due merely to love of approbation or to -finer feelings--made him so agreeable and delightful a companion. - -When he came in I offered him my cigarette case. They were of a brand -he had often himself smoked in the past--in fact it was he who had -first recommended them to me--quite good tobacco and well made, but -moderate in price, and with no pretence to be of the very best. He -took one, lit it, drew a few puffs, and then tossing it practically -unsmoked on the fire, drew out his own bejewelled case and lit up one -of his own. That was very unlike Wilde as I had known him in his less -prosperous days. Then he would have said, “I have accustomed myself -to smoke another brand lately and am something of a creature of -habit. Do you mind if I smoke one of my own?” - -Perhaps the omission was due only to preoccupation and -forgetfulness. Perhaps the incident will be accounted too trivial, -thus seriously to put on record. Possibly, but it is often by the -cumulative effect of small and seemingly trivial details--not always -by the bold broad strokes--that the truest portrait is drawn. Into -the tragedy of human life we are not often permitted to look, but -just as, since all fish swim against the stream, a minnow will serve -to show the run of the current, no less than a pike, so trivial -incidents serve sometimes to point the trend of life or of character -as truly as great happenings. - -Nor in Wilde’s case were other signs of change in him wanting. His -first play had just then been produced and with success. He struck -me on that particular morning as unpleasantly flushed, as already -coarsened, almost bloated by success. There was a suspicion of -insolence in his manner that was new to me, and from that time onward -he and I--perhaps the fault was mine--seemed to lose touch of each -other, and to drift entirely apart. Wilde died in the late autumn of -1900. I never saw or heard from him again after the spring of 1892. - - -V - -Was it not Mr. Stead who defined paradox as a truth standing on -its head? Wilde’s aim in paradox was so to manipulate truth and -falsehood as to make the result startle one by appearing to reverse -the existing standard. A paradox by him was sometimes a lie and a -truth trotting side by side together in double harness like a pair of -horses, but each so cleverly disguised that one was not quite sure -which horse was which. - -More often a paradox by Wilde was a lie (or a seeming lie) and a -truth (or a seeming truth) driven the one in front of the other -tandem-wise; but whichever Wilde had placed last was tolerably sure -to take one by surprise by lashing out with its heels when one came -to look at it. When Wilde had carefully arranged a paradox with -a kick in it and wished to see one jump, he spoke the first half -smilingly to put one off one’s guard. Then he would pause, suddenly -become grave and thoughtful as if searching his words. But the pause -was not for loss of a word. It was no pause of momentary inaction. -It was, on the contrary, if I may vary the simile, like the backward -swing of a rifle, and was meant only to give fuller play and power -to the forward thrust that bayonets an enemy. No sooner was one off -one’s guard by the smile and the momentary silence, than swift and -sure came the sting of the stab. - -Let me give an illustration. Wilde once asked me some question -concerning my religious belief which I did my best to answer frankly -and, as he was good enough afterwards to say, without the cant which -he so loathed. When I had made an end of it, he said gravely: - -“You are so evidently, so unmistakably sincere and most of all so -truthful” (all this running smoothly and smilingly) “that” (then came -the grave look and the pause as if at a loss for a word, followed by -the swift stab) “I can’t believe a single word you say.” - -And so, having discharged his missile, Wilde, no longer lolling -indolently forward in his seat, pulled himself backwards, and up like -a gunner taking a pace to the rear, or to the side of his gun the -better to see the crash of the shell upon the target, and then, if I -may so word it, “smiled all over.” He was so openly, so provokingly -pleased with himself and with this particular paradox that not to -be a party to the gratification of such sinful vanity, instead of -complimenting him, as he had expected, on its neatness, I ignored the -palpable hit, and inquired: - -“Where are you dining to-night, Wilde?” - -“At the Duchess of So-and-so’s,” he answered. - -“Precisely. Who is the guest you have marked down, upon whom--when -everybody is listening--to work off that carefully prepared impromptu -wheeze about ‘You are so truthful that I can’t believe a single word -you say,’ which you have just fired off on me?” - -Wilde sighed deeply and threw out his hands with a gesture of -despair, but the ghost of a glint of a smile in the corner of his eye -signalled a bull’s-eye to me. - -“Compliments are thrown away on such coarse creatures as you,” -he said. “This very morning I called into being a new and -wonderful aphorism--‘A gentleman never goes east of Temple -Bar’--notwithstanding which I have brought wit and fame and fashion -to lighten your editorial room in the City. Why? To pay you the -supremest compliment one artist can pay another one. To make you the -only confidant of one of my most graceful and delicate fancies. I was -about to tell you----” - -“Yes, I know,” I interpolated rudely, “you have coined a witty new -aphorism, or thought out a lovely fancy. You do both and do them more -than well. But you are going to the Duchess’s dinner party to-night, -and you will contrive so to turn what is said that your aphorism or -fancy seems to rise as naturally and spontaneously to the surface -of the conversation as the bubbles rise to the surface of the glass -of champagne at your side. But you are not, as actors say, sure of -your ‘words.’ You think it would be as well to have something of the -nature of a dress rehearsal. So you have dropped in here, on your way -to your florist’s or to some one else, to try it upon me as somebody -is said to try his jokes on his dog before publishing them. I don’t -mind playing ‘dog’ in your rôle in the least, but I object to being -made a stalking-horse for the Duchess’s honoured guest.” - -I have no intention in these Recollections to play the reporter to -my own uninteresting share in the conversation, but one must do so -sometimes for obvious reasons. In this case, I wish to illustrate -the means by which I sometimes succeeded in inducing Wilde to drop -attitudinising and to be his natural self. - -There is a certain Professor of my acquaintance, a man of brilliant -abilities and incomparable knowledge, whom I used to meet at a -club--let us call him Clough. When Clough could be induced to talk -upon the matters in which he was an expert, he was worth travelling -many miles to hear. Unfortunately he had an aggressive, even -offensive manner, and was troubled with self-complacent egotism. It -was only after a systematic course of roughness and rudeness at the -hands of his fellow clubmen that Clough was endurable, or could be -got to talk of anything but himself. - -One would sometimes hear a fellow clubman say, “Clough is in the -other room, just down from the ‘Varsity; and more full of information -than ever. Two or three capable members are administering the -usual course of medicine--‘Cloughing’ we call it now--of flatly -contradicting every word he says, ‘trailing’ him, snubbing him, -and otherwise reducing his abnormally swollen head to moderate -dimensions. Then he will be better worth listening to on his own -subjects than any other man in England. Don’t miss it.” - -Similarly, in my intercourse with Wilde, I found that a certain -amount of “Cloughing,” such as, “Now then, Wilde! You know you are -only showing off, as we used to say at home when I was one of a -family of kids. Stow it, and talk sense,” had equally good result. He -would protest at first when minded to let me off lightly, that such -“engaging ingenuousness” alarmed and silenced him. At other times he -would vow that my coarseness made him shudder and wince--that it was -like crushing a beautiful butterfly, to bludgeon a sensitive creature -of moods and impulses with unseemly jibes and blatant speech. Having, -however, thus delivered himself and made his protest, he would often -stultify that protest and provide me with an excuse to myself for my -Philistinism, by throwing aside his stilts (assumed possibly because -he imagined they advertised him to advantage above the heads of -those who walk afoot in the Vanity Fair of Literature and Art), and -by showing himself infinitely more interesting when seen naturally -and near at hand than when stilting it affectedly in mid-air above -one’s head. - -At times, and when he had forgotten his grievance at being thus -rudely pulled down, he would forget--egotist that he was--even -himself, in speaking of his hopes, his ambitions and his dreams; -and in his rare flashes of sincerity would show himself as greater -and nobler of soul than many who met and talked to him only in the -_salon_ or in society perhaps realised. - -There is a graceful fancy of Wilde’s--I do not know whether he ever -told it in print--the hero of which was a poet lad who had dreamed -so often and written such lovely songs about the mermaid, that at -last--since the dream-world was more real to him than the waking -world--he was convinced that mermaids there really are in the seas -around our shores, and that if one watched long and patiently they -might by mortal eye be seen. So day and night the poet watched and -waited, but saw nothing. And when his friends asked him, “Have you -seen the mermaids?” he answered, “Yes, by moonlight I saw them at -play among the rollers,” telling thereafter what he had seen and with -such vividness and beauty that almost he persuaded the listeners -to believe the story. But one night by moonlight the poet did -indeed have sight of the mermaids, and in silence he came away and -thereafter told no one what he had seen. - -So, of Wilde himself, I cannot but hope and believe that though he -told many stories of exceeding beauty, none of which were true, yet -hidden away in his heart was much that was gracious, true, noble -and beautiful, the story of which will now never be known, for like -the poet lad of his fantasy he told it to no one. Of what was evil -and what was good in his life, only a merciful God can strike the -balance, and only a merciful God shall judge. - - -VI - -As one who knew Wilde personally, I am sometimes asked whether I was -not instinctively aware that the man was bad. Frankly I was not. -Possibly because scandal does not interest me, and other things do, -I had not heard the rumours which I now understand were even then -prevalent, and so I took him as I found him, an agreeable companion, -a brilliant conversationalist, a versatile and accomplished man of -letters. On the crime of which he has since been committed, I make no -comment, if only for the reason that I did not follow the evidence at -his trial, just as I abstained from reading Mr. W. T. Stead’s _Maiden -Tribute to Modern Babylon_--not because of any innate niceness on my -part, but for the same reason which causes me to turn aside if, in -my morning’s walk, I come across offal which it is not my business -to remove. The Wilde of the days of which I am writing was foppish -in dress and affected in manner. He talked and wrote much nonsense, -as I held it to be, about there being no such thing as a moral or an -immoral book or picture; that the book or picture was either a work -of art, or was not a work of art, and there the matter ended; but -much of this talk I attributed to pose, and I had even then learned -that some of the men who are most anxious to have us believe them -moralists--and stern moralists at that--are often less moral in their -life than some of those who make no pretence of any morals at all. - -To the folk who objected that Wilde has boasted of being a “pagan” -I replied that he probably used the word--just then very much in -vogue--in the same sense in which Mr. Kenneth Grahame used it when he -entitled a volume, bubbling over with the joy of life, with animal -spirits, keen observation, and exquisite humour, _Pagan Papers_. -Wilde’s “paganism” I took as meaning no more than that he claimed -for himself freedom from formula, most of all freedom from cant in -his attitude towards the accepted conventions, whether literary, -artistic, social, or even religious. - -That he was not an irreligious man, I had reason to know. One day -when we were chatting together, Wilde mentioned a little book -of mine of which I will say no more here than that it made no -uncertain confession of the writer’s faith in Christianity. This -led Wilde--uninvited by me, for I make it a rule never to obtrude -my religious views upon others--to express himself upon the subject -of religion, especially of Christianity, and with such intense -reverence, such manifest earnestness, that I perhaps looked something -of the surprise I felt. - -“You are surprised,” he said, “to hear Oscar Wilde, the _poseur_, -as people call him, the man who is supposed to hold nothing too -sacred, talking seriously and on serious things. _No_, I am _not_ -making believe to be earnest, as I do make believe about so much -else. I am speaking as I feel, and you will perhaps hardly realise -what an intense relief it is to meet some one to whom one can talk -about such matters without cant. It is cant and officialdom” (he -spoke bitterly) “which is keeping the men and women who think out -of the churches to-day. It is cant which more than anything else -stands between them and Christ. Shall I tell you what is my greatest -ambition--more even than an ambition--the dream of my life? Not to -be remembered hereafter as an artist, poet, thinker, or playwright, -but as the man who reclothed the sublimest conception which the world -has ever known--the Salvation of Humanity, the Sacrifice of Himself -upon the Cross by Christ--with new and burning words, with new and -illuminating symbols, with new and divine vision, free from the -accretions of cant which the centuries have gathered around it. I -should thereby be giving the world back again the greatest gift ever -given to mankind since Christ Himself gave it, peerless and pure two -thousand years ago--the pure gift of Christianity as taught by Christ. - -“Yes,” he went on, “I hope before I die to write the Epic of the -Cross, the Iliad of Christianity, which shall live for all time.” - -On another occasion Wilde unfolded to me the opening scene in a -sort of religious drama which he intended one day to write--the -finding to-day of the body of the Christ in the very rock-sepulchre -where Joseph of Arimathea had laid it, and a great and consequent -eclipse of faith in Him and in His resurrection. Thereafter, by a -new revelation of the Christ, Wilde was, in his drama, newly to -recreate Christianity and faith in Christianity, but of this Second -Act of his World-Drama I heard no more, as our talk was at this point -interrupted, and he never renewed it. - -I speak of this proposed religious drama here for the singular reason -that I, too, had long been turning over in my mind some such work and -some such opening scene as in Wilde’s drama--I mean the finding of -the body of Christ. - -Wilde went no further with his project, but in a book of mine, -written some years after, I carried my own project into effect. To -this day I am uncertain how much of my opening scene was Wilde’s, -and how much mine. The idea appears to have occurred to both, but -whereas, in Wilde’s mind, it was clear and defined, in mine it was -then no more than an idea. I sometimes wonder whether his words did -not make vivid to me what before was vague. Of one thing at least I -am sure, that he was the first to speak of such an opening scene, -which fact in itself constitutes some sort of previous claim. The -rest of the book was entirely mine, and probably the whole, but the -facts seem to me not uninteresting, and having made confession of -the possibility at least of some debt incurred, I must leave it to -the reader to say whether I ought or ought not to be condemned in -“conscience money.” - -I have already said that I have reason to know that Wilde was not -irreligious, and I propose now to give my reasons for refusing to -believe him to be irreclaimably bad. One has some hesitation in -quoting oneself, but, in a dream-parable booklet of mine, there is -a passage which I may perhaps be forgiven for printing here, when I -say that I had Wilde in my mind when I wrote it. In my dream-parable, -Satan, even as once of old he had presented himself to speak with God -concerning Job, appears to-day before the Most High, urging that men -and women have become godless and faithless. He craves permission -to prove this by putting them to certain tests. The permission is -accorded on condition that Satan himself becomes mortal, even as -they. In the following passage Satan is supposed to be speaking, -after the failure and defeat of his projects. - - Master and Maker, hear me ere I die. For until Thou didst in Thy - wisdom decree that ere I might work my will on mortals, myself - must become mortal even as they--until then, the thoughts of - these mortals were as foreign to my understanding as are the - thoughts in the brain of a bird, to the fowler who spreads his - net to catch the little creature. Like the fowler, I knew that - I must change my bait, according to the creature that I set out - to snare, that this one could be taken by avarice, that one by - vanity, a third by spiritual pride, a fourth by bodily lust. When - they came to my lure, and I caught them; when I saw the poor - fools struggling in my net, I laughed and hugged myself to think - of their misery and of the impotent anguish of God. And so I - grew wise in the ways and the weaknesses of men and women, while - knowing nothing of the hearts which beat in their breasts. - - But now that I have become mortal, even as they,--now at last, - to the wonder and the mystery of mortal life, are my eyes opened. - Now perceive I that, in the least and most shameful of these - lives, is to be seen, even in uttermost wreckage, something so - sacred, so august, so beautiful, so divine, that the very angels - of light might stand amazed in envious wonder and awe. - - For if men and women have failed greatly, at least they have - striven greatly--how greatly, how valiantly, how desperately, - only the God Who sees all, may know. - - It may be that by Him, that very striving itself, even the - unsuccessful striving, shall mercifully be taken into account. - The sin and the shame are human: the wish and the effort to - overcome them are divine. For that which in a man’s truer, nobler - moments, he has longed unutterably to be, _that in some sense he - is, and shall be accounted_, in the eyes of the God, Who taketh - not pleasure in remembering sin, but in rewarding righteousness. - - That even in sin, a man should think such thoughts, should carry - unsullied in his heart some white flower of his childhood, and, - in spite of what is ugly and impure in himself, should project - so pure and perfect a vision of hoped-for, longed-for Loveliness - and Purity, sets that man, even in his sins, a world removed - above the angels. When I who was once an angel fell, I fell from - uttermost light to uttermost dark. Ceasing to be an angel, I - became a devil. Man falls, but even in his fall retains something - that is divine. - - Yonder man into whose great brain I entered, working strange - madness within! Him first I taught to love Beauty, because it is - of Thee. Him I haunted of beauty, haunted with visions of forms - more fair than earthly eyes may know, luring him at last to look - upon Beauty as of greater worth than all else, and as a law unto - itself. - - And because the love of beauty is not far removed from the love - of pleasure, it was not difficult for me to lead on such as he - to love pleasure for itself. With innocent pleasures at first I - plied him, and when they staled, I enticed him with grosser joys, - till the pleasure-seeker became the voluptuary, and, in the veins - of the voluptuary, desire soon quickened into lust. - - Next, because wine, like water to drooping flowers, lent - fictitious strength to his flagging pulse, made the live - thoughts to quicken in his tired brain, and set the tongue of - his wit a-wagging; because he loved to stand well with his - comrades, among whom to chink glasses together was the sign of - fellowship--because of all these I enticed him to drink and yet - again to drink, until Alcohol, the Arch Destroyer, had stolen - away his will power, silenced his conscience, perverted his moral - sense, inflamed with foul passion his degenerate brain, and made - the wreck and the ruin of him that he now is. - - Yet even now, as I steal gloatingly through the dark chambers of - that House of Shame which was once the fair temple of the living - God, even now there still smoulders under the ashes of a fouled - hearthstone some spark of the fire which was kindled of God, a - fire which I strive in vain to trample out, since, because it is - of God, it is inextinguishable and eternal. - - If therefore when I seem most to have conquered, there never yet - was God wholly defeated--of what use is it further to wage the - unequal conflict? For God never entirely lets go His hold on a - human soul; and that to which God holds fast, Satan shall never - finally wrest from Him. Say the world, think the world, what it - will, in the warfare for souls God wins, and has won all along - the line. - -It was, as I say, Wilde who was in my mind when I penned that passage -commencing “Yonder man into whose great brain I entered, working -strange madness within.” To me he seems to have been less hopelessly -bad than partly mad. - -We are told that it is possible, by locating and destroying certain -cells or nerve-centres in the brain, so to affect the mind of the -subject as to destroy his sense of colour, his sense of touch, or -even, it is believed, to destroy his sense of right and wrong. - -Wilde died of meningitis, which is a brain affection, and I think -that the fact should be considered retrospectively. A post-mortem -examination would possibly have revealed some disease or degeneration -of certain brain-cells which may account for much that is painful -in his career and character. This degeneration of brain-cells may -have been inherited and congenital, in which case, condemnation -on our part is silenced; or it may have been due to excesses of -his own choosing and committing. Even if this be so, the price he -paid was surely so terrible, and so tragic, as in a sense to be -accounted an atonement, and even to entitle him to our pity. In the -passage quoted from my dream-parable, I have hinted at some form of -demoniacal possession which may or may not be a positive, as opposed -to a negative form of madness. There is a brain derangement by which -the power to reason aright and to co-ordinate ideas is lost; a brain -derangement which results mainly in vacancy of mind. But there is -yet another and more terrible form of derangement in which, so it -seems to me, that unseen evil powers, outside himself, seize upon -and possess the brain chambers, thus vacated, and direct and rule -the unhappy victim, not according to his own will, which indeed has -passed out of his control, but according to the wish or will of the -power by which he is possessed. - -On such a question we dare not dogmatise; but I am humbly of opinion -that in the great re-awakening to the realities (not to the outward -forms) of religion, which some of us think will follow the war, -there will be a return to simplicity of belief, and that the too -often disregarded New Testament explanation of certain mysterious -happenings will be proved to be more in accordance with the later -discoveries of Science than some advocates of the Higher Criticism -now think. For my own part I have never doubted the accuracy of the -Gospel records in regard to demoniacal possession. We have Christ’s -own words: “For this saying go thy way; the devil is gone out of -thy daughter,” “Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and -fasting,” and “I charge thee come out of him and enter no more into -him.” - -That some men and women whose wills are weakened--possibly by -habitual disregard of conscience or by continued wrongdoing for which -they cannot be held irresponsible--_do_ commit, under the urging and -direction of evil spirits by which they are possessed, crimes and -cruelties for which they are not in the fullest sense responsible, -I think more than possible. My friend, the late Benjamin Waugh, -Founder of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, -on more than one occasion placed before me the full facts and the -indisputable proofs of acts so fiendish as to be difficult to ascribe -to human motive or passions. - -In the most terrible sonnet ever penned, Shakespeare says: - - The expense of spirit in a waste of shame - Is lust in action, and till action, lust - Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, - Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, - -and, to lust, some particularly bestial outrages which came before -the Society were clearly attributable. Others were as clearly the -outcome of avarice, greed, hatred, jealousy and blind fury of anger. -But some crimes there were, such as the torturing of her own children -by a mother, and, in another case, the deliberate jabbing out of the -eyes of an unoffending pony by a woman, not under the influence of -drink, and in whom the medical experts declared they otherwise found -no symptoms of insanity, which, if only for the sake of our common -humanity, one would be relieved to think were due to demoniacal -possession, for which the victim was, in this last stage at least, -irresponsible. - -In the near future it is possible that Science will by closer -inquiry and by completer records be found once more in harmony with -Scripture. Hypnotism, a science which as yet is not a science, but -merely a haphazard accumulation of unorganised data, pointing to the -possession of unexplained powers and possibilities by the individual, -has established the fact that the living can thus be influenced -and obsessed by the living. If so, why not by the dead, who, when -emancipated from the body, may possibly be able to concentrate -even greater spiritual force upon the living than when they were -themselves alive? - -I am not likely to live to see it, but my belief is that all these -so-called occult matters, Hypnotism, Thought-reading, Obsession, -Clairvoyance, Spiritualism, and the like will one day fall into line -with Science, and be proved to be not supernatural, but merely the -manifestation of natural laws--of certain psychical powers and forces -which may be easily explainable and demonstrable with further and -exacter knowledge, but concerning the working of which we are at -present very much in the dark. - -I have written at greater length than I intended, in hinting and in -hoping that Wilde was at times under the subjection of powers and -forces of darkness outside himself. I say “at times” intentionally, -and for the following reason. It would be gratifying to one’s -_amour propre_ (I use a French term for once, as it expresses my -meaning more nearly than any English equivalent) could I take high -ground, and aver that I was vaguely conscious--warned, as it were, -by some fine instinct--of evil in the presence of Wilde, but so to -aver would be untrue. I have not lived to nearly threescore years -without meeting men from whom one does thus instinctively shrink, -and concerning whom one found it impossible to breathe the same air. -I experienced nothing of the sort in Wilde’s company, and, since -his guilt seems uncontrovertible, I ask myself whether it is not -possible that Wilde lived a sort of Jekyll and Hyde life, of the -latter of which I saw nothing, inasmuch as just as some wounded or -plague-stricken creature withdraws itself from the herd, so, during -the Hyde period of madness or of obsession, some instinct moved him -to withdraw from his home, his haunts and the companions of his -everyday life, only to return when the obsession or madness had -passed, and once again he was his sane and normal self. - -This “periodicity” is not infrequent in madness, whether the madness -be due to a brain derangement, explainable by pathology, or to -some such demoniacal possession as that of which I have spoken. A -memorable instance is that of Mary Lamb, who was herself aware of the -return of homicidal mania, and at such times of her own accord placed -herself under restraint. Recalling the fact that I saw in Wilde no -sign either of the presence of evil or of insanity, I ask myself -whether in picturing Dorian Grey as at one season living normally -and reputably, and at another disappearing into some oblivion of -iniquity, he was not consciously or unconsciously picturing for us -his own tortured self. I write “tortured” advisedly, for whether -he were wholly, or only partly, or not at all, responsible, I -refuse to believe that the man, as in his saner moments I knew him, -_could_ sink thus low, without fighting desperately, if vainly--how -desperately only the God who made him knows--before allowing himself -in the hopelessness of despair to forget his failures in filth, as -other unhappy geniuses have before now drowned their souls in drink. - -One talk with him I particularly remember. I had been reading the -proofs of _Dorian Grey_, and, on our next meeting, I said that he had -put damnable words into the mouth of one of his characters. - -“Such poisonous stuff is not likely to affect grown men and women,” I -said, “but for a writer of your power and persuasiveness to set up a -puppet like Lord Henry to provide ready-made excuses for indulgence, -and to make evil seem necessary, unavoidable, and easy, by whispering -into the ears of readers, of impressionable age and inflammable -passion, that ‘the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to -it’--when you do that, you are helping to circulate devils’ doctrines -in God’s world.” - -Wilde was visibly perturbed. - -“You are quite right,” he said. “It _is_ damnable; it _is_ devils’ -doctrine. I will take it out.” - -But, alas, other influences, whether within himself in the shape of -the whisperings of some evil spirit, by which he was, as I believe, -at times possessed, or in the form of so-called friends, whose -influence over him was of the worst, I cannot say, but some days -after the conversation recorded above I received the following letter: - - GRAND HÔTEL DE L’ATHENÉE, - 15 RUE SCRIBE, PARIS. - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - Thank you for your charming letter. I have been very ill and - unable to correct my proofs, but have sent them off now. _I have - changed my mind about the passage about temptation._ One can’t - pull a work of art about without spoiling it, and after all it - is merely Luther’s “Pecca Fortiter” put dramatically into the - lips of a character. - - Do you think I should add to preface the definition of “morbid” - and “unhealthy” art I gave in the _Fortnightly_ for February? The - one on morbidity is really good. - - Will you also look after my “wills” and “shalls” in proof! I am - Celtic in my use of these words, not English. - - You are excellent on Rossetti. I read you with delight. - - Your sincere friend, - OSCAR WILDE. - -When next I met Wilde I recurred to the matter, but it was then too -late, for the book, he said, was in great part printed. Moreover, he -had now another excuse to put forward. - -“After I had left you,” he said, “I remembered that a friend of mine, -a well-known critic, had read the book in manuscript when it was -first written. He said something to the same effect as you did, but -less strongly. Honestly it was that, more than anything else, which -finally decided me to leave the passage in. Had I taken it out, he -would have claimed that I did so in deference to his strictures, and -haul down my flag to a professional critic I never have and never -will.” - -This incident (though Wilde has been dead sixteen years I have -neither written of it nor spoken of it before) shows Wilde as weak, -it shows him as yielding--as we all, alas, too often yield--to evil -influences, and to inclination as opposed to conscience, and as a -man who was determined to shine at all costs. His vanity would not -allow him to withhold the word that he was pleased to think daring, -original, and above all brilliant, though he knew that word to be -only brilliantly bad. Even in his sinning, it seems to me, he fed -and flattered his insatiable vanity, by electing, even in sin, to -be unlike others; and how far vanity, even more than viciousness, -was accountable for Wilde’s downfall, only the God who made him and -the devil who fostered and fed that vanity, till it less resembled a -pardonable human weakness than a hideous excrescence and disease, can -ever truly say. - -The setting of Wilde’s sun (which had risen on so fair a prospect, -and with such promise of splendour) in foul quagmires of sin and -shame, was the greatest tragedy I have known. I met his friend and -mine, Mr. Hall Caine, immediately after the verdict and sentence. -I have seen Caine ill, and I have seen him deeply moved, even -distressed, but I remember always to his honour (for Wilde not seldom -made Caine’s writing the butt of his wit) the anguish in his face as -he said: - -“God pity him in this hour when human pity there seems none! To think -of it! that man, that genius as he is, whom you and I have seen -fêted and flattered! whose hand we have grasped in friendship! a -felon, and come to infamy unspeakable! It haunts me, it is like some -foul and horrible stain on our craft and on us all, which nothing -can wash out. It is the most awful tragedy in the whole history of -literature.” - - - - -S. J. STONE, THE HYMN-WRITER - - -I - -The Rev. S. J. Stone, M.A., was the author of two hymns that are -known wherever the English tongue is spoken, one the beautiful Lenten -litany of love, trust and repentance, “Weary of earth and laden with -my sin”; the other that soul-stirring triumph-song, “The Church’s One -Foundation,” which--set as it is to majestic battle-march music that -fires the imagination--has become, as it were, the Marseillaise of -the Church militant and victorious. - -When Stone died, and where he wished to die, in the Charterhouse, the -busy world learned that the Rector of a City Church, who had done -memorable work in an East End parish, and was the author of some -famous hymns, had passed away. Those who knew and loved him were -aware that a great soul, a hero-heart, a rarely beautiful spirit, had -gone to God. - -In my little life, the years of which are fast approaching -threescore, it has so happened that I have known, sometimes -intimately, a number of so-called “eminent” women and men. I have -known not a few who in intellectual power, in the brilliance of -their gifts, their attainments and achievements, or in what is -called “fame,” stood immeasurably higher than Stone. I have known -none who, judged by the beauty, purity, and nobility of life and -character, was half as great as he. I do not say this, be it noted, -under the emotional stress which follows the death of a dearly-loved -friend. In such an hour of bitter self-reproach when in retrospect we -think of the kindly act which, had it been done (alas, that it was -not done!) would have helped our friend through a time of trouble; -the generous word which had it been spoken (alas, that it remained -unspoken!) might have heartened him when we knew him to be most cast -down--these and possibly our poignant sense of remorse, it may be for -an actual wrong done, not infrequently cause us to lose our sense of -proportion. For the time being at least we over-estimate what was -good in him, and under-estimate what was indifferent, or worse. - -It is not so that I write of S. J. Stone. Sixteen long years, in -which life has never been, nor will be, quite the same, missing -that loved presence, have passed away since he was laid to rest in -Norwood Cemetery; and to-day with my own life’s end nearing I can -say, not only for myself, but for many others who knew him, that so -brave of heart was he as to make possible for us the courage of a -Cœur de Lion, so knightly of nature as to make possible the honour of -an Arthur or a Galahad, so nearly stainless in the standard he set -himself, in the standard he attained, as to come, as near as human -flesh and blood can come, almost to making possible the purity of the -Christ. - -I am not unaware what will be in the mind of many who read these -words. Some will suspect me if not of insincerity, at least of the -foolish use of superlative and hyperbole. Not a few will hold my -last comparison as scarcely reverent. And all the while there will -not be a single woman or man, with any intimate knowledge of Stone, -who, reading what I have written, will not say, at least of what is -wholly appreciative (many will resent what I have hereafter to say of -his temperamental weaknesses and human defects), “All this is truth, -sober and unexaggerated, and yet the man himself was in many respects -infinitely greater than he is drawn.” - - -II - -Ever since Stone died my intention has been, before laying down my -own pen, some day and so far as I am able, to picture him as I knew -him. It seemed to me a duty, no less than a trust, that some of us -should put on record what manner of man it was who wrote these noble -hymns, and how nobly he lived and died. My reason for delaying thus -long about what to me is a labour of love, was the difficulty of -picturing Stone as he was, without seeming to exaggerate. Fortunately -it has not been left only to me to bear tribute, for the Rev. F. G. -Ellerton, Vicar of Ellesmere, to whose father we owe the famous hymn, -“Saviour, again to Thy dear Name we raise,” has written a Memoir -of his former Vicar (I recollect Mr. Ellerton as Stone’s curate, -more than a score of years ago), which was prefixed to a volume of -“Selections” from Stone’s _Poems and Hymns_. Only one who had lived -and worked with Stone could have drawn so true and sympathetic a -picture of Stone the Christian, Stone the Churchman, Stone the -hymn-writer, and Stone the man; and, except for the fact that Mr. -Ellerton and I approach our subjects from different standpoints, his -beautiful Appreciation will be found amply to confirm what I say in -my briefer Silhouette. - -It is to a sister of mine that I owe my first meeting with Stone. -From her girlhood upward she had contributed poems, sketches and -stories to the magazines, earning each year by her pen sums which to -the rest of us--how wonderful it all was!--seemed princely, and very -proud of her we all were. - -Ill-health, and her determination never, after marriage, to let her -writing interfere with her duties as wife and mother, have prevented -her from following up, except very occasionally, the work in -literature which she so loved, though two years ago she was able to -publish, and with success, a first long novel. - -But at that time she had made some girlish reputation as a writer -of religious verse, and was commissioned to contribute “A Golden -Song” each week to a well-known periodical. Stone’s attention was -attracted by the sweet-briar simplicity and beauty of some of these -“Golden Songs,” and when he and my sister chanced to meet, each was -singularly drawn to the other, and so it was that first she and he, -thereafter he and I, became friends and remained so to the end. - -Now let me try to describe Stone as he was at the time of our first -meeting, when he was in early middle life. Emerson said once that -we take a man’s measure when first we meet him--and every time we -meet him. One’s first comment at sight of Stone would inevitably have -been: “A Man!” And one’s second: “An Englishman!” - -Englishman was written, as the phrase runs, “all over him”--in -appearance, in voice, as well as bearing--and I can conceive no -disguise out of which the unmistakable Englishman would not have -peeped. Unmistakably English as he was in appearance, yet, when one -talked with him, and he became interested, enthusiastic, excited, -when he spoke of his life’s work, his life’s hopes and dreams, but -most of all when one could induce him to talk of England, Oxford, -patriotism, loyalty, love, duty or poetry, and saw the flash in the -eye, the throb at the temples, and heard the thrill in the voice, -one’s next comment was, “Here surely is not part Anglo-Saxon, but all -Celt!” - -The Celt in him, for--though he never told us whence it came--the -quicksilver of Celtic blood, there must have been in his veins, -made mock continually of the Anglo-Saxon. Yet, either the Fairy -Godmother, or the forgotten forbear who was responsible for this -freakish intermingling of quick-running Celtic blood, all ardour -and eagerness, with the slower, surer and steadier pulsing of an -Anglo-Saxon strain, doled out to Stone none of the Celtic defects -but only of the Celtic best. From the irritability, uncertainty, and -the “impossibility” which make some Celts--at all events some of us -Irishmen--an inscrutable problem and mystery of Providence, as well -as an ever-present perplexity to our best friends, Stone was entirely -free. In that respect he was inwardly, and in character, as truly -English as he was truly English in the outer man. - -He was of exceptional physique and presence. Only slightly above the -middle height, but muscular of limb, broad and square-shouldered, and -deep-chested as a lion, Stone was a fine specimen of virile manhood. -Proud of his strength, for, though devoid of vanity, he had his -full share of what I may call a seemly and proper pride, he carried -himself well and erectly--head up, shoulders squared--walking with a -step that was firm, steady and soldierly. - -And here I may interpolate that, a soldier’s grandson as he was, all -Stone’s boyhood longings were set on soldiering. Only the knowledge -that it was the heart’s desire of the father and mother he so revered -that he should follow his father by taking Holy Orders, and later -the conviction that he was called of God to the ministry, kept him -from a commission in the Army. His renunciation of his boyhood’s -dream was the first great act of obedience in a life of consistent -obedience and devotion to duty. The sacrifice--as it was--of his own -wishes, was made manfully and uncomplainingly, and he threw himself -whole-heartedly thereafter into his ministerial work. But the pang -remained, and to the last, when he spoke of soldiering, there was -that in his voice and in his eye which reminded one of an exile, -looking across far waters to the land of his birth. To Stone, to have -led a company, or a half-company, and for the first time, into action -in the service of his Sovereign and of his country, would have been, -in the words of George Meredith, the very “bend of passion’s rapids,” -as supreme a moment as Rossetti’s “sacred hour for which the years -did sigh.” That he would have made a gallant soldier, I am sure, but -not a great one. Leading a charge, he would have been irresistible, -but his was too highly-strung, too impulsive a temperament, calmly to -plan out and to carry through the cold-blooded details of a campaign. -He was to the last a soldier in heart, if not in looks, for, by the -beard and a certain breezy bluffness of presence, he might very well -have passed for a sailor. The head was finely moulded and on large -leonine lines, the forehead broad, full and lofty, the nose strong, -straight, purposeful and well-proportioned, and the set of the firm -mouth, and the shaping of the determined chin, were in keeping with -the forcefulness and the frankness of the eyes and of the whole -face. The darkness--so dark as to be almost black--of the straight -thick hair, which was brushed up and off the forehead, accentuated -the Saxon ruddiness of his complexion and the glossy red-brown (like -that of a newly-fallen chestnut) of his crisply curling moustache and -beard, which in sunlight were almost auburn. - -His eyes instantly challenged and held your own, for he invariably -looked the person to whom he spoke fully and fearlessly, but never -inquisitively (one cannot think of the word in connection with -Stone), in the face; and it was his eyes that most remained in your -memory when he was gone. “Intent,” set, and full of fire, the look -in them was like the spoken word of command which calls soldiers to -attention. Brown in colouring, they were not the hard, glittering -and unrevealing brown which one sometimes sees in woman or in man, -but eyes that, when he was reading poetry, could shine as if his -soul were a lit taper, of which they were the flame. At other times, -I have seen them as merry as a happy boy’s, as untroubled as cool -clear agate stones at the bottom of a brook. His were eyes that -recalled the love and devotion which look out at us from the eyes -of some nobly-natured dog, yet eyes that when he was preaching, and -the very soul within him was trembling under a terrible sense of -responsibility to his people and to God, could burn fiercely red, -like a fanned coal in a furnace, but always as true, brave and loyal -eyes as ever looked out of human head. - - -III - -In the fact that Stone was at heart intensely human lay the secret -of his hold upon the hearts of others. I have claimed high place for -him and have called him by high name, but a “saint” at least I have -never called him nor claimed him to be. We have been told that it -is impossible to be heroic in a high hat, nor is it easy to picture -a “saint” in a very pepper of a temper (to say nothing of a boating -sweater) at loggerheads, and more than half minded to knock down, a -foul-mouthed bargee. Stone’s Homeric laughter would not have accorded -ill with some Valhalla of the gods, but his rollicking sense of fun, -his schoolboy high spirits, still remembered affectionately and -joyfully as they are by some who were with him, first as a boy, and -thereafter as more than a middle-aged man at Charterhouse, suggest -neither a nimbus nor the Saints’ Calendar. - -In later life, when the endless calls upon his time barred him from -following, other than rarely, the field sports that he so loved, -and even from the exercise which was so necessary for a man of his -physique, Stone not only put on weight, as happens always with -athletes out of training, but developed a tendency to stoutness--not, -I gather, from some study of the Old Masters, in keeping with the -character of Saints, who as a class do not appear to run to flesh. - -Neither in looks nor in his life was there anything about Stone of -the ascetic who, living aloof and apart, tells over to himself--the -beads, as it were, in a rosary of self-mortification--the list of -pleasures denied, until in the contemplation of his self-denials he -comes at last to find a melancholy pleasure. Stone, on the contrary, -was the most natural and normal of men, with a healthy appetite for -the good things of this world. If he fasted, as was the case during -such a season as Holy Week, none knew of it except himself. He held -that the season, in which the Church bids us look back in awe and -worship upon the agony of our Lord’s Passion, is not a time for -bodily indulgence by Christ’s minister. But fasting in a monkish -sense, or as followed by the Roman Catholic Church, he neither -followed himself nor enjoined others to follow, and such fasting as -he practised was more in the way of salutary discipline than anything -else, and he imposed no fasting upon others. - -None the less, though Stone was, as I have said, no saint, I doubt -whether any saint who was ever canonised had half so child-pure a -heart or lived half so stainless a life. His was not the negative -purity of the cold-blooded, the anæmic, or the passionless, to -whom the temptations of the flesh made small appeal. He was a -full-blooded, healthy and whole-natured man, a splendid “animal,” -by whom the animal (which by God’s wisdom and grace is in us all) -was not done violence to, stamped down, crushed out, and unnaturally -suppressed, to his own physical and spiritual detriment and even -danger. That is the unwisest of all courses to pursue. By mutilating -and maiming the beautiful work and image of God in us, which since -He made it must in itself be innocent and beautiful, we sin against -our own human nature and against God. Human nature is like a tree. -It must have space in which to fulfil the purpose for which it was -intended, and in which to grow. Crush down, and seek to crush out, -its natural expansion, and it takes distorted shapes (crippled -limbs, as it were, on the tree of life) and hideous fungus-like -boles and excrescences appear on what would otherwise have been a -fair, straight, and shapely young growth. In Stone (to return to my -original metaphor) the animal, which is in us all, was not a beast -to be bludgeoned down, or to drag us to earth, but a beautiful wild -and winged creature which brings strength and gladness to human -life, and, wisely guided and controlled, may even bear us aloft and -afar. In Stone it was so dominated by an iron will, so sublimated -by knightly and noble ideals, and by his innate purity of soul, as -to make impossible what was gross, sensual or base. And may I add, -perhaps wickedly, that the animal in him was sometimes a joy as -when by sheer brute force, if you like so to call it, he fell upon -(so I was once told) three blackguards who, late one dark night, -were foully assaulting a poor girl in what was then a lonely part -of London Fields. Stone heard her screams, rushed to her help, and -knocked out his first man with one blow. Then he closed with number -two, and trouncing him so soundly that the fellow howled for mercy, -flung him to the ground, and made off after number three, who had -taken to his heels. - -I can well imagine Stone’s sportsmanlike joy and the flash of his -eyes when, as I am informed, he said, “Thank heaven I learned to use -my fists at Charterhouse! and thank heaven for what rowing did for my -biceps at Oxford. I think I’ve given those two scoundrels a lesson.” -He shook his head reminiscently and mournfully. “I’d have given five -pounds to have got my fists on that third rascal’s hide. Honestly, -I’ve enjoyed pommelling those other two scoundrels more than anything -that has happened since I came to Haggerston.” - -Then, seeing, perhaps, a whimsical look in his companion’s eye, and -perhaps already asking himself whether “taking on” three blackguards -at fisticuffs, and badly punishing two out of the three in a fair -fight, would by every one be considered decorous or becoming in -a clergyman, he broke into infectious laughter that was directed -entirely against himself. - -No, apart from the question whether this story (I tell it as it was -told me long ago) be true or not true, I do not claim for S. J. -Stone that he was a saint. To some men the consciousness of what -Stevenson called “a healthy dash of the brute” necessitates an ever -watchful “on guard” lest one day the brute spring out to overpower -the angel. To Stone--so wholly had he made honour, purity, and truth -the very habit of his life--a lapse into anything false, impure, -or dishonourable, into thinking or speaking, or even into allowing -others, in his presence, to speak what was evil or slanderous, had -become impossible. Had the proofs, or what seemed like the proofs, -of some base act on Stone’s part been brought to the knowledge of -any friend who knew him, as I knew him, that friend would not have -stooped to examine them. His reply would have been, “I know this -man, and though I am aware that he can be prejudiced, stubborn, -overbearing, irritable, and that faults of temper, errors of -judgment, and the like, may be laid to his charge, I know him well -enough to be sure that of what is base he is incapable. Were all the -facts before me, they would do no more than reveal him, possibly in a -quixotic, but at least in a nobly chivalrous light.” - -For all his quixotism, chivalry, and hot-headedness, Stone held so -strongly that, as Christ’s minister, a clergyman must in certain -matters be so entirely beyond even a shadow of reproach, that he was -singularly wise and guarded in his dealings with the other sex. The -foolish girls or women who go simpering to a clergyman, especially if -a bachelor as Stone was, to ask advice on love-affairs and the like, -he instantly if considerately dismissed to seek the advice of their -mother or of some good woman known to him; and at all times, and upon -all questions, he avoided seeing women-callers alone--not because he -feared evil in them or in himself, but because he felt he owed it to -his sacred office to avoid even the appearance of anything upon which -evil-thinking folk might choose to put an evil construction. - -He was not without experiences--what clergyman is?--of, in other -respects, worthy and well-meaning women who, even in connection with -Church work, contrive to set people by the ears, or otherwise to -cause dissension and trouble. With these he was impatient. He did not -hesitate to deal summarily with them, nor firmly, if considerately, -to speak his mind; but Womanhood, I might almost say every woman, he -held, if only for his own mother’s sake, if only because of a woman -the Saviour of the world was born, in a reverence that no folly or -sin could altogether break down. I have heard him speak to the poor -harlot of the street--his “Sister” as he would not have hesitated to -call her--with sorrowful courtliness, and with the pitifulness, the -gentleness, and the consideration, which one uses to (as indeed not a -few of such unhappy women are) an erring and ignorant child. - -I remember, on another and very different occasion, a girl of the -soft and silly type coming to the vicarage one day when I was with -Stone--I think she came about a Confirmation Class. She had a certain -innocence in her face; not the challenging, starry purity that one -sees in some faces, but a negative, babyish innocence, which was -pretty enough, and appealing in its way, but that meant no more, -probably, than that the girl had not yet had to make choice for -herself between good and evil. - -“Did you notice the flower-like beauty of that child’s face?” Stone -asked me, when she had gone. “In the presence of such exquisite -purity and innocence,” he went on gravely, and with intense reverence -in his voice, “one feels convicted of sin, as it were. One is so -conscious of one’s own coarseness, grossness, and impurity as to feel -unworthy to stand in such presence!” - -And all the time, the white armour of purity in which he was clad, -the armour and purity of his own soul’s--a strong man’s--forging, -was compared with hers, as is the purity of fine gold tried in the -furnace to metal mixed with base earth and newly brought all untested -from a mine. - - -IV - -His unfailing sense of humour, his boyish and buoyant love of fun, -like the cork jacket by means of which a swimmer rides an incoming -wave, carried Stone through difficulties which would have depressed -another. Let me put one such instance on record. To brighten in any -way the drab days of the poorest folks in his East End parish, he -counted a privilege as well as a happiness, and he was constantly -devising means for bringing some new gladness to their lives--the -gift of a sorely needed bit of furniture, or a coveted ornament, a -boating party with the children in Victoria Park, a magic-lantern -entertainment--anything in fact which seemed to him likely to make -them forget their many troubles and to call them out of themselves. - -Most of the women in his parish were poor, many pitifully so. Here -was a wife toiling all day in a laundry, to keep the home together, -while her husband was out of work, or worse still, while her husband -was on the drink; and there, a widow, the sole support of several -children. - -One day when Stone received an unexpected cheque--I think it was for -the sale of his book of poems--he unfolded to me, radiant himself -with happiness at the thought, a plan for taking some score of the -very poorest mothers of the parish for an outing to Southend. - -The great day--as it was in the lives of these poor people--came, and -was fortunately fine. The party caught an early train to Southend, -spent a long summer day by the sea, gathered at the appointed time, -happy if tired, at the railway station, to find that Stone had -misread the time-table, and that the last train to London had just -gone. Here were some twenty mothers--mostly with husbands who looked -to them for the preparation and cooking of supper at night, and of -breakfast next morning. To these husbands telegrams of explanation -and appeasement must, if the worse came to the worst, and return that -night were impossible, be despatched. Other mothers there were with -children awaiting their mother’s home-coming for a last meal and to -be put to bed; and all the twenty good women--if to London they could -not get that night--themselves requiring supper, and some decent -place in which to sleep. Stone’s face, brick-red with mortified -self-anger at his own muddling, as the agitated mothers crowded and -clamoured around him, two or three shrilly or tearfully expatiating -on the terrible things that would await them at the hands of their -lord and master, should that lord and master and the children go -supperless to bed, and rise breakfastless next morning, was, I am -told, a study in dismay and bewilderment, until he discovered that, -by paying for it out of his own pocket, a special train could be run. - -Relieved to find that no one except himself would have to suffer for -his carelessness, and even while ruefully regarding the document by -the signing of which he made himself responsible for the entire cost -(no inconsiderable sum to a poor man as he was) of the special train, -the Gilbertian side of the situation--that he, a bachelor, should -have a score of wives and mothers upon his hands--dawned upon him. He -broke, so my informant tells me, into bluff and hearty Berserker-like -laughter, till his chestnut beard wagged, and his burly form rocked; -and vowing that--though he must in consequence go short for many a -day of every luxury--the lesson he had received, and the story which -he would then be able to tell against himself, were cheap at the -price, he signed the document, and made mock of himself and his own -carelessness all the way home. - -Another story was once told me of Stone, concerning the accuracy -of which I have my doubts. What happened might well, I admit, have -happened to him, but my impression is that it was a friend of his who -was the guilty party. However, here is the story, as it was told me, -of Stone. - -He was to take an afternoon service at a church--I think in Hoxton. -Like many poets and some clergymen he was not always punctual, and -when he arrived he surmised, by the fact that the bell had stopped, -and that there was no thin and dribbling stream of late-comers -filing through the doors, that he was more than a little late. The -congregation as he saw was on its knees, so diving into the vestry, -which was empty, he hastily threw his surplice over his head, and -hurrying to his place in the chancel, read out the opening words of -the Evening Prayer. - -“When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath -committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save -his soul alive,” and thence passed on to the familiar “Dearly beloved -brethren,” and so on to the end of the service--to discover when -returning to the vestry, that he had inflicted upon the unfortunate -congregation the penance of two Evensongs on the same afternoon. He -had been under the impression that the service commenced at four -o’clock, whereas the hour fixed was three. In Stone’s absence the -curate-in-charge had felt that there was nothing for it but for him, -the curate, to read the service himself, which he did, and in fact -he had made an end of it, had pronounced the Benediction, and for -some reason had left the church, not by the vestry, but by another -door leading direct to the vicarage. It was the custom at the church -in question for the congregation to stand while the clergy were -passing out, and to return to their knees for a brief silent prayer, -after the clergy had passed out. It was at this moment that Stone is -supposed to have arrived and hurried in, to begin the service all -over again. - - -V - -At Oxford Stone had been an athlete, and an athlete and -sportsman--oarsman, skater, fisherman and first-class shot--he -remained almost to his life’s end. He was captain of the Pembroke -boat, and stroked the college eight. Legend has it that he was -chosen for his “Blue”--but did not have the honour of rowing against -Cambridge for the following reason. - -Between his merits as an oarsman and those of another candidate, -there was absolutely nothing to choose. The other man was as good as, -but no better than Stone, and Stone was as good as, but no better -than, the other. As a way out of the difficulty it was thought best -to decide the question by the spin of a coin, and Stone’s luck was -uppermost. He was delighted, for no man would more eagerly have -coveted his “Blue” than he, until he learned that it was a matter -of “now or never” for his rival, who was shortly going down, and so -would stand no other chance of rowing in the great race. As it could -matter neither way for the boat’s success which had the seat, Stone, -who was staying on at Pembroke and so would be eligible another year, -pleaded that his rival be given this, his only chance--with the -result that Stone’s own second chance never came. - -So runs the legend of how Stone missed his “Blue.” As I never -questioned him concerning its truth, and he was the last man to speak -of such an incident himself, I relate it merely as it was related to -me, and with no other comment than that such impulsive generosity is -just what might have been expected from this clerical Don Quixote of -lost causes, lost chances, forlorn hopes and self-forgetful chivalry. - -To say of a man that all his geese were swans, as was often said of -Stone, implies, indirectly, that he was something of a fool, if a -generous one. It is true that Stone wished to think well of whatever -a friend had done. If it were ill done he was not so blind as not -to know it was ill done, and was too honest not to say so, if asked -for an opinion, or to remain silent, if unasked. But if it were not -ill done, then young and keen-visioned Joy, as well as dim-eyed Dame -Pride alike clapped magnifying glasses on nose, to show him the thing -not as it was, but as it appeared through the eyes of joy and pride -in a friend’s work. - -So, too, in regard to the friend himself. If Stone saw, or thought -he saw, in his friend, some streak, no matter how rudimentary or -infinitesimal of, let us say unselfishness, he saw it not as it was -in his friend, but magnified to the scale in which it existed in -himself. Hence his appreciation of a friend’s gifts or qualities and -his own gratitude for some small service rendered were preposterously -out of all proportion to the facts. For instance, I had been at some -quite small trouble in reading, by his wish, the proofs of his _Lays -of Iona_, and also, by his wish, in sending him my criticisms. Here -is his letter (Oct. 23, 1897) in acknowledgment: - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - What _thoroughness_ of friendship you have shown me from first - to last in the matter of the _Lays_! Certainly I will alter the - “no” to “not” in the Preface, if a second edition permits me. I - had not noticed the error and jumped with a “How could I”! of - exclamation when I read your note. You comforted me very much in - the latter part of your note when you spoke of sundry passages - you approved, especially by what you said of the humorous part of - the work. I had specially feared about this, and indeed I had put - in these two occasional pieces only to please my sister. - - Good-bye, dear friend, - - Ever yours gratefully and affectionately, - S. J. STONE. - -Everyone who knew Stone intimately will bear me out in saying that -the gratitude here expressed, and disproportionate as it may be, was -absolutely sincere. He literally glowed with gratitude for any small -service done, or trivial personal kindness, and said no word more -than he meant in making his acknowledgment, for of “gush,” of what -was effusive or insincere, he had something like horror, and was as -incapable of it, as he was of falsehood or of craft. And in regard -to men and women whom he loved, it was not so much that he mistook -geese for swans, as that he remembered that, on land, a swan’s waddle -is no less unlovely than a goose’s, whereas, on water or on wing, a -goose, no less than a swan, is not without grace. He idealised his -friends--he saw in his mind’s eyes, his geese a-wing in the heavens -or a-sail on water, as well as waddling on land, and loved them for -the possibilities, and for the hidden graces he saw within. He was by -no means the merely credulous, if generous fool, that some thought -him. On the contrary, for most human weaknesses, he had an uncommonly -shrewd and sharp eye, but he appealed always to the best and noblest, -never to the vain or selfish side of those with whom he came into -contact, and so his own unwavering faith in God, in Christ, and in -human nature, was not only the cause of, but seemed to create similar -and sincere faith on the part of others, just as his own integrity -made even the rascal or the infirm of purpose ashamed of rascality or -of weakness. But tricked, betrayed and deceived, or confronted with -evil, Stone’s wrath was terrible and consuming. - -I remember the blaze in his eyes, the fury in his face, concerning a -scoundrel who had boasted of the deliberate betrayal, and cowardly -and calculated desertion of a trustful girl. Had the villain fallen -at the moment, when Stone first heard the facts, into my friend’s -hands, there would have been left upon the fellow’s body and face, -and from Stone’s fist, marks which would have borne witness to the -end of his life of the punishment he had received. His own bitterest -enemy, Stone could freely forgive, but for the man or woman whom he -held to be the enemy of God, he had small mercy. Even in matters -not of great consequence, but upon which he felt strongly, he was -inclined to override his opponent, and generally to carry things with -a high hand. That he always spoke, wrote, or acted with judgment, I -do not maintain. His motives none could question, but his judgment, -even his best friend sometimes doubted. - -When I speak of him as obstinate, I must not be understood as -meaning the type of obstinacy which is more frequently associated -with weakness than with strength. Obstinacy, however, of a -sort--stubbornness if you so like to call it--was undoubtedly a -temperamental defect. He was inflexibly convinced that his own -beliefs in regard to God, to the Throne, to the State, to the Church, -and even in regard to politics--inherited as some of these beliefs -were, influenced as were others by class feeling, by education, and -by environment--were the only possible beliefs for a Christian, -a Churchman, an Englishman and a gentleman. Hence he could not -understand the position of those who differed, and was impatient of -opposition. - -I once heard him described by some one who misunderstood him as a man -with a grievance, and a man with too thin a skin. His sensitiveness -I do not deny, but it was a sensitiveness which was all for others, -never for himself. And so far from being one of those single-cuticle -abnormalities whose skin “goose-fleshes” at the very thought of cold, -who at the approach of a rough blast wince in anticipation as well -as in reality, and suffer more perhaps from the imagined effects of -the buffeting than from the buffeting itself, Stone not only never -troubled to ask whether the blast was, or was not, coming his way, -but enjoyed battling with it when it came. If things went badly with -him, he took Fate’s blows unconcernedly, and blamed only himself. -About his own ills and sorrows, or breakdown in health, he was the -most cheerful of men, but he could and would concern himself about -the sorrows or troubles of others, and would move heaven and earth -in his efforts to right their wrongs, if wrongs to be righted there -were. That is not the way of the man with a grievance. The man with a -grievance growls but never fights. He wears his grievance as a badge -in his buttonhole, that all may see, and you could do him no unkinder -turn than to remove the cause of it. - -Stone never had a grievance, but he was ready to make the grievances -of his people, real grievances, their grievous wrongs, not fancied -ones, his own; and more than one employer of sweated labour, more -than one owner of an insanitary slum, and occasionally some Parish -Council, or public body in which Bumbledom and vested interests were -not unknown, had cause to think Stone too touchy, too sensitive, and -too thin-skinned, where the lives of little children, and the bodily -and spiritual welfare of his people were concerned. - - -VI - -In politics Stone was the stoutest of old-fashioned Tories, and by -every instinct and sympathy an aristocrat. Like a certain courtier -of high birth who expressed pleasure at receiving the Garter because -“there is no pretence of damned merit about it,” he believed -whole-heartedly in the hereditary principle. I am not sure, indeed, -that he would not have thought it well that spiritual as well as -temporal rank should go by inheritance. An archbishop who came of a -long line of archbishops and was trained from birth upwards for that -high office, Stone would probably have held to be a more fitting -Spiritual Head than one whose preferment was due to his politics, to -his suavity, and to the certainty that he would act upon “safe” and -conventional lines. He believed in Government at home and abroad, -in Great Britain as well as in her Dominions and Colonies, by the -“ruling orders,” by the class that he held to be born with the -power to command. In himself he possessed the power to command in a -remarkable degree. I have heard him sternly rebuke and even silence -seditious or blasphemous Sunday afternoon speakers in Victoria or -Hyde Park, and I do not remember one occasion when he was answered -with other than a certain sullen and unwilling deference, for, -in spite of his authoritative and even autocratic way, something -there was about him that compelled respect. A Socialistic orator -of my acquaintance once spoke of him--not to his face--as one -whose politics were pig-headed and his loyalty pig-iron. I am not -altogether sure what constitutes pig-iron, but if the Socialist meant -that Stone’s loyalty was rigid and unbending I do not know that I -should quarrel with the description. It was in his loyalty to the -throne that all his intolerance came out. Even those who were at -heart no less loyal than he laughed sometimes at the boyishness and -the extravagance of his worship for the Queen. The Queen, since she -reigned by divine right, could do no wrong, and had Stone lived in -Stuart times he would have died upon the scaffold, or fallen upon -the field, for his Sovereign’s sake; nor am I sure that even for a -Richard the Third or a King John, had either been his Sovereign, he -would not equally have drawn the sword. - -In religious as in other matters, all Stone’s sympathies were with -those who have an affirmation to make, as contrasted with those -who have an objection to lodge. He detested iconoclasts, and was -prejudiced beforehand against any belief that he classed with -“negatives” as opposed to “positives.” Just as he disliked the name -of Protestant, because he could not understand a Christian man -electing to be known by a name which “protests” against another’s -faith, instead of affirming his own, so he found it hard to -understand a Church which by its name proclaimed itself as not being -in “conformity” with or as “dissenting” from another Church. - -Stone could not understand that anyone should prefer the Free Church -to the Anglican Catholic Church, but since it was so (and that it -was so he sincerely and deeply grieved) he felt it better, while -friendly and cordial to all the Nonconformists with whom he was -brought into contact, that each should go his own way and worship God -in his own manner. Hence he was not of the school of Churchmen who -busy themselves in bringing about a closer union between Anglicanism -and the Free Churches, and are for the removal of landmarks and the -interchange of pulpits. - -On the other hand, he attacked the religion of no one who believed -in the Fatherhood of God, the Divinity, Atonement, and Resurrection -of our Lord, but reserved all his fighting power for what (a true -Browning lover) he would have accounted “the arch fiend in visible -form”--the enemies of God and His Christ. He had no sympathy whatever -with Churchmen who occupy themselves in bickerings and controversies -with Nonconformists, or in denouncing the Church of Rome. To him -good Churchmanship--and never was there stronger Churchman than -he--meant, not disapproval of, dislike to, or antagonism towards -other Churches, be they Roman or Free, but active love, practical -loyalty and devotion to his own beloved Mother Church. Hence he -never proselytised. He never sought to turn a Nonconformist into a -Churchman, or a Roman into an English Catholic, but he would have -fought to the last to keep a member of the Church of England from -forsaking that Communion for any other. - -But there was no indefiniteness about his attitude to Rome. Writing -to me in 1899 about some one he and I knew, who had gone over to -Rome, he said: - -“I am deeply sorry. Rome is a real branch of the Church of the -Redemption, and has the creeds, the ministry, and the Sacraments. -But to leave our august Mother for Rome! I do not mean to imply that -to be a Roman, or to become a Roman, has necessarily anything to do -with vital error. I speak strongly only on the point of _comparison_, -and as a loyal, happy, and satisfied Catholic of the English branch. -Certain defects I own to in our English Mother, but they are very -small and few, as regards the accretions and superfluities, to say -the least of them (of which the gravest is Mariolatry), of her Roman -Sister. On the other hand they _are_ sisters.” - -He loved the name of “Catholic,” and resented the somewhat arrogant -claim to a monopoly in that beautiful word by the Church of Rome, -and if one of his own congregation used it in this restricted sense, -he never failed, gently but firmly, to make the correction “Roman -Catholic.” His own Churchmanship he would probably have described -as that of an Anglican Catholic to which, while agreeing, I may add -that he was, at one and the same time, of the Sacerdotal and of the -Evangelical Schools. - -Stone’s sacerdotalism, paradoxical as it may seem to say so, was not -of a “priestly” order, and “priest” was perhaps the last word which -anyone who did not know him to be a clergyman would have used of him, -or by which his personality would by a stranger have been described. -A Sacerdotalist he undoubtedly was in the sense of holding firmly by -apostolical succession; but to me he seemed a Sacerdotalist chiefly -in the taking of his sacred office sacredly. Nor to this day, and -for all his sacerdotalism, am I sure which of the two he placed the -higher--the priesthood or the people. None could have held more -firmly than he that a priest is consecrated of God. None could have -been more entirely convinced that the priesthood is consecrated -by, and exists only by, and for, the people. He was, if anything, -more of a congregationalist--using the word apart from its purely -denominational meaning--than are the majority of ministers of that -denomination themselves. The congregational character of the service -at his church was, next to reverence, the outstanding feature. The -congregation were as much in evidence throughout as the clergy. -They repeated aloud every prayer for which there was precedent, or -authority for so doing, instead of the prayer being offered, as in -most churches, only by one of the clergy. - -So, too, with the musical service. There was no anthem, and so far -from the burden of the singing resting upon the choir, Stone often -announced a hymn thus: “The congregation alone singing all except -the first and last verses.” More “hearty” congregational singing -than at his church I have never heard outside the Metropolitan -Tabernacle (unlovely name for a Christian Church!) when under that -great preacher and true minister of God, Charles Haddon Spurgeon, -five thousand voices unaccompanied by organ or any other musical -instrument joined in singing the Old Hundredth. High Churchman as -doctrinally Stone was, he was not a Ritualist. Incense and vestments -were never used in any church of his, and though his people turned -naturally to him for help and advice in trouble, “Confessions,” -in the accepted sense of the word, were unknown. He was never in -conflict with his Bishop, or the other ecclesiastical authorities, if -only for the reason that his loyalty and his fine sense of discipline -made him constitutionally incapable of breaking the law. He knelt -reverently in prayer before and after Consecration, and at other -times, but genuflexions and ceremonious and constant bowing to the -altar on the part of the celebrant, his assistants and the choir, -were absent from the service for which he was responsible. - -On one slight but significant act of reverential ritual he, however, -laid stress. Whenever, in church or out of church, Stone spoke or -heard spoken the name of our Lord, he never failed, no matter where -or with whom he was, reverently, even if unnoticeably, slightly to -bow his head. “God the Father and God the Holy Ghost,” I once heard -him say, “no man has ever seen. But God, the Son, for our sakes, -stooped to become Man, and to be seen of men. For that reason, a -reason surely which should make us more, not less loving and adoring, -some have doubted or denied His Godhead. Hence when I hear that Holy -Name, I incline my head in adoring worship, as a protest if you -like against the base ingratitude which--because for our sakes He -stooped to become Man--would deny that He is more than man, and in -acknowledgment of Him as my Redeemer, my Lord and my God.” He was -indeed so entirely a poet that no word or name, which stood for that -which he revered, was ever by him lightly uttered or used. Between -his mother and himself--his father died either just before, or soon -after, I came to know the son, and I never saw the two together, -though I know that their relationship was ideal--existed the most -beautiful love and devotion, and if only for her sake, the very -word “mother” was consecrate upon his lips. Four times only is the -halo seen around the head of mortal. Around the head of a little -soul newly come from God, there is seen the rainbow-hued halo of -childhood; around the head of lad or maiden, man or woman, who, in -love’s supreme and sacred season, is lifted nearest to God, there -radiates the rose-coloured halo of love; around the head of those -who have newly gone to God, glows the purple-royal halo of death; and -around the head of a young mother, fondling her first-born, shines -out the white and sacred halo of motherhood. - -To Stone the halo of motherhood was visible, even around the head -of those whom this world counts and calls “fallen.” Motherhood was -to him, in itself, and apart from the attendant circumstances, so -sacred and beautiful, that the very word “mother,” as he spoke it, -seemed surrounded by the halo of his reverence. The widowed Queen -whom he knew and loved, and by whom he was held in regard and esteem, -was to him no less our Mother--the type and symbol of English -Motherhood--than she was our Sovereign. Of the august and ancient -Catholic Church of which he was so loyal a son he rarely used the -simile “The Bride of Christ,” which one frequently hears in sermons, -but spoke of her, and with eyes aglow, as the Mother of her people; -and it was of England, our Mother, that he sang with passionate love -in many of his poems. So, too, the words “Holy Communion” assumed, as -he spoke them, a meaning that was sacramental. The reverent lowering -of his voice was like the dipping of a battleship’s ensign. - -Again, in that portion of the service, in which, preceding the -reading of the Ten Commandments, the Celebrant says, “God spake these -words, and said,” many clergymen lay no stress on any particular -word, but speak or intone all six in one more or less monotonous -voice. It was not so with Stone. He spoke the passage thus: - -“God----” the Holy Name was uttered with intense reverence and -solemnity, which recalled to the congregation how awful is the Source -whence these ancient Commandments come. Then there was a pause that -every hearer might attune his or her thought to reverent attention, -and the Celebrant would continue--“spake these words, and said,” -passing on thence to the First Commandment. - -And, lastly, I would say that I never heard human voice thrill with -such devotion, such worshipping and wondering adoration, as that -with which he spoke the name of our Saviour. That Name, the Holy and -adored Name of JESUS, was so linked with all that he held sacred that -he never uttered it without pausing before and after the Holy Name, -that no less hallowed a word should be neighbour to that Name on his -lips. - - -VII - -Upon one incident in my long friendship with Stone I look back with -pain and sorrow. He came in late one night, just as the last post had -brought me the news--I would not write of such things here except in -so far as it bears upon my friend--that the whole edition of my first -little book had been sold out. - -To-day the writing of a book, if only because it may be the means -of bringing influence to bear upon others, is, I am of opinion, an -occupation to be followed diligently, conscientiously, and with -pleasurable zest. None the less, as compared with what some men -are doing in the way of direct personal service to God, to their -King, their country and their fellow creatures, it seems to me an -occupation too inactive to afford cause for congratulation that one -is thus employed. But in those days I desired nothing more than to be -a successful author, little imagining that success in authorship does -not necessarily mean the making either of literature or of a man. - -When Stone came in that night, so full was I of the great news, as -I held it to be, about my book, that I must needs rush at him, as -volubly and importantly to pour it all out, as if the fate of empires -hung upon the issue. He had a genius for friendship, and heard me -out patiently and gently to the end, to say: “I am so glad, so very -glad, dear fellow, and congratulate you with all my heart,” or words -to that effect. Then he broached the subject of his call, a matter of -infinitely more importance than any news of mine. It did not concern -himself, or I should, I hope, have acted differently, but a member -of his congregation, unknown to me, whom Stone was trying to assist -in a time of trouble and anxiety. So far as I remember I hastily -promised the assistance for which he asked, but, when he essayed to -speak further of the matter, I interrupted him rudely, once again and -boastfully to speak of my book. - -Stone so habitually suppressed it, that few suspected how great was -his gift of satire. When he chose, or rather had he so chosen, he -could so wing his satiric shaft as to pierce the thickest hide, and -never was he more tempted to employ this “devil’s weapon” as he held -it to be, than when irritated by vulgar boastfulness. - -Looking back long years after upon this incident, I know that to -no one could what happened that night be more irritating, and even -objectionable, than to Stone. On the part of a friend, it was an -affront to everything by which he held in our social code, a wound to -his own pride of breeding and good manners. How sorely I must have -tempted and irritated him, I now fully realise, yet his affection -for the offender held back the stinging word, and neither then, -nor at any other time in our long friendship, did I ever hear from -him one reproachful or ungentle word. I recall his forbearance to -me--a very young man when he was becoming middle-aged, and so might -reasonably have spoken--on this particular occasion, an occasion -which even now I cannot recall without shame. I recall a score of -times when I grieved him by my apathy upon some question upon which -he felt intensely, for Stone’s convictions were so positively held -that he would readily have gone to the stake in defence of them, and -that those he loved, and to whom he looked for sympathy, could be -apathetic upon matters which he held to be of vital consequence, was -to him a positive pain. I recall all these, and many other things in -which I failed or wounded him by some indifference, some thoughtless -act, or unconsidered word, and remembering that never once did he -fail me by sympathy, interest, help or love withheld--I sicken at my -own unworthiness, and at the thought of the sorry return I made for -all his love and forbearance. - -It is with relief that I turn to another incident in the early days -of our friendship. - -One night, in the eighties, when I was dining with Stone and his -and my kind old friend, the Rev. Frederick Arnold, at St. Paul’s -Vicarage, Haggerston, a maid brought in the last post. Stone asked -permission to run through his letters, in case there was anything -requiring an immediate answer. Over one he uttered an exclamation of -glad and grateful surprise. - -“Good news?” one of us asked. - -“Very good,” said Stone, flushed and radiant. He hesitated a moment. -Then, handing Mr. Arnold the letter, he said, “There is no reason why -you two, one an old, and the other a young, but both true and dear -friends of mine, should not see it.” - -It was from the Bishop of London--I think Bishop Jackson, but of this -I am not quite sure. In any case it was a very gracious letter. Upon -Stone, the Bishop said, the mantle of John Keble had by virtue of his -hymns, admittedly fallen. Thus far Stone had for some fifteen years -given all his time, energies, and abilities to working among poor and -uneducated folk in an East End parish, where practically the whole of -the small stipend was swallowed up in church work and charities, and -where Stone had no time or opportunity to do justice to his gifts as -a writer. The Bishop was aware, he said, that Stone was fast wearing -himself out, and could not go on much longer. Hence he had pleasure -in putting before Stone the offer of preferment to a West End parish, -where he would have an educated, intellectual, and appreciative -congregation, as well as the leisure and the opportunity to devote -his great gifts as poet and hymn-writer for the benefit of the church -and the world. - -It was a tempting offer, for much as Stone loved sport and travel he -had hitherto had neither the time nor the money for anything more -extended than a few weeks in Switzerland or in “God’s Infirmary” (as -quoting George MacDonald he often called the country), generally on a -visit to his old friend the Rev. Donald Carr, of Woolstaston Rectory, -Salop. Moreover, though Stone grudged no service given to God or to -his own congregation, he grieved sometimes that he had so little time -to devote to hymn-writing and to literature, concerning which he had -many projects. In a letter dated June 15, 1892, he had written to me, -“I am up to my ears in work and behindhand because, if you please, I -am in the thick of writing a religious novel. I am not really joking!” - -But grateful as he was for the Bishop’s kind and fatherly offer, -Stone declined it as, later on, he declined similar offers, including -a Colonial Bishopric. - -“I am not and I do not expect to be the man I was,” he said to Mr. -Arnold and me that night, “but I ought to be, and am, thankful that, -nervously constituted as I am, I have gone through fifteen years in -the East End, out of twenty-three in the Ministry. When health and -strength give out, when for my people’s sake I must let the work pass -into younger and stronger hands, I will go. Till then, in Haggerston, -where my heart is, and where the people whom I love are living, I -must remain.” - -And in Haggerston he remained working early in the morning and late -in the night until 1890, when the collapse, alike of nerve and -physical strength, came, and he had to resign--to be appointed by -the Lord Chancellor to the comparatively easy living of All Hallows, -London Wall. - -But Stone was not the man to spare himself in his new sphere of -labour. What the wrench of parting and the strain necessitated by -sweeping aside the cobwebs, and by trying to warm into life the dry -bones, as he put it, of a long-neglected City church cost him, may be -gathered from the one and only sad letter I ever had from him. It is -written from the house of his sister, Mrs. Boyd. - - WOODSIDE LODGE, - SOUTH NORWOOD HILL, S.E., - _Nov. 28, 1891_. - - MY DEAR KERNAHAN, - - I have, in a very busy life, never passed through such a time of - depression as in the last nine or ten months. In the Spring I - left the old Parish of 21 years’ work and 31 years’ memories--and - how I got through the next couple of months I scarcely know. Only - by Grace of God. I went to Southend for a fortnight, but it was - simply a _ghastly_ time, I was ill in body and mind. Except for - the faith which Tennyson describes in the case of Enoch Arden’s - coming home, through which a man (believing in the Incarnation, - and therefore in the Perfect Human Sympathy of God) cannot be - “all unhappy,” I don’t know what would have become of me. I left - behind me, you know how much--how many is represented by 537 - communicants, nearly all of them my spiritual children, and I had - before me, not a “howling wilderness” but a silent wilderness of - the worst of the City churches. A howling wilderness would have - stirred up the soldier’s blood that is in me--but the desolation - which I felt so ill was like a winding sheet. You must come - and see me at All Hallows, and while I show you the beautiful - present, I will show you in actual fact some of the dry bones. - - I need not tell you that I have had a great deal to do - Haggerstonwards. And oh! my correspondence with my old children! - - I hope this does not sound to you like complaint or self-pity. I - only mean it as explanation--which would not be given in these - terms, except to one very much (I know) of my own temperament. - Indeed, there is no cause for anything but thankfulness. My - nerves were too worn out for Haggerston any longer. My successor - is one almost entirely after my own heart--my new parish is - exactly one (nearest to Haggerston in the City) I wished for. - The task of renovation, though it makes me a poor man for a year - or two, has been very good by way of distraction and for the - delight of making a garden out of such a wilderness of dry bones, - and after another six or nine months I may be able to afford a - curate, and, having no further special financial or parochial - anxieties, be able to settle to some final literary work. Indeed, - I am as I ought to be, very thankful. - - So far most egotistically. - - I am interested with my whole heart in what you tell me of - yourself. Do come and see me, to tell more. I will promise to - send you what I write, if you will undertake to do the same. - - God bless you, dear friend. - - Ever your most affectionate, - S. J. STONE. - -The depression passed, and Stone recovered sufficiently to throw -himself, heart and soul, and for some years, into his now memorable -work among the “hands” employed in City warehouses, shops and -factories. Once again it was for the poor, or for the comparatively -poor that he toiled, and once again he spared himself in nothing. -His letters (I have enough almost for a book) tell of the joy and -contentment he found in the work, and of his thankfulness to God for -what had been done. - -But he had made the change from the heavier work at Haggerston too -late, and even in the easier charge, which, in order that he might -husband his failing strength and outworn energies had been found -for him, he would not, or could not spare himself--with the result -that, in the autumn of 1899, he had another breakdown. Meeting him -unexpectedly one day on the Embankment, after not seeing him for -some little time, I was inexpressibly shocked at the change. He told -me that he had been feeling very ill for some weeks, and was then -on his way to meet the friend who was accompanying him to see a -specialist, and that I should, without delay, know the result of the -examination which was to be made. Not many hours had passed before I -had a letter. The malady, Stone said, was cancer, it was feared in a -malignant form, and there must be an operation, and soon. - -With all the old and infinite thought and tenderness for others, he -gave me gently to understand that the case was not too hopeful--he -was terribly run down, his heart was weak: he had overstrained it -while at Oxford--and even should he survive the operation, there was -small likelihood of recovery. Here is the conclusion of his letter: - - Keep a quiet mind about me, dear friend. I have not so learned - Christ that I make any real difference between life and death, - but remember me before God. - - Ever yours most affectionately, - S. J. STONE. - -Scarcely a day of the months which followed was free from pain. Yet -he wrote, “I live in a kind of thankful wonder that I should be so -encompassed by the goodness of God and the lovingkindness of men.” To -the end he retained all his old interests. He continued, in the brief -respites from terrible bouts of pain, to attend the church of All -Hallows, of which he was still rector, and to minister to his people, -and even to follow, with intense patriotic interest, every event in -the South African War. - -The day preceding his death, Sunday, he was at All Hallows; and the -very day of his passing he wrote, “I am in such pain that I can -neither write nor dictate. At others I am just able to write ‘with -mine own hand.’ But whether at the worst or at the best in a _bodily_ -state, spiritually I am not only in patience, but in joy of heart and -soul.” Soon after came a brief space of unconsciousness and--the end. - -So died one who was liker Christ than any other man or woman I have -known. His love for his fellows was so passionate and so unselfish -that, could he have taken upon himself, to save them from sin, -sorrow, and suffering, a similar burden to that which his Lord -and Master bore, he would not have hesitated--he would gladly have -hastened--to make the sacrifice. - -The mistakes he made were many, though I remember none that was not -made from high motive, generous impulse, misplaced zeal, or childlike -singleness of purpose, which to the last led him to credit others -with truth, loyalty, honour, and sincerity, like to his own. In the -beautiful hymn which he so loved, and with which he so often ended -evensong, we read: - - And none, O Lord, have perfect rest, - For none are wholly free from sin, - -but if sin there was in Stone, as in all that is human, I can truly -say that, in our twenty-five years’ intimate friendship, I saw in him -no sign of anything approaching sin, other than--if sins they be--a -noble anger and a lofty pride. To have loved, and to have been loved -and trusted by him, was no less a high privilege than it was a high -responsibility, for if any of us, who at some time of our lives, -shared Stone’s interests and ideals, and were brought under the -compelling power and inspiration of his personality, should hereafter -come to forget what manner of man he was--should play false with, -or altogether fall away, from those ideals, or be content to strive -after any less noble standard of conduct and character than he set -and attained--then heavy indeed must be our reckoning, in the day -when for these, to whom much has been given, much will be required. - -For Stone had something of the talismanic personality of his Master. -Just as, without one spoken word--without more than a look--from -the Christ the unclean were convicted of sin by the talisman of His -purity, so all that was noblest, divinest and knightliest in man, -all that was white-souled, selfless, tender, true, lofty, and lovely -in womanhood, recognised something of itself in Stone, and in his -presence all were at their highest and their best. - -Nor was this due merely to what has been called a “magnetic -personality.” That there are men and women who for good or for evil -(it is just as likely to be for the latter as for the former) possess -some magnetic or mesmeric power over others, I am, and from personal -knowledge, aware. But Stone’s influence was neither mesmeric nor -magnetic. It was by the unconscious spiritual alchemy of a soul so -rare (I repeat and purposely near the end of this article what I -said in the beginning) as to make possible the courage of a Cœur de -Lion, the honour of a King Arthur or Sir Galahad--as to make possible -even in a sense the sinlessness of Christ. To have known, if only -once in a lifetime--and in spite of bitter disillusionments, of -repeated betrayals on the part of some others--such a man as S. J. -Stone, is in itself enough to keep sweet one’s faith in humanity, in -immortality, and in God. - -Some time before Stone’s death I had been much thrown into the -company of a gifted and brilliant thinker and man of Science, who had -very little belief--I will not say in the existence of a God, but at -least in the existence of a God who takes thought for the welfare -of mortals, and no belief whatever in existence after death. In our -walks and conversations he had adduced many arguments in support of -annihilation, which it was difficult to answer; and I remember that, -when on the morning that Stone died, I stooped to press my lips to -the forehead of the friend I loved and revered as I have loved and -revered none other since nor shall again, it seemed for a moment -as if the man of whom I have spoken as disbelieving in personal -immortality, were, in spirit, at my elbow and whispering in my ear. -“Look well upon your friend’s face!” the Voice seemed to say, “and -you shall see written there: ‘Nobly done, bravely done, greatly done, -if you will,’ but you shall also see written there, ‘_Done and ended! -done and ended--and for evermore!_’” I remember, too, that it seemed -as if some evil power, outside myself, were trying, by means of what -hypnotists call “suggestion,” to compel me to see, upon the dead -face, what that evil power wished me to see there. - -For one moment, after the whispering of the words “Done and ended! -done and ended--and for evermore,” I thought I saw something in the -dead face that seemed dumbly to acquiesce in, and to endorse the -tempter’s words, until another and very different voice (I have -wondered sometimes whether it were not my friend’s) whispered to me, -“If the friend whom you loved be indeed annihilated and has ceased to -be--then the Eternal and Omnipotent God whom he, a man and a mortal, -ever remembered _has forgotten him, for annihilation means no more -and no less than utterly to be forgotten of God_. If that be so, if -God can forget, if He can forget those who never forgot Him, then -is that God less loving, less faithful, and less remembering than -the mortal whom He has made. Can you, dare you, think this awful and -unthinkable thing of the Living and Loving God in whom your friend so -wholly trusted?” - -And, looking upon the face of my friend, I saw written there, not -only the august dignity, the lone and awful majesty of death, but -also the rapture, the peace, the serenity, the triumph of one who -staggers spent and bleeding but victorious from the battle, to hear -himself acclaimed God’s soldier and Christ’s knight, and to kneel in -wondering awe, in worshipping ecstasy, at the feet of his Saviour and -his God. - -And remembering what I saw written on the dead face of my friend, -remembering the life he led and the God in whom he trusted, I have no -fear that my own faith will fail me again in life or in death. - -_And we also bless thy holy Name for all thy servants departed this -life in thy faith and fear; beseeching thee to give us grace so to -follow their good examples, that with them we may be partakers of thy -heavenly kingdom. Grant this, O Father, for Jesus Christ’s sake, our -only Mediator and Advocate._ Amen. - - -THE END - - - - -SOME OPINIONS OF MR. KERNAHAN’S PUBLISHED WORK - - -_Saturday Review._--“There is a touch of genius, perhaps even more -than a touch, about this brilliant and original booklet.” - -_Times._--“A writer of much insight and originality.” - -_Spectator._--“Truly as well as finely said.” - -_Contemporary Review._--“A brilliantly versatile novelist and a -charming essayist.” - -Sir J. M. BARRIE, in the _British Weekly_.--“The vigour of this book -is great, and the author has an uncommon gift of intensity. On many -readers, it may be guessed, the book will have a mesmeric effect.” - -Sir A. QUILLER-COUCH.--“It is, as is every story which Mr. Kernahan -writes, vivid, and effectively told.” - -_Daily Chronicle._--“Of haunting beauty.” - -_Academy._--“His book is a fine one, and we think it will live.” - -_Bookman._--“Work which deserves to live.” - -_Punch._--“Rises are freely predicted in Kernahans.” (Mr. Punch on -“The Literary Stock Exchange.”) - -Mr. I. ZANGWILL.--“A genius for poetical and spiritual allegory.” - -_Truth._--“No one approaches Mr. Kernahan in the sincerity and -intensity of his imaginative flights. For myself I can say that -I have read _Visions_ with the keenest pleasure. They have the -penetrating and the revealing power of Ithuriel’s spear.... -Extraordinarily powerful.” - -_Morning Post._--“The prose is fascinating, the matter is important -to every thinking man, the treatment is so attractive that one is -compelled to read the book from cover to cover at once. Studies in -which the imagination takes strong wings, written in prose that is -both masculine in quality and haunting.” - -_Globe._--“A brilliant success.” - -_Daily Telegraph._--“Great reverence and much literary power.” - -_Athenæum._--“Of singular beauty and tenderness, but at the same time -full of critical insight.” - -_St. James’s Gazette._--“It would seem as if the author of _A Dead -Man’s Diary_ and _A Book of Strange Sins_ had found for the weird -moods and impulses, the sighs and sobs from a hidden world, which he -has before controlled in the realm of fiction, a local habitation and -a name in the personalities of the actual mortals he delineates in -these luminous sketches.” - -Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS.--“These scholarly papers. His essay on Heine -shows a wonderfully accurate estimate of that fantastic genius, while -his _Rossetti_ shows critical insight of a high order.” - -_Pall Mall Gazette._--“If one of the wholesome offices of tragic -literature be to purify the soul by terror, Mr. Kernahan has done -something towards the purification of the world.” - -_Daily Mail._--“Crowded with pictures of great imaginative beauty.... -There can be no doubt that this little book must make a very deep and -abiding impression upon the hearts and minds of all who read it.” - -Mr. T. P. O’CONNOR.--“I do not remember to have read for a long time -a study of the deadliness to soul and body--of what I may even call -the murderousness of purely sensual passion--in which the moral is so -finely, and I must use the word, awfully conveyed.” - -_Evening News._--“The revelations are those of a man of genius. -Callous or brainless must the man or woman be who can rise from its -perusal without tumultuous and chastening thought.” - -_The Daily Chronicle._--“A writer possessing not only a fine literary -gift, and a marvellous power of intense emotional realisation, but -a fresh, strange, and fascinating imaginative outlook. We know of -nothing published in recent years which, in lurid impressiveness and -relentless veracity of rendering, is to be compared with this.” - -_The Sketch._--“The daring freshness of his thought, his great -ability in expressing it, his contempt for common tradition, the -sincerity which exudes from every page of his work, captivate the -reader. I do not know any piece of prose which opens up so many great -questions in so few lines.” - -_The Star._--“Palpitating with life. Terrible in their intensity and -vivid vivisection of human mind and character. In dealing with such -subjects as these, any one but Mr. Kernahan would be morbid, perhaps -revolting. Mr. Kernahan writes of them with a power which is often -genius. The work of a man who, seeing beneath the crust of life, had -the courage and the power to write what he saw.” - -Mr. BARRY PAIN.--“We find beautiful and appreciative writing in these -pages.” - -_The Illustrated London News._--“All must recognise the boundless -charity, the literary power, and the intense sincerity of one of the -most interesting works of the year.” - -The late Mr. B. FLETCHER ROBINSON, in _Daily Express_.--“There are -two Coulson Kernahans. The one is a novelist who loves a good plot, -and a dashing adventure; the other a serious thinker who rises to -imaginative heights in his efforts to pierce the mystery that cloaks -the future life of us poor mortals.” - -_The Times._--“He is perhaps the hundredth individual who in recent -fiction has devoted himself to amateur detection, and he is certainly -‘one in a hundred’ as regards his exceptional success.... This simple -sample must suffice for extract, but we may assure the reader that -there are plenty more where it came from.” - -_World._--“A writer of fiction who has come among us carrying -Aladdin’s lamp--imagination.... Bold and brilliant in inception.... -Deep and tender humanity pervades the whole work.” - -_Literary World._--“A man with a command of beautiful English with -exquisite insight into the poetry of life and with the delicate touch -of the rare literary critic.... A volume of delightful essays, almost -Lamblike in their tender pathos and humour.” - -_New York World_ (U.S.A.).--“The strongest stories that have been -written in many a long day. No one who is guilty of sin can read -these stories without realising their truth. They are like Conscience -sitting alone with him staring him steadily sternly in the face.... -This spiritual rhapsody shows you one facet of this brilliant -Irishman’s genius. Turn to the _Literary Gent_, and you will see -another utterly different--fearful, almost cruel.” - -_Boston Herald_ (U.S.A.)--“A book which must certainly be accounted -one of the pronounced literary successes of the time. It has gone -through various editions in America, as well as in England, and -I think no one who has read it could ever quite escape from its -haunting spell. It contains passages of poetic prose, which no lover -of the beautiful will overlook, and its appeal to the consciences -of men is even more strenuous. I am not surprised to hear that the -first English edition of 2000 copies was exhausted a few days after -publication.” - -LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON (U.S.A.) in Syndicate Article, “Four Modern -Men.”--“A story which Hawthorne might have been content to sign.... -Two prose-poems which to my mind far surpass the prose-poems of -Turgenieff.... This has been compared to Mrs. Gatty’s _Parables from -Nature_, but Mrs. Gatty has never written anything to rank with it -for poetic charm. To find this exquisite and tender idyl among these -tragedies of shipwrecked souls is like hearing the divine note of the -nightingale through the stress and clamour of a tempest.” - -[In collaboration with the late Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson.] - -Mr. EDMUND GOSSE, C.B., in the _Illustrated London News_.--“Where -so many skilful hands have tried to produce rival anthologies, -these two, each in its own class, preserve their unquestionable -superiority. Mr. Locker-Lampson has been helped in re-publication by -Mr. Coulson Kernahan, who has entered into the elegant spirit of the -Editor, and has continued his labours with taste and judgment.” - -Mr. A. C. SWINBURNE, in his volume, _Studies in Prose and -Poetry_.--“There is no better or completer anthology in the language. -I doubt, indeed, if there be any so good or so complete. No objection -or suggestion which can reasonably be offered can in any way diminish -our obligation, either to the original Editor, or to his evidently -able assistant, Mr. Coulson Kernahan.” - - - - - THE WORKS OF - Oscar Wilde - - SALOME. A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT. Translated from the French of Oscar - Wilde. With a Cover-design after AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Royal 16mo. - Price 2s. 6d. net. - - SALOME. A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT. Translated from the French of Oscar - Wilde, with an Introduction by ROBERT ROSS, and 16 Full-page - Illustrations by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Fcap. 4to. 10s. 6d. net. - - SALOME. 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The - Senior Pepys has transmitted something of all his wonderful and - divers qualities to the descendant--his ubiquitous eye, his - garrulousness, his exuberant egoism and perfect selfishness, and - his humour.” - - _Star._--“A more agreeable gallery of diverting worldlings we - have seldom met.” - - _Westminster Gazette._--“Being absolutely inimitable, Pepys has - had many imitators. But none with whom we are acquainted has - succeeded so well in a most difficult task as ‘Samuel Pepys, - Junr.’” - - _Land and Water._--“Great events have crowded so quickly on - one another that already we find it difficult to arrange our - recollections rightly. In this diary, flavoured with Attic salt, - we are carried back to hours and controversies which seem to-day - almost to belong to a previous life. Into whatever page one - may choose to dip, there is something to arrest attention, to - encourage reading and to awaken mirth.” - - _To-Day._--“Here at length we have an imitation of Pepys’ Diary - which is as perfect and satisfying as such a thing could well be. - Samuel Pepys, Junior, knows the original with uncanny exactitude.” - - _British Weekly._--“A book of genius. In many ways it is the most - wonderful book that this war has produced.” - - _Daily Mail._--“It is the most diverting book that has appeared - for many a day. Laughable though the book is, it has the - seriousness and the acid of all good satire, and is as faithful a - history withal of these days as any that the serious historians - have penned.” - - -BOOKS BY PIERRE MILLE - -_Morning Post._--“Pierre Mille has a right to be considered the -French Kipling.” - - UNDER THE TRICOLOUR - - Translated by B. DRILLIEN - - With Illustrations in colour by HELEN MCKIE - - Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. - -_Morning Post._--“The most hilarious of all the stories ... would -make the sides of an archbishop ache with laughter; it is an -irresistible thing.” - -_Sunday Times._--“The stories are veritable gems. No student of the -soldier spirit or of the psychology of our gallant allies should miss -this book. Admirably translated and excellently illustrated.” - -_Evening Standard._--“We commend the book to the ordinary man ... the -tales are well told and abound in happy touches.” - - - BARNAVAUX - - Author of “Under the Tricolour.” - - Translated by B. DRILLIEN - - With 8 Illustrations in colour by HELEN MCKIE - - Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. - -Those who have read “Under the Tricolour” will recognise Barnavaux -at an old friend, as he is the “hero” of many of the stories in both -works. All the stories are entirely original, and they are striking -in different ways, many of them being worthy of comparison with the -works of the greatest French short-story writers. - - - LOUISE AND BARNAVAUX - - Author of “Under the Tricolour.” - - Translated by B. DRILLIEN - - With 8 Illustrations in colour by HELEN MCKIE - - Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. - -There is yet another volume of short stories dealing mostly with the -French Colonial soldiery, and the ever delightful Barnavaux is again -one of the most conspicuous figures. - -Some of these stories are undoubtedly among the best that Mr. Mille -has written. - - - THE WORKS OF - ANATOLE FRANCE - - In an English Translation edited by FREDERIC CHAPMAN - Uniform. Demy 8vo. 6s. - - [C]THE RED LILY - - MOTHER OF PEARL - - THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS - - [C]THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD - - THE WELL OF ST. CLARE - - THAIS - - THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN - - THE WHITE STONE - - PENGUIN ISLAND - - BALTHASAR - - THE ELM-TREE ON THE MALL - - ON LIFE AND LETTERS. 2 vols. 1st and 2nd Ser. - - THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNEBROCHE - - AT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PEDAUQUE - - JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT - - THE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN - - THE OPINIONS OF JEROME COIGNARD - - MY FRIEND’S BOOK - - THE GODS ARE ATHIRST - - THE REVOLT OF THE ANGELS - - CRAINQUEBILLE - - THE PATH OF GLORY. With Illustrations. Written by ANATOLE FRANCE - to be sold for the benefit of French disabled soldiers. - - THE AMETHYST RING [_In the Press_ - - PIERRE NOZIÈRE - - FOUR PLAYS [_In Preparation_ - - [C] Also Cheap Edition, bound in Cloth, with Illustrated Coloured - Wrapper, Crown 8vo, 1s. net. - - _ALSO UNIFORM IN SIZE_ - -JOAN OF ARC. With 8 Illustrations. 2 vols. 25s. net. - - - JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Simple typographical errors were corrected. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: In Good Company - Some personal recollections of Swinburne, Lord Roberts, - Watts-Dunton, Oscar Wilde Edward Whymper, S. J. Stone, - Stephen Phillips - -Author: Coulson Kernahan - -Release Date: March 27, 2016 [EBook #51572] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN GOOD COMPANY *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1 class="wspace">IN GOOD COMPANY</h1> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 center vspace wspace"> -<span class="xlarge bold" style="letter-spacing: .15em;">IN GOOD COMPANY</span><br /> -<span class="smaller" style="letter-spacing: .22em;">SOME PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF</span><br /> -<span class="larger" style="letter-spacing: .135em;">SWINBURNE, LORD ROBERTS</span><br /> -<span class="larger" style="letter-spacing: .068em;">WATTS-DUNTON, OSCAR WILDE</span><br /> -<span class="larger" style="letter-spacing: .045em;">EDWARD WHYMPER, S. J. STONE</span><br /> -<span class="larger" style="letter-spacing: .1em;">STEPHEN PHILLIPS</span><br /> -<span class="large" style="letter-spacing: .1em;">BY COULSON KERNAHAN</span> -</p> - -<p class="p2 center wspace vspace"> -<span style="letter-spacing: .01em;">LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD</span><br /> -<span class="smaller" style="letter-spacing: .07em;">NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXVII</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 center smaller">SECOND EDITION</p> - -<p class="p2 center wspace small">WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 center vspace wspace">TO<br /> -<span class="larger">THE HON. MRS. ARTHUR HENNIKER</span></p> - -<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">My Dear Mrs. Henniker</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">It is many years since we first met at the -house of one whom we both loved, whose memory we -both cherish. It was that friend’s hope that you -and I should become, and should remain friends; and -that the hope has been realised has given me many -happy hours—sometimes in your company as my -gracious hostess, sometimes, scarcely less closely in -your company, as a reader of your delightful and -beautiful stories. Were your gallant General—I -remember how proud he was of those stories—alive -to-day, I should have asked to be allowed to dedicate -this book to the two of you. Now that—alas for the -England that he so faithfully loved, so nobly served—he -is with us no more, may I inscribe it to yourself -and to his honoured memory?</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Yours ever sincerely,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Coulson Kernahan</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii">vii</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>FOREWORD</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">One</span> of the subjects of these studies said in -my hearing, that “Recollections” are -generally written by people who have -either entirely lost their memory, or have never, -themselves, done anything in life worth remembering.</p> - -<p>To the second indictment I plead guilty, but my -best excuse for the publication of this volume is that -I write while the first indictment fails. My memory -is still good, and the one thing which seems most -worth remembering in my life is my undeservedly -fortunate friendships.</p> - -<p>In writing of my friends and of those with whom -I was associated, I am, therefore, I believe, giving -of my best. I ought to add that these papers were -penned for inclusion in a volume of frankly personal -and intimate “Recollections.” A work of that sort -is the one book of his life in which an author is -allowed some freedom from convention. That is -why I hope to be pardoned should any passage,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii">viii</a></span> -letter, or incident in these pages seem too intimate -or too personal.</p> - -<p>The reason why the studies are printed separately -is that the ship in which I hope to carry the -bulk of my threatened “Recollections” (if ever -that ship come to port) will be so heavily weighted -a vessel, that I am lightening it by unloading a -portion of the cargo at the friendly harbour of The -Bodley Head.</p> - -<p>To drop figurative language and to speak -plainly, I may add that, though there is some -attempt at a more or less finished portrait in some -of my pen-pictures, that of Lord Roberts is no -portrait, but merely a chronicle. His personality, at -least, is too well known and loved to need either -analysis or description.</p> - -<p>The paper <cite>When Stephen Phillips Read</cite>, mere -snapshot as it is of one aspect of his personality, -was not written for the present volume, with which, -indeed, it is hardly in keeping. I include it by the -wish of Mr. John Lane who, years hence, will be -remembered as the faithful friend, as well as the -generous and discriminating admirer, of the distinguished -poet, of whose work it is his pride also -to be the publisher.</p> - -<p>Mr. Lane was anxious—knowing that my friendship<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix">ix</a></span> -with the poet was long and close—that I should write -of Stephen Phillips as fully as I have here written -of some others; but it is only under impulse that -I seek to picture the inner self and personality of -my friends, and I cannot do so while the sense of -loss is comparatively new. In the case of two of -whom I have thus written, many years had elapsed -before I put pen to paper.</p> - -<p>At his best—as the three friends who made -such unexampled and such self-sacrificing efforts -on his behalf, Sir Sidney and Lady Colvin and Mr. -Stephen Gwynn, will, I think, agree—there was -something approaching the godlike in Stephen -Phillips. Of what was weak, and worse, in him I -need not here speak, since, because he so loathed -hypocrisy, he hid it from none.</p> - -<p>One day I hope to show Stephen Phillips as he -really was, and as not many knew him. I have -heard him described as a man of brooding and -morbid aloofness. There is truth in the description, -but it is equally true to say that, at times, he could -be as healthily jovial and unconstrained, as high-spirited -as a happy schoolboy. His exquisite and -extraordinary sense of humour was—I had almost -written his “salvation,” and that not only under -success which, coming early in life, might well have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x">x</a></span> -turned the head of a smaller man, but also in -adversity which, when it came, was as crushing -as his success had been complete. When this adversity, -when tragic unhappiness, overtook him, he -bore them with courage, and reproached no one -except himself.</p> - -<p>If as a poet he was at first overpraised, it is -equally true that, towards the end, and since his -death, the splendour, beauty and power of his -poetry have often been underestimated. Time -will set that right, and will rank him, I believe, as -a true and, within his limits, a great poet.</p> - -<p>That Stephen Phillips, the man, gave no cause -for sorrow and concern to those of us who loved -him, I do not maintain, nor would he wish me to do -so, for no one was more ready to acknowledge his -weaknesses—deeply and almost despairingly as -he deplored them—and none suffered intenser -agony of remorse for ill-doing than he.</p> - -<p>Knowing him as I did, I unhesitatingly aver -that his ideals and his longings were noble, and -that the soul of the man was good. That all is well -with him, and that he is at rest, I have no doubt. -Never have I seen such fulness of peace and such -beauty on the face of the newly dead, as when I -knelt—to commend his passing soul to his Maker—by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi">xi</a></span> -the bed on which lay what was mortal -of Stephen Phillips. All that was weak and unworthy -seemed to have fallen away as something which -never was, which never could be, a part of his -true self. In death, even his youth returned to -him. As he lay there, white-robed, and with his -hair tossed boyishly over his forehead, he looked -so young that one might have thought him to be a -happy and sleeping boy-chorister, dreaming of the -poet-mother whom he so loved, and to join whom -in Paradise may not his soul even then have been -hastening?</p> - -<p class="sigright">C. K.</p> - -<p> -<span class="smcap">Savage Club, London.</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii">xiii</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr class="small"> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A. C. Swinburne</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_1">1</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lord Roberts</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_32">32</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Theodore Watts-Dunton as the “Ogre of the ‘Athenæum’”</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_67">67</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Why Theodore Watts-Dunton published only two books</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_84">84</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Theodore Watts-Dunton as an Amateur in Authorship and as a Good Fellow</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_102">102</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">One Aspect of the Many-sidedness of Theodore Watts-Dunton</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_111">111</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Last Days of Theodore Watts-Dunton</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_126">126</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">When Stephen Phillips read</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_139">139</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Edward Whymper as I Knew Him</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_149">149</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_189">189</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">S. J. Stone, the Hymn-writer</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#h_236">236</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1">1</a></span></p> -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><span class="larger">IN GOOD COMPANY</span></h2> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_1">A. C. SWINBURNE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Had some old Pagan slept a thousand years,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To wake to-day, and stretching to the stars<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Gaunt arms of longing, called on Venus, Mars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">June and Jove, Apollo and his peers;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And heard, for answer, echoing from the spheres,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Thy gods are gone: the gods of old are dead.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It is by Christ thou shalt be comforted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pitying God who wipes away all tears.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Such answer had there come, deaf ears, in scorn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had turned the Pagan, and deaf ears turn we<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To other voices, on this April morn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Since he who sang the sunrise and the sea<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall sing no more. Deaf are we and forlorn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gods are dead, and dead is Poetry.<br /></span> -</div></div> -<p class="p0 in0 in4"><i>April 10, 1909.</i></p> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Swinburne</span> was furious.</p> - -<p>I had lunched with him and Watts-Dunton -at The Pines, and after I had smoked -a cigarette with the latter, the author of <cite>Atalanta -in Calydon</cite> had invited me upstairs to his sanctum, -that he might show me the latest acquisition to his -library—a big parchment-bound book tied with -ribbons—the Kelmscott reprint of one of Caxton’s -books. He waxed enthusiastic, I remember, over -the Rape of Danae. Then he took up the proofs of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2">2</a></span> -an article on John Day which he was contributing -to the <cite>Nineteenth Century</cite> that he might read some -passages from it. To verify a quotation, he walked -to his shelves in search of a book, talking volubly -meanwhile, and turning, as was his custom, to look -directly at the person whom he was addressing. -Unlike Watts-Dunton, whose library was a witness -to the catholicity of the owner’s interests and of his -tastes, Swinburne’s library was comparatively small -and select, for he was as exclusive in regard to the -books he admitted to his shelves as he was in regard -to the men and women he admitted to his friendship. -Knowing exactly, I suppose, where the required -volume was to be found, his hand went as -confidently towards it—even though his face was -turned away from it, and towards me—as the fingers -of a musician go towards the keys of a piano at which -he does not look. For once Swinburne’s instincts -played him false. Taking down the book without -glancing at it, and still pouring out a torrent of words, -he opened it, his eyes on my face, and shaking the -forefinger of his right hand at me, said:</p> - -<p>“Here it is! Listen!” and dropped his eyes -upon the page.</p> - -<p>To my astonishment his face suddenly crimsoned, -the eyes that might once have been bright blue, but -were now faded, and, in fading, seemed to have -caught and retained something of the colour of the -great seas and of the grassy fields upon which they -have so often and so lovingly lingered, glowed with -green fire like that we see in the eyes of an angry -cat, and he flung the book away from him in a -tornado of wrath. He had taken down the wrong<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">3</a></span> -volume, an anthology, and opened at a page on -which was printed a poem by the particular writer -who, like the wearer of a red coat intruding thoughtlessly -upon the domain of an angry bull, happened -at that particular moment to be the subject of a -poet’s capricious wrath—for on occasion I have -heard Swinburne speak with kindly, if contemptuous -toleration, of a writer whose damnation in this -world and the next he seemed at another time -ardently to desire.</p> - -<p>“Of all my imitators,” he shrilled, literally -quivering with the tempestuousness of his passion, -“this fellow (mentioning a poet whose name I suppress) -is the most intolerable. I claim—and you, -I know, will admit the justice of the claim—that -perhaps the most distinctive characteristic of my -work in poetry is that I have taken old and hackneyed -metres, and have tried to transform them -from a mere jingle, and a mere jig-jig, into music. -This pestilent ape has vulgarised what I have done -by servile imitations of my manner and of my -methods; but, what I had transformed into music, -he has transformed back into the vilest and most -jigging of jingles.”</p> - -<p>When a poet of Swinburne’s eminence thus turns -the searchlight of criticism upon himself, and -seeks to lay bare, in a few pregnant sentences, what -he considers the secret of his art and of his success, -one must necessarily be interested and even fascinated. -On this occasion, however, I was more -concerned about the singular state of nervous -excitability into which my host had worked himself -than curious to draw him out by further discussion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">4</a></span> -Sir James Barrie says somewhere that “Temper is -a weapon which we handle by the blade,” a tragic -instance of the truth of which I had in mind at that -moment. A certain distinguished writer, now dead, -who like Swinburne was a good hater, and scarcely -less excitable than he, had made, or imagined that he -had made (the vagaries of the artistic temperament -are many), a deadly enemy of a fellow craftsman and -critic. Every adverse review of his work, or unfriendly -reference to himself, which appeared in the -public Press, he insisted on attributing, directly or -indirectly, to the malignity of this supposed enemy. -A not ungenerous man at heart, in spite of—possibly -because of—his blaze of a temper and quickness to -take offence, the distinguished writer in question -had shown much interest in a struggling young -author of his own nationality, and had not only -assisted him financially, but had been at great pains -to find a publisher for the lad’s first book, and had -importuned his friends on the Press to review the -work favourably and at length. The first notice to -appear was adverse in the extreme, and the distinguished -writer instantly declared that he saw in it -the hand of his enemy, who had sought to stab at -him by damning the work of a young fellow known -to be his friend and protégé.</p> - -<p>Flinging the paper containing the review upon the -ground, he stamped upon it, and about the room, -working himself up finally into so furious a passion -that it brought on a seizure from which he never -entirely recovered, and that practically ended his -career.</p> - -<p>“Temper is a weapon which we handle by the blade.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">5</a></span> -This story I had only recently heard, and had -good reason for believing. Seeing my host literally -trembling and quivering in every limb with the -intensity of the excitement, and of the anger into -which he had worked himself, my one anxiety was -to distract the attention of this representative of -the proverbially irritable race of geniuses from the -disturbing subject, and to soothe him back to his -normal calm. Unfortunately for me, his deafness -made my task difficult, but I chanced to hit upon a -topic in which he was keenly interested, and, little -by little, he quieted down, until I could see that he -had talked himself out and was ready for the afternoon -nap in which it was his custom to indulge.</p> - -<p>Remembering that incident, and others like it -within my knowledge, I ask myself how it is possible -to judge men and women of genius—men and women -to whose great brains the live blood rushes at a -thought or at a word; whose passions are like a laid -fuse, ready to take fire and to explode the mine at -a touch—by the same standard which we apply to -the cold-blooded, sluggish-brained, lethargic and -perhaps more fortunate mortals to whom impulse -is unknown, upon whom passion has no sway, and -who rarely commit themselves to any expression or -to any action, noble or mean, wise or indiscreet, -without first of all carefully weighing the results -and counting up the costs.</p> - -<p>“It is apparently too often a congenial task,” -says George Eliot in her <cite>Essay on Heine</cite>, “to write -severe words about the transgressions of men of -genius; especially when the censor has the advantage -of being himself a man of no genius, so that those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">6</a></span> -transgressions seem to him quite gratuitous; he, -forsooth, never lacerated anyone by his wit or gave -irresistible piquancy to a coarse allusion; and his -indignation is not mitigated by any knowledge of -the temptation that lies in transcendent power.”</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Of all controversialists (and he dearly loved a -verbal encounter) to whom I have ever listened, -Swinburne was incomparably the most crushing. -He fought with scrupulous and knightly fairness, -never stooping to take a mean advantage of an -adversary, and listening patiently, punctiliously -even, while the other side was making its points. -But, when his turn came, he carried everything before -him. Vesuvius in eruption could not more -effectually overwhelm or consume the rubble around -its crater than Swinburne could scarify or sweep -away, by a lava-torrent of burning words, the most -weighty arguments of his opponents.</p> - -<p>So, too, with his conversation. When he was -moved by his subject, when he talked in dead -earnest, he did nothing else. He forgot everything. -In the middle, or even at the beginning of a meal, he -would lay down knife and fork, and turn to face his -listener, quite oblivious of, or indifferent to the fact -that his dinner or lunch was spoiling.</p> - -<p>On one occasion I happened, half-way through -lunch, to mention that I had in my pocket a copy -of Christina Rossetti’s latest poem, written in -memory of the Duke of Clarence, and entitled -<cite>The Death of a First-born</cite>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7">7</a></span> -Down went knife and fork as he half rose from -his chair to stretch a hand across the table for the -manuscript.</p> - -<p>“She is as a god to mortals when compared to -most other living women poets,” he exclaimed in -a burst of Swinburnian hyperbole.</p> - -<p>Then in his thin, high-pitched but exquisitely -modulated and musical voice he half read, half -chanted two verses of the poem in question:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One young life lost, two happy young lives blighted<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With earthward eyes we see:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With eyes uplifted, keener, farther-sighted<br /></span> -<span class="i4">We look, O Lord, to Thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Grief hears a funeral knell: Hope hears the ringing<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of birthday bells on high.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Faith, Hope and Love make answer with soft singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Half carol and half cry.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Then he stopped abruptly.</p> - -<p>“I won’t read the third and last verse,” he said. -“One glance at it is sufficient to show that it is unequal, -and that the poem would be stronger and -finer by its omission. But for the happy folk who -are able to think as she thinks, who believe as she -believes on religious matters, the poem is of its kind -perfect. Let me read that second verse again,” and -with glowing eyes, with hand marking time to the -music, he read once more:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Grief hears a funeral knell: Hope hears the ringing<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of birthday bells on high.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Faith, Hope and Love make answer with soft singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Half carol and half cry.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The last line, “Half carol and half cry,” he -repeated three times, lowering his voice with each<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">8</a></span> -repetition, until at last it was little more than a -whisper, and so died away, like the undistinguishable -ceasing of far-off music.</p> - -<p>Laying the manuscript reverently beside him, he -sat perfectly still for a space and with brooding -beautiful eyes. Then rising without a word he stole -silently, softly, almost ghost-like, but with short, -swift steps out of the room.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Though it was my privilege to count among my -friends several personal friends of Swinburne—notably -the late Theodore Watts-Dunton, Philip -Bourke Marston, and the dearest and closest of -all my friends, Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton—it -was not until the first weeks of 1892 that I met -him personally.</p> - -<p>I was invited to lunch at The Pines, and the first -thing that struck me as I entered the dining-room -and took the extended hand, which was soft and -limp, and had no sturdiness in the grasp, was the -singular charm and even courtliness of his bearing. -Unmistakably an aristocrat, and with all the ease -and polish which one associates with high breeding, -there was, even in the cordiality with which he rose -and came forward to welcome me, a suspicion of the -shy nervousness of the introspective man and of the -recluse on first facing a stranger. It had passed in -a few minutes, and I saw no trace of it at any of our -subsequent meetings, but to the last his courtliness -remained. I have seen him angry, I have heard him -furiously dissent from and even denounce the views<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">9</a></span> -put forward by others, but never once was what, for -want of a better word, I must call his personal -deference to those others relaxed. With him the -proverbial familiarity which is said to breed contempt, -bred only more consistent and insistent -courtesy. To no one would he defer quite so graciously -and readily, to no one was he so scrupulously -courtly in his bearing, as to those who constituted -the household in which he lived. On the occasion -of this first meeting with him he talked with extraordinary -animation, sitting up erectly in his chair -and moving his body or limbs stiffly and jerkily. -He had not long returned from his forenoon walk, -and, if I may be pardoned so far-fetched a comparison, -he was like a newly-opened bottle of -champagne, bubbling and brimming over with the -buoyant, beady, joyous and joy-giving wine of -morning. Watts-Dunton, always generously ready -to interest himself, and to endeavour to interest -others, in the work of a young writer of ability, was -anxious to talk about my friend, Richard Le -Gallienne. He might as well, by making a stopper -of his open hand, have tried permanently to prevent -the overflow of the champagne bottle which I have -used for the purpose of a fanciful comparison. The -moment he withdrew his hand, the instant he ceased -to speak of Le Gallienne, Swinburne, as represented -by the newly-opened bottle, was bubbling over -again about his walk. The wine of it was in his -veins and seemed to have intoxicated him.</p> - -<p>“There is no time like the morning for a walk!” -he declared, turning to me with enthusiasm. “The -sparkle, the exhilaration of it! I walk every morning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10">10</a></span> -of my life, no matter what the weather, pelting -along all the time as fast as I can go; and it is -entirely to my daily walk that I attribute my perfect -health.”</p> - -<p>On hearing that I, too, was a great, as well as a -fast walker, Swinburne looked me up and down -challengingly, and said with a smile that was almost -like a merry boy’s:</p> - -<p>“Yes! but I think I could outwalk you, and get -there first, for all your six feet!” Then, turning to -Watts-Dunton, he apologised playfully for having -monopolised the talk, and said, “Now tell me -about your young poet. His is certainly the most -beautiful poet-face since Shelley’s.”</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton replied by reading some extracts -from a “Note on Swinburne” which Le Gallienne had -contributed to <cite>Literary Opinion</cite>, Swinburne listening -with downbent head meanwhile. When Watts-Dunton -had made an end of it, and Swinburne had -expressed his appreciation, the latter inquired how -I first came to know Le Gallienne, and learning that -when I was acting as the Editor of the English -edition of <cite>Lippincott’s Magazine</cite> I had, in that -capacity or incapacity, accepted one of Le Gallienne’s -first published articles, <cite>The Nature Poems -of George Meredith</cite>, he asked if I knew Sir J. M. -Barrie, who he considered had been much influenced -by the author of <cite>The Ordeal of Richard Feverel</cite>.</p> - -<p>“Only slightly,” I answered. “I suggested, in -fact organised a dinner to dear old F. W. Robinson, -in whose magazine <cite>Home Chimes</cite> much of the -early work of Barrie, Jerome K. Jerome, Zangwill, -Eden Phillpotts, G. B. Burgin, and many others,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">11</a></span> -who have since come into their own, appeared. -Jerome took the chair and Barrie the vice-chair, -and the dinner was something of a record in the -list of distinguished men present, and was, I believe, -one of the few functions of the sort of which an -account appeared in the <cite>Athenæum</cite>. It was there -I first met Barrie.”</p> - -<p>“Robinson of <cite>Grandmother’s Money</cite>,” cried -Swinburne in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. “You have -mentioned the name of one of the very salt of the -earth, and one of the dearest friends of both of -us here. We contributed to the first number -of <cite>Home Chimes</cite>. Watts-Dunton wrote a noble -Sonnet of Greeting, and I printed my Sonnet <cite>Near -Cromer</cite> there. His novels, I grant, though -eminently readable, as the reviewers say, are not -great. Unlike Dr. Gilbert’s, they do not dovetail. -Finishing one chapter, you are not restless and -uneasy till you have read the next, and that is a -fatal defect in a novelist.”</p> - -<p>Speaking of Robinson and <cite>Home Chimes</cite> reminded -Swinburne of the fact that it was in that unfortunately -named and defunct magazine that he had seen -some of the best work of Philip Bourke Marston, -the blind poet, concerning whom I had contributed -an article to the current number of the <cite>Fortnightly -Review</cite>. This article Swinburne had read and wished -to discuss, for, whereas my friendship with Philip -Marston was not of long standing, he had known -the blind poet since the latter was a lad of fourteen, -and on the day after Philip’s death had written a -memorial sonnet which was subsequently printed -in the <cite>Athenæum</cite>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">12</a></span> -Swinburne’s remarks upon the subject of my -article—though I need hardly say I have forgotten -no word of what he said—I pass over, but what I -must not pass over is the witness these remarks -bore to his extraordinary memory and to his equally -extraordinary method of reading. Reading, in -fact, is not the word. Had he parsed the article, -schoolboy wise, sentence by sentence, he could -not more effectually have mastered it; had he -dissected it, part by part, surgeon-like, he could -not more completely have torn the heart out of -the matter.</p> - -<p>Obviously Swinburne could only have read the -thing once, yet had I, the writer, been called upon, -even while it was fresh in my memory, to pass an -examination on this very article, I doubt whether -I should have known half as much of it as he. Hearing -him thus deliver himself upon a casual contribution -to a periodical, which, by reason of his -love and friendship for the blind poet with whom -the article dealt, had chanced to interest him, I -could understand how his single brain had been -able to deal illuminatingly with so vast a volume -of literature as he had from time to time passed under -review. His power of concentration, and of pouncing, -hawk-like, upon what seemed to him to be -memorable or salient, as well as his ability to -recollect all he had read, must have been extraordinary.</p> - -<p>A more exhaustive summing up—not, I admit, -of the evidence on both sides, but of the evidence -which appealed to his individual judgment, his -individual imagination, and his individual taste—I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13">13</a></span> -have never heard. Prejudiced as he was, however, in -favour of Marston, he would not go so far as Rossetti, -for his last word on the subject was:</p> - -<p>“When Gabriel spoke of Philip’s poem, <cite>The Rose -and the Wind</cite>, as ‘worthy of Shakespeare in his -subtlest lyrical mood,’ he let his personal affection -run away with his critical judgment, and his verdict -must always be discounted by the fact that Philip -was the aptest pupil in the School of Poetry in -which Rossetti was the acknowledged master. -Watts-Dunton is a much surer guide, and when he -said that ‘So perfect a lyric as <cite>The Rose and the -Wind</cite> should entitle Marston to a place of his own, -and that no inconsiderable one,’ he said the true -word, the deserved word, and the word which I do -not think anyone will have the hardihood to -dispute.”</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>When next I met Swinburne, nearly twelve months -had gone by, and, in spite of the eager way in which -at our first meeting he had talked of the men and -women and things within his own mental horizon, -I should not have been in the least surprised to -find that he had practically forgotten me. I do not -say this in any spirit of mock modesty, but because -I remembered that, at that first meeting, I had -mentioned, in the course of conversation, a book -by a certain author who to my knowledge had been -a visitor to The Pines on several occasions, and so -must personally have been well known to Swinburne.</p> - -<p>“Oh, really!” he said. “Yes, now that you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14">14</a></span> -mention it, I believe that someone of that name -has been so good as to come and see us. I seem to -recall him. And I seem to remember hearing someone -say that he had written something, though I -don’t remember exactly what. So he has published -a book upon the subject of which we are talking. -Really? I did not know.”</p> - -<p>This was said with perfect courtesy, and without -the remotest intention of administering a snub -either to me or to the literary reputation of the -writer in question. It meant no more than that -Swinburne lived so apart from the rest of the world, -had such power of detachment, and kept so habitually -the company only of his books and of his -peers, that the personality of the rest of us left no -impression on him.</p> - -<p>On this occasion, only Watts-Dunton, Miss Teresa -Watts, his sister, Swinburne, and myself were -present, and the talk turned at first upon -William Rossetti, with whom, in his home at St. -Edmund’s Terrace, Regent’s Park, I had spent an -hour or two on the previous afternoon. Both -Swinburne and Watts-Dunton were interested to -hear news of their old friend whom both regretted -seeing so seldom. They plied me with innumerable -questions in regard to his health, his plans, -even in regard to trivial details about his home -life, not omitting mention of his sister Christina’s -beloved cat “Muff,” and the red plush sofa on -which Shelley was supposed to have slept, the -night before his death, and that now stands in the -library. Both my hearers were touched when I -spoke of Rossetti’s affectionate words about<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">15</a></span> -William Morris, for whom, though “Topsy” (as -he called Morris) and he had not met five times in -twenty years, Rossetti to the last entertained -the old affection. Rossetti’s vivid recollection -of the day of the funeral of Watts-Dunton’s -mother, some fifteen years before, when there -was so terrible a blizzard that he could get no -conveyance to Endsleigh Gardens—where he was -then living—and had to fight his way home on foot -in a blinding snowstorm, was naturally of special -interest to Watts-Dunton. Much more was -said, and many other questions were asked, upon -which I do not propose here to linger, passing on, -instead, to speak of the sudden flaming up of -Swinburne at the mention by Rossetti of William -Bell Scott as having once been a drawing master.</p> - -<p>“Perfectly true! Perfectly true!” interpolated -Swinburne angrily, “and a drawing master he -remained to his life’s end.”</p> - -<p>For the remainder of my stay he talked vivaciously, -and here I should like to say that in all -that has been written about his personality—his -eccentricities, excitability and exclusiveness; his -passionate love of the sea and of little children; -the changes that his political views underwent; his -chivalrous championship of his friends against all -comers, and the savage onslaught upon Robert -Buchanan; his sturdy patriotism, and his historic -friendships—very little has been said of the lighter -side of his nature. That he could wield in controversy -the lash of satire and irony, and wield it -mercilessly, more than one combatant has had -cause to know, and there are alive to-day ancient<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">16</a></span> -enemies of his whose backs must still tingle at -memory of some of his onslaughts. But of his wit -and humour in daily life and the sunny playfulness -of his banter in conversation with his friends, one -seldom hears. I have known him keep the table alive -for an hour at a time by whimsical and deliciously -humorous and caustic comments on the topics—political, -literary, or artistic—of the day.</p> - -<p>On this particular morning he was anxious to -show me a review of <cite>Kriegspiel</cite>, that most remarkable -novel by the late Francis Hinde Groome, son -of the famous archdeacon, the intimate of Edward -FitzGerald, with whom Frank Groome had himself -been well acquainted as a boy.</p> - -<p>With Groome—who, as my readers know, was, -like Watts-Dunton and the late Charles Godfrey -Leland, an accomplished student of Gipsy Life, -Gipsy Language, and Gipsy Lore—I was myself on -terms of friendship, and indeed had been of some -small service to him in regard to the publication of -<cite>Kriegspiel</cite>, knowing which, Swinburne was anxious -to hear whether I thought the review could be used -to assist the sale of the book, and so elected to go -upstairs to his room to get it.</p> - -<p>He returned with a face like that of a schoolboy -intent upon mischief, and with a rolled up journal -in his hand. After I had read the review of <cite>Kriegspiel</cite>, -and proposed sending it on to the publisher, -Watts-Dunton inquired, pointing to the roll which -Swinburne was still holding:</p> - -<p>“What have you got there?”</p> - -<p>“To-day’s <cite>Graphic</cite>,” was the reply. “I noticed -it sticking out of the pocket of your greatcoat,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17">17</a></span> -hanging in the hall, and peeping inside saw that -there was an illustrated supplement, <cite>Poets of the -Day</cite>, so I wouldn’t even look to see whether you -and I are included, but brought it here that we -might all go through it together. What heart-burning -and hair-tearing there will be in the poetical -dovecotes, in regard to who is in, and who is out! -Why didn’t you tell me of it before?”</p> - -<p>“Because I didn’t know anything about it,” -was the reply. “It was from Kernahan’s coat, not -mine, that you took it. We all pick each other’s -brains in Grub Street, but picking pockets is quite -another matter.”</p> - -<p>Swinburne apologised, but held on to the <cite>Graphic</cite> -tenaciously. Then he opened it, smoothed out the -page, and ran through the pictured poets, cataloguing -them, complimenting them or chaffing them -upon their appearance or their poetry, even improvising -suitable epitaphs for their obsequies in -Westminster Abbey, or composing, on the spur -of the moment, Nonsense Verses and Limericks that -hit off with delicious humour or mordant irony the -personal or poetical peculiarities of the different -“bards,” as he called them.</p> - -<p>Now that he, and so many of these “bards” -are, alas, gone, I hesitate to repeat in cold blood, -and so long after, what was said on the spur of the -moment, and among friends. But, tantalising as it -may be to the reader, especially if that reader be a -poet, and so possibly an interested party, to be told -merely of witty sayings of which no specimen is -forthcoming, I must hold my hand, as I have been -compelled to hold it in other pages of these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18">18</a></span> -Recollections. We have it on the authority of Mr. -Clement Shorter that one must be indiscreet to be -entertaining, and I agree with him so far as to -admit that, in Recollections, the best must always -be that which remains unwritten.</p> - -<p>After Swinburne had exhausted the <cite>Graphic</cite>, I -produced, from the pocket of the pirated greatcoat, -yet another journal, to which a certain critic had -contributed a somewhat feeble article upon the -work and poetry of Swinburne himself. I read it -aloud, to the accompaniment of ironic laughter on -the part of Watts-Dunton, Miss Watts and myself, -but Swinburne, though he had hugely enjoyed it, -and had interpolated sly comments of exaggerated -gratitude, said, when I had made an end and with -a wave of dismissal:</p> - -<p>“It is meant kindly, and when the intention is -so obviously kind one must not be too ungenerously -critical.”</p> - -<p>Thereafter we talked of Ireland, Swinburne having -only recently learned or recently realised that I -hailed from that land of poets turned politicians. -I suspect that the fact of my nationality was -responsible for much of his kindness to me, for, -laugh at us as many Englishmen may and do, -in their hearts they have a sneaking liking for -men and women of Irish birth. I had said that I -should be leaving soon after lunch, and after he had -bidden me good-bye, and had retired for his afternoon -sleep, he returned, not once, but two or three -times, and with an impulsiveness which was almost -Irish, to speak again and yet again of Ireland and -especially of Irish poetry.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">19</a></span> -It had been my good fortune the night before to -take in Mrs. Lynn Linton to dinner at the beautiful -and hospitable home of Sir Bruce and Lady Seton at -Chelsea, and Mrs. Lynn Linton and I had talked -much of Ireland. Mentioning this to Swinburne, he -said that he had once written to Mrs. Lynn Linton -remonstrating violently with her about an article -of hers on Ireland, and he had reason to believe -that his words had not been without effect, as, -since then, Mrs. Lynn Linton had come to think -as he had on that question, and was of opinion that -Gladstone, Morley and Harcourt ought to have -been impeached for high treason. Reverting to -books, he said that nothing so beautiful about Ireland -had been written as the Hon. Emily Lawless’s -novel <cite>Grania</cite>, then fresh from the press. He had -bought a number of copies to send to his own friends, -as well as some to send to his aunt, Lady Mary -Gordon, for distribution in her circle. He went on to -say that his old friend, Dr. Whitley Stokes, had -shown him some of the Irish songs which were -sung to the tunes to which Tom Moore afterwards -wrote his “mawkish and sentimental songs.” One -of these, Swinburne said, had since been reprinted -in the <cite>Academy</cite>.</p> - -<p>“And as poetry I can only compare it to the Book -of Job—and what more superlatively splendid praise -can I offer than that?”</p> - -<p>Here Watts-Dunton put in a word for Wales and -incidentally for Scotland, which reminds me that -I ought to say that Watts-Dunton’s share in this, and -in other conversations, was no less interesting, though -less erratic and more considered than Swinburne’s.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">20</a></span> -Switched off thus from Ireland to Scotland, -Swinburne launched out into enthusiastic praise -of the islands of Rum and Eig, the nomenclature of -which, he said, was phonetically and fatally suggestive -of a nourishing, if nauseous drink, not to be -despised, he understood, after an early morning -swim, and declared that the one thing which made -him regret he was not a man of wealth was that -he could not afford to yield to the desire of his heart, -and spend half his time cruising in a yacht around -the western islands of Scotland.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Perhaps the most treasured possession on my bookshelves -is a volume in which Swinburne has inscribed -my name and his own. The volume in question is -his <cite>Studies in Prose and Poetry</cite>, and as, among -the contents, there is an article devoted entirely -to a consideration of the merits and defects of -<cite>Lyra Elegantiarum</cite>, in the editorial work of the -last edition of which it was my honour and privilege -to collaborate with the original compiler, the -late Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, I may perhaps -be pardoned for referring to it here.</p> - -<p>The fact that Swinburne was making <cite>Lyra -Elegantiarum</cite> the subject of an important article -(it appeared first in the <cite>Forum</cite>) was told to me when -I was lunching one day at The Pines, and naturally -I carried the news of the compliment which his book -was to receive to Mr. Locker-Lampson.</p> - -<p>“Compliment!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it will -be a compliment. Any editors might well be proud<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21">21</a></span> -that the result of their labours should be the subject -of an article by Swinburne. But pray heaven -he be merciful, for I fear our expected compliment -is like to turn out to be something of a castigation.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Locker-Lampson was not far wrong, for, -when the article appeared, we found that Swinburne -had as roundly rated the editors as he had generously -praised.</p> - -<p>I sent Swinburne a copy of the édition de luxe, -a gift with which he was delighted, and indeed procured -other copies to give to friends and relations, -one in a binding of his own designing being, I think, -for his mother. When next I was at The Pines, he -inquired whether Mr. Locker-Lampson and I were -pleased with his review.</p> - -<p>“How could we be otherwise than pleased by any -article upon the book by the author of <cite>Atalanta in -Calydon</cite>?” I replied.</p> - -<p>“But you were pleased with what I said?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, but you must forgive me if I say that -it was very much as if a schoolmaster had called up -a boy out of the class, and, after lavishing undeserved -praise upon him for good behaviour, had -then taken him across his knee and thrashed him -soundly for abominably bad conduct.”</p> - -<p>He dived among the litter of papers, reviews, -letters and manuscripts upon the floor, for a copy -of his article, and then read aloud:</p> - -<p>“‘There is no better or completer anthology in the -language. I doubt indeed if there be any so good -or so complete. No objection or suggestion that can -reasonably be offered, can in any way diminish our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">22</a></span> -obligation, either to the original editor, or to his -evidently able assistant Mr. Kernahan.’</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t that please you?” he enquired.</p> - -<p>“Immeasurably,” I said.</p> - -<p>“And there is more of it,” he went on, reading -detached passages aloud. “‘The editors to their -lasting honour ... the instinctive good sense, the -manly and natural delicacy of the present editors -... this radiant and harmonious gallery of song.’ -And so on and so on.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said, “it is the so ons that I’m thinking -of. Suppose we dip into them.” Then I took the -article from his hand and read as follows: “‘If -elegance is the aim or the condition of this anthology, -how comes it to admit such an unsurpassably -horrible example as the line—I refrain from quoting -it—which refers to the “settling” of “Gibson’s -hash”?... The worst positive blemish—and a most -fearful blemish it is ... will unluckily be found, and -cannot be overlooked, on the fourth page. Sixth -on the list of selected poems, is a copy of verses -attributed to Shakespeare—of all men on earth!—by -the infamous pirate, liar, and thief, who published -a worthless little volume of stolen and mutilated -poetry, patched up and padded out with -dreary and dirty doggrel, under the preposterous -title of <cite>The Passionate Pilgrim</cite>.... Happily there is -here no second instance—but naturally there could -not have been a second—of such amazing depravity -of taste.’</p> - -<p>“In fact,” I said, “your review of the book recalls -to my mind the familiar lines by Bickerstaff, -which are to be found in this very volume:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">23</a></span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When late I attempted your pity to move<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What made you so deaf to my prayers?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But why did you kick me downstairs?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">You remember Jeffery Prowse’s lines about someone -being ‘problematically sober, but indubitably -drunk’?” I went on. “The ‘dissembling’ of -‘your love’ in the opening sentences of your article -may be ‘problematical,’ but the ‘kicking’ of us -‘downstairs,’ and out of the door later on, is as -‘indubitable’ as is the fact that the book is profoundly -honoured by being reviewed by Algernon -Charles Swinburne at all.”</p> - -<p>With that parting shot, at which he laughed -heartily, I bade him good-bye and came away, to -find on returning to my home, a letter from Mr. -Locker-Lampson which, as it has no word that can -be considered private, and deals with matters of -general literary interest, as well as with some of the -strictures by Swinburne that have been quoted -above, I venture to append:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Newhaven Court, Cromer</span>,<br /> -<span class="l2"><i>17th Oct.</i></span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I have just been reading the <cite>Forum</cite> for -October, and I think that altogether we may be -satisfied with A. C. S.’s article.</p> - -<p>I venture to think that he rather overrates -Landor and underrates Calverley.</p> - -<p>We should not have inserted ‘Youth and Art’ -[the lines by Browning referring to ‘Gibson’s hash’ -to which Mr. Swinburne took such objection] or -‘The Passionate Pilgrim’ or Croker’s ‘Miss Peel.’<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24">24</a></span> -We ought to have put in Pope’s ‘I know a -thing.’</p> - -<p>I remember talking to Tennyson about Dirce, and -he said it was too classical for English taste. I do -not think many people would care for it, but perhaps -it might be added. Stygean <em>Set</em> is not a cultivated -expression, not better than <em>lot</em>, and if Dirce -was a shade it did not matter whether Charon forgot -himself or not.</p> - -<p>I really feel much obliged to Mr. Swinburne for -whom I have sincere regard. Perhaps if you see -him you will tell him of my obligation.</p> - -<p>His article strengthens my decided opinion that -the book is a <em>very</em> difficult one to edit. All the experts -have different ideas about it. Lang, Swinburne, -Gosse, Dobson, and Palgrave are all opposed.</p> - -<p>I hope you are quite well.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Always truly,</span><br /> -F. L. L. -</p></blockquote> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>In all my conversations with Swinburne, I cannot -recall one instance of his interrupting a speaker. -He would, it is true, go off at a conversational tangent, -as when, talking of Francis Hinde Groome -and Suffolk, he interpolated apparently irrelevant -remarks upon the curious names of some Yorkshire -villages, having presumably only discovered that -morning that one of these villages bore the delightful -name of “Beggar my Neighbour.” But, though -one could see by his flashing eye that the hounds -of utterance were chafing and fretting to fling themselves -upon the quarry, he invariably waited till the -other speaker had made an end of it before letting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">25</a></span> -go the leash. To everything that Watts-Dunton -said, then or at any time, he listened almost as a -disciple might listen to a master, and again and -again he urged me to use any influence I had with -the author of <cite>Aylwin</cite> to induce him to give that then -unpublished work to the world, and to allow his -<cite>Athenæum</cite> essays to be collected and issued in book -form.</p> - -<p>“Only,” said Swinburne at a white heat of -enthusiastic admiration, “if every page, on which -they were printed, represented a hundred pound -bank-note; if the back and the sides of the cover -were of the finest beaten gold—that would not be -too costly a raiment for the noblest critical work, -dealing with first principles, that has ever been given -to the world.”</p> - -<p>That this was Swinburne’s deliberate opinion of -the value of his brother poet’s and brother friend’s -work, and was not the expression of a moment’s -enthusiasm, I have reason to know, for he used -similar expressions in my presence on many occasions. -I observe, too, that Mr. James Douglas, in -his book <cite>Theodore Watts-Dunton, Poet, Novelist, and -Critic</cite>, quotes Swinburne as describing Watts-Dunton -as “the first critic of his time, perhaps the -largest minded and surest sighted of any age”—a -judgment which, as Mr. Douglas reminds us, Rossetti -endorsed.</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton, rumpling up his hair with one -hand, tried to turn the conversation into other -channels, but Swinburne was obdurate.</p> - -<p>“You, who know Walter’s magnificent, magician-like -power of concentrating into the fourteen lines<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">26</a></span> -of a sonnet what no other poet could have said with -equal power and felicity in forty, will agree with me -when I tell you what perhaps you do not know, for -he never speaks of it himself. When he was a young -man, he lost a manuscript book of poems of which -he had no copy. By these lost poems the world -is, I believe, as poor as if Gabriel Rossetti’s early -poems had never been recovered from his wife’s -coffin. It was an incomparable loss to literature, a -loss which can never be replaced.”</p> - -<p>I did not know of these lost poems, for, intimate -as I had been with Watts-Dunton for many years, -he had never even hinted at their existence, or rather -at their non-existence. But, except to admit the -loss and to make light of it, he refused to be drawn -either by Swinburne or by myself, and turned the -conversation upon the former’s <cite>Ode to Music</cite>, -written, I think, for the opening of the Chicago -Exhibition. But of this Swinburne, in his turn, refused -to talk, averring that he had clean forgotten it—that -a task like that, once completed, he never -thought of again, and that his mind was full at the -moment of his Tennyson Threnody.</p> - -<p>On this occasion I saw yet another side of him. I -had brought with me two bunches of exquisite -flowers—arum lilies, lilies of the valley, snowdrops -and some exotics—one for Miss Teresa Watts, one -for Swinburne. A flower was to him as it had been -to Philip Marston, the one unchanging and perfect -thing in a changing and decaying world, as fair, -as fresh and as immortal as in the days of our -youth. In an ecstasy of delight, he took the flowers -from my outstretched hand as reverently as the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">27</a></span> -communicant takes into his hands the consecrated -bread of the sacrament, as tenderly as a young -mother takes into her arms her new-born child. He -bent his head over them in a rapture that was -almost like a prayer, his eyes when he looked up to -thank me for the gift alight and brimming over -with thoughts that were not far from tears. For -many minutes he sat holding them, turning them -this way and that, too rapt in his worship to speak -or to think of anything else.</p> - -<p>Then he turned to Miss Watts with his courtly -bow.</p> - -<p>“As you have been as equally honoured as -I, you will not think me robbing you if I carry my -bunch away with me to put them in water and to -place them in my own room. I want to find them -there when I wake in the morning.”</p> - -<p>He rose in his quiet way, the flowers in his hand, -bowed again to Miss Watts and myself and left the -room. In a few minutes the door reopened, but -only wide enough to let him slip through, and he -stole, rather than walked, to the chair, where he -seated himself among us again, almost as noiselessly -as a card is shuffled back to its place in the -pack.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>“Watts-Dunton writes poetry because he loves -writing it,” said Swinburne to me once. “I write -poetry, I suppose, to escape from boredom.”</p> - -<p>There is truth in the statement, but there is more -behind the statement than appears at the first -glance.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28">28</a></span> -New and incoming tides of poetry lapped at his -feet each morning, and the incoming of each new -tide of poetry was to him as fresh, pure, crystalline-sweet, -and free, as is the tide that rolls in upon the -shore each day from the vastnesses and the sweetnesses -of the central sea.</p> - -<p>Hence he gave himself up to it, plunged in it, -sported in it, with the zeal and rapture of a boy. -Had the call to think poetry, dream poetry, write -poetry, plunge himself into poetry, come to him as -part of a set task, had he been compelled, in the -mood or out of the mood, to take up poetry as an -occupation, he would have turned from it as the -sea-loving swimmer turns from a stagnant pool. It -would have been to him the “boredom” of which -he had spoken, not the “escape from boredom.”</p> - -<p>I have said that the impression I formed of him -after my first visit was that of a man who lived in a -world of his own—a world which, so far as his body -was concerned, was, with the exception of his experiences -on and by the sea, bounded, for the greater -part of his later life, by the four walls of his home, -and by the limits of his daily walk, but which, in -the imaginative and mental sense, was illimitable. -Human and normal in passion, and in every other -respect, as I believe him to have been (so far, that -is to say, as genius, which by overbalancing one -side of a man’s nature, inevitably necessitates some -underbalancing on the other, ever <em>can</em> be said to be -normal), he had seemed to me, on the occasion of -that first visit, a creature of other flesh and blood -than ours, an elusive ethereal poetic essence, rather -than a man of like passions to our own.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">29</a></span> -It had seemed to me as if the busy world, in which -other men made love and married, begot children, -bought and sold, laboured and schemed—though -it lay outside his very door—was a million miles -away from the monastic quiet of the book-lined -room in which he lived and dreamed and wrote.</p> - -<p>I do not say that it was so. All I say is that it had -seemed so to me on that first meeting, but I am not -sure that the impression I then formed was accurate.</p> - -<p>I came away feeling as if I had been in the company -of a creature living in an unreal world, whereas -now I think that, to the man whom I had left -behind in that book-lined room, life was infinitely -more real than it is to us. I had left behind me, -given over to ecstatic abandonment to the mood of -the moment, and believing intensely in the reality -and actuality of all which that mood called forth, or -created, <em>a child at play with his toys</em>, for in spite of -the magnificence and the maturity of his intellect -(may I not say <em>because</em> of the magnificence and the -maturity of his intellect?) the child lived on and was -alive to the last in Algernon Charles Swinburne as -it lives in few others.</p> - -<p>What he had meant when he spoke of writing -poetry “to escape from boredom” was that he was -a tired child turning for comfort, self-forgetfulness -and consolation to his toys; and to him (happy -man!) even his life-work, even Poetry itself, was, in -a sense, a toy. That was why to the last he turned -to it—an old man in years, though I could never -bring myself to think of him as old—with such -eager and childlike anticipation. The child heart, -which could exult and build up dreams around his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">30</a></span> -toys, remained; but his toys were changed—that -was all. That was why he so loved and was so loved -by children. They recognised him, bearded man as -he was, as one of themselves. That was why he was -so instantly at home with them, and they with him. -That, too, was why he so revelled in Mr. Kenneth -Grahame’s <cite>The Golden Age</cite>—not with the mild -reminiscent and ruminant interest and pleasure of -a staid grown-up, chewing the cud of childhood, but -with a boy of ten’s actual and intense identification -with, and abandonment of himself to the part he -was acting, and with all a boy of ten’s natural and -innate love of fun and of mischief. I have seen him -literally dance and caper and whistle (yes, whistle) -with all an eager boy’s rapture, over some new toy -treasure-trove, in the shape of a poem, by himself -or by a friend, a “find” in the shape of a picture, -a print, or a coveted first edition, picked up, during -his rambles, at a stall.</p> - -<p>“Eccentricity of genius,” you say?</p> - -<p>Not at all. It meant merely that <em>his boyhood was -as immortal as his genius, as ineradicable as his intellectual -greatness</em>.</p> - -<p>Warm as was my regard for Algernon Charles -Swinburne the man, profound as is my admiration -of him as a poet, I am not sure that to this child-side -of him must not be attributed much that was noblest -and most lovable in his noble and lovable personality, -as well as much that was loftiest and most -enduring in his work.</p> - -<p>Of him we must say, as Mr. William Watson has -so finely said of Tennyson, that he</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Is heard for ever, and is seen no more;<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<p class="in0"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31">31</a></span> -but in seeking, for the purpose of these Recollections, -to conjure the living man before me, in -striving to recall my conversations with him, and -in remembering, as I always do and shall remember, -his great-heartedness, I am reminded of what Watts-Dunton -once said to me in a letter.</p> - -<p>“You will recall,” he wrote, “what Swinburne -was remarking to you the other day, when we were -discussing the envy, hatred and malice of a certain -but very small section of the literary craft. -‘Yes,’ said Swinburne, ‘but these are the intellectually-little -writing fellows who do not matter -and who do not count. The biggest men, intellectually, -are always the biggest-natured. Great -hearts go generally with great brains.’”</p> - -<p>And I think—I am sure—that the saying is true.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32">32</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_32">LORD ROBERTS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="p1 center">“ORDERED OUT”</p> - -<p class="center bold">In Memoriam: Roberts, F.M., V.C.</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Died on Service</span>, 1914</p> - -<p class="center b0"> -“When I was ordered out——”</p> -<p class="p0 sigright"><cite>Lord Roberts, in a letter to the writer.</cite> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">33</a></span></p><div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Prouder to serve than to command was he:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“When I was ordered”—thus a soldier’s soul<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Answered, as from the ranks, the muster roll,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When came the call: “England hath need of thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At Duty’s bidding, not by Glory lured,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For peace, not war, he strove; and peace was his—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Not the base peace which more disastrous is<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than war, but peace abiding and assured.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thereafter followed long, untroubled years,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Wherein some said: “See rise the star of peace,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The morn of Arbitration. Wars must cease.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Away with sword and shield—Millennium nears!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“<em>Keep shield to breast, keep bright your sword, and drawn!</em>”<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rang out his answer. “<em>On the horizon’s rim</em><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><em>I see great armies gather, and the dim,</em><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><em>Grey mists of Armageddon’s bloody dawn!</em>”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Few heeded, many scoffed, some merry grew,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And “Dotard!” cried, because, for England’s sake<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For whom his son lay dead, he bade her wake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a great soldier spoke of what he knew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet spoke—distasteful task!—against his will;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Death he had dared, but dared not silent be—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That were to England blackest treachery—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherefore he spoke: <em>his voice is sounding still!</em><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Even the while he spoke, the while they mocked<br /></span> -<span class="i4">(With silent dignity their taunts were borne),<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Europe, that laughing rose, as ’twere at morn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At night, distraught, and in delirium rocked.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As the hung avalanche is suddenly hurled<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Down the abyss, though but a pebble stirred,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">So a crowned monster’s will, a Kaiser’s word,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Plunged into Armageddon half a world,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Chaos was again. Crashed the blue skies<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Above, as if to splinters. Was God dead?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Or deaf? or dumb? or reigned there, in His stead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only a devil in a God’s disguise?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Staggered and stunned, our England backward reeled<br /></span> -<span class="i4">A moment. Then, magnificent, erect,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Flashed forth her sword, her ally to protect,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over prostrate Belgium cast her shield.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Above the babel of voices, mists of doubt,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rang forth his stern “To arms!” England to nerve;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Too old to fight, but not too old to serve,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Again he hears the call—is “ordered out.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Roberts!” the voice was Duty’s, arm’d and helm’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“To France! where India, greatly loyal, lands<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Her stalwarts, and the bestial horde withstands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That raped and ravaged, burned and overwhelmed<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Heroic Belgium. Roberts, ’gainst the foe<br /></span> -<span class="i4">No voice like thine can the swart Indians fire<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To valour, and to loyalty inspire;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roberts! to France!” Came answer calm: “I go.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nor once reproached: “I warned. You gave no heed,”<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Nor pleaded fourscore years—“Ah, that I could!”<br /></span> -<span class="i4">He who had England saved, an England would,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only of England thought, in England’s need.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then, where, on high, God captains legions bright<br /></span> -<span class="i4">(On earth is Armageddon, and in hell—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">May it not be?—Satan leads forth his fell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fallen hosts, the heavens to storm and smite?)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yea, from on high, from heaven’s supreme redoubt,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Came the last call of all, far-sounding, clear;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">God spoke his name; he answered: “I am here.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood to salute; again was “ordered out.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From Camp to Camp he passed—beyond the sun’s<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Red track, to where the immortal armies are,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Honoured of God, Hero of peace and war,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Amid the thunder-requiem of the guns.<br /></span> -</div> -<div class="attrib l2">C. K. -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">It</span> was a score or more years ago, and at the -Old Vagabond Club (now merged into the -Playgoers) that I first met Lord Roberts. -When he became the President of the Club, we -celebrated the event by a dinner at which he was -the guest of honour and Jerome K. Jerome was -the Chairman. As one of the original members -of the Club and as a member of the Executive -Committee, I was introduced to the great soldier. -All I expected was a bow, a handshake, and a -“How-do-you-do,” but Lord Roberts was as good -as to be more gracious and cordial than any great -soldier, even if an Irishman, ever was before—so at -least it seemed to me—to a scribbler of sorts, whom -he was meeting for the first time. He was, in fact, -so very kind that I was emboldened to ask a favour. -Among the guests was a young officer in what was -then the Artillery Volunteers. I knew it would -immensely gratify him to meet the Field-Marshal, -so towards the close of the conversation I ventured -to say:</p> - -<p>“It has been a very great honour and pleasure<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">35</a></span> -Lord Roberts, to me to meet you and to have -this talk. I wonder whether you’ll think me trespassing -on your kindness if I ask to be allowed -to present an acquaintance of mine? He is a -Volunteer Officer, a junior subaltern in the Artillery, -and to meet you would, I am sure, be a red-letter -day in his life. Would you allow me to present -him?”</p> - -<p>“Why of course. I shall be delighted. Bring -him along by all means,” was the reply.</p> - -<p>The young man was accordingly presented. -The reader will hardly believe me when I say -that this Volunteer Subaltern of Artillery thought -well to instruct the Master Gunner in the science -of gunnery, and in fact to tell the Field-Marshal -what in his, the Volunteer Subaltern’s, opinion was -wrong with the British Army.</p> - -<p>Had Lord Roberts replied civilly but curtly, -as some in his place would have done: “You think -so, do you? Oh indeed! Very interesting, I’m sure. -Good evening,” and walked away, one could -hardly have wondered. But no, he heard the other -out with perfect courtesy, if with resignation, and -in his own mind, no doubt, with amusement.</p> - -<p>I reminded Lord Roberts of the incident when I -came to know him better, and he replied with a -laugh:</p> - -<p>“I recall the matter perfectly, for I like to -think I have a retentive memory. Of course I was, -as you say, amused at the young man’s assurance -and confidence in his own military knowledge. -Many very young men are prone either to too great -diffidence or to too great assurance. I think, on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36">36</a></span> -the whole, I incline to envy the young man with -plenty of assurance, especially as I was disposed to -be diffident myself at his age, as many of us Irishmen, -for all our seeming confidence, are. But in any case -I owed it to you, who had introduced him, as well as -to myself, to treat him outwardly at least with -courtesy and consideration.”</p> - -<p>That was Lord Roberts’ charming and kind way -of putting it; but to me, a young man myself when -the incident happened, it was a lesson in fine breeding -and in fine manners on the part of a great -soldier and great gentleman.</p> - -<p>I heard afterwards that the Volunteer Subaltern -of Artillery, in speaking at a Distribution of Prizes -to members of his corps, the very evening following -upon his one and only meeting with the Field-Marshal, -made frequent use of such phrases as -“When I was talking to Lord Roberts about the -matter,” “What I told Lord Roberts ought to be -done,” and so on, no doubt to his own satisfaction and -possibly with the result that the members of the -audience were for the first time made to realise what -a very important figure he was in the military world. -Later on, however, some one who knew the facts -wrote to him suggesting that the book for which the -world was literally panting was a work from his -pen entitled <cite>My Recollections of Lord Roberts</cite>, and -when the Boer War broke out, a telegram, purporting -to come from Lord Roberts, urging the -Volunteer Artilleryman to take supreme command -in South Africa, was dispatched to him by a playful -friend. I have no doubt the young man, who will -now be getting elderly, would be the first to laugh<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">37</a></span> -at his own youthful self-confidence, and that if this -paper should by any chance meet his eye, he will -pardon me for thus, and for the first time, telling -the tale in print.</p> - -<p>Here is an instance of Lord Roberts’ kindness to -and interest in younger men. A Territorial Captain—his -brother, an officer in the Regular Army, told -me the story—was taking part in a Field Day -with his battalion in Berkshire. His instructions -were that he was to hold a certain line of country -at all costs. It so happened that the attack developed -in a direction which made it necessary for him -hurriedly to advance his men to a flank and away -from his reserves, whom he had posted where they -were under cover and out of sight of the enemy. -The young officer (he was a junior subaltern recently -joined) in command of the reserves evidently had -very mistaken ideas in regard to discipline. His -idea appeared to be that discipline consists in -staying where you were originally told to stay, -like the “boy on the burning deck” in the poem -of <cite>Casabianca</cite>, until receiving orders to another -effect. Needless to say, the very reverse is true. -Soldiers to-day are taught clearly to observe events -and to act on their own initiative should unexpected -developments arise. Seeing that the tide of war -was drifting the Firing Line and its supports away -from the reserves, the duty of the officer commanding -the reserves was, not to remain stodgily where -he had originally been placed (to do that would be less -obedience to discipline than a breach of discipline), -but while keeping the reserves directly in signalling -communication with the Firing Line, as well as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">38</a></span> -under cover and out of sight of the enemy, so to -alter his own dispositions as to be ready to reinforce -and to reinforce quickly when called upon to do so.</p> - -<p>This, however, he failed to do, and when his -superior officer, finding himself hard pressed, -signalled for the reserves, there was no reply.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately there was neither a galloper nor -a cyclist at hand to carry a message. “If I don’t -get my reserves here in half an hour,” he said, “I -shall lose the position, and the loss of this position -may mean, probably will mean, victory for the -enemy all along the line. It shan’t be so if I can -help it. Now what can I do?”</p> - -<p>Hurriedly but keenly he scanned the rolling -Berkshire down around him. Towards the north, -on the whity-brown high road that curved outward -in a huge half-circle from the point where he was -standing, he saw a cloud of dust. “A motor! -and coming this way!” he exclaimed. “Follow -me, Brown.” (This to a non-commissioned officer.) -Stooping low, so as not to offer a target to the -enemy, he sprinted northwards in a line which -intersected the high road, at the nearest point which -the oncoming car must pass.</p> - -<p>The motor was almost on him as he reached the -road, and leaping into the centre held up his hand. -“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to the occupant, -“but I’m in command of troops holding this position. -We’re attacked in force, and my reserves are some -distance away along the road in the direction you -have come, near a copse. I’ve signalled for reinforcements, -but they have not kept up their communications. -I have neither a galloper nor a cyclist.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">39</a></span> -If I get my reinforcements here in half an hour, I -can hold the position. If I don’t, I lose it, and -losing it means everything to the enemy. I wonder -whether you’d be so very good as to lend me -your car for a few minutes to carry a message!” -“With the greatest pleasure,” said the occupant. -Turning to the chauffeur he said, “You are entirely -at this officer’s disposal. I shall walk on, and you -can pick me up when he has done with you.” -As he spoke he got out of the car, and as he lifted -his cap, in response to the young officer’s salute -and hasty word of thanks, the latter recognised -Field-Marshal Lord Roberts.</p> - -<p>A day or two later, the great soldier was celebrating -his eightieth birthday, and received a letter from -the officer in question. It was to remind Lord -Roberts of the incident, to apologise for the liberty -the young officer had taken in stopping the car, to -thank him warmly for his kindness, and to mention -that the reserves had been brought up at the -double and in time to save the position. The officer -concluded by asking to be allowed to congratulate -the Field-Marshal on attaining his eightieth year -and to express the hope that the great soldier might -be spared to celebrate many similar anniversaries.</p> - -<p>A reply came almost by return of post.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Captain</span> ——,</p> - -<p class="let">Many thanks for your letter and kind -congratulations on my 80th birthday. I was -delighted to be of assistance, and am even more -delighted to learn the successful result of that -assistance. You did the right and only thing in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">40</a></span> -stopping my car. If ever you are this way and disengaged, -I hope you will call and give me the pleasure -of making the further acquaintance of so good and -resourceful a soldier.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours truly,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Roberts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>After my first meeting with Lord Roberts at the -Vagabond Club, I saw no more of him—except for -a mere handshake and “How-do-you-do?” at -a military function—for many years. Then I -chanced, in April, 1910, to contribute to the <cite>London -Quarterly Review</cite> an article on National Defence. -It was addressed specially to Nonconformists, one -of the opening paragraphs being as follows:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>I do not for a moment believe that Nonconformists -are one whit less patriotic than any other -great religious body, but I fear there is some misconception -on their part—due no doubt to the -intolerance and the exaggeration of some of us who -champion the cause of National Defence—in regard -to our aims and our purposes. It is in the hope of -removing some of these misconceptions that I pen -the present paper.</p></blockquote> - -<p>The article I did <em>not</em> send to Lord Roberts, nor -did I draw the attention of anyone connected with -the National Service League of which he was -President to it. I did nothing directly or indirectly -to bring it under anyone’s notice. Yet a few days -after the <em>Review</em> appeared, I received the following -letter from him. The Rev. R. Allen of whom he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">41</a></span> -speaks, I may say, was, and still is, an entire stranger -to me, and I to him:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Englemere, Ascot, Berks</span>,<br /> -<span class="l2"><i>April 4, 1910</i>.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">The Rev. R. Allen, a friend of many years’ -standing, has been good enough to send me a copy -of the <cite>London Quarterly Review</cite> for this month, -and to draw my attention to the first article, written -by you on “How to Defend England.”</p> - -<p>I am <em>delighted</em> with the article itself, and with the -very clear and convincing way in which you have -put forward the advantages of military training and -discipline for all our able-bodied young men as -affecting not only the position of Great Britain as a -World Power, but the individual moral and physical -improvement of the men of the nation.</p> - -<p>But I am still more delighted that such an article -should be allowed to appear in a Journal published -from the Wesleyan Book Room. I am quite at one -with you in believing that Nonconformists are not -one whit less patriotic than any other great religious -body, but that there is some misconception on their -part in regard to the aim and purpose of those who -advocate universal military training for Home -Defence.</p> - -<p>My hope is that such misconception may be removed -and that every Briton, whatever his position -and whatever his sect, will realise the necessity for -taking the defence of his country seriously.</p> - -<p>Such articles as yours will do much to effect this, -and to open the eyes of those who are now blind to -England’s needs and England’s dangers before it is -too late.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Yours truly,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Roberts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42">42</a></span> -Other men as greatly concerned in great matters -as Lord Roberts was cannot always spare time -to acknowledge and to show appreciation of work -for a good cause, which is brought directly to their -notice. Lord Roberts could find time, or perhaps -I should say made time to write graciously about -work the doer or the author of which had done -nothing to bring that work under the Field-Marshal’s -eye.</p> - -<p>Thenceforward, no work of mine in the cause for -National Defence was allowed to pass unrecognised, -once it came under the notice of Lord Roberts—and -not very much happened of which in some way -or another he did not come to hear.</p> - -<p>He followed the doings even of the rank and file -under his command, and, like the great leader of men -that he was, he thought none of them too humble -to be honoured and heartened before going into -battle, by a message from himself.</p> - -<p>For instance, I was asked to give an address on -National Defence to a great gathering of men—some -1500 or more as it turned out—at an Assault-at-Arms -in the Kursaal at Worthing. Naturally I -never trespassed upon such a busy man’s time by -writing to him, unless in answer to a letter from -himself, or unless I had something important of -which to speak. So as I had not heard from Lord -Roberts for some time, and had had no cause to -write to him, I did not suppose he as much as -knew of the Worthing meeting. Yet in opening -the proceedings, the Mayor announced that he had -just received a telegram from Lord Roberts to the -effect that he was delighted I was to be the speaker<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">43</a></span> -that night, and warmly commending what I had to -say to the attention of the audience.</p> - -<p>Such a message and from such a quarter, did more -to assure me—an entire stranger to my audience—a -welcome and a friendly hearing than I could otherwise -have hoped to receive.</p> - -<p>One “Lost Chord” in the way of an unread -message from Lord Roberts I often regret.</p> - -<p>In the company of Mr. Neville P. Edwards, then -an organising secretary of the National Service -League, I went as an Honorary Helper of the League -on three caravan tours in Kent and Sussex.</p> - -<p>The last tour closed only a week or two before the -outbreak of war, and Lord Roberts, who followed -our progress with the keenest interest, sent us on -several occasions by letter or by telegram a special -message to deliver in his name to our audiences. -These messages directly warned his fellow-countrymen -of the imminence of war and of the necessity -for preparation. Remembering that in the towns -we often had an audience of one or two thousand, -and even in the villages, of some hundreds, there -must be many persons who now recall the -weightiness and the gravity of the great soldier’s -words. And I venture to add that no one whose -privilege it was to hear them is likely ever to -forget the equally grave, eloquent, and memorable -words which fell from the lips of Mr. Rudyard -Kipling—who by his single pen has done more to -awaken the young manhood of the nation to -England’s needs than any other writer living or -dead—when he presided over one of our meetings. -It seemed to me one of the ironies of fate that in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">44</a></span> -very caravan from which Lord Roberts’ message -and Mr. Kipling’s words—both urgent warnings of -imminent war—had been delivered, I should a few -weeks later set forth as an Honorary Recruiting -Officer in search of men to fight in the very war -which Lord Roberts and Mr. Kipling had so faithfully -foretold.</p> - -<p>Before taking the chair and introducing Mr. -Edwards and myself to our audience, Mr. Kipling -said to me:</p> - -<p>“I have just had a telegram from the Chief. -He sent his thanks to me for presiding at the -meeting, and asks that I convey his thanks to -Edwards and to you. It is a very interesting and -characteristic message, and I will read it when -making my closing remarks to the meeting at the -end.”</p> - -<p>It so happened that the latter part of the -meeting was a Lantern Slide Lecture by Mr. -Edwards. His last slide was a portrait of the King, -seeing which some one started “God Save the -King,” and the audience, taking this as ending the -meeting, broke up, and so we lost not only Lord -Roberts’ telegram, but Mr. Kipling’s equally -coveted closing words.</p> - -<p>In nothing that I attempted for the cause that -was so near to his heart, was Lord Roberts more -keenly interested than in a controversy in the spring -and summer of 1914 between an opponent of -National Service, a very distinguished divine and -scholar, and myself. My opponent’s article was -headed, “Why we cannot accept conscription,” -and mine “Why we support Lord Roberts.” To<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">45</a></span> -a reprint of the controversy in booklet form, published -immediately after the outbreak of war, the -Rev. John Telford, B.A., contributed an Editorial -Foreword, in which he said:</p> - -<p>“This discussion of the question of national armaments -aroused extraordinary interest among a very -wide circle of readers, as it appeared in <cite>The Magazine -of the Wesleyan Methodist Church</cite> in March, April, May -and June of this year. It also led to much correspondence -in other journals. No one then dreamed -of the terrible significance which events were to -attach to the subject.... Here are Mr. Kernahan’s -words, printed last March, before any shadow had -fallen across the sun. He says: ‘I have studied -the question at home and abroad with as much closeness -as was possible, and the more closely I study -it the more convinced I am that we are well within -the possibility of one of the most awful disasters -that ever befell a great nation.’ In the light of to-day -that is a remarkably verified warning.”</p> - -<p>This controversy, on account of the importance -attached to the issues involved, Lord Roberts -followed with exceptional interest. One passage of -arms between my opponent and myself I may be -permitted to quote, since it centres around Lord -Roberts himself.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Kernahan proves,” my critic wrote, -“that his special hero, Lord Roberts, is a truly -Christian man. I would not question it for a -moment. And yet—so terrible a power has familiarity -with war to blind men’s eyes to its satanic -wickedness—it was Lord Roberts who uttered in -our Free Trade Hall at Manchester the cynical<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">46</a></span> -sentence about Germany’s right to strike when her -hour came, which shocked even convinced conscriptionists -on his platform. I wonder whether -Lord Roberts approved of the way Germany struck -when her hour came in 1870! Strange indeed to -hear a Christian man echoing the very sentiments -of Bismarck, who was so proud of the cunning lie -by which he tricked France into a disastrous war!”</p> - -<p>My reply I venture to quote, since Lord Roberts -was so good as to say it exactly interpreted his -views and his position.</p> - -<p>“Lord Roberts,” I wrote, “claimed no such -‘right’ for any nation wantonly and wickedly to -force war upon another. He pointed out that when -one nation has decided, for reasons of her own -(possibly because she is ambitious and determined -to play a great part in history), to force a war upon -another nation, which possibly may decide to resist, -if only because she is determined to hold to her own—the -policy is that adopted by Germany. That -policy—as a student of history as well as a soldier, -Lord Roberts had to admit that it is often a winning -policy—is to strike at what has been called the -selected moment, or in other words, when she -(Germany) is at her strongest, and the nation which -she wishes to overthrow is weak. It was because -Lord Roberts knew that this was and is Germany’s -policy, and because he wellnigh despairs sometimes -at the criminal apathy of his fellow-countrymen, and -because he knows the consequences which must -almost inevitably follow, that he felt compelled, -under a terrible sense of responsibility, to speak out -thus plainly. Had he, knowing what he does of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">47</a></span> -Germany’s ambitions, intentions, and strength, and -of England’s ignorance, weakness, and unpreparedness, -elected to maintain a cowardly and traitorous -silence—then, and not till then, would he be guilty -of the ‘cynical’ and ‘satanic’ wickedness of which -my opponent speaks.... For the latter cannot -deny that Germany has not gone back in her ambition -or in her strength since 1870. On the contrary, -she has gone on, not only in piling up an army -which, as Mr. Churchill warned the nation, is now -four and a half millions in number, but also in the -most strenuous effort to create a vast Navy, which -she has said must be, shall be, greater than ours. -With her huge army she needs no Navy for defence. -It is, as has been said, a ‘luxury’ and is meant for -attack, whereas to us a Navy is a matter of life and -death. And my opponent knows that we have twice -held out the hand of friendship to Germany with -proposals to stay this insane race in armaments, -and that her reply was more battleships, more -soldiers, more guns.”</p> - -<p>I do not print this passage here to reopen -an old controversy, but because—though the -details of Lord Roberts’ proposals will, in the light -of recent events, require considerable modification—the -main issues raised by him abide and must be -reaffirmed. Here in England we have short memories. -It is possible that in the bewildering happenings -of the war and in the breathless interest with -which, at its end, the shifting of frontiers and the -striking of great balances will be watched, there -is the danger, if only from reaction, that we slackly -fall back into our previous national inertia and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">48</a></span> -national apathy, and that the little puddles of party -politics (dirty puddles for the most part) once again -matter more to us than to hold sacred and inviolate -the great Empire and these world-trusts which God -has seen well to commit to Britain’s charge.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>I have heard many noble tributes paid to Lord -Roberts, but I remember none which touched him -more than that of Sir William Robertson Nicoll at -the Whitefriars’ Club. Lord Roberts was the club -guest, that brilliant author and journalist Mr. John -Foster Fraser being Chairman. I had the honour -of being in the Vice-Chair.</p> - -<p>The toast of Lord Roberts’ health was seconded -by Sir William Robertson Nicoll, who was meeting -the Field-Marshal for the first time. The Whitefriars’ -dinner to Lord Roberts was merely a compliment -to a great soldier. Not all of those present -would have shared the views he entertained upon -the question of National Service, and controversial -issues were carefully excluded. Speaking, therefore, -of Lord Roberts as a soldier, as a writer, and as a -man, Sir William Robertson Nicoll, in one of the -most graceful and generous tributes to which I have -ever listened, assured him that by no class was our -guest held in greater honour and affection than by -the Nonconformists of this country and of every -denomination. Lord Roberts knew that many -Nonconformists differed from him in politics and -upon the question of National Service, of which he -was the acknowledged champion, and Sir William’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">49</a></span> -tribute so gracefully phrased, so obviously sincere -in its expression of personal reverence and affection, -touched and gratified him deeply.</p> - -<p>That he felt a little sore, in regard to the misunderstanding -of his views by some Nonconformists, is -clear, I think, from a letter to me which lies before -me as I write.</p> - -<p>I happen to be a Churchman myself, but for the -last eight or nine years before the war I devoted no -inconsiderable portion of my time in trying to put -the case for National Defence, as advocated by the -Field-Marshal, before my many friends in the Nonconformist -Churches, and I am glad and grateful to -remember that, while not sharing my views, the -editors of the great Nonconformist and Free Church -organs gave me for the most part—there were exceptions—full -opportunity to “state a case.” In April, -1913, a prominent Free Churchman of Hastings -asked me to speak at the Brotherhood meeting in -that town. I told him frankly that I dislike public -speaking, but would do so if I were permitted to -speak upon the subject of National Defence. My -friend demurred, but it was finally arranged that I -should first give a reading from a tiny booklet of my -own, and after that I should speak for twenty -minutes on the subject that lay so near my heart.</p> - -<p>As this was the first occasion upon which an -address upon National Defence was to be given at -a Brotherhood meeting, Lord Roberts took deep -interest in the matter. He was, indeed, so anxious -to remove any misunderstanding which existed that -he sent me a special message to deliver in his name -to my audience. The message was in the form of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">50</a></span> -letter to myself, and as it puts his views very -plainly, I print it here in full.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Englemere, Ascot,<br /> -<span class="l1">Berks, 12.4.13.</span></span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I am very glad to learn that when asked to -speak at the Brotherhood Meeting which is to take -place in your own town on Sunday the 20th instant, -you refused to do so unless you were allowed to deal -with the question of National Service.</p> - -<p>I know that there are many very well-meaning -people who think that all military training is an -abomination, and who are convinced that the life -of youth in barracks is a continued round of vice -and immorality of all kinds. I am prepared to admit -that this certainly was true 200 years ago, and -possibly it was true even at the beginning of the last -century. During Marlborough’s wars we know from -history that the ranks of the Regular Army were -filled up by taking broken men of all kinds, and -forcing them into the service.</p> - -<p>Any man who was really on his last legs—broken -debtors, tramps and vagabonds, condemned felons—these -and such as these were forced into the -ranks. Can it be wondered if the Army got a bad -name? and, as we know, there is nothing so hard -to live down as a really evil reputation. But all -this is changed and has been changed for some -years. Have we not heard that the Chief Constable -of the county of Cambridge announced, after the -Army manœuvres, that although 45,000 men had -been turned loose in the area for which he was responsible, -yet not a single accusation for wrongdoing -had been brought against any of these -soldiers? Have not the papers just recently told<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">51</a></span> -us that 10,000 men taken at random from the -garrison at Aldershot have been billeted upon the -inhabitants in the Hartley district, that these men -were willingly received by the people of the district -in their houses, and that again, in this instance, -there has not been one complaint of misconduct? -I must confess that I am pained, as well as surprised, -when I find that those who profess, and profess very -loudly, that they are followers of Christ, should still -look upon the defenders of their country with such -unchristian suspicion and dislike.</p> - -<p>I should like you to read out to the meeting the -following extract which occurs in an article on -“Germany and the Germans,” by Mr. Price Collier. -It can be found in the current issue of <cite>Scribner’s -Magazine</cite>: “Military training makes youths better -and stronger citizens and produces that self-respect, -self-control and cosmopolitan sympathy which more -than aught else lessen the chances of conflict. I can -vouch for it that there are fewer personal jealousies, -bickerings, quarrels, in the mess room or below -decks of a warship, or in a soldiers’ camp, than in -many Church and Sunday School assemblies, in -many club smoking-rooms, in many ladies’ sewing -and reading circles. Nothing does away more surely -with quarrelsomeness than the training of men to -get on together comfortably. Each giving way a -little in the narrow lanes of life, so that each may -pass without moral shoving. There are no such -successful schools for the teaching of this fundamental -diplomacy as the sister-services: the Army -and the Navy.”</p> - -<p>Here is another extract [Lord Roberts then goes -on himself] from a New Zealand paper which was -forwarded to me by a friend in that Dominion: -“The Rev. W. Ready, the well-known Methodist<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52">52</a></span> -Minister, took up a strong stand on the subject of -military training at a meeting of the Society of -Friends held in Auckland last week. Mr. Ready, -who was present by invitation, was taken to task -for some remarks he had made on the subject at the -recent Methodist Conference. He thereupon explained -to the meeting his attitude at the Conference. -There was a time, he had told the Conference, when -he held the opinion that camps were very immoral, -and not places to which youths should be sent; but -since he had had his sons attending camp as Territorials, -he had been converted into believing that -these camps were moral and were well-regulated. -Every instinct of his moral nature went against -compulsory training, but he had his sons in the -Territorials. At this point there were cries of -‘Shame’ from the assembled members of the -Society of Friends, but Mr. Ready stuck to his guns -and declared that he was not going to advise his -boys to break the law, merely because he objected -on principle to military training. The Defence Act -was now the law of the land, and he would no more -advocate his sons breaking the law than he would -support the English Suffragettes in their militant -tactics. This is both sound ethics and common -sense, and Mr. Ready has done the community a -service in emphasising the duty of every man to -obey the law. The change in his opinions on the -subject of camps is interesting and gratifying, and -should be noted by those who profess to be so concerned -about their evil influences.”</p> - -<p>I sincerely hope that your discourse at the -Brotherhood Meeting will help to dissipate the -suspicions against military life and all connected -with it.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours very truly,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Roberts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">53</a></span> -Lord Roberts made some appreciative remarks -about my own work in the cause of National -Defence. These I took the liberty of omitting when -reading his letter at the Brotherhood Meeting, and -I venture to follow a similar course in transcribing -it here. Otherwise this very interesting letter -is given exactly as he wrote it.</p> - -<p>That the great soldier should, in his eighty-first -year, have been at the pains to write so -lengthy a letter for one of the rank and file, merely, -of his supporters to read at a meeting held in a -Nonconformist Church, bears witness not only to -Lord Roberts’ unwearying energies, but also to his -earnest desire, one might even say his anxiety, -that the case for National Defence should be fully -and fairly put before his fellow Britons of the Free -Churches. Had he lived to see the magnificent -response made by every denomination of the Free -Churches—not even excepting some members of -the Society of Friends—in sending the flower of its -young manhood to the heroic task of subduing -the monster of Prussian militarism, it would have -added gladness and thankfulness to his “Nunc -Dimittis,” when within sound of the guns the hero-soul -of the great soldier, patriot and Christian, -passed into the presence of his God.</p> - -<p>Here I may perhaps be allowed to say a word -about a prayer which has often been attributed to -Lord Roberts, and was in fact, soon after his death, -printed by a leading religious journal as “composed -by the late Lord Roberts and presented by him -to the soldiers serving under his command in the -South African war.” The same prayer has repeatedly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">54</a></span> -been attributed to Lord Roberts in magazines, books -and newspapers; and, as the correspondence which -I have permission to quote will show, I shall be -following Lord Roberts’ own wishes in doing what -I can, once and for all, to set the matter right.</p> - -<p>Here is the prayer as given in the religious -journal of which I have spoken:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Almighty Father, I have often sinned against -Thee. Oh, wash me in the precious blood of the -Lamb of God. Fill me with Thy Holy Spirit, that -I may lead a new life. Spare me to see again those -whom I love at home, or fit me for Thy presence in -peace. Strengthen us to quit ourselves like men in -our right and just cause. Keep us faithful unto -death, calm in danger, patient in suffering, merciful -as well as brave; true to our Queen, our country, -and colours. If it be Thy will, enable us to win -victory for England; but, above all, grant us a -better victory over temptation and sin, over life -and death, that we may be more than conquerors, -through Him who loved us and laid down His life -for us, Jesus our Saviour, the Captain of the Army -of God. Amen.</p></blockquote> - -<p>The first appearance of the prayer as by Lord -Roberts was, I believe, in a volume published some -years ago at Kansas City, U.S.A., and edited by -Dr. Stephen Abbott Northrop. It was entitled -<cite>A Cloud of Witnesses</cite>, and I had from the first -my suspicions about the prayer’s authenticity, -for, though I never think or thought of Lord -Roberts as other than a deeply religious man, I -found it difficult to think of him as one who elected -to write prayers for publication. Mentioning the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">55</a></span> -matter to Lord Roberts himself one day, I found -him very much mystified by what he heard. “I -have not the slightest recollection of ever writing -a prayer,” he protested, and, later on, when writing -on another matter, he recurred to the subject, -asking me if I could send him a copy of the prayer. -I did so, and received the following letter:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Almond’s Hotel, Clifford Street,<br /> -<span class="l1">London, W.</span></span> -</p> - -<p>(The only undated letter I ever remember receiving -from Lord Roberts.)</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I am afraid I cannot claim the honour of -writing the beautiful prayer you found in the -<cite>Cloud of Witnesses</cite>—at least I think that is the -name of the book you mentioned—but I am away -from home and have not got your letter by me.</p> - -<p>I thought it might have been the prayer General -Colley wrote before “Majuba,” but it is not.</p> - -<p>I should like to find out where the author of the -book got the prayer, and why he gave me as the -writer of it.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours very truly,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Roberts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>My reply was to send Lord Roberts the book to -see for himself. He returned it, carefully packed -and addressed in his own handwriting, with the -letter which I here transcribe:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Almond’s Hotel, Clifford Street,<br /> -<span class="l2">London, W., 1.2.14.</span></span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I return <cite>A Cloud of Witnesses</cite> with many -thanks.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">56</a></span> -It is very curious about the prayer. I have no -recollection of writing it, and I am wondering how -Dr. Abbott Northrop got hold of it. What a fine -collection of sentiments and opinions he has got -together!</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Roberts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>There, so far as I was concerned, the matter -dropped, but when next I saw Lord Roberts he again -expressed his curiosity in regard to the mystery by -which the prayer was attributed to him, and his -desire to unravel it, asking me if I heard any more -of it to let him know.</p> - -<p>That I was of some service to him in the matter -was due more to chance than to any mystery-unravelling -merit of my own.</p> - -<p>A friend who is interested in religious work among -soldiers lent me a little book, with the request that -I would look into it and return it at my leisure. -I opened the volume somewhat indifferently, and -the first thing to catch my eye was the very prayer -which Lord Roberts and I had been discussing. The -book stated that it had been written by the late -Archbishop Alexander for the use of the troops in -South Africa, and so exactly expressed the faith and -feelings of Lord Roberts that he had it printed at -his own cost and sent it to his various officers, -asking them to distribute it to all ranks under their -command.</p> - -<p>That the prayer was ultimately attributed to the -Field-Marshal instead of to the Archbishop I -diagnose thus: Even though “Tommy” was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">57</a></span> -specifically informed that it was composed by -Archbishop Alexander—to “Tommy” that information -meant little or nothing. But to “Tommy” -the fact that it had been specially sent to him by -his beloved “Bobs” would mean everything; and -so, no doubt, it became known as “Lord Roberts’ -prayer,” and as “Lord Roberts’ prayer” it came -to the knowledge of the editor of <cite>A Cloud of Witnesses</cite>, -and was printed in good faith by him over -the Field-Marshal’s signature in that book, whence -it was reproduced, equally in good faith, in other -prints.</p> - -<p>But to recur to the little book in which I found -the prayer attributed, and rightly, to the Archbishop. -With the owner’s permission I sent it to -Lord Roberts to see for himself how, in my opinion—and -he entirely agreed with me—the mistake -originally arose. His reply has a characteristic -touch, for though he went out to South Africa -to take supreme command, his soldier-like way of -putting it is “When I was ordered out.” Nor is -the reference to failing memory without pathos to -those whose smallest service to the cause he had -so at heart—National Defence—was never forgotten -by one of the greatest-hearted and most generous -of men and of chiefs.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Almond’s Hotel, Clifford Street,</span><br /> -<span class="l1"><span class="smcap">London, W.</span>, <i>15th Feb., 1914</i>.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I cannot think how I could have forgotten -about the prayer, for I myself asked the Primate to -write it. I knew him well, and I was greatly struck<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">58</a></span> -by the few verses he wrote about “War” shortly -after the trouble in South Africa had commenced.</p> - -<p>When I was ordered out I wrote to the Primate -and asked him to write out a short prayer. I had -some thousand copies printed and distributed.</p> - -<p>I am so glad you discovered who the author was, -although your doing so proves and makes me sad -to think that my memory is not so good as I thought -it was.</p> - -<p>I am returning your little book. I wish I could -have kept it.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Roberts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>My next meeting with Lord Roberts was twelve -days later, and was at No. 10 Downing Street, Mr. -Asquith’s official residence. Lord Roberts said, -among other things, in the talk we had together on -that occasion that he was very much indebted to me -for the promptness with which I had unravelled the -mystery about himself and the Archbishop, and -went on gravely:</p> - -<p>“I very much dislike having attributed to me -a prayer which I did not write. It is not, as -you know, that I do not believe in prayer. I -have humbly asked God’s help and guidance -in everything that I undertook all through my -life, and never more so than now, when I am an old -man, and His call may be very near. But——” he -hesitated a moment, “offering up a brief prayer—it -may only be the words ‘God help me!’—before -going into action, or in some time of difficulty, -is one thing; and sitting down to write, to print -and publish a prayer for others is quite another<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59">59</a></span> -thing—for a soldier, at least. That was why I asked -my friend the Archbishop to compose the prayer. -It was for him, God’s minister, a clergyman, not -for me, a soldier, to do it.”</p> - -<p>Lord Roberts then asked me to advise him how -best to prevent a recurrence of the error by which -the prayer was attributed to him. I replied that -if he wished I would on his behalf write to the editor -of <cite>A Cloud of Witnesses</cite> pointing out the mistake, -and suggesting that an erratum slip, making the -correction, be inserted in all copies of the book -already printed, and that the Archbishop’s name -replace that of Lord Roberts in any future edition.</p> - -<p>“I shall be so much obliged if you will,” he said -gratefully. “May I leave it to you, and will you -let me know when you hear from him?”</p> - -<p>I promised to do so, and carried the promise into -effect, sending Lord Roberts, when I received it, -the editor’s reply, in which, after expressing regret -for the error, he undertook to do what was proposed. -That Lord Roberts felt strongly about the matter, -and was most anxious that the correction should -be made, will be seen by the following letter which -I received the morning after I had seen him at -Downing Street:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Englemere, Ascot, Berks</span>,<br /> -<span class="l2"><i>28th Feb., 1914</i>.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">Thanks for your letter of the 21st instant and -for sending me the little book, which I wish I could -have kept. Would it be possible to communicate -with the author of the book you sent me in which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60">60</a></span> -the prayer of the Primate of Ireland appeared under -my name? I should like to have this corrected, as -it is quite wrong that I should have the credit of -being the author of such a beautiful prayer when I -was only the indirect means of it being written.</p> - -<p>(Thus far Lord Roberts’ letter was typed. Then -in his own strong, clear, firm hand the letter concluded -as follows): This letter was dictated before -I met you yesterday. I only send it as a reminder.</p></blockquote> - -<p>I may just add in conclusion that “the little -book” which he twice, almost wistfully, said he -wished he could have kept (if I remember rightly -it told, among other things, of his son’s death -in South Africa) was by the courtesy of the friend -from whom I had borrowed it, reforwarded to Lord -Roberts, and was by him gratefully and gladly -acknowledged.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Even as an old man—though none of us who -knew and loved him could ever bring ourselves to -think of Lord Roberts as old—his energy was amazing, -and the amount of work he got through was -stupendous. His mere correspondence alone would -have kept any other man going all day and with no -moment to spare for the many great issues with -which his name was connected. He accomplished -so much because he practised in his own life the -organisation, if not indeed the National Service which -he preached to the nation—the organisation which, -as he foresaw, would be so tremendous a driving -power behind Germany when the time came for her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">61</a></span> -to force a war upon this country, the war which -he even more clearly foresaw.</p> - -<p>As an instance of how Lord Roberts systematised -his days, I may mention that a friend of mine and -his, recently returned from Bulgaria, wished to see -him to put certain military facts before him, -and also, if I remember rightly, to present him -with some interesting trophies of the war which he -knew the Field-Marshal would prize. He wrote -accordingly and asked for an appointment. Lord -Roberts replied by return of post, from Almond’s -Hotel, Clifford Street, W., to say that he was then -in town but was returning to Ascot the following -day. “If it will be saving you a railway journey—and -I know what a busy man you are,” he wrote, -“to see me here at the Hotel, instead of at Ascot, -by all means let it be so. But I am afraid, if not too -early for you, it must be at 8.30 in the morning, as -the rest of my day is already mapped out.”</p> - -<p>My friend smiled sadly in telling me the story. -“As a matter of fact,” he said, “8.30, and even -later, generally sees me tubbing, shaving, or at best -breakfasting, but if 8.30 was not too early for a -great soldier who had turned 80 to be up, and ready -to receive visitors, I could hardly plead that 8.30 -was too early for me,” and the appointment was -made.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Like most Irishmen, Lord Roberts had a keen -sense of humour. At a public dinner at which I was -present he had for a near neighbour, at the high -table, Lord Willoughby de Broke, who in his after-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">62</a></span>dinner -speech had occasion to refer to the Territorial -Army.</p> - -<p>“If I am asked,” he said, “whether a young man -should join the Territorial Army, my answer is -invariably ‘Yes,’ and for three reasons. The first -reason is that he will, perhaps for the first time in -his life, be coming under the salutary influence of -Discipline, and I say confidently and without fear -of contradiction, that there is no finer influence for -a young fellow than that of Discipline.”</p> - -<p>These were sentiments that appealed to a soldier, -and of the many approving cries of “Hear! Hear!” -which came from all parts of the room, none rang -more whole-heartedly than those of Lord Roberts.</p> - -<p>“My second reason,” went on the speaker, “is -that the young man will thereby be discharging a -patriotic duty. To-day we are all thinking too much -of our rights, rarely of our responsibilities, and in my -opinion every able-bodied young fellow, whether he -be a duke’s son, a draper’s son, or the son of a -costermonger, should be trained to defend his -country against an invader in her hour of -need.”</p> - -<p>Once again Lord Willoughby de Broke was -expressing the very sentiments with which Lord -Roberts’ name was so closely associated, and again -it was the great soldier’s “Hear! Hear!” which -was most emphatic.</p> - -<p>“And lastly,” concluded the speaker, “my -reason for advising every young fellow to join the -Territorial Army is that it gives him a chance of—getting -away from his wife for a night or a week or -a fortnight without putting him to the trouble of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">63</a></span> -hashing up some silly excuse which she knows is as -palpably a fake and a lie as he does himself.”</p> - -<p>Thus far Lord Willoughby de Broke had spoken -with such grave earnestness that we were all prepared -as heartily to endorse his third reason as his -previous ones. Lord Roberts had, in fact, raised -his right hand above his left to applaud when the -speaker sprang this surprise upon us, and especially -upon those of us who were married, for the dinner -was graced by the presence of Lady Willoughby de -Broke and Lady Roberts, as well as by other ladies, -the wives, daughters, and sisters of those present.</p> - -<p>For one second the company, if I may so phrase -it, “gaped” open-mouthed at the trap into which -they had been led, and then there was a great roar -of laughter, in which no one more heartily joined -than did Lady Willoughby de Broke, Lady Roberts, -and Lord Roberts himself.</p> - -<p>I recall another and grimmer instance of Lord -Roberts’ sense of humour. On February 27, 1914, -he introduced to the Prime Minister a Deputation -whose object was to plead the cause of National -Service. When I say that it was a great occasion -I am not expressing my own opinion, but that of a -distinguished member of the Deputation who has -since written and published in pamphlet form an -official account of the proceedings.</p> - -<p>“Those of us who look forward,” he writes, “to -an early fruition of the hopes which we have -cherished and the aims for which we have worked -for so many years past, will ever look back upon -Friday, the 27th of February, 1914, as a milestone, -a red-letter day in the History of National Service.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64">64</a></span> -“All the circumstances conspired to stamp a -great occasion with the greatness which belonged to -it. The importance of the Cause needs no illustration -from the present writer. In Lord Roberts’ well-known -words, ‘National Service means not only -national safety; it means national health, national -strength, national honour, and national prosperity.’</p> - -<p>“The Deputation included some of the greatest -and most distinguished men of the day, and—a -most significant and important factor—the greatness -was in nearly every case not inherited but achieved -by conspicuous service in the fields of national and -imperial endeavour. Three Field-Marshals, including -our veteran leader who has carried our flag to -victory with honour in Asia and Africa and served -King and country for fifty-five years; two Admirals -of the Fleet, one of whom was in command of -the International Forces at Crete, and the other -commanded the International Naval Forces in -China at the time of the Boxer Rebellion; an ex-Viceroy -of India, prominent representatives of the -Church and of Nonconformity; the editor of one -of the most influential weeklies, and representatives -of literature, science, and industry.”</p> - -<p>Of this Deputation I was, by Lord Roberts’ -personal invitation and wish, a member, and as I -arrived in good time I had an opportunity of some -conversation with him in the ante-room before we -passed into the Library in which Mr. Asquith -was to receive us.</p> - -<p>Seeing that one of his hands was swathed in -bandages, I inquired the reason.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said smilingly. “I’ve<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">65</a></span> -often been accused of having too many irons in the -fire, but this time it is a case of having a hand too -much in the fire. Just before leaving my hotel this -morning, my foot slipped on the marble paving of -the hall, and in falling forward and trying to save -myself, I thrust my hand between the bars of the -fire, and so got a bit of a burn. But it’s a mere -nothing, and of no consequence.”</p> - -<p>So far from being, as Lord Roberts said, a mere -nothing, I have since heard that the burn was, on the -contrary, excessively painful, but all through the -lengthy and trying ordeal of introducing the different -members of the Deputation, listening to, and commenting -upon what was said, as well as listening to -and replying to the Prime Minister’s very important -and brilliantly able speech, Lord Roberts was the -alertest, cheeriest, and most watchful of those -present. A burn that would have distressed and -possibly have distracted the attention of a much -younger man, and that must necessarily have caused -constant and severe pain, the gallant old soldier, then -nearing his 82nd year, treated as of no consequence -and dismissed with a lightly uttered jest. To the -last it was of others, never of himself, that he -thought. On this particular occasion he was -pleading (to use his own words) “as plainly as an -old man has the right to speak, in the face of -emergencies which would be far less terrible to -him personally than to generations of Britons yet -unborn.” That was not many months before his -death, and though I saw and talked with Field-Marshal -Earl Roberts, V.C., on other and later -occasions, I shall to my life’s end picture him as I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66">66</a></span> -saw him then—his burned and bandaged hand -throbbing with pain of which he showed no single -sign, thrust behind him and out of sight, as -eloquently, gravely, almost passionately, he warned -his hearers of a possible national disaster, the consequences -of which would be “far less terrible to -him personally than to generations of Britons yet -unborn.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">67</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_67" class="vspace">THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON<br /> -AS THE “OGRE OF THE ‘ATHENÆUM’”</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">It</span> was, I believe, George Meredith who, when -the author of <cite>Aylwin</cite> changed his name from -Theodore Watts to Theodore Watts-Dunton, -spoke of him as “Theodore What’s-his-name,” and -added that he supposed his friend had made the -change lest posterity might confound Watts the -poet with Watts the hymn writer.</p> - -<p>Posterity, unlike Popularity—who plays the -wanton at times and cohabits with unlawful mates—keeps -chaste her house from generation to generation -and needs no hint from us to assist her choice. -Her task is to rescue reputations from the dust, no -less than to “pour forgetfulness upon the dead,” -and none of us alive to-day may predict what surprise -of lost or rescued reputations Posterity may -have in store.</p> - -<p>Over one of these reputations it is surely possible -to imagine Posterity—I will not disrespectfully say -scratching a puzzled head, but at least wrinkling in -perplexity her learned brows. She will discover when -straightening out her dog’s-eared literary annals -that the name of one writer, who at the beginning -of the last decade of the nineteenth century had -a great if somewhat esoteric reputation among his -brother authors, was not then to be found in any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">68</a></span> -publisher’s list, and for the somewhat curious and -incontinent reason that at that time he had published -no book. It was not until the publication of <cite>Aylwin</cite> -that the name of Theodore Watts, or as he afterwards -elected to be called Watts-Dunton, became -widely known outside what are sometimes not very -felicitously described as “literary circles.”</p> - -<p>To-day the tremendous issues of the Great War -have, as it were, at a besom stroke of the gods, -brushed into one box, to set aside, upon a shelf, all -the trappings, furniture and paraphernalia of non-industrial -arts and the like. Authors, artists, actors, -musicians, professors, as well as the mere politician, -are, and rightly, relegated to the back of the stage -of life, and it is the soldier and the sailor—not by -their own seeking—who bulk biggest in the public -eye. But in those days of little things—the last -decade of the last century—and outside the so-called -“literary circle” of which I have spoken, -there were other and outer circles of men and -women much more keenly interested in books and -authors, especially in the personality of literary -celebrities, than would be possible in these days of -tragic and tremendous world-issues. In such circles -many curious, interesting and even romantic -associations were woven around the name of -Theodore Watts.</p> - -<p>He was known to be the personal friend of Tennyson, -Matthew Arnold, James Russell Lowell, Browning, -and William Morris. Dante Gabriel Rossetti -and George Meredith had in the past made their -home with him at Chelsea, and Swinburne had been -his house mate for many years at Putney. Rossetti<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">69</a></span> -and Swinburne had written and spoken of him in -terms which to outsiders seem extravagant, and both -had dedicated some of their best work to him. It -was also known that he had lived for some time with -gipsies, was one of the three greatest living authorities -on gipsy lore and the gipsy language, and had -been the friend of George Borrow. This curiosity -was stimulated by the fact that Watts-Dunton was -then very rarely seen at literary dinners or functions, -and was supposed more studiously even to avoid -publicity than some of his craft who might be -named were supposed to seek it. Cryptic allusions -in the literary journals, reviews, and magazines to a -long-completed novel, deliberately and cruelly withheld -from publication, and tributes to his encyclopædic -knowledge, did not a little to increase this -curiosity.</p> - -<p>Thus far the reputation which Theodore Watts -had attained did not altogether belie him, but there -was yet another “Theodore Watts”—“Watts of -the <cite>Athenæum</cite>” he was sometimes called—who had -no existence except in the imagination of certain -small literary fry by whom he was popularly supposed -to be something of a “Hun” of the pen, a -shark of the literary seas, who preyed upon suckling -poets. I remember a morning in the early nineties, -when I was to lunch at Putney with Watts-Dunton -and Swinburne. Being in the neighbourhood of -Temple Bar about eleven, I turned in for a cup of -coffee and a cigarette at a famous Coffee House, -then much frequented by editors, journalists, poets, -rising authors and members of the literary staff of -the publishing houses and newspaper offices in or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70">70</a></span> -around Fleet Street, as well as by members of the -legal profession from the Temple and the New Law -Courts.</p> - -<p>At the next table sat a young man with long hair, -a velveteen jacket and a flowing tie. He was talking -so loudly to a friend, that unless one stopped -one’s ears there was no choice but to overhear the -conversation.</p> - -<p>“Seen this week’s <cite>Athenæum</cite>?” he asked his -friend.</p> - -<p>“Not yet. Anything particular in it?” was the -reply.</p> - -<p>“Only a review of my poems.”</p> - -<p>“Good?”</p> - -<p>“Bad as it can be—bad, that is, as four contemptuous -lines of small print can make it. A book, -which as you know represents the thought, the -passion and soul-travail of years; a book written -in my heart’s blood—and dismissed by the <cite>Athenæum</cite> -in four contemptuous lines!”</p> - -<p>There was a pause too brief, if not too deep for -tears. Then: “Theodore Watts, of course!” he -added between set teeth. “I expected it. Everyone -knows he is so insanely jealous of us younger -men that he watches the publishers’ lists for every -book by a young poet of ability to pounce upon it, -and to cut it up. What has he done, I should like to -know, to give him the right to pronounce death -sentences? Why, the fellow’s never even published -a book of his own.</p> - -<p>“Shall I tell you why? He <em>daren’t</em>. There -is a novel called <cite>Aylwin</cite> written and ready -to publish many years ago. Murray has offered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">71</a></span> -him a small fortune in advance royalties, I -hear.”</p> - -<p>Again the young man paused dramatically and -looked darkly around the room, not apparently -from fear of his being overheard, but because he -wished to invite attention to the inner and exclusive -knowledge which he possessed. Then, in an ecstasy -of anger that had a fine disregard for so trivial a -matter as a confusion of metaphors, he thundered:</p> - -<p>“Because that viper Theodore Watts has stabbed -so many of us in the back anonymously in the -<cite>Athenæum</cite>, he daren’t bring out his novel. He -can never say anything bad enough about a ‘minor -poet,’ as he scornfully calls us, but he knows that -some of us do a little reviewing, and that we are -waiting for him to publish his book that we may get -a bit of our own back.”</p> - -<p>It so happened that I had in my pocket that morning -a letter from Watts-Dunton deprecating the -slating in the <cite>Athenæum</cite> of a book of minor poetry -by a friend of mine, and I remembered a sentence -in the letter. “By minor poet, meaning apparently -a new and unknown poet,” which prefaced a generous -if discriminating and critical appreciation of my -friend’s poems.</p> - -<p>To intrude into a conversation between strangers -was, of course, as much out of the question as to make -known to others, without first obtaining the writer’s -permission, the contents of a letter written to myself. -Otherwise I could easily have convinced the -aggrieved young poet, not only that it was not Theodore -Watts who had cut up his book, but that so -far from being a literary Herod and a slayer of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">72</a></span> -poetic innocent, he was, as a matter of fact, Herod’s -literary antithesis. As the writer of the letter and -those mentioned in it are no longer with us, no harm -can be done by printing part of it here:</p> - -<p>“Like the rest of us, our Philip was mortal, and, -like all of us, he could be harsh. I got Maccoll to let -him review the minor bards. He was so terribly -severe upon most of them that I was miserable; and -I fear that I had to ask Maccoll to be chary in sending -them to him, or at least I got M. to remonstrate -with him for his extreme and unaccountable harshness. -My sympathies, as you know, are all with the -younger men. I love to see a young poet, or for the -matter of that <em>any</em> young writer, get recognition.</p> - -<p>“Robinson is the only fogey-brother I boom. -Please tell him when you see him that if I do not -write to him much, it is not because of any cooling -of love. Thirty years ago he knew me for the worst -correspondent in the world. The first letter he ever -wrote to me (in sending me his novel <cite>No Church</cite>) I -answered at the end of six months. I wish I could -help it, but I can’t. My friends have to take me -with all my infirmities on my head.”</p> - -<p>“Our Philip,” I may say, was Philip Bourke -Marston, the blind poet; “Robinson” was F. W. -Robinson, the novelist—both friends of Watts-Dunton -and mine—“Maccoll” was the then editor -of the <cite>Athenæum</cite>.</p> - -<p>Had I known Watts-Dunton better (it was in the -early days of our long friendship that this Coffee -House incident happened), I should studiously have -refrained from mentioning the matter to him. But -thinking it would do no more than amuse him, I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73">73</a></span> -was so unwise as to tell the story over the luncheon -table. Swinburne was vastly amused, and rallied -his friend gleefully for being what he described as -“the ogre of suckling bardlings,” but Watts-Dunton -was visibly distressed, and took it so much to heart -that I had cause to regret my indiscretion. He -brooded over it and rumbled menacingly over it, -recurring to the matter again and again, until lunch -was over, vowing that it mattered nothing to him -what this or that “writing fellow” thought of him as -a fellow writer, but that to be credited with cruelty, -and with willingness to give pain, to the younger -generation, with whom he was so entirely in sympathy, -was monstrous, was unthinkable, and was -cause for cursing the day he had ever consented to -review for the <cite>Athenæum</cite>.</p> - -<p>Here are some extracts from another letter in -which he reverts to the matter, and also incidentally -gives an interesting peep of Swinburne and himself -on holiday:</p> - -<p>“The crowning mistake of my life, a life that has -been full of mistakes, I fear, was in drifting into the -position of literary reviewer to a journal, and not -drifting out for a quarter of a century. I not only -squandered my efforts, but made unconsciously a -thousand enemies in the literary world whom I can -never hope now to appease until death comes to my -aid. Swinburne sends you his kind regards. He -and I are here staying at one of the lovely places -in the Isle of Wight, belonging to his aunt, Lady -Mary Gordon. It is a fairy place. Her late husband’s -father took one of the most romantic spots -of the Undercliff and turned the shelves of debris<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74">74</a></span> -into the loveliest Italian garden reaching down to -the sea. It is so shut in from the land that it can be -seen only from the sea. It puts, as I always say, -Edgar Poe’s <cite>Domain of Arnheim</cite> into the shade. I -know of nothing in the world so lovely. I have been -writing a few sonnets, but Swinburne does nothing -but bathe.”</p> - -<p>This reference to Swinburne idling reminds me of -another letter I received from Watts-Dunton, in -which he pictures yet another great poet, Tennyson, -hard at work and at eighty-two. The letter has no -bearing on the matter immediately under discussion, -but by way of contrast I venture to include it here:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Aldworth, Haslemere, Surrey</span>,<br /> -<span class="l2"><i>26th Sept., ’91</i>.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">My best thanks for your most kind letter -which has been forwarded to me here where I am -staying with Tennyson. When I get home I will -write to suggest a day for us to meet at Putney. -Tennyson, with whom I took a long walk of three -miles this morning, is in marvellous health, every -faculty (at 82) is as bright as it was when his years -were 40. He is busy writing poetry as fine as anything -he has ever written. He read out to me last -night three poems which of themselves would -suffice to make a poet’s fame. Really he is a -miracle. This is a lovely place—I don’t know how -many miles above the level of the sea—bracing to -a wonderful degree.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Ever yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Theodore Watts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">75</a></span> -The accepted tradition of Watts-Dunton as what -Swinburne had called the ogre of the <cite>Athenæum</cite> -goaded him, was a bugbear and a purgatory to him -to his very life’s end.</p> - -<p>“I see that you mention Mr. William Watson as a -friend of yours,” he wrote to me. “—— who was here -the other day, greatly vexed and even distressed me -by telling me that Mr. Watson is under the impression -that I have written disparagingly of his work. -Why, it was I who at a moment, when Rossetti -refused to look at any book sent to him, persuaded -him to read <cite>The Prince’s Quest</cite> years ago, and got -him to write to the author (for though a bad correspondent -myself, I am exemplary in persuading -my friends to be good ones). It was I who wrote to -Fisher Unwin when he sent me <cite>Wordsworth’s Grave</cite>, -urging him to reprint <cite>The Prince’s Quest</cite>.”</p> - -<p>Not once but a score of times he spoke to me of -his high admiration of some of Mr. Watson’s -poems, as well as of poems by Stephen Phillips, -John Davidson, Mrs. Clement Shorter, and many -others of the younger poets. His championship of -a certain other writer of verse who shall be nameless, -involved him in a controversy which was like -to end in a personal severance between himself and -his correspondent.</p> - -<p>“What you said about —— is specially amusing,” -he wrote, “because on the very morning after you -were here I got a letter from an acquaintance abusing -me to such a degree that I am by no means sure it -will not end in a personal severance. And all because -I was backing up one whom he describes as the most -impudent self-advertising man that has ever claimed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">76</a></span> -to be a poet. According to the irate one, he has -nobbled not only New Grub Street complete, but -also sub-edits the —— and writes himself up there, -and devotes his time to paragraphing himself in -the ——! I pointed out in my answer that to me, -who do not read these organs, save slightly, that the -question of physical power and time presented -itself and made me sceptical as to the possibility of -a man who has produced many verses of late, and -good ones to boot, being such a prolific rival of -Mr. Pears and Mr. Colman, and as I said so in rather -a chaffy way, my correspondent has taken umbrage. -But oh, ‘these writing fellows!’ as Wellington used -to call the knights of the ink-horn.”</p> - -<p>I suspect that it was what Watts-Dunton calls -his “chaffy way” more than his championship of -the verse-maker which gave offence to his correspondent. -His humour was of the old-fashioned Dickensian -sort, but heavier of foot, more cumbrous of -movement, occasionally somewhat grim, and rumbling, -like distant thunder, over a drollery. It is -possible that what he meant for playful raillery at -his correspondent’s exasperation that a verse-maker -should enter into a competition with Mr. -Colman and Mr. Pears, by advertising his wares in -the same way that they advertise mustard or soap, -was taken as a seriously meant reproof. Be that as -it may, for I did not hear the sequel of the controversy, -Watts-Dunton, so far from being the ogre -he was painted, was, on the contrary, something of -a fairy godmother to many a young and struggling -poet of parts. But even so he found that poets -not of the first rank are hard to please.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77">77</a></span> -Acknowledging the receipt of a presentation copy -of verses from an acquaintance of his and mine, I -chanced to inquire whether Theodore Watts was -likely to review the book in the <cite>Athenæum</cite>. “God -forbid!” wrote the poet in reply. “If so, he would -simply make my unfortunate book the peg upon -which to hang a wonderful literary robe of spun silk -and fine gold. He would begin—omitting all mention -of me or my book—with some generalisation, -some great first principle, whether of life, literature, -science or art, no one, other than himself or the God -who made him, could ever be sure beforehand. In -his hands it would be absorbingly fresh, learned, -illuminative and fascinating. Thence he would -launch out into an essay, incomparable in knowledge -and in scholarship, that would deal with everything -in heaven or on earth, in this world or the next, -other than my unhappy little book. He would, in -fact, open up so many worlds of wonder and romance, -in which to lose himself, that I should think myself -fortunate if, at the end of his review, I found my -name as much as mentioned, and should count myself -favoured were there as much as one whole line -in the whole four page essay in the <cite>Athenæum</cite> about -my little book.”</p> - -<p>I am free to admit that there is much that is true -in the analysis of Watts-Dunton’s method of reviewing, -and that he was aware of this himself will -be seen by my next quotation. It so happened that -he did, much pressed though he was at the time, -put his own work aside, and review the book in -question in the <cite>Athenæum</cite>. He did so from the -single desire to forward the interests of a young poet.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">78</a></span> -Here is part of a letter which he afterwards sent -to me upon the subject. The review itself I did not -see, but that it was upon the lines anticipated and -failed to satisfy the poet in question is very -clear.</p> - -<p>“My method of reviewing, though it is well understood -by the more famous men, does not seem to -please and to satisfy the less distinguished ones; -and this makes me really timid about reviewing any -of them. But I believe, indeed I am sure, that my -methods of using a book as an illustration of some -first principle in criticism gives it more importance, -attracts to it more attention than any more businesslike -review article of the ordinary kind would, because -my speciality is known to be that of dealing -with first principles.</p> - -<p>“I am just off again to Dursley in Gloucestershire -to visit, with Swinburne, his mother and sister, who -are staying there.</p> - -<p>“I think I have satisfied myself that Shakespeare’s -evident familiarity with Gloucestershire is owing -to his having stayed at Dursley with one of the -Shakespeares who was living there during his -lifetime. The Gloucestershire names of people -mentioned by him are still largely represented at -Dursley and the neighbourhood, and the description -of the outlook toward Berkeley is amazingly -accurate.”</p> - -<p>But Watts-Dunton had cause to regret his kindly -action in departing from his almost invariable -rule to review only poets of the first standing, nor -was he allowed, free from irritating distractions, -peacefully to pursue his researches into Shakespeare’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">79</a></span> -associations with Gloucestershire. The poet wrote -again—this time to complain that the review was not -sufficiently eulogistic. Watts-Dunton sent me the -letter with the following comment:</p> - -<p>“What the devil would these men have? I -suppose we are all to fall at their feet as soon as -they have written a few good verses and discuss them -as we discuss Sophocles, Æschylus, and Sappho. -Does this not corroborate what Swinburne was -saying to you the other day about the modesty of -the first-rate poet and the something else of the -others?”</p> - -<p>After Watts-Dunton’s return from Gloucester, -I was lunching with Swinburne and himself at The -Pines, and the aggrieved poet called in person while -I was there. Swinburne, who hated to make a new -acquaintance, and not only resolutely refused himself -to every one, but, when Watts-Dunton had visitors -with whom he was unacquainted, frequently -betook himself to his own sanctum upstairs -until they were gone, happened that morning to -be in an impish mood. At any other time he would -have stormed at the bare suggestion of admitting the -man to the house. But on this particular morning -he took a Puck-like delight in the hornets’ nest -which Watts-Dunton had brought about his ears -by what Swinburne held to be an undeserved honour -and kindness to an undeserving and ungrateful -scribbler, and he wished, or pretended to wish, that -the poet be admitted. He vowed, and before -heaven, that a windy encounter between the “grave -and great-browed critic of the <cite>Athenæum</cite>” and the -“browsing and long-eared bardling with a grievance”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80">80</a></span> -would be as droll as a comedy scene from <cite>A Midsummer -Night’s Dream</cite>.</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton—outwardly smiling indulgently -at his friend’s whimsical and freakish mood, but -inwardly by no means regarding the matter in the -light of a jest, and not a little chafed and sore—declined -to see the caller then or at any other time.</p> - -<p>“Reviewing poets other than those of the first -rank,” he protested, “is the most thankless task -on God’s earth. The smaller the man is intellectually, -the harder, the more impossible he is to please, -and the greedier he is of unstinted adulation. Strain -your critical sense and your generosity to the point -of comparing him to Marlowe or Marvell, and he will -give you to understand that his work has more of -the manner of Shelley. Compare him to Shelley, -and the odds are he will grumble that it wasn’t -Shakespeare, and I’m not sure that some of them -would rest contented with that. I have tried to do a -kindness, and I have succeeded only in making an -enemy. That fellow is implacable. He will pursue -me with hatred to the end of my life.”</p> - -<p>Yet in this particular instance, as in many others, -Watts-Dunton’s error had been only on the side -of excessive generosity, for which Swinburne had -taken him to task. Swinburne himself, it is idle -to say, was a Jupiter in his judgments. He was -ready to vacate his own throne and hail one poet -as a god, or utterly to overwhelm another with a -hurled avalanche of scorn. But at least he reserved -his laudation and his worship, or else his “volcanic -wrath” and thunderbolts, for his masters and his -peers. He delivered judgment uninfluenced by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">81</a></span> -personal element or by kindly sentiment and easy -good nature. Watts-Dunton’s good-hearted efforts -to find something to praise in the work even of little -men occasionally annoyed Swinburne, and drew -the fire of his withering criticism upon the target of -their work. It was the one and only thing upon -which I knew them to differ, and in this connection -I should like to add a word upon the relationship -which existed between these two brothers in -friendship and in song. Ideal as was that relationship, -it had this drawback—that it tended to -“standardize,” if I may so phrase it, their prejudices -upon purely personal, as apart from critical -or intellectual issues.</p> - -<p>Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks in <cite>The Professor -at the Breakfast Table</cite> of “that slight inclination -of two persons with a strong affinity towards each -other, throwing them a little out of plumb when they -sit side by side together.”</p> - -<p>This saying has a mental as well as a physical -application. It is surprising, as I have elsewhere -said, how entirely Watts-Dunton’s individuality -remained uninfluenced by his close association with -two men of such strongly-marked and extraordinary -individuality as Rossetti and Swinburne. One -reservation must, however, be made. On certain -personal matters the plumb of Watts-Dunton’s -judgment was apt slightly to be deflected out of -line by Swinburne’s denunciation. If Swinburne -thundered an anathema against some one who had -provoked his wrath, Watts-Dunton, even if putting -in a characteristically indulgent word for the -offender, was inclined—if unconsciously and against<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">82</a></span> -his better judgment—to view the matter in the -same light.</p> - -<p>Similarly, if Watts-Dunton had some small cause -of complaint—it might even be a fancied cause of -complaint—and Swinburne heard of it, the latter’s -attachment to his friend caused him so to trumpet -his anger as to magnify the matter to undue -importance in Watts-Dunton’s eyes as well as in his -own.</p> - -<p>In this way and in this way only the association -between Watts-Dunton and Swinburne was to the -advantage of neither, as the mind of the one reacted -sometimes upon the mind of the other to -produce prejudice and to impair judgment. I -have no thought or intention of belittling either -in saying this. It is no service to the memory of a -friend to picture him as a superman and superior -to all human weakness. But if Watts-Dunton was -not without his prejudices and literary dislike, he -was as a critic the soul of honour, and would not -write a line in review of the work of the man or -woman concerning whom he had justly or unjustly -already formed an unfavourable opinion. As a -reviewer he set a standard which we should do well -to maintain. He was no Puritan. To him everything -in life was spiritually symbolic, and nothing -was of itself common or unclean. The article -in which he dealt with Sterne’s indecencies shirks -nothing that needed to be said upon the subject, -but says it in such a way as to recall Le Gallienne’s -happy definition of purity—as the power to -touch pitch while remaining undefiled—for in all -Watts-Dunton’s spoken no less than in his written<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">83</a></span> -word, there was no single passage, no single line, -which one could on that score regret. In his poems -the red flambeau of passion and the white taper -of purity burn side by side on one altar. His innate -love of purity, his uncompromising attitude towards -everything suggestive or unclean, were among his -most marked characteristics as writer and as man. -It is well for literature that one of the greatest -critics of our day should have thus jealously guarded -the honour of the mistress whom he served. As -a poet, he was of the company of those who, in his -own words:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Have for muse a maiden free from scar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who knows how beauty dies at touch of sin.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">He kept unsullied the white shield of English -Literature, and his influence for good is none the less -lasting and real because it can never be estimated.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84">84</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_84" class="vspace">WHY THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON<br /> -PUBLISHED ONLY TWO BOOKS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">With</span> the exception of a few articles and -poems reprinted in brochure form from -encyclopædias and periodicals, Watts-Dunton -in his lifetime published two books only—<cite>Aylwin</cite> -and <cite>The Coming of Love</cite>. A successor to the -former is in existence, and will shortly be issued by -Mr. John Lane. Were Watts-Dunton still alive, the -book would, I am convinced, even now be in -manuscript. Part definitely with a book, that it -might go to press, he would not, so long as a chance -remained of holding on to it, to dovetail in a poem -or a prose passage, perhaps from something penned -many years ago, or to rewrite, amend, or omit whole -chapters. I have seen proofs of his as bewildering -in the matter of what printers call “pulling copy -about” as a jigsaw puzzle. <cite>Aylwin</cite> itself represents -no one period of the author’s lifetime, but all his -literary life, up to the actual final passing for press.</p> - -<p>This is true also of the new book <cite>Carniola</cite>, commenced, -under the title of <cite>Balmoral</cite>, as far back as -the days before Watts-Dunton left St. Ives to come -to London, and, upon it, he was more or less at -work up to the last. It takes its new title from the -hero, who, the son of an English father and an -Hungarian mother, was christened Carniola, after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">85</a></span> -the Hungarian town of that name where he was -born.</p> - -<p>The story I have not read in its entirety, but I -know that Watts-Dunton considered the love -interest stronger even than in <cite>Aylwin</cite>, and his -pictures of life more varied and painted in upon a -wider canvas.</p> - -<p>The portions I have seen strike me—remembering, -as has already been said, how little Watts-Dunton’s -personality and literary manner were influenced by -any of the great contemporaries with whom he was -intimately associated—as more Borrovian than anything -else he has written.</p> - -<p>This applies particularly to the conversations. -Unlike some later novelists, who aim at crispness in -conversational passages, by so “editing” what is -said as to “cut” the inevitable and necessary -commonplaces of conversation, and record only -what is witty, epigrammatic and to the point, -Watts-Dunton, like Borrow, sets all down exhaustively—the -“give and take” of small talk, -with all the “I saids” and “he saids” in full, and -with illuminating little descriptions of the gestures -and feelings of the speaker.</p> - -<p>This gives a reality and naturalness to the dialogue, -which we miss, for all their smartness, crispness, -and epigram, in the work of certain more modern -novelists, reading whom, one is inclined to wonder -whether two ordinary mortals ever did, in real life, -rattle off, impromptu, quite so many brilliant -repartees, and clever epigrams, in so short a time.</p> - -<p>Very Borrovian too are the open-air and nature-loving -passages of <cite>Carniola</cite>, and the gypsy scenes of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86">86</a></span> -which there are many. Readers of <cite>Aylwin</cite> will be -interested to meet with a gypsy girl, Klari, drawn -from real life, who, in Watts-Dunton’s opinion, is -more beautiful and more attractive than Sinfi -Lovell of <cite>Aylwin</cite> and <cite>The Coming of Love</cite>. Those -who had any personal knowledge, or have read the -books, of one of the most fascinating and romantic -figures and fine scholars of his time, the late Francis -Hinde Groome, will find him drawn—Watts-Dunton -believed faithfully—in the character of Stormont.</p> - -<p>Another striking piece of characterisation is the -wheelwright, Martin, whose “religiosity”—not to -be confounded with the sincerity and unselfishness -of a truly religious man or woman—is narrow, self-seeking, -cruel, and Calvinistic.</p> - -<p>“Make a success—and run away from it!” said -a great and experienced publisher to me one day. -Watts-Dunton made a great success with <cite>Aylwin</cite>. -It will be interesting to see whether by following -<cite>Aylwin</cite> with a second novel of Bohemian life—the -character on which he has lavished most care is that -of an Hungarian gypsy, a Punch and Judy showman, -and the scene is laid partly in England and partly -in Hungary—Watts-Dunton will prove the publisher -to be, in this case at least, wrong.</p> - -<p>The rest of Watts-Dunton’s contributions to -literature must be sought for in back numbers -of the reviews, magazines and critical journals, -and as Introductory Studies and Essays prefixed -to reprints. That a man of his enormous and -many-sided knowledge should apply himself to -the craft of letters practically from early manhood -to extreme old age, and leave only two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">87</a></span> -published volumes behind him, establishes surely -a record in these days of over-publication. One -cannot wonder that his readers and admirers should -ask that he be more adequately represented on -their bookshelves by the collection, into permanent -volume form, of his many incomparable articles and -essays. Until that is done, I may perhaps be -permitted to point out that in a sense such a work -already exists. The literary harvest of Watts-Dunton’s -life has been reaped, winnowed, and garnered -into one volume which, indeed, is not only a -volume but a Watts-Dunton library in itself.</p> - -<p>I refer of course to Mr. James Douglas’s <cite>Theodore -Watts-Dunton, Poet, Novelist and Critic</cite>, a work -which with all its faults, and it has many, is of -remarkable interest. I do not say this because Mr. -Douglas has told us everything that can be told, -and much that it was unnecessary to tell about -the life and work, the memorable friendships and -the literary methods of the author of <cite>Aylwin</cite>, but -because Mr. Douglas has with infinite care and pains -harvested, sifted, winnowed, and gleaned the whole -field of Watts-Dunton’s literary labours. The -portion of the book in which the fine gold of his -writings upon Wonder as the primal Element in all -religion; upon the first awakenings in the soul -of man of a sense of Wonder, or perhaps I should -say upon the awakening, the birth, of a soul in man -by means of Wonder; the noble exposition of the -Psalms, the Prayer Book, and of the Bible in its -relation to the soul and to the Universe; the -analysis of Humour; the portions that deal with -Nature and Nature-Worship; with the methods<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88">88</a></span> -and Art of great writers in poetry and prose, and -with First Principles generally—these in themselves -and by themselves make Mr. Douglas’s book -unique.</p> - -<p>I am not sure, indeed, that it will not eventually -do more for Watts-Dunton’s reputation as a thinker -than the publication of a whole library of his -collected writings. For in his contributions to the -periodical Press, Watts-Dunton is apt sometimes -to be diffuse. He becomes befogged, as it were, with -the multitudinousness of his own learning. His -“cogitations”—the word is more applicable to -most of his work than “essays”—were so prodigious, -branched out into such innumerable but always fascinating -and pregnant side issues, as to bewilder the -ordinary reader. In Mr. Douglas’s book with such -judgment are the passages selected, that we get the -best of Watts-Dunton in a comparatively small -compass, clarified, condensed, and presented with -cameo clearness. It contains, I admit, not a little -with which I would willingly away. I tire sometimes -of gypsies and gorgios and Sinfi Lovell, as I tire -of the recurrence of the double-syllabled feminine -rhyming of “glory” and “story,” “hoary” and -“promontory,” in some of the sonnets.</p> - -<p>Mr. Douglas quotes Rossetti as affirming of -Watts-Dunton that he was the one man of his -time who with immense literary equipment was -without literary ambition. This may be true of the -Theodore Watts of Rossetti’s time. It is not -altogether true of the Watts-Dunton whom I knew -during the last quarter of a century.</p> - -<p>The extraordinary success of <cite>Aylwin</cite>, published,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">89</a></span> -be it remembered—though some of us had been -privileged to see it long before—in 1898, when the -author was 66, bewildered and staggered Watts-Dunton, -but the literary ambitions which that -success aroused came too late in life to be realised. -Though a prodigious and untiring worker, he was -unsystematic and a dreamer. The books that he -intended to write would have outnumbered the -unwritten volumes of Robert Louis Stevenson. Had -Stevenson lived longer, his dream-books would one -day have materialised into manuscript and finally -into paper and print. He was one of those whom -Jean Paul Richter had in mind when he said: -“There shall come a time when man shall awaken -from his lofty dreams and find—his dreams still -there, and that nothing has gone save his sleep.” -Stevenson worked by impulse. His talk and his -letters—like too plenteously-charged goblets, which -brim over and run to waste—were full of stories he -was set upon writing, but from which on the morrow -he turned aside to follow some literary Lorelei -whose lurings more accorded with the mood of the -moment.</p> - -<p>“I shall have another portfolio paper so soon -as I am done with this story that has played me -out,” he wrote to Sir Sidney Colvin in January, 1875. -“The story is to be called <cite>When the Devil was Well</cite>. -Scene, Italy, Renaissance; colour, purely imaginary -of course, my own unregenerate idea of what -Italy then was. O, when shall I find the story of -my dreams, that shall never halt nor wander one -step aside, but go ever before its face and ever swifter -and louder until the pit receives its roaring?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">90</a></span> -But Stevenson worked of set purpose, and, for the -most part, sooner or later in another mood, went -rainbow-chasing again, hoping to find—like the -pot of gold which children believe lies hidden where -the rainbow ends—his broken fragments of a dream -that he might recover and weave them into story -form.</p> - -<p>Sometimes he succeeded; sometimes he found -that the vision had wholly faded, or that the mood -to interpret it had gone, and so more often he -failed. But Watts-Dunton was content only to -dream and, alas, to procrastinate, at least in the -matter of screwing himself up to the preparation -of a book. In that respect he was the despair even -of his dearest friends.</p> - -<p>Francis Hinde Groome wrote to me as far back as -January, 1896:</p> - -<p>“Watts, I hope, has <em>not</em> definitely abandoned the -idea of a Life of Rossetti, or he might, he suggests, -weave his reminiscences of him into his own reminiscences. -But I doubt. The only way, I believe, -would be for some one regularly day after day to -engage him in talk for a couple of hours and for a -shorthand writer to be present to take it down. If -I had the leisure I would try and incite him thereto -myself.”</p> - -<p>I agree with Groome that that was the only way -out of the difficulty. Left to himself, I doubt -whether Watts-Dunton would ever have permitted -even <cite>Aylwin</cite>, ready for publication as it was, to see -the light. Of the influences which were brought to -bear to persuade him ultimately to take the plunge, -and by whom exerted, no less than of the reasons<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">91</a></span> -why the book was so long withheld, I shall not -here write. Mr. Douglas says nothing of either -matter in his book, and the presumption is that -he was silent by Watts-Dunton’s own wish. This, -however, I may add, that were the reasons for -withholding the book so long fully known, they -would afford yet another striking proof of the -chivalrous loyalty of Watts-Dunton’s friendship. -One reason—it is possible that even Mr. Douglas -is not aware of it, for it dates back to a time when -he did not know Watts-Dunton, and I have reason -to believe that the author of <cite>Aylwin</cite> spoke of it -only at the time, and then only to a few intimates, -nearly all of whom are now dead—I very much regret -I do not feel free to make known. It would afford -an unexampled instance of Watts-Dunton’s readiness -to sacrifice his own interests and inclinations, in -order to assist a friend—in this case not a famous, -but a poor and struggling one.</p> - -<p>If his unwillingness to see his own name on the -back of a book was a despair to his friends, it must -have been even more so to some half-dozen publishers -who might be mentioned. The enterprising -publisher who went to him with some literary -project, Watts-Dunton “received,” in the words of -the late Mr. Harry Fragson’s amusing song, “most -politely.” At first he hummed and haw’d and -rumpled his hair protesting that he had not the -time at his disposal to warrant him in accepting a -commission to write a book. But if the proposed -book were one that he could write, that he ought -to write, he became sympathetically responsive -and finally glowed, like fanned tinder, touched by a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">92</a></span> -match, under the kindling of the publisher’s pleading. -“Yes,” he would say. “I cannot deny that I -could write such a book. Such a book, I do not -mind saying in confidence, has long been in my mind, -and in the mind of friends who have repeatedly -urged me to such work.” The fact is that Watts-Dunton -was gratified by the request and did not -disguise his pleasure, for with all his vast learning -and acute intellect there was a singular and childlike -simplicity about him that was very lovable. -Actually accept a commission to write the book in -question he would not, but he was not unwilling to -hear the proposed terms, and in fact seemed so -attracted by, and so interested in, the project that -the pleased publisher would leave, conscious of -having done a good morning’s work, and of having -been the first to propose, and so practically to bespeak, -a book that was already almost as good as -written, already almost as good as published, -already almost as good as an assured success. -Perhaps he chuckled at the thought of the march -he had stolen on his fellow publishers, who would -envy him the inclusion of such a book in his list. -Possibly, even, he turned in somewhere to lunch, -and, as the slang phrase goes, “did himself well” -on the strength of it.</p> - -<p>But whatever the publisher’s subsequent doings, -the chances were that Watts-Dunton went back -to his library, to brood over the idea, very likely -to write to some of us whose advice he valued, or -more likely still to telegraph, proposing a meeting to -discuss the project (I had not a few such letters -and telegrams from him myself); perhaps in imagination<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">93</a></span> -to see the book written and published; but -ultimately and inevitably—to procrastinate and -in the end to let the proposal lapse. Like the good -intentions with which, according to the proverb, -the road to perdition is paved, Watts-Dunton’s -book-writing intentions, if intentions counted, would -in themselves go far to furnish a fat corner of the -British Museum Library. That he never carried -these intentions into effect is due to other reasons -than procrastination.</p> - -<p>It is only fair to him to remember that his life-work, -his <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">magnum opus</i>, must be looked for not in -literature but in friendship. Stevenson’s life-work -was his art. “I sleep upon my art for a pillow,” he -wrote to W. E. Henley. “I waken in my art; I -am unready for death because I hate to leave it. I -love my wife, I do not know how much, nor can, -nor shall, unless I lost her; but while I can conceive -of being widowed, I refuse the offering of life without -my art; I <em>am</em> not but in my art; it is me; I -am the body of it merely.”</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton’s life-work, I repeat, was not literature -nor poetry, but friendship. Stevenson sacrificed -himself in nothing for his friends. On the -contrary, he looked to them to sacrifice something -of time and interest and energy on his behalf. Watts-Dunton’s -whole life was one long self-sacrifice—I -had almost written one fatal self-sacrifice—of his -own interests, his own fame, in the cause of his -friends. His best books stand upon our shelves in -every part of the English-speaking world, but the -name that appears upon the cover is not that of -Theodore Watts-Dunton, but of Dante Gabriel<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">94</a></span> -Rossetti and Algernon Charles Swinburne. He -wrote no Life of either, but how much of their life -and of their life’s best work we owe to Watts-Dunton -we shall never know. Their death was a cruel blow -to him; but, had he died first, the loss to Rossetti -and to Swinburne would have been terrible and -irreparable. Just as, to Stevenson, life seemed almost -unimaginable without his art, so I find it hard, -almost impossible, to picture Swinburne’s life at -The Pines, failing the sustaining and brotherly -presence of Watts-Dunton. Often, when Watts-Dunton -was ailing, I have come away from there -with a sinking at my heart lest it should be Watts-Dunton -who died first, and I can well believe that, -long ago, a like dread sometimes possessed those -who loved Rossetti. Cheerfully and uncomplainingly, -Watts-Dunton gave his own life and his own -life’s work for them, and his best book is the volume -of his devotion to his friends.</p> - -<p>The sum of that devotion will never fully be -known, but it was as much at the service of the unknown, -or those who were only little known among -us, as of the famous. He had his enemies—“the -hated of New Grub Street” was his playful description -of himself—and some of them have not hesitated -to hint that he attached himself barnacle-wise or -parasite-wise to greater men than himself for self-seeking -reasons. Borne thither on their backs—it -was sometimes said—he was able to sun himself -upon Parnassian heights, otherwise unattainable; -and being in their company, and of their company, -he hoped thus to attract to himself a little of their -reflected glory. The truth is that it was not their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">95</a></span> -abilities nor their fame which drew Watts-Dunton -to Rossetti and to Swinburne, but his love of the -men themselves, and his own genius for friendship. -Being the men they were, he would first have been -drawn to them, and thereafter have come to love -them just as wholly and devotedly had they to the -end of their lives remained obscure.</p> - -<p>So far from seeking the company or the friendship -of the great, he delighted in making friends in -humble ranks of life.</p> - -<p>Anyone who has accompanied Watts-Dunton on -a morning walk will remember a call here at a cottage, -a shop, or it may be an inn where lived some -enthusiastic but poor lover of books, birds or -children, and the glad and friendly greetings that -were exchanged. If, as occasionally happened, -some great person—great in a social sense, I mean—happened -to be a caller at The Pines, when -perhaps a struggling young author, painter, or -musician, in whom Watts-Dunton was interested -or was trying to help, happened to be there, one -might be sure that, of the two, it would not be the -great man who would be accorded the warmer greeting -by Watts-Dunton and—after his marriage—by -his gracious, beautiful and accomplished young wife. -What he once said of Tennyson is equally true of -Watts-Dunton himself. “When I first knew -Tennyson,” he said, “I was, if possible, a more -obscure literary man than I now am, and he treated -me with exactly the same manly respect that he -treated the most illustrious people.” Watts-Dunton -who, in his poems and in his conversation, could -condense into a sentence what many of us could not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">96</a></span> -as felicitously convey in a page, puts the whole -matter into two words, “manly respect.” Unless -he had good cause to do otherwise, he, no less than -Tennyson, was prepared to treat others with -“manly respect,” irrespective of fame, riches, or -rank. That is the attitude neither entirely of the -aristocrat nor of the democrat, but of the gentleman -to whom what we call “snobbishness” is impossible.</p> - -<p>One more reason why Watts-Dunton’s contribution -to “Letters” in the publishers’ lists runs to no -greater extent than two volumes, is that so many -of his contributions to “Letters” took the form of -epistles to his friends. The writing of original, -characteristic and charming letters—brilliant by -reason of vivid descriptive passages, valuable because -used as a means of expressing criticism or conveying -knowledge—is an art now so little practised as -likely soon to be lost.</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton’s letter writing was possibly the -outcome of his habit of procrastination. To put -off the settling down in dead earnest to some work -which he felt ought to be done, but at which he -“shied,” he would suddenly remember a letter -which he thought should be penned. “I must write -So-and-so a line first,” he would say, which line, when -it came to be written, proved to be an essay in -miniature, in which he had—carelessly, and free -from the irking consciousness that he was writing -for publication and so must mind his words—thrown -off some of his weightiest and wisest thoughts. He -protested throughout his life that he was a wickedly -bad correspondent. None the less he wrote so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">97</a></span> -many charming and characteristic letters that, could -they—and why not?—be collected, they would add -yet another to the other reputations he attained.</p> - -<p>Swinburne, in recent years at least, did not share -his friend’s predilection for letter writing. The -author of <cite>Atalanta in Calydon</cite> once said to me, almost -bitterly, that had he in early and middle life refrained -from writing and from answering unnecessary -letters—unnecessary in the sense that there was no -direct call or claim upon him to write or to answer -them—there would be at least twelve more volumes -by him, and of his best, in the publishers’ lists. -One letter which arrived when I was a guest at The -Pines led Swinburne to expound his theory of -letter answering. It was from a young woman personally -unknown to him, and began by saying that -a great kindness he had once done to her father -emboldened her to ask a favour to herself—what it -was I now forget, but it necessitated a somewhat -lengthy reply.</p> - -<p>“The fact that I have been at some pains to serve -the father, so far from excusing a further claim by -the daughter, is the very reason why, by any -decent member of that family, I should not again be -assailed,” Swinburne expostulated.</p> - -<p>“She says,” he went on, “that she trusts I won’t -think she is asking too much, in hoping that I will -answer her letter—a letter which does not interest -me, nor concern me in the least. She could have got -the information, for which she asks, elsewhere with -very little trouble to herself and none to me. The -exasperating thing about such letters,” he continued, -getting more and more angry, “is this. I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98">98</a></span> -feel that the letter is an unwarrantable intrusion. -Out of consideration to her father I can’t very well -say so, as one does not wish to seem churlish. But, -in any sense, to answer her letter, necessitates -writing at length, thus wasting much precious time, -to say nothing of the chance of being dragged into -further correspondence. It is one’s impotency to -make such folk see things reasonably which irritates. -I have to suppress that irritation, and that results -in further irritation. I am irritated with myself for -being irritated, for not taking things philosophically -as Watts-Dunton does, as well as irritated with her, -and the result is the spoiling of a morning’s work. -She will say perhaps, and you may even say, ‘It is -only one letter you are asked to write.’ Quite so. -Not much, perhaps, to make a fuss about. But” -(he pounded the table with clenched fist angrily) -“multiply that one person by the many who so -write, and the net total works out to an appalling -waste of time.”</p> - -<p>My reply was to remind him of N. P. Willis’s protest -that to ask a busy author to write an unnecessary -letter was like asking a postman to go for a ten -miles’ walk—to which I added, “when he has -taken his boots off.” Swinburne had never heard -the saying, and, with characteristic veering of the -weather-vane of his mood, forgot alike his letter-writing -lady and his own irritation, in his delight -at a fellow sufferer’s happy hit.</p> - -<p>“Capital!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands -together gleefully. “Capital! The worm has -turned, and shows that, worm as he is, he is not -without a sting in his tail!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">99</a></span> -In his later years Swinburne wrote few letters -except to a relative, a very intimate friend, or upon -some pressing business. The uninvited correspondent -he rarely answered at all. For every letter that -Swinburne received, Watts-Dunton probably received -six, and sooner or later he answered all. The -amount of time that went in letters, which in no way -concerned his own work, or his own interests, and -were penned only out of kindness of heart, was -appalling. Had he refrained from writing letters -intended to hearten or to help some friend or some -young writer, or to soften a disappointment, the -books that are lost to us—a Life of Rossetti, for instance—might -well be to the good. If a book by -a friend happened to be badly slated in a critical -journal—and no calamity to a friend is borne with -more resignation and even cheerfulness by some of -us who “write” than a bad review of a friend’s -book—Watts-Dunton, if he chanced to see the -slating, would put work aside, and sit down then and -there to indite to that friend a letter which helped -and heartened him or her much more than the slating -had depressed. I have myself had letters from -fellow authors who told me they were moved to -express sympathy or indignation about this or that -bad review of one of my little books—the only effect -of their letter being to rub salt into the wound, and -to make one feel how widely one’s literary nakedness -or even literary sinning had been proclaimed -in the market place. Watts-Dunton’s letters not -only made one feel that the review in question -mattered nothing, but he would at the same time -find something to say about the merits of the work<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">100</a></span> -under review, which not only took the gall out of the -unfriendly critic’s ink, but had the effect of setting -one newly at work, cheered, relieved, and nerved to -fresh effort.</p> - -<p>I do not quote here any of these letters, as they -are concerned only with my own small writings, and -so would be of no interest to the reader. Instead, let -me quote one I received from him on another subject. -A sister of mine sent me a sonnet in memory of a -dead poet, a friend of Watts-Dunton’s and mine, and, -having occasion to write to him on another matter, -I enclosed it without comment. Almost by return -of post came the following note, in which he was at -the pains, unasked, to give a young writer the -benefit of his weighty criticism and encouragement:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“My thanks for sending me your sister’s lovely -sonnet. I had no idea that she was a genuine poet. -It is only in the seventh line where I see an opening -for improvement.</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To <i>a</i> great/darkness and/in a/great light.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">It is an error to suppose that when the old -scansion by quantity gave place to scansion by -accent, the quantitative demands upon a verse -became abrogated. A great deal of attention to -quantity is apparent in every first-rate <span class="locked">line—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sleepless soul that perished in its prime,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">where by making the accent and the quantity meet -(and quantity, I need not remind you, is a matter -of consonants quite as much as of vowels) all the -strength that can be got into an iambic English -verse is fixed there. Although, of course, it would -make a passage monotonous if in every instance<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">101</a></span> -quantity and accent were made to meet, those who -aim at the best versification give great attention -to it.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>This is one instance only out of many of his -interest in a young writer who was then personally -unknown to him; but in turning over for the -purpose of this article those letters of his, -which I have preserved, I have found so many -similar reminders of his great-heartedness that I am -moved once again to apply to Theodore Watts-Dunton -the words in which many years ago I dedicated -a book to him. They are from James Payn’s -<cite>Literary Recollections</cite>. “My experience of men of -letters is that for kindness of heart they have no -equal. I contrast their behaviour to the young and -struggling, with the harshness of the Lawyer, the -hardness of the Man of Business, the contempt of -the Man of the World, and am proud to belong to -their calling.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102">102</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_102">THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON<br /><br /> - -<span class="smaller">AS AN AMATEUR IN AUTHORSHIP AND<br /> -AS A GOOD FELLOW<br /><br /> - -<span class="smaller">TWO SIDES OF HIS MANY-SIDEDNESS</span></span></h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> one thing of all others upon which -Watts-Dunton set store was good-fellowship, -which he counted as of greater worth -even than genius. If ever he went critically astray, -if ever intellectually he overrated his man, it was -because he allowed his heart to outride his head. -Once convince him that this or that young writer -was a good fellow, and, born critic though he was, -even criticism went by the board in Watts-Dunton’s -intellectual estimate. If I illustrate this by a -personal experience it is not to speak of myself, -but because, though I have personal knowledge -of many similar instances, in this instance I have -the “documents” in the case before me. It concerns -the circumstances by which I first came to know -Watts-Dunton.</p> - -<p>In the New Year of 1885 there appeared the first -number of a weekly (afterwards a monthly) magazine -with the somewhat infelicitous if not feeble title -of <cite>Home Chimes</cite>. It was edited and owned by -F. W. Robinson, then a popular novelist. To the -first number Swinburne and Theodore Watts<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">103</a></span> -contributed poems, and in that now dead and forgotten -venture the early work of many men and -women who thereafter became famous is to be -found. For instance, Jerome K. Jerome’s <cite>Idle -Thoughts of an Idle Fellow</cite> as well as his <cite>Three -Men in a Boat</cite> first saw the light there. There, -much of Sir James Barrie’s early work appeared, -for I once heard the author of <cite>A Window in Thrums</cite> -say, though I do not suppose he meant to be taken -too seriously, that there was a time when to him -“London” meant the place where <cite>Home Chimes</cite> -was published. There, early work by Eden Phillpotts, -Israel Zangwill, G. B. Burgin, and a host of -others who have since “come into their own” -was printed, and there, I may say incidentally, part -of my own first little book appeared.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Robinson once said to me reminiscently, -“it is true that Jerome, Barrie, Phillpotts, Zangwill, -Burgin and yourself all more or less ‘came out’ -in <cite>Home Chimes</cite>, but I have my doubts sometimes -whether the whole of you ever raised the sale of the -magazine by so much as a number.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary,” I replied, “my own opinion -is that, between us, we killed it.”</p> - -<p>Be that as it may, Robinson lost heavily upon -<cite>Home Chimes</cite> and was hit even harder by the death -of the “three-decker”—I mean by the ousting of -novels in three volumes at thirty shillings in favour -of novels in one volume at six shillings. The change, -indeed, caused such a drop in his income that he -decided to look about him for another means of -livelihood outside literature, and when, soon after, -an Inspectorship of H.M. Prisons became vacant,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">104</a></span> -he decided to apply for the appointment. For -this he had special qualifications, as he had for years -closely and critically studied our Prison System -and had, in fact, written and published much upon -the subject. Knowing how eager he was, for pecuniary -reasons, to secure the appointment, and being -anxious to do what I could to assist his candidature -(I plead guilty to “log-rolling” in this most justifiable -instance), I asked the late Mr. Passmore -Edwards, proprietor and editor of the <cite>Echo</cite>, the -only halfpenny evening paper in those days, to -let me write a sketch of Robinson in the “Echo -Portrait Gallery” to which I was a contributor. In -this sketch—it was signed “C. K.” merely—I -touched, purposely, upon Robinson’s close study -and special knowledge of the workings and defects -of our Prison System. My article was seen by -Theodore Watts, who wrote Robinson a letter which -the latter sent on to me. It was as follows:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Robinson</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I have been delighted by a notice of you in -the <cite>Echo</cite>, which I am told is by Coulson Kernahan. -That must be a charming fellow who wrote it. Why -don’t you collect your loyal supporters around you -(there are only two of us, Kernahan and Watts) -over a little dinner at your Club?</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Yours ever,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Theodore Watts</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>“Robinson, if you had not been the most modest -and delicate-minded man in contemporary literature, -you would have trebled your fame and trebled your -income. That is what C. K. says of you, but I have -said it for a quarter of a century.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105">105</a></span> -This was the beginning of my long friendship -with Watts-Dunton, and I enter thus fully into -a merely trivial and personal matter for the reason -that the letter I have quoted is very characteristic -of the writer. “Good fellowship” was, I repeat, -the first article in Watts-Dunton’s creed. His very -religion was based upon it. He once said to me -that were it not that some good men and women -would see irreverence where he meant none, and of -which he was by temperament and by his very -sense of wonder incapable, he should like to write -an article “The Good-fellowship of God,” taking -as his text the lines of Omar Khayyám, in which the -old tent-maker speaks of those who picture a -“surly” God:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And daub His Visage with the Smoke of Hell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They talk of some strict testing of us—Pish!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s a Good Fellow and ’twill all be well.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“To word it thus may sound profanely to some -ears,” commented Watts-Dunton, “but old Khayyám -was only trying to express in his pagan way—though -I suspect there is as much of FitzGerald as of Omar -in the rendering—his belief in the loving Fatherhood -of God which is held by every Christian. In fact -‘good-fellowship’ stands to Shakespeare’s ‘cakes-and-ale’-loving, -and jolly fraternity, for the ‘Human -Brotherhood’ of which the stricter church and -chapel going folk speak, and I suspect that there -is sometimes less acrimony and a broader human -outlook over cakes and ale in an inn than there is -over urn-stewed tea, bread and butter and buns -in some of the Church or Chapel Tea-meetings that -went on when I was a boy.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106">106</a></span> -My article about Robinson was merely an attempt -to set out his qualifications for the post of Inspector -of Prisons. Those qualifications were many and -my space was limited. Hence the article was as -dull and stodgy a recital of facts as ever was written. -There was as much in it from which to infer that the -writer was a “charming fellow” as there is in a -rice pudding by which to prove that the cook can -sing divinely. But Robinson was a “good fellow.” -My article, among other things, made that at least -clear. According to the gospel of good-fellowship -as held by Watts-Dunton, a good fellow could be -appreciated only by a good fellow, just as he once -wrote to me, “My theory always is that a winsome -style in prose comes from a man whose heart is -good.” I had shown appreciation of his friend, -and, partisan and hero of friendship that he was, -he was willing to take the rest on trust. Rightly -to appreciate his friend was to win Watts-Dunton’s -heart at the start.</p> - -<p>One sometimes hears or sees it stated that Watts-Dunton -was indifferent alike to literary fame and to -criticism, adverse or favourable. No one who knew -him other than very slightly could think thus. -Watts-Dunton was, in scriptural phrase, “a man in -whom was no guile.” He was transparently -ingenuous of thought and purpose and did not -attempt to conceal his gratification at the success -of <cite>Aylwin</cite> or the pleasure which a discriminating -and sympathetic appreciation afforded him. This -only added to the respect and affection of his friends. -It would have wounded us to think that the man -we bore intellectually in such profound reverence,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">107</a></span> -personally in such deep affection, could play the -<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">poseur</i> and affect to despise the deserved success -and recognition which his work had won. W. E. -Henley is said to have thanked God that he had -“never suffered the indignity of a popular success.” -Henley deserved success, popular or otherwise, if -ever writer did, for he never stooped to do less than -his best, nor sought to achieve by shoddy means -the success which thus attained is indeed to be -despised. But a success deservedly won, even if a -so-called popular success, every writer in his heart -desires. To pretend otherwise is mere insincerity. -It is not “playing the game,” for even the pursuit -of Letters is none the worse for a touch of the -English sporting spirit. It is indeed the chief -reproach of those of us who follow the craft of -Letters that we are “artists” rather than sportsmen. -Englishmen fight the better and write the better -for seeing alike in writing and in fighting something -of a “game.”<a id="FNanchor_A" href="#Footnote_A" class="fnanchor">A</a> Literature is a race in which -every competitor hopes, and rightly, to come in -first. If he be fairly beaten on his merits, he will -admit and ungrudgingly, if a sportsman as well -as a writer, that the better man has won. This -does not mean he is content tamely to sit down -under defeat. It means, on the contrary, harder -work and severer training, so that on other occasions, -by redoubling his exertions, he himself may be the -man who wins on his merits. And if he fail again and -yet again, instead of sneering at the prize as worthless, -he will, if he ever heard it, recall the story of the -two artists. A very young painter, who afterwards<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108">108</a></span> -became great, stood in his obscure and struggling -days, when no one had heard his name or would -look at his pictures, before the greatest canvas of -the greatest painter of the time. The grandeur of -the work, alike in conception and in execution, -staggered him. Possibly there was despair at his -heart as he asked himself how could he, too poor -for proper opportunity of study, too poor even to -afford a model, or to buy oils, ever hope to emulate -such a masterpiece as this. But at least there was -at his heart no meanness, no envy, no disposition -to belittle or to grudge the other his high place. -Throwing back his head, with flashing eyes and a -throb in his voice he exclaimed proudly, radiantly, -“And I, too, am an artist!”</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_A" href="#FNanchor_A" class="fnanchor">A</a> This was penned before the war.</p></div> - -<p>But when Henley, who strained and strained -splendidly to carry off the first prize—and missed—belittles -its value, and would have us to believe -that he is better pleased to carry off “the last -event”—the “Consolation Prize”—of “never having -suffered the indignity of a popular success,” we -distrust his sportsmanship and his sincerity. Watts-Dunton -never posed after that manner. He was -glad of his success and proud of it. It was because -success, instead of increasing his literary stature -in his own eyes as not infrequently happens, only -made him increasingly modest and diffident, that -he was sometimes supposed to care nothing for -his literary laurels. In one respect his success -was something of a disappointment to him, not so -much because it illustrated the truth of Goethe’s -saying—nearer seventy than sixty as Watts-Dunton -was when he achieved that success—“the wished-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">109</a></span>for -comes too late,” but because it was not the success -he expected and to which he believed himself most -to be entitled.</p> - -<p>Mr. Douglas calls his book on Watts-Dunton -<cite>Theodore Watts-Dunton, Poet, Novelist, and Critic</cite>, -and the description and the order in which those -descriptions appear were of Watts-Dunton’s own -choosing. It was first as a poet, secondly as a -novelist, and only thirdly, if at all, as a critic, that -he wished and hoped to be remembered, whereas -those who held the balance of values in letters were -inclined to reverse that order and to place the critic -first and the poet last.</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton was—I would emphasise this -point strongly—an amateur in letters to the last, -never the professional “literary man.” It is -because he was by temperament the amateur, not -the professional, that he took his success so seriously -and did not conceal a certain almost childlike -gratification (which was not vanity) that it afforded -him. Your shrewd professional writer would have -spent less time in contemplation of his success, -and more in seeking how best to exploit and advertise -that success to his professional advantage.</p> - -<p>Watts-Dunton, on the contrary, took the success -of <cite>Aylwin</cite> very much as a young mother takes her -firstling. He dandled it, toyed with it, hugged it, -not altogether without something of the wonder -and the awe with which a fond mother regards her -firstborn. An amateur, as I say, and to the last he -could hardly believe his own ears, his own eyes, at -finding that his work had a high “market” value, -and that one publisher was ready to bid against<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">110</a></span> -another for his next book. Truth to tell he was not -a little flustered by it all. “Hostages to posterity” -of his sort carried responsibilities with them, not the -least of which was the expectation that he would -follow up <cite>Aylwin</cite> with other books. I remember -the portentous, almost troubled knitting of his -brows when perhaps a little maliciously I hinted that -it was no use his bringing out new editions of -<cite>Aylwin</cite>, or brooding over new prefaces for new -editions of the same novel. “What your public -and your publishers demand from you,” I said, -“is <cite>Aylwin’s</cite> successor, not new editions, but a new -book.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he said with deep meaning—no one could -put so much into an “ah” as he—and, figuratively, -collapsed.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">111</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_111" class="vspace">ONE ASPECT OF THE MANY-SIDEDNESS OF<br /> -THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap i"><span class="smcap1">I have</span> often been asked by those who did not -know Theodore Watts-Dunton what was the -secret of the singular power he appeared to -exercise over others and the equally singular affection -in which he was held by his friends.</p> - -<p>My answer was that Watts-Dunton’s hold upon -his friends, partly personal as it was and partly intellectual, -was chiefly due to his extraordinary -loyalty. Of old, certain men and women were supposed -to be possessed of the “evil eye.” Upon -whom they looked with intent—be it man, woman, -or beast—hurt was sooner or later sure to fall.</p> - -<p>If there be anything in the superstition, one might -almost believe that its opposite was true of Watts-Dunton. -He looked upon others merely to befriend, -and if he did not put upon them the spell, not of an -evil but of a good eye, he exercised a marvellous -personal power, not, as is generally the case, upon -weaker intellects and less marked personalities than -his own, but upon his peers; and even upon those -whom in the world’s eye would be accounted greater -than he. That any one man should so completely -control, and even dominate, two such intellects as -Swinburne and Rossetti seemed almost uncanny. -I never saw Rossetti and Watts-Dunton together,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">112</a></span> -for the former had been dead some years when I first -met Watts-Dunton, but my early literary friendships -were with members of the little circle of which -Rossetti was the centre, and all agree in their testimony -to the extraordinary personal power which -Watts-Dunton exercised over the poet-painter. But -Swinburne—and here I speak with knowledge—Watts-Dunton -absolutely dominated. It was, -“What does Walter say about it?” “Walter -thinks, and I agree with him, that I ought to do so -and so,” or, “Let us submit the matter to Watts-Dunton’s -unfailing judgment.”</p> - -<p>Here, for fear of a possible misunderstanding, let -me say that, if any reader assume from what I have -just written that Swinburne was something of a -weakling, that reader is very much mistaken. It is -true that the author of <cite>Atalanta in Calydon</cite> was a -greater force in intellect and in imagination than in -will power and character, but he was not in the -habit of deferring to others as he deferred to Watts-Dunton, -and when he chose to stand out upon some -point, or in some opinion, he was very difficult to -move. It was only, in fact, by Watts-Dunton that he -was entirely manageable, yet there was never any -effort, never even any intention on Watts-Dunton’s -part to impose his own will upon his friend. I have -heard his influence upon Swinburne described as -hypnotic. From that point of view I entirely dissent. -Watts-Dunton held his friends by virtue of his -genius for friendship—“Watts is a hero of friendship,” -Mr. William Michael Rossetti once said of -him—and by the passionate personal loyalty of -which I have never known the equal. By nature<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">113</a></span> -the kindest of men, shrinking from giving pain to -any living creature, he could be fierce, even ferocious, -to those who assailed his friends. It was, indeed, -always in defence of his friends, rarely if ever in -defence of himself—though he was abnormally -sensitive to adverse criticism—that he entered into -a quarrel and, since dead friends could not defend -themselves, he constituted himself the champion of -their memory or of their reputation, and even -steeled himself on more than one occasion to a break -with a living friend rather than endure a slight to -one who was gone. “To my sorrow,” he writes in -a letter, “I was driven to quarrel with a man I -loved and who loved me, William Minto, because -he, with no ill intentions, printed certain injurious -comments upon Rossetti which he found in Bell -Scott’s papers.”</p> - -<p>It was my own misfortune, deservedly or undeservedly, -to have a somewhat similar experience -to that of Professor Minto; but in my case the -estrangement, temporary only as it was, included -Swinburne as well as Watts-Dunton. In telling the -story, and for the first time here, I must not be -supposed for one moment to imagine that any -importance attaches or could attach to a misunderstanding -between such men as Swinburne and -Watts-Dunton and a scribbler of sorts like myself, -but because a third great name, that of Robert -Buchanan, comes into it.</p> - -<p>It is concerned with Buchanan’s attack upon -Rossetti in the famous article <cite>The Fleshly School -of Poetry</cite>, which appeared anonymously (worse—pseudonymously) -in the <cite>Contemporary Review</cite>. Not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">114</a></span> -long after Buchanan’s death I was asked to review -Mr. Henry Murray’s <cite>Robert Buchanan and other -Essays</cite> in a critical journal, which I did, and -Swinburne and Watts-Dunton chanced to see the -article. To say that they took exception to what -I said about Buchanan, would be no description of -their attitude, for Swinburne not only took exception -but took offence and of the direst—so much so -as to make it necessary that for a season I should -discontinue my visits to The Pines.</p> - -<p>And here let me interpolate that I entirely agree -with Mr. James Douglas when he says in his volume, -<cite>Theodore Watts, Poet, Novelist and Critic</cite>, “It would -be worse than idle to enter at this time of the day -upon the painful subject of the Buchanan affair. -Indeed, I have often thought it is a great pity that -it is not allowed to die out.” But when in the next -sentence Mr. Douglas goes on to say, “The only -reason why it is still kept alive seems to be that, -without discussing it, it is impossible fully to understand -Rossetti’s nervous illness about which so -much has been said,” I am entirely out of agreement -with him, as the quotation which I make from -my article will show. Since Mr. Douglas <em>has</em> reopened -the matter—he could hardly do otherwise -in telling the story of Watts-Dunton’s literary life—I -have the less hesitation in reprinting part of the -article in which I endeavoured to clear Buchanan -of what I held, and still hold, to be a preposterous -charge. I may add that I quite agree with Mr. -Douglas when he says that we must remember “the -extremely close intimacy which existed between -these two poet friends (Rossetti and Watts-Dunton)<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">115</a></span> -in order to be able to forgive entirely the unexampled -scourging of Buchanan in the following -sonnet, if, as some writers think, Buchanan was -meant.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Douglas then quotes the sonnet <cite>The Octopus -of the Golden Isles</cite>, which I do not propose -here to reprint. That Buchanan was meant is now -well known, and in fact Mr. Douglas himself says -in the same chapter that Watts-Dunton’s definition -of envy as the “literary leprosy” has often been -quoted in reference to the case of Buchanan. My -article on Buchanan is too long to give in its entirety, -and, even omitting the passages with no -direct bearing upon the misunderstanding which it -caused, is lengthier than I could wish. My apology -is, first, that in justice to Watts-Dunton and to Swinburne -I must present their case against me ungarbled. -Moreover, as the foolish bogey-story—like -an unquiet ghost which still walks the world -unlaid—that Buchanan was the cause of Rossetti -taking to drugs, the cause even of Rossetti’s death, -is still repeated, and sometimes believed, I am not -sorry of another and last attempt to give the bogey -its <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">quietus</i>. Here are the extracts from my article:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“Mr. Murray quotes evidently with appreciation -Buchanan’s tribute to his ancient enemy Rossetti, -I do not share Mr. Murray’s appreciation, for -Buchanan’s tribute has always seemed to me more -creditable to his generosity than to his judgment. -He speaks of Rossetti as ‘in many respects -the least carnal and most religious of modern -poets.’</p> - -<p>“Here he goes to as great an extreme as when he so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116">116</a></span> -savagely attacked Rossetti as ‘fleshly.’ About -this attack much nonsense has been written. We -have been told that it was the cause of Rossetti’s -taking to chloral; and I have heard even Rossetti’s -death laid at Buchanan’s door. To my thinking -talk of that sort is sheer nonsense. If Rossetti took -to chloral because Buchanan called his poetry -‘fleshly,’ Rossetti would sooner or later have taken -to chloral, had Buchanan’s article never been -written. But when Buchanan in the fulness of his -remorse calls Rossetti ‘the most religious of modern -poets’ he is talking equally foolishly.</p> - -<p>“Rossetti ‘the most religious of modern poets’! -Why, Rossetti’s religion was his art. To him art -was in and of herself pure, sacred, and inviolate. -By him the usual order of things was reversed. It -was religion which was the handmaid, art the -mistress, and in fact it was only in so far as religion -appealed to his artistic instincts that Rossetti can -be said to have had any religion at all.</p> - -<p>“And when Buchanan sought to exalt Rossetti to -a pinnacle of purity he was guilty of a like extravagance. -That Rossetti’s work is always healthy not -even his most enthusiastic admirers could contend. -Super-sensuous and southern in the warmth of -colouring nearly all his poems are. Some of them -are heavy with the overpowering sweetness as of -many hyacinths. The atmosphere is like that of a -hothouse in which, amid all the odorous deliciousness, -we gasp for a breath of the outer air again. -There are passages in his work which remind us far -more of the pagan temple than of the Christian -cloister, passages describing sacred rites which pertain -not to the worship of the Virgin, but to the -worship of Venus.</p> - -<p>“Buchanan was a man who lived heart and soul in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">117</a></span> -the mood of the moment. He had a big brain which -was quick to take fire, and at such times, both in his -controversies and in his criticism, he was apt to -express himself with an exaggeration at which in -his cooler hours he would have been the first to hurl -his Titanic ridicule.</p> - -<p>“It may seem ungenerous to say so, but even his -beautiful dedicatory poem to Rossetti strikes me -as a lapse into false sentiment.</p> - -<p class="p2 center"><i>To An Old Enemy</i></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I would have snatched a bay-leaf from thy brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In peace and tenderness I bring thee now<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A lily-flower instead.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pure as thy purpose, blameless as thy song,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sweet as thy spirit may this offering be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And take the gift from me.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“After Rossetti’s death, ten months later, Buchanan -added the following lines:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Calmly, thy royal robe of Death around thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou sleepest, and weeping brethren round thee stand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gently they placed, ere yet God’s angel crowned thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My lily in thy hand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I never saw thee living, oh, my brother,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But on thy breast my lily of love now lies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And by that token we shall know each other,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When God’s voice saith ‘Arise!’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“That this is very beautiful every one will admit, -but is it true to picture those who most loved Rossetti -as placing Buchanan’s lily of song in his dead -hand? I think not. Nor can those who know anything -of the last days of Rossetti reconcile the facts<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">118</a></span> -with Buchanan’s imaginary picture of a sort of -celestial assignation in which, by means of a lily, -Rossetti and his ancient enemy and brother poet -shall identify each other on the Last Day?</p> - -<p>“I am well aware that I shall be accused of bad -taste, even of brutality, in saying this; but, as Mr. -Murray himself alludes to this ancient quarrel, I -must protest that false sentiment is equally abhorrent—as -Buchanan would have been the first to -admit. Now that Buchanan has followed Rossetti -where all enmities are at an end, it is right that the -truth about the matter be spoken, and this unhappy -assault and its not altogether happy sequel -be alike forgotten.</p> - -<p>“Robert Buchanan’s last resting-place is within -sight of the sea. And rightly so. It is his own heart -that Old Ocean seems most to wear away in his -fretting and chafing, and the wearing away of their -own heart is the most appreciable result of the warfare -which such men as Buchanan wage against the -world.</p> - -<p>“That he did not fulfil his early promise, that he -frittered away great gifts to little purpose, is pitifully -true, but if he flung into the face of the men -whom he counted hypocrites and charlatans, words -which scorched like vitriol, he had, for the wounded -in life’s battle, for the sinning, the suffering, and the -defeated, words of helpful sympathy and an outstretched -hand of practical help.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Murray has shown Buchanan to us as he was; -no hero perhaps, certainly not a saint, but a man of -great heart and great brain, quick to quarrel, but as -quick to own himself in the wrong; a man intensely, -passionately human, with more than one -man’s share of humanity’s weaknesses and of -humanity’s strength, a sturdy soldier in the cause<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">119</a></span> -of freedom, a fierce foe, a generous friend, and a -poet who, in regard to that rarest of all gifts, ‘vision,’ -had scarcely an equal among his contemporaries.</p> - -<p>“I must conclude by a serious word with Mr. -Murray. Disagree with him as one may and must, -one cannot but admire his fearless honesty. None -the less I am of opinion that in the following passage -Mr. Murray’s own pessimism has led him to do his -dead friend’s memory a grievous injustice.</p> - -<p>“‘From the broken arc we may divine the perfect -round, and it is my fixed belief that, had the subtle -and cruel malady which struck him down but spared -him for a little longer time, he would logically have -completed the evolution of so many years, and have -definitely proclaimed himself as an agnostic, perhaps -even as an atheist.’</p> - -<p>“Mr. Murray’s personal knowledge of Buchanan -was intimate, even brotherly; mine, though dating -many years back, was comparatively slight. But -I have read Buchanan’s books, and I know something -of the spirit in which he lived and worked, and -I am convinced that Mr. Murray is wrong. It is not -always those who have come nearest to the details -of a man’s daily life, who have come nearest to him -in spirit, as Amy Levy knew well when she wrote -those lines, <cite>To a Dead Poet</cite>, which I shall be -pardoned for bringing to my readers’ remembrance:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I knew not if to laugh or weep:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They sat and talked of you—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas here he sat: ’twas this he said,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Twas that he used to do.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Here is the book wherein he read,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The room wherein he dwelt;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he’ (they said) ‘was such a man,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Such things he thought and felt.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">120</a></span></p> -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I sat and sat, I did not stir;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They talked and talked away.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was as mute as any stone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I had no word to say.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They talked and talked; like to a stone<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My heart grew in my breast—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I, who had never seen your face,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Perhaps I knew you best.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Buchanan was, as every poet is, a creature of -mood, and in certain black moods he expressed -himself in language that was open to an atheistic -interpretation. There were times when he was -confronted by the fact that, to human seeming, -iniquity prospered, righteousness went to the wall, -and injustice, vast and cruel, seemed to rule the -world. To the Christian belief that the Cross -of Christ is the only key to the terrible problem -of human suffering, Buchanan was unable to subscribe, -and at times he was tempted to think -that the Power at the head of things must be -evil, not good. It seems to me that at such times -he would cry out in soul-travail, ‘No! no! anything -but that! If there be a God at all He must be -good. Before I would do God the injustice of believing -in an evil God, I would a thousand times -sooner believe in no God at all!’ Then the mood -passed; the man’s hope and belief in an unseen -beneficent Power returned, but the sonnet in which -he had given expression to that mood remained. -And because the expression of that mood was permanent, -Mr. Murray forgets that it was no more -than the expression of a mood, and tells us that he -believes, had Buchanan lived longer, he would have -become an atheist.</p> - -<p>“Again I say that I believe Mr. Murray to be -wrong. Buchanan, like his own Wandering Jew,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121">121</a></span> -trod many dark highways and byways of death, but -he never remained—he never could have remained—in -that Mortuary of the Soul, that cul-de-sac of -Despair which we call Atheism.</p> - -<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div> - -<p>“This is not the place in which to say it, but perhaps -my editor will allow me to add how keenly I -felt, as I stood by the graveside of Robert Buchanan -in that little God’s acre by the sea, the inadequacy -of our Burial Service, beautiful as it is, in the case -of one who did not profess the Christian faith. To -me it seemed little less than a mockery to him who -has gone, as well as a torture to those who remain, -that words should be said over his dead body which, -living, he would have repudiated.</p> - -<p>“Over the body of one whose voice is silenced by -death, we assert the truth of doctrines which living -he had unhesitatingly rejected. It is as if we would, -coward-like, claim in death what was denied us in -life.</p> - -<p>“In the case of a man whose beliefs were those of -Robert Buchanan, how much more seemly it would -be to lay him to rest with some such words as these:</p> - -<p>“‘To the God from Whom he came, we commend -this our friend and brother in humanity, trusting -that what in life he has done amiss, may in death be -forgotten and forgiven; that what in life he has -done well, may in death be borne in remembrance. -And so from out our human love, into the peace of -the Divine love, we commend him, leaving him with -the God from Whom, when we in our turn come to -depart whither he has gone, we hope to receive like -pardon, forgiveness and peace. In God’s hands, to -God’s love and mercy, we leave him.’”</p></blockquote> - -<p>Re-reading this article many years after it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122">122</a></span> -written, I see nothing in it to which friendship or -even affection for either Rossetti or Buchanan could -reasonably object.</p> - -<p>This was not the view taken by Swinburne and -Watts-Dunton. It so happened that I encountered -the latter in the Strand a morning or two later, and -more in sadness than in anger he reproached me with -“disloyalty to Gabriel, disloyalty to Algernon, and -disloyalty to myself.”</p> - -<p>I replied that touching Rossetti, as he did not -happen to be the King, had never so much as heard -of my small existence, nor had I ever set eyes upon -him, to accuse me of disloyalty to him, to whom -I owed no loyalty, struck me as a work of supererogation. -And, as touching Swinburne and Watts-Dunton -himself, honoured as I was by the high -privilege of their friendship, I could not admit that -that friendship committed me to a blind partisanship -and to the identification of myself with their -literary likings or dislikings or their personal -quarrels.</p> - -<p>My rejection of the penitential rôle, to say nothing -of my refusing to take the matter seriously, seemed -to surprise and to trouble Watts-Dunton. While -protesting the regard of every one at The Pines -for me personally, he gave me to understand that -Swinburne in particular was so wounded by my -championship as he called it of Buchanan, that he -would have some trouble in making my peace in -that quarter, and even hinted that an arrangement, -by which I was either to lunch or to dine at The -Pines within the next few days, had better stand -over.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">123</a></span> -Naturally I replied—I could hardly do otherwise, -as I did not see my way without insincerity to express -regret for what I had written about Buchanan, -though I did express regret that it had given offence -to Swinburne and himself—that that must be as he -chose, and so we parted, sadly on my side if not on -his; and I neither saw nor heard from anyone at -The Pines for some little time after. Then one -morning came the following letter:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">Don’t think any more of that unpleasant -little affair. Of course neither Swinburne nor I -expect our friends, however loyal, to take part in -the literary quarrels that may be forced upon us. -But this man had the character <em>among men who -knew him well</em> of being the most thorough sweep, -and to us it did seem queer to see your honoured -name associated with such a man. But, after all, -even he may not have been as black as his acquaintances -painted him. Your loyalty to us I do not -doubt.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Yours affectionately,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Theodore Watts-Dunton</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>This was followed by a wire—from Swinburne—asking -me to lunch, which I need hardly say I was -glad to accept, and so my relationship to the inmates -of The Pines returned to its old footing.</p> - -<p>Since it was Swinburne much more than Watts-Dunton -who so bitterly resented what I had written -of Buchanan, I am glad to have upon my shelves a -volume of <cite>Selections from Swinburne</cite>, published<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124">124</a></span> -after his death, and edited by Watts-Dunton. The -book was sent to me by the Editor, and was inscribed:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="center"> -“To Coulson Kernahan, -</p> - -<p class="in0">whom Swinburne dearly loved, and who as -dearly loved him.</p> - -<p class="center"> -From Theodore Watts-Dunton.” -</p></blockquote> - -<p>My unhappy connection with the “Buchanan -affair” had, it will be seen, passed entirely from -Swinburne’s memory, and indeed the name of Robert -Buchanan, who was something of a disturbing -element even in death, as he had been in life, was -never mentioned among us again. How entirely -the, to me, distressing if brief rift in my friendship -with Watts-Dunton—a friendship which I shall -always count one of the dearest privileges of my -life—was closed and forgotten, is clear from the -following letter. It was written in reply to a telegram -I sent, congratulating him on celebrating his -81st birthday—the last birthday on earth, alas, -of one of the most generous and great-hearted of -men:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">The Pines, Putney, S.W.</span><br /> -<span class="l2"><i>Oct. 20th, 1913.</i></span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">Your telegram congratulating me upon -having reached my 81st birthday affected me deeply. -Ever since the beginning of our long intimacy I have -had from you nothing but generosity and affection, -almost unexampled, I think, between two literary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">125</a></span> -men. My one chagrin is that I can get only glimpses -of you of the briefest kind. Your last visit here was -indeed a red-letter day. Don’t forget when occasion -offers to come and see us. Your welcome will be of -the most heartfelt kind.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Most affectionately yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Theodore Watts-Dunton</span> -</p></blockquote> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">126</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_126" class="vspace">THE LAST DAYS OF THEODORE<br /> -WATTS-DUNTON</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> pathetic side of the last two or three -years of Watts-Dunton’s life was that he -had outlived nearly every friend of youth -and middle age, and, with the one or two old friends -of his own generation who survived, he had lost -touch. Tennyson, Rossetti, Swinburne, William -Morris, Browning, Matthew Arnold, Borrow, William -Black, Dr. Gordon Hake, Westland and Philip -Marston, Jowett, Louise Chandler Moulton, William -Sharp, James Russell Lowell, George Meredith, were -gone. Mr. William Rossetti, the only one of the old -fraternity left, now rarely, he tells me, leaves his -own home. In any case he and Watts-Dunton had -not met for years. Mr. Edmund Gosse, once a -frequent and always an honoured visitor to The -Pines, was rarely if ever there during the years that -I came and went.</p> - -<p>It was between Swinburne and Mr. Gosse that the -intimacy existed, though by both the inmates he -was to the last held in high regard. Mr. Gosse would -have the world to believe that he grows old, but no -one who knows him either personally or by his -writings can detect any sign of advancing years. On -the contrary, both in the brilliance of his personality -and of his later intellectual achievements, he appears<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127">127</a></span> -to possess the secret of eternal youth. It was -neither oncoming years nor any lessening of friendship -between him and Swinburne which was responsible -for Mr. Gosse’s defection, but the fact that he -had added to his other duties that of Librarian to -the House of Lords. This, and his many and increasing -official and literary activities, kept, and -keep him closely occupied, and so it was that his -name gradually, insensibly, dropped out of the list -of visitors at The Pines.</p> - -<p>Mr. Thomas Hake was with Watts-Dunton to the -end, and indeed it was not a little due to the help of -“The Colonel” (the name by which from his boyhood -Mr. Hake was known at The Pines on -account of his cousinship with and his likeness to -Colonel, afterwards General Charles Gordon) that -Watts-Dunton accomplished so much literary work -in his last decade. Some of the younger men, Mr. -Clement Shorter, accompanied now and then by -his poet-wife, Mr. James Douglas, Mr. Henniker-Heaton, -Dr. Arthur Compton-Rickett, and Mr. F. G. -Bettany, remained in touch with The Pines until -Watts-Dunton’s death. I met none of them there -myself, as after I went to live a long way -from London my own visits were less frequent, -and being a friend of older standing, with -memories in common which none of the newer -friends whom I have mentioned shared, it was -generally arranged that I was the only guest. That -there was no forgetfulness or lessening of friendship -on Watts-Dunton’s part towards the friends whom -he now rarely met, is evident by the following extract -from a letter in reply to a question on my part<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128">128</a></span> -whether it would be possible for him to be my guest -at one of the Whitefriars’ Club weekly gatherings.</p> - -<p>“I should look forward,” he said, “to seeing some -of the truest and best friends I have in the world, -including yourself, Robertson Nicoll, Richard Whiteing, -and Clement Shorter. And when you tell me -that F. C. Gould is a Friar (the greatest artistic -humorist now living in England) I am tempted indeed -to run counter to my doctor’s injunctions -against dining out this winter.</p> - -<p>“The other day I had the extreme good luck to -find and buy the famous lost water-colour drawing -of the dining-room at 16 Cheyne Walk, with Rossetti -reading out to me the proofs of <cite>Ballads and -Sonnets</cite>. I am sending photographs of it to one or -two intimate friends, and I enclose you one. The -portrait of Rossetti is the best that has ever been -taken of him.”</p> - -<p>Of all the friendships which Watts-Dunton formed -late in life none was so prized by him as that with -Sir William Robertson Nicoll. As it was I who made -the two known to each other, and in doing so, removed -an unfortunate and what might have been -permanent misunderstanding, I may perhaps be -pardoned for referring to the matter here.</p> - -<p>The name of Sir William coming up one day in a -conversation, I discovered to my surprise that -Watts-Dunton was feeling sore about some disparaging -remark which Sir William was supposed -to have made about him. I happened to know how -the misunderstanding came about, and I told Watts-Dunton -the following true story, illustrating how -easily such misunderstandings arise, and illustrating<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">129</a></span> -too the petty and “small beer” side of “literary -shop” gossip. It concerned an editor and an -author. The author employed a literary agent, who -offered the editor one of the author’s stories. “I -have set my face against the middleman in literature,” -the editor replied. “If Mr. —— likes to offer -me his story direct, I’ll gladly take it, and pay his -usual price per thousand words, but buy it through -an agent I won’t.”</p> - -<p>This came to the ears of the author, who remarked: -“That’s rather unreasonable on ——’s -part. I buy, through an agent, the periodical he -edits. I don’t expect him to stand in the gutter, like -a newsboy, selling me his paper himself at a street -corner, and I don’t see why he should object to -my offering him my wares by means of an -agent.”</p> - -<p>This not unfriendly remark was overheard by -some one, who told it to some one else, who repeated -it to another person, that person in his turn passing -it on, and so it went the round of Fleet Street and -certain literary clubs. The copper coinage of petty -personal gossip, unlike the pound sterling coin of the -realm, becomes magnitudinally greater, instead of -microscopically less, by much circulation. Instead -of infinitesimal attritions, as in the case of the coin, -there are multitudinous accretions, until the story -as it ultimately started life, and the story as it afterwards -came to be told, would hardly recognise each -other, at sight, as blood relatives. By the time the -innocent remark of the author came to the ears of -the editor concerned, it had so grown and become -so garbled, that its own father would never have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">130</a></span> -known it. “Have you heard what So-and-so the -author said about you?” the editor was asked. -“He said that he hoped to live to see you in the -gutter, selling at the street corner the very paper -you now edit.” Not unnaturally the editor’s retort -was uncomplimentary to the author, who, when the -retort came to his ears, expressed an opinion about -the editor which was concerned with other matters -than the editorial objection to the middleman in -literature, and so a misunderstanding (fortunately -long since removed) arose in good earnest.</p> - -<p>I should not put this chronicle of journalistic -small beer—a version as it is of the famous Three -Black Crows story—on record, were it not that it -was exactly in the same way that an innocent remark -of Sir William Robertson Nicoll’s had been -misrepresented to Watts-Dunton. This I did my -best to explain to the latter, but not feeling as sure -as I wished to be that all soreness was removed, I -asked him to lunch with me at the Savage Club, and -then invited Dr. Nicoll, as he then was, to meet him. -There was at first just a suspicion of an armed truce -about Watts-Dunton, in whose memory the supposed -attack upon himself was still smouldering, but -his interest and pleasure in the conversation of a -student and scholar of like attainments to his own -soon dispelled the stiffness. A chance but warmly -affectionate reference to Robertson Smith by Dr. -Nicoll drew from Watts-Dunton that long-drawn -“Ah!” which those who knew him well remember -as meaning that he was following with profound -attention and agreement what was being -said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131">131</a></span> -“Why, I knew that man—one of the salt of the -earth,” he interpolated. Then he added gravely, -more reminiscently than as if addressing anyone, -“I had affection for him!” Leaning over the table, -his singularly brilliant and penetrating eyes full -upon the other, he said almost brusquely, “Tell me -what you knew of Robertson Smith!”</p> - -<p>Dr. Nicoll responded, and within five minutes’ time -the two of them were talking together, comparing -notes and exchanging experiences and confidences -like old friends. As we were parting, Watts-Dunton -said to me:</p> - -<p>“You are coming to lunch on Monday. I wish -I could persuade our friend Nicoll here to accompany -you, so that Swinburne could share the -pleasure of such another meeting as we have had -here to-day.”</p> - -<p>The invitation was accepted by Dr. Nicoll with -the cordiality with which it was offered, and I may -add with the usual result, for the intervener. “Patch -up a quarrel between two other persons—and find -yourself left out in the cold,” Oscar Wilde once -said to me. I had merely removed a misunderstanding, -not patched up a quarrel, but the result of my -bringing Watts-Dunton, Nicoll, and Swinburne -together was that, on the occasion of the first meeting -of all three, they had so much to talk about, and -talked about it so furiously, that I had cause to -ask myself whether the “two” in the proverb should -not be amended to “three,” so as to read “Three’s -company; four’s none.” Thereafter, and to his -life’s end, Watts-Dunton could never speak too -gratefully or too appreciatively of Sir William<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132">132</a></span> -Robertson Nicoll. He came indeed to hold the -latter’s judgment alike in literature and scholarship, -as in other matters, in the same admiration with -which Swinburne held the judgment of Watts-Dunton -himself.</p> - -<p>Thus far it is only of Watts-Dunton’s friends that -I have written, reserving the last place in my list, -which in this case is the first in precedence, for the -only name with which it is fitting that, in my final -word, his name should be coupled. I have said that -the pathetic side of his later years was that he had -outlived so many of the men and women he loved. -To outlive one’s nearest and dearest friends must -always be poignant and pathetic, but in other respects -Watts-Dunton’s life was a full and a happy -one, and never more so than in these later years, for -it was then that the one who was more than friend, -the woman he so truly loved, who as truly loved -him, became his wife. In his marriage, as in his -friendships, Watts-Dunton was singularly fortunate. -Husband and wife entertained each for the other, -and to the last, love, reverence and devotion. If -to this Mrs. Watts-Dunton added exultant, even -jealous pride in her husband’s intellect, his great -reputation and attainments, he was even more -proud of her beauty and accomplishments, and his -one anxiety was that she should never know a care. -When last I saw them together—married as they -had then been for many years—it was evident that -Watts-Dunton had lost nothing of the wonder, the -awe, perhaps even the perplexity, with which from -his boyhood and youth he had regarded that mystery -of mysteries—womanhood. His love for her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133">133</a></span> -was deep, tender, worshipping and abiding, albeit -it had something of the fear with which one might -regard some exquisite wild bird which, of its own -choice, comes to the cage, and, for love’s sake, is -content to forgo its native woodland, content even -to rest with closed wings within the cage, while -without comes continually the call to the green field, -the great hills and the glad spaces between sea and -sky. Be that as it may, this marriage between a -young and beautiful woman—young enough and -beautiful enough to have stood for a picture of his -adored Sinfi Lovell of <cite>Aylwin</cite>, whom, in her own -rich gypsy type of beauty, Mrs. Watts-Dunton -strangely resembled—and a poet, novelist, critic -and scholar who was no longer young, no longer -even middle-aged, was from first to last a happy one. -It is with no little hesitation that I touch even thus -briefly and reverently upon a relationship too sacred -and too beautiful for further words. Even this -much I should not have said were it not that, in -marriages where some disparity of age exists, the -union is not always as fortunate, and were it not also -that I know my friend would wish that his love and -gratitude to the devoted wife, who made his married -years so supremely glad and beautiful, should not -go unrecorded.</p> - -<p>The last time I saw Watts-Dunton alive was -shortly before his death. I had spent a long -afternoon with Mrs. Watts-Dunton and himself, -and at night he and I dined alone, as his wife -had an engagement. In my honour he produced a -bottle of his old “Tennyson” port, lamenting that -he could not join me as the doctor had limited him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134">134</a></span> -to soda-water or barley-water. When I told him -that I had recently been dining in the company of -Sir Francis Carruthers Gould, and that “F. C. G.” -had described soda-water as “a drink without a -soul,” Watts-Dunton was much amused. But, his -soulless drink notwithstanding, I have never known -him talk more brilliantly. He rambled from one -subject to another, not from any lack of power to -concentrate or lack of memory, but because his -memory was so retentive and so co-ordinating that -the mention of a name touched, as it were, an electric -button in his memory, which called up other associations.</p> - -<p>And by rambling I do not mean that he was discursive -or vague. No matter how wide his choice of -subject, one was conscious of a sense of unity in all -that Watts-Dunton said. Religion might by others, -and for the sake of convenience, be divided into -creeds, Philosophy into schools of thought, Science -into separate headings under the names of Astronomy, -Geology, Zoology, Botany, Physics, Chemistry -and the like, but by him all these were considered -as component parts—the one dovetailing into the -other—of a perfect whole. One was conscious of no -disconnection when the conversation slid from this -science, that philosophy, or religion, to another, for -as carried on by him, it was as if he were presenting -to the observer’s eye merely different facets of the -precious and single stone of truth. His was not the -rambling talk of old age, for more or less rambling -his talk had been ever since I had known him.</p> - -<p>It was due partly also to his almost infinite knowledge -of every subject under the sun. The mere<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">135</a></span> -mention of a science, of a language, of a system of -philosophy, of a bird, a flower, a star, was, as it were, -a text upon which he would base one of his wonderful -and illuminating disquisitions. His grasp of first -principles was so comprehensive that he was able -in a few words to present them boldly and clearly -for the hearer’s apprehension, whence he would pass -on to develop some new line of thought. His interests -were to the last so eager and youthful, that -even comparatively unessential side-issues—as he -spoke of them—suddenly opened up into new and -fascinating vistas, down which the searchlight of -his imagination would flash and linger, before passing -on, from point to point, to the final goal of his -thought.</p> - -<p>Rossetti often said that no man that ever he met -could talk with the brilliancy, beauty, knowledge, -and truth of Watts-Dunton, whose very “improvisation” -in conversation Rossetti described as -“perfect” as a “fitted jewel.” Rossetti deplored, -too, on many occasions his “lost” conversations -with the author of <cite>Aylwin</cite>—lost because only by -taking them down in shorthand, as spoken, could -one remember the half of what was said, its incisive -phrasing, its flashing metaphors and similes, and the -“fundamental brain work” which lay at the back -of all.</p> - -<p>I am always glad to remember that on this, my -last meeting with Watts-Dunton, he was—though -evidently weakening and ailing in body—intellectually -at his best. He revived old memories of -Tennyson, Rossetti, Browning, Lowell, Morris, -Matthew Arnold, and many another. He dwelt<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">136</a></span> -lovingly once again but with new insight upon the -first awakening of the wonder-sense in man, and -how this wonder-sense—the beginning whether in -savage or in highly civilised races of every form of -religion—passed on into worship. Our intercourse -that evening was in fact more of a monologue, on his -part, than of the usual conversation between two old -friends, with interests and intimates in common. -I was indeed glad that it should be so, first because -Watts-Dunton, like George Meredith (whose talk, -though I only heard it once, struck me if more -scintillating also as more self-conscious), was a compelling -and fascinating conversationalist, and -secondly because his slight deafness made the usual -give-and-take of conversation difficult.</p> - -<p>Not a little of his talk that night was of his wife, -his own devotion to her, and the unselfishness of -her devotion to him. He spoke of Louise Chandler -Moulton, “that adorable woman,” as he called her, -whom Swinburne held to be the truest woman-poet -that America has given us. He charged me to carry -his affectionate greetings to Robertson Nicoll. -“Only I wish I could see more of him,” he added. -“It’s hard to see so seldom the faces one longs to -see.”</p> - -<p>And then, more faithful in memory to the dead -friends of long ago than any other man or woman -I have known, he spoke movingly of “our Philip,” -his friend and mine, Philip Marston. Then he took -down a book from a little bookshelf which hung to -the right of the sofa on which he sat, and, turning -the pages, asked me to read aloud Marston’s -Sonnet to his dead love:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">137</a></span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It must have been for one of us, my own,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had not my tears upon thy face been shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy tears had dropped on mine; if I alone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My loneliness; and did my feet not tread<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To think of thine eternity of sleep;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To know thine eyes are tearless though mine weep.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when this cup’s last bitterness I drain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou hadst the peace, and I the undying pain.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>His only comment on the poem was that long and -deeply-breathed “Ah!” which meant that he had -been profoundly interested, perhaps even profoundly -stirred. Often it was his only comment when Swinburne, -head erect, eyes ashine, and voice athrill, had -in the past stolen into the same room—noiseless in -his movements, even when excited—to chaunt to us -some new and noble poem, carried like an uncooled -bar of glowing iron direct from the smithy of his -brain, and still intoning and vibrating with the deep -bass of the hammer on the anvil, still singing the -red fire-song of the furnace whence it came.</p> - -<p>We sat in silence for a space, and then Watts-Dunton -said:</p> - -<p>“Our Philip was not a great, but at least he -was a true poet, as well as a loyal friend and a -right good fellow. He is almost forgotten now by -the newer school, and among the many new voices, -but Louise Chandler Moulton and Will Sharp, and -others of us, have done what we could to keep his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">138</a></span> -memory green. We loved him, as Gabriel and Algernon -loved him, our beautiful blind poet-boy.”</p> - -<p>When soon after I rose reluctantly to go, a change -seemed to come over Watts-Dunton. The animation -faded out of voice and face, and was replaced -by something like anxiety, almost like pain.</p> - -<p>“Must you go, dear fellow, must you go?” he -asked sorrowfully. “There is a bed all ready -prepared, for we’d hoped you’d stay the night.”</p> - -<p>I explained that I was compelled to return to -Hastings that evening, as I had to start on a journey -early next morning. Perhaps I had let him overexert -himself too much in conversation. Perhaps -he had more to say and was disappointed not to be -able to say it, for he seemed suddenly tired and sad. -The brilliant talker was gone.</p> - -<p>“Come again soon, dear fellow. Come again -soon,” he said, as he held my hand in a long clasp. -And when I had passed out of his sight and he -out of mine, his voice followed me pathetically, -almost brokenly into the night, “Come again soon, -Kernahan. Come again soon, dear boy. Don’t let -it be long before we meet again.”</p> - -<p>It was not long before we met again, but it was, -alas, when I followed to his long home one who, -great as was his fame in the eyes of the world as poet, -critic, novelist and thinker, is, in the hearts of some -of us, who grow old, more dearly remembered as the -most unselfish, most steadfast, and most loving of -friends.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">139</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_139">WHEN STEPHEN PHILLIPS READ</h2> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">One</span> afternoon in the nineties, I called upon -my friend Mrs. Chandler Moulton, the -American poet. She had taken a first-floor -suite of rooms in a large house in the west of London, -in which other paying guests were also just then -staying. I was shown into the reception room -attached to Mrs. Moulton’s suite, and was told that -she would be with me in a few minutes. Almost -immediately after, another of Mrs. Moulton’s -friends, Madame Antoinette Sterling, called, and was -shown into the room where I was waiting. We had -met before, and fell to chatting. Madame Sterling -happened to mention the piece in her repertoire, -which was not only her own favourite, but was also -that which, in her opinion, best suited her voice. -When I said that by some chance I had been so unfortunate -as to miss hearing her sing it, she replied -quickly:</p> - -<p>“If that is so, I will sing it for you now.”</p> - -<p>Then she rose, and drew herself up statuesquely—as -it were to “attention”—and to her full height, a -striking figure. Grant Allen once said to me that -he suspected she had a strain of Red Indian blood -in her veins. If that be so—I do not know—it -showed itself in a certain proud imperturbability of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">140</a></span> -bearing, and by the fact that she stood, if not exactly -stock-still, at least almost motionless and gestureless. -It showed itself, too, in the high cheek-bones; -in the swarthiness of her complexion, and the snaky -smooth coils of black hair that, parted low and -loosely over the brow, toned down, and softened -into womanliness, the almost masculine massiveness -of the strong purposeful features. Throwing -back her head, like a full-throated thrush, and with -her hands clasped simply in front of her, she began -to sing, low and flute-like at first, but as she went -on letting her glorious voice swell out in an organ-burst -of song.</p> - -<p>The effect was singular. The London season was -at its height, and the house was full of visitors, -chiefly, I believe, Americans. When Madame -Sterling began to sing, we could distinctly hear the -buzz of conversation coming up from the floor below. -Overhead, one could hear the restless movement of -feet, and sounds like those which come from a -kitchen—the chink of china and the clashing together -of knives, forks, and spoons, as if in preparation -for a meal—were also audible.</p> - -<p>But as the first few notes of the rich, full, noble, -and far-carrying contralto rang out, the chatter of -voices below, the shuffle of feet, or of furniture overhead, -even the necessary commonplace, vulgar -sounds that came from the basement and the -kitchen, were suddenly checked, shamed, and -silenced; and, as the singer’s voice deepened into -full diapason, one almost fancied that not only the -men and women gathered together in different -rooms under that one roof, but the very house itself,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">141</a></span> -even the dead and inanimate pieces of furniture, -were strained and stilled in listening silence.</p> - -<p>I am reminded of this old-time and almost forgotten -incident by an “Impression of Stephen -Phillips,” contributed under the initials “H.W.B.” -to the <cite>Outlook</cite> of December 18, 1915, by Mr. Horace -Bleackley, the distinguished novelist. Just as that -noisy boarding-house was at first surprised, and then, -as it were, frozen into a strange, almost uncanny -silence by Madame Sterling’s marvellous notes, so, -by the majesty of spoken words, Stephen Phillips -compelled an unwilling company to a like hushed -and awed reverence.</p> - -<p>“It was an evening party in an undergraduate’s -rooms at Christ Church, Oxford, about twenty-seven -years ago,” writes Mr. Bleackley. “It was a -decorous gathering—not a ‘wine’—but there had -been music and mirth, and none of us were at all -inclined towards serious things. Suddenly the host -announced that a member of the Benson Company—several -of whom were our guests on this occasion—would -give a recitation. A grave and thoughtful -young man rose before us, with the features of a -Greek god, whom most of us recognised at a glance -(for we all had been at the theatre that week) as the -Ghost in <cite>Hamlet</cite>. Somewhat resentfully we relapsed -into silence, few showing any signs of enthusiasm, -for scarcely any of us had the slightest doubt that -we were going to be bored.</p> - -<p>“For twenty minutes the actor held us spellbound. -His voice was musical and his elocution -that of a consummate artist. But this we had -realised before. It was not the charm of his diction<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">142</a></span> -that enthralled us, but the melody of his verse—fresh -and pure from the heavenly spring. And -when he had finished there were awestruck whispers—which -I seem to hear still—even from the Philistines: -‘It is his own poem!’ Few of that company -can have been surprised when, about a decade later, -all the world had hailed Stephen Phillips as one of -the greatest of living poets.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Bleackley’s “Impression” was gathered long -before Phillips had reached the plenitude and the -maturity of his power, for the poet was then a very -young man, leaving Cambridge as he did without -taking a degree, and joining his cousin’s Sir F. R. -Benson’s touring theatrical company. Those who -heard Phillips at his prime and at his best, will agree -with me that his rendering of poetry cannot be -described by such words as “reading,” “recitation,” -or “recital.” The plain unexaggerated fact is that -by mere words his rendering of poetry cannot be -described.</p> - -<p>I am not writing of his acting, nor of his public -reading, for, excellent and memorable as were both, -I doubt whether those who have heard and seen -Phillips only upon the stage, or the platform, have -any idea what he was like at his best—and at his -best he never was in public. It was in his own or in -a friend’s home, and in the company only of intimates, -of whose sympathy and understanding he -was assured, that Phillips was his natural self, and -therefore, his natural self (alas, that he was not -always that natural self!) being inherently noble, -at his highest and best. I have heard spiritualists -assert that the presence of one single person of unsympathetic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">143</a></span> -temperament has made it impossible -to attain the necessary trance condition on the part -of the medium, and so has brought a séance to -nought.</p> - -<p>Whether that be so or not I cannot say, for I have -no knowledge of spiritualism, but I recall occasions -when Stephen Phillips had been strangely disappointing, -and, in explaining his failure to me -afterwards, he said:</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t help it. That man or that woman’s -very presence spoilt everything and put me off. -I seemed to feel his or her cold and fish-like -eyes fastened upon me as I read. I was all -the time as aware of that person’s boredom as -sailors are aware, by the change in the coldness of -the atmosphere, of approaching bergs. Worse, I -was like a skater, fallen into a hole under the ice; -who can find no way out, but is held down and -drowned under a roof of solid and unbroken ice. -One man, one woman, like that in my audience, or -even in a room, keeps me self-conscious all the time, -and so makes poetry impossible; for poetry, high -poetry, is the sublimation, the exaltation, of the -senses into soul. It is the forgetting of self, the -losing, merging and fusing of one’s very individuality -into pure thought, and into visions and revelations -of the Truth and the Loveliness that are of -God.”</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>It has been my fortune to know not a few poets. -It has been my fate to play listener while they, or -most of them, read aloud their verses. To them,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">144</a></span> -presumably, some sort of satisfaction was to be -derived from the self-imposed task; otherwise I -should not have been thus afflicted. To me the case -was one of holding on, directly under the enemy’s -artillery and without returning his fire, the casualties -in my own moral garrison being heavy. I was -in fact for the most part as severely punished as was -Stephen Phillips on one occasion of which he told me.</p> - -<p>The wife of a friend of his was chatting in her -drawing-room one afternoon with two or three -callers, among whom was Phillips. To them entered -the host her husband, who, drawing the author of -<cite>Marpessa</cite> aside, whispered to him, “Come along, -Phillips, let’s enjoy ourselves!”</p> - -<p>“I was rather tiring of the drawing-room talk,” -said Phillips, in relating the incident, “and my -host’s alluring words were like Hope. They told a -flattering tale. ‘Rumour has it,’ I said to myself, -‘that there are in his cellars some bottles of port -upon which it is good to look when the colour is -tawny in the glass. Nectar for the gods, was the way -one connoisseur described it. Does this mean that -my host is going to crack a bottle in my honour? -Does this mean he is going to fit me out with one of -those choice cigars which he has also the reputation -of possessing?’ ‘Come along, Phillips, and let’s -enjoy ourselves!’ were his words.</p> - -<p>“And what do you think happened? He lured -me away to a dark and chilly library, and read -Francis Thompson’s poems to me for three mortal -hours. If that is his idea of enjoying himself it isn’t -mine!”</p> - -<p>Nor mine, I hasten to add, unless the reader<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">145</a></span> -were Stephen Phillips himself, to listen to whom -was the most exquisite artistic pleasure imaginable. -I agree with Mr. Bleackley that it was not Phillips’s -voice, nor his diction, nor his art that enthralled the -hearers, but I question whether Mr. Bleackley is -right in attributing the effect produced to the fact -that the poet was speaking his own poem. For that -effect was the same whether the poem were by -Phillips himself or by Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, -or Swinburne. In ordinary conversation -Phillips’s voice was not notably beautiful. It was -clear, musical, resonant, and finely modulated—that -was all. Had one done no more than talk with -him, I am not sure that his voice would thus far have -impressed itself upon the memory. But in speaking -poetry, his voice was as different from the voice to -which one was accustomed in conversation as is a -lit taper from the same taper when unkindled. -Poetry kindled the taper of his soul to flame, as only -poetry could. His genius was more supremely -evident at such times—that is to say, when he was -<em>living</em> poetry, when he was, as it were, caught up and -filled by some Pentecostal spirit of poetry outside -himself—than when he was, in travail and labour, -if under the pure impulse of inspiration, creating -poetry. Then from the man to whom we were -listening the fetters of the senses (alas, that those -fetters should sometimes hold so closely and so -heavily as to drag us downwards to earth!) seemed -to fall away, and his soul to soar back to the -heaven whence he had fallen.</p> - -<p>He would begin to read or to recite with slow unemotional -deliberateness—the enunciation perfect,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146">146</a></span> -and the voice exquisitely modulated—but at first -there was just a suspicion of a chant, an incantation, -as if by a spell to call up the Spirit of Poetry before -us. It was beautiful, it was the perfection of elocutionary -art, but for the time being it seemed cold and -afar from us and our lives, like the frozen marble -beauty of Greek statuary. Soon his voice would -deepen, and the room become strangely still. It was -the listeners now who reminded one of statuary, for -each sat unmoving, scarcely breathing, every sense, -every thought, centred on the reader who, his great -eyes ablaze, yet all unseeing, sat as if in a trance. -This was no longer Stephen Phillips, our friend and -intimate with whom we had walked and talked.</p> - -<p>All of us know what it is suddenly and unexpectedly -to hear that we shall see on earth, no more, a -friend, who but yesterday was with us, and of us, -alive and well, his familiar and happy self. “No! -No! He is not dead! It cannot be! It must not -be!” we cry out when first told—as if death were -something unnatural and abnormal; as if it were but -some oversight, some mistake, against which we -have but to enter our protest, to move High God to -set it right. But even as we thus cry out, even as -we stagger back under the shock, and turn sick and -faint—so unendurable is our first sense of pity for -the dead—even then our pity passes, for we know -it is we, the living, not the dead, who are in need of -pity. Even then and thus early (so instantly ancient -is death, once we realise that it has come) some -strange new majesty, august and awful, has come -between our friend and us, as if to withdraw him an -æon and a world away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">147</a></span> -And for the moment, and while the spell was upon -him, and upon us, the soul of Stephen Phillips, when -he was thus entranced by poetry, seemed scarcely -less far-removed from us, and from our little world, -than are the newly dead. For though to no mortal -has the soul of a man been visible, to some of us who -have listened to Stephen Phillips in those rare -moments, it seemed as if <em>the soul of a man had at -least become audible</em>.</p> - -<p>Then, in some vague way, one’s thoughts wandered -back to the time when God walked in the -Garden in the cool of the evening, and His Voice was -heard by mortals. For then the exigencies of Time -and Space were abrogated. The little room, wherein -the poet sat and read, while we listened, was so -strangely transformed for us, that we saw the vision -of Dante and Milton unfold themselves before our -eyes. The poet could so speak a word as to make it -seem like the Spirit of God breathing upon the face -of the waters, and calling new worlds into being. -He could so speak that single word as to make it -almost a world in itself.</p> - -<p>When in Swinburne’s second chorus in <cite>Atalanta -in Calydon</cite> Phillips came to the lines</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He weaves, and is clothed with derision,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sows, and he shall not reap,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His life is a watch or a vision<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Between a sleep and a sleep,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">with the last word “sleep,” as it came from Stephen -Phillips’s lips, the very world itself seemed to close -tired eyes, to wander away into unconsciousness, -and finally to fall on sleep.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148">148</a></span> -James Russell Lowell once said that if Shakespeare -be read in the very presence of the sea itself, -his voice shall but seem the nobler, for the sublime -criticism of ocean; and the words recall Stephen -Phillips to me as I write, for in his voice, when he -was deeply stirred by poetry, there was something -measured, unhasting, majestic, like the vastness of -great waters, moving in flood of full tide under the -moon.</p> - -<p>I have tried to give the reader some idea of his -rendering of poetry, and I have failed, for, as I have -already said, it cannot be described. Some godlike -spirit, outside himself, seemed, in these supreme -and consecrated hours, suddenly to possess him, -and, when the hour and the consecration were past, -as suddenly to leave him. But, while that hour -lasted, there was only one word for Stephen Phillips, -poet, and that word was Genius.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">149</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_149">EDWARD WHYMPER<br /> - -<span class="subhead">AS I KNEW HIM</span></h2> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Though</span> I head this article “Edward -Whymper as I Knew Him,” I prefer first -to write of Edward Whymper as he was -before I knew him—or rather before he knew me. -In the town where he and I were then living he had -been dubbed “Bradlaugh turned Baedeker” by -one resident who insisted on Whymper’s likeness to -the late Charles Bradlaugh, and was aware that the -Great Mountaineer had written various “Guides.” -Another name by which he was known was “The -Sphinx,” possibly because of his silence, his aloofness, -and the mystery with which he was supposed -to surround himself. To the good folk of the town -he was indeed always something of an enigma. In -the street he stalked straightforwardly along, looking -only in front of him, set of mouth, stony of eye -and severe of brow, if anyone either spoke to, or -stared at him. On the journey up to London, when -most people read their morning paper, he was rarely -seen with a newspaper in his hand, but stared, pipe -in mouth, out of the window, except when going -through proofs or working at papers which he produced -from a black leather bag, without which he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150">150</a></span> -was never seen in the train. On the journey down, -when work for the day was done, his would-be -sociable fellow passengers found Whymper taciturn -and reticent, responding, or rather not responding, -to any conversational advance, if possible, in a -monosyllable.</p> - -<p>The town in question was Southend, where he -lived in Cliff Town Parade, and I, ten minutes’ walk -away at Westcliff. Though he contended that there -was no place within fifty miles of London with such -fine air, and though he never wearied (like Robert -Buchanan, who, as well as his brother poet, Sir -Edwin Arnold, was at one time a resident of Southend) -of extolling the atmospheric effects of sunshine -and shadow upon the saltings, and though (again -like Buchanan, who had said as much to me) he -vowed that nowhere else in England were there to -be seen more glorious pageants of sunrise and sunset—to -the people of Southend, especially to his fellow -travellers on the railway, he had taken an implacable -dislike. When in London I was first introduced -to him, he and I fell out upon the subject. Hearing -that I lived at Southend, he asked me whether I did -not agree with him that nowhere else would one -meet such objectionable folk as those who journeyed -backward and forward to town.</p> - -<p>I replied that though Southend had no claim to -be the home of rank and fashion (overrun as it was -and is, during the summer months, by swarming -hordes of East End trippers), I had found my fellow -travellers and the residents generally—of the middle -classes as they admittedly were—cordial, sociable, -and kindly, and that for my part, so far from feeling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">151</a></span> -as he did, I liked them and had many friends among -them.</p> - -<p>This for some reason exasperated Whymper, who -launched out in fierce abuse of his unoffending fellow -townsmen.</p> - -<p>“My good sir,” he stormed, “I ask you where -else in England, where else in God’s world if -you like, will you come across such a collection and -crew of defaulting solicitors, bagmen, undischarged -bankrupts, shady stockbrokers and stock jobbers, -potmen, pawnbrokers and publicans as on that particular -railway which you and I use?”</p> - -<p>I did not agree with him, and told him so plainly -if courteously, whereupon, seeing that I was more -amused than annoyed by his storming, he suddenly -turned good-tempered, diverted the conversation -into other channels, and when we parted was quite -friendly.</p> - -<p>His attitude on this occasion, as I afterwards discovered, -was characteristically Whymperian. He -could respect a man who stood up to him and was -undismayed by his storming; he had “no use,” as -the Americans say, for one who was ready cheaply -and insincerely to profess himself entirely in agreement. -He would at any time rather be bearded -than humoured, and the fact that on our first meeting -I refused to be browbeaten was, I now believe, -one of the reasons why he and I thereafter became -good friends.</p> - -<p>One picture of Edward Whymper, as I saw him many -times, is vivid in my memory. The morning train to -town is on the point of starting, the guard has waved -his flag, blown his whistle, and is urging late comers<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">152</a></span> -to “hurry up.” Along the platform, indifferent to -the guard’s frantic arm-waving, never lengthening -his step by so much as one inch, never quickening -his pace by as much as by one second, but strolling -as leisurely as if the train were not to start for an -hour, and looking at each carriage for the face he is -seeking, walks a closely-knit, sturdily-built man of -middle height. His dress is unusual, as he is well -aware, accounting for it once by reminding me of a -great nobleman who, equally eccentric in the matter -of dress, remarked, “Where I live, every one knows -who and what I am, so it doesn’t matter what I wear. -In London no one knows who and what I am, so I -am equally free to please myself.”</p> - -<p>More often than not Whymper, when going to town, -wore a black greatcoat over a woollen sweater, and -had a brown seal fur cap with lapels pulled down -over the ears and fastened under the chin, for, like -many who have spent much time in Canada, he felt -colder in the damp and foggy climate of England, -even when the temperature is moderate, than he did -in the drier, clearer atmosphere of the Great Dominion, -and when the thermometer stands at 40 -degrees below zero.</p> - -<p>But unusual as are a fur cap and sweater, when -worn as I have seen Whymper wear them even when -journeying to London, at the height of the season, -they struck one as less incongruous than the ill-brushed, -out-of-date silk hat in which, with black -leather or cloth leggings, he occasionally weirdly -arrayed himself. He sees my face at the window, -stops, and, as leisurely as he had walked, enters the -carriage and seats himself opposite to me, his back<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">153</a></span> -to the engine. To me he merely nods, or if on that -occasion inclined to be loquacious, goes so far as to -say “Good morning,” but never another word. -The other occupants of the compartment he either -entirely ignores or favours with a baleful glare. Then -he puts his bag upon his knee, produces a packet of -biscuits, and, looking out of the window all the time, -munches them with jaws that move as rhythmically -and methodically as if run by clockwork. His -breakfast of dry biscuits finished, he dives into his -bag for a flask, solemnly unscrews the stopper, as -solemnly lifts the flask to his mouth, takes a drink, -smacks his lips, replaces the stopper in the flask and -then the flask in the bag, snaps the lock and puts the -bag at his side. This done, he fishes in his pocket -for pipe, tobacco and matches, charges and lights -his pipe, takes with evident enjoyment two or three -long draws at it, sniffing possibly with relish and -with open nostrils at the smoke which rises from the -bowl, settles himself comfortably in his corner, and -then, and not till then, turns to me with a cheery -“Well, and how are you this morning?” I reply -with equal cheeriness, and probably the whole way -up to town we talk—only we two—incessantly.</p> - -<p>But had I, <em>before</em> he had munched his biscuits, -swigged at his flask, replaced the latter in his bag, -lit his pipe and settled himself in the corner, addressed -him in any way, I should have had the -shortest of answers, and the chances are that for -the rest of the journey he would have remained -silent. That was Edward Whymper’s way, and a -man who liked more to have his own way I never -met. My liking was for himself, not for his ways;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">154</a></span> -but since it was his whim to be let alone, to speak -to no one and to be spoken to by no one until he had -breakfasted and lit his pipe, I was quite willing so -to let him go his own way, knowing that soon the -oracle would speak of its own accord, and would say -many things which were well worth anyone’s -attention and hearing.</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>“In the <cite>Memoir of Tennyson</cite> by his son, there will -be a letter—only one—to myself,” said Whymper -to me in 1897. “Except for the fact that it was one -of the last, if indeed not the very last letter Tennyson -penned, it doesn’t strike me as being important -enough for inclusion. But it has a curious history. -I had sent Tennyson a copy of one of my books, -<cite>Travels among the Great Andes of the Equator</cite>. Here -is his reply. I’ll read it to you:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">‘Accept my thanks for your most interesting -volume. I don’t think I have been higher than -about 7000 feet, and so I look on your Chimborazos -and Cotopaxis with all the greater veneration.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">‘Yours very truly,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Tennyson</span>.’ -</p></blockquote> - -<p>“Now you can hardly call that a characteristic or -even a particularly interesting letter,” continued -Whymper, “but the writing appears to have given -the poet some trouble, for the present Lord Tennyson -tells me that, after his father’s death, he found -several drafts of it, I think he said six, in a blotting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">155</a></span> -pad. It was, as I say, one of the last, if not the very -last letter Tennyson ever wrote, and one of two -things about it is true. Either his approaching end -had so affected his powers that he found it difficult -to frame even an ordinary letter of acknowledgment, -or else, realising that his letters would one -day inevitably be collected and printed, he was too -fastidious an artist to let even a casual note of -thanks come from his pen without striving to impart -to it some touch of distinction and originality, some -turn of a phrase which would give a hint of the -power and the personality of the writer. What’s -<em>your</em> solution of the problem?”</p> - -<p>As I had no solution to offer, Whymper told me -another story of Tennyson, which by this time may -or may not—I do not know—have got into print.<a id="FNanchor_B" href="#Footnote_B" class="fnanchor">B</a> -But even if so—since I first heard it when it was -quite new, and since stories of the sort get varied -in the telling—there is some probability that -Whymper’s version is the correct one. I set it down, -as nearly as I can recollect, as he told it.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_B" href="#FNanchor_B" class="fnanchor">B</a> Since this was written, I have told the story in a brief sketch of -Whymper that was published in a monthly magazine.</p></div> - -<p>At a garden party, a rather gushing young girl -went up to the hostess and said: “Oh, is that really, -as I’m told, Lord Tennyson sitting there by himself -smoking on that rustic seat?” “Yes, my dear, -that is he,” was the reply. “He occasionally does -me the honour of calling to see me, and dropped in, -not knowing that I was entertaining to-day.” “Oh, -I should so like to meet him. Do introduce me,” -said the girl. “My dear, Lord Tennyson hates to -be bothered by strangers,” answered the hostess.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">156</a></span> -“And one reason perhaps why he comes to see me -is that he knows I never exploit him in that way.” -“Oh, but I should love to be able to say I’ve met -him,” persisted the other. “Well, <em>say</em> you have -met him and leave it at that,” was the answer. -“Here you are and there he is, so it won’t be -altogether untrue. He won’t trouble to contradict -it if he ever heard it, which is not likely, and I’m -sure I shan’t.”</p> - -<p>The girl, however, would take no refusal. Nothing -would content her but actually meeting and speaking -to Tennyson, so losing patience her hostess said: -“Very well. If he is rude to you—as he can be -to people who force themselves upon him—your -blood be upon your own head. You can’t say I -haven’t warned you. Come along.” “Lord -Tennyson,” said the hostess when the two had -walked together to the seat where the Laureate -was smoking, “this is Miss B——, daughter of an -old friend of mine, who is very, very anxious to have -the honour of saying How-do-you-do to you.” -“How-d’you-do?” responded Tennyson gruffly, -and scarcely looking up.</p> - -<p>Seating herself beside him the girl attempted -awkwardly to carry on some sort of conversation, -but, as all she got in reply was an occasional -“Humph!” or else stony silence, she lost her -nerve and began, schoolgirl-wise, to wriggle and -fidget in her seat. Then the Great Man spoke. -“You’re like the rest of them,” he grunted, -“you’re laced too tightly. I can hear your stays -creak.” Abashed and embarrassed the girl withdrew. -Later in the afternoon Tennyson came behind<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">157</a></span> -her, and laying a hand on her shoulder, said kindly, -“I was wrong just now, young lady. It wasn’t your -stays I heard creaking, but my braces. They’re -hitched up too tightly. Sorry.” And he lounged -away.</p> - -<p>The story may not be new and may not be true, -but Whymper found huge enjoyment in the telling -of it, possibly because he had himself the reputation -of sharing Tennyson’s dislike to the intrusive -stranger. To speak plainly indeed, Whymper could -be very rude, as witness the following incident. He -invited me once to accompany him to a lecture -given by a great climber. Soon after we had entered -the hall and before the lecture commenced, a man, -whom Whymper told me later he was sure he had -never set eyes on, bustled up to where we were -sitting, and extending a hand said effusively:</p> - -<p>“Oh, how-do-you-do, Mr. Whymper? You won’t -remember me, but I had the pleasure of meeting -you in Switzerland.”</p> - -<p>“No, I certainly don’t remember having had the -pleasure of meeting you,” was Whymper’s caustic -reply. “And I assure you my memory is of the -best.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me,” -answered the other still unabashed. “It was at -Zermatt. I knew your friend Leslie Stephen very -well.”</p> - -<p>“Possibly,” answered Whymper drily. “The -question is whether my friend Mr. Leslie Stephen -would be equally sure that he knew <em>you</em>.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">158</a></span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>If ever a man carried out in practice the precept: -“To know yourself is wisdom; not to know your -neighbours is genius,” that man was Edward -Whymper.</p> - -<p>He had, it is true, a knack of scraping and continuing -acquaintance with neighbours and fellow -residents entirely out of his own station. From a -barber, a bird stuffer, a boatman or a net-mender -he would acquire a lot of out-of-the-way information, -and indeed would chat to them by the hour, if not -exactly with joviality, at least without the somewhat -pompous precision which at other times and in other -company he affected. But during the thirteen -years in which I was living at Westcliff and Whymper -was living at Southend, I was, I believe, the -only neighbour or fellow resident whose home he -ever entered or who was invited to visit his house. -If I use the word “house” rather than “home” -of the building in which he passed much of his life, -it is not merely because he had chambers at St. -Martin’s House, Ludgate Hill, but because a more -unhomelike place than Whymper’s Southend residence -can hardly be imagined. To ensure solitude -and quiet he had made an arrangement by which -he took practically the whole of what is called an -“apartment house.” It was a tall building with -basement rooms below and at least three storeys -above. In the top storey Whymper himself lived, -and in the very bottom, the basement in fact, his -housekeeper or landlady and her family had their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">159</a></span> -rooms. All the intervening storeys were by Whymper’s -command left vacant. The windows, except -the basement, were curtainless, and Whymper’s own -room was carpetless and barrack-bare except for a -few necessary pieces of furniture, and photographs -of his own taking—peaks he had climbed, mountain -wastes and wildernesses he had explored, scenes on -the Canadian Pacific Railway and the like. On the -floor was a rolled-up mattress, to which he pointed. -“That,” he said, with a queer smile twisting at -the turned-down corners of his mouth, “is my -bed. The rugs and pillow are inside. At night I -unroll the thing, and there I am. What could be -simpler?”</p> - -<p>And here I may remark that his habits in the -matter of sleeping were, like his habits in the matter -of meals, unusual. Four o’clock in the afternoon -was his favourite and not unfrequent hour for dining, -after which he would sometimes go to bed, getting -up again late in the evening for the nocturnal -rambles which he loved. I have often heard him -expatiate eloquently on the joys of finding himself -afoot and alone when more conventional folk -were abed, and I have known him extend his -tramps from past midnight till day was breaking.</p> - -<p>That he and I came eventually to know each -other well, and to see each other frequently was due, -I am convinced, entirely to the fact that after our -introduction, except to nod when we passed in the -street or met at the railway station or in the train, -I left him severely alone. That, as I now know, -though I was unaware of it at the time, was the -surest passport to his favour. Rude even to bearishness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">160</a></span> -as he could on occasion be, Whymper would -sometimes go out of his way to show courtesy and -even to enter into conversation with an entire -stranger. But in all such cases <em>the advance must -come from him</em>. If it came from the other, he was at -once on his dignity, withdrawing as instantly into -his shell as an alarmed snail. No curled hedgehog -could present a more prickly front than when in a -train, in a club, or elsewhere, some representative -of the lion-hunting fraternity, or of that class of -person who dearly loves to claim acquaintance with -a celebrity, made overtures to him; whereas, left -to himself, it often happened that, like the hedgehog, -he would of his own accord uncurl.</p> - -<p>It was so in my own case. Instead of merely -nodding when we met, he took to stopping to exchange -a few words, telling me on one occasion that -I had very much alarmed him.</p> - -<p>“How?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“I have been reading a little book of yours, called -<cite>A Book of Strange Sins</cite>,” he answered. “From the -moment I first heard of it I was in terror lest my -own most secret and dearest sin had been exposed -and laid open to the light of day. But in searching -its pages anxiously and fearfully, I was relieved, not -to say reprieved, to find that my particular vices -have escaped your notice.”</p> - -<p>Then, finding that though making no claim to -be a mountaineer I had done some small amount of -climbing in Switzerland and elsewhere, and finding, -moreover, that I made no further advances, he took -to joining me on my way backward and forward to -the station, becoming more and more friendly at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161">161</a></span> -each meeting, and finally he got in the habit of looking -out for me that he and I might travel up and -down together. Then he wrote:</p> - -<p>“Come and crack a flask with me on Sunday -next any time you like after 8.30 p.m.”</p> - -<p>I accepted the invitation, of which he again reminded -me when I met him in the street next -day.</p> - -<p>“Don’t forget,” he said, “that you are supping -with me on Sunday any time that suits you after -half-past eight.”</p> - -<p>At half-past eight on Sunday I was with him.</p> - -<p>“I know you are a smoker,” he said, producing -a parcel of fat and long Manilla cigars, each carefully -cased in silver paper.</p> - -<p>They had been in his possession, he told me -(I could well believe it), for twenty-five years, -and better cigars I have never smoked. Then, -as he happened to be in the mood for talking -and I am a good listener, he talked incessantly, incisively -and brilliantly till nine, ten, eleven had -come and gone, when frankly I began to feel hungry, -and no sign of supper. Twelve and half-past -twelve came, and I fear my attention wandered, for -I was trying to recall the condition of the joint -which had done duty among my own hungry family -some twelve hours before. Should the same joint -have reappeared at the table for the usual Sunday -night “cold supper,” the chances were that on returning -home I should be reduced to piratical raids -upon the larder in search of bread and cheese.</p> - -<p>“And now, what do you say to supper?” -said Whymper, laying down the pipe at which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162">162</a></span> -he had been puffing with curious and rhythmic -regularity.</p> - -<p>In smoking, as in everything else, he was methodical, -and had one counted the seconds that passed -between each puff, the intervals would have been -nearly identical.</p> - -<p>Had I answered him truthfully I should have -replied, “Say? What can I say except ‘Thank -heaven!’ and that I’m starving?” instead of which -I answered with apparent politeness but hidden -irony:</p> - -<p>“Thank you. When you’re quite ready.”</p> - -<p>I regretted it the next moment, for, taking me -too literally at my word, he resumed his pipe, -relighted it, and pointing the stem at a photograph -of himself upon the mantelshelf, remarked:</p> - -<p>“I’m extraordinarily particular about small -matters. Does anything strike you in that -portrait?”</p> - -<p>“It’s a very good likeness,” I sighed, with a -strange sinking of the inner man, “and very characteristic, -inasmuch as you are smoking, if I -mistake not, that very pipe.”</p> - -<p>He smiled cryptically.</p> - -<p>“Does nothing else strike you? Look again!”</p> - -<p>I groaned inwardly, but looked.</p> - -<p>“And the same suit?”</p> - -<p>“Anything else?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said desperately, “you look so cheerful, -so well fed and so happy, that I can only suppose -you had just had your supper. Now as I lunched -at one o’clock and haven’t had as much as a sup of -tea since, I’m horribly hungry, and in want of mine.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">163</a></span> -Saying no more than a mere “Come along,” and -carrying the pipe and the photograph in his hand, -he led the way into the next room, where supper—all -cold—was upon the table. But such a supper! -Anchovies, chicken, calves’ foot jelly, clotted Devonshire -cream and other delicacies, with rare old Burgundy -and the best of champagne.</p> - -<p>When I had been abundantly helped, Whymper -took up the photograph, and again pointing at it -with the pipe-stem, said:</p> - -<p>“What I wondered was whether you’d notice -that the smoke coming from the bowl of the pipe -has been painted-in upon the negative. There was -no smoke visible in the original picture. When you -get to know me better you’ll find that I’m slow and -methodical but minutely accurate, even about little -things. I think you told me once that you set -some store by the many signed portraits that have -been given to you by your literary friends. Since -the portrait was the cause of keeping you from your -supper, and if you’d care to add so uncouth a face -as mine to your gallery, I’ll give it you. But I’ll -sign it first.”</p> - -<p>It was well that he had warned me that he was -slow and methodical. Never was there such a -business as the signing of that portrait. First he -carefully washed and examined his pen, trying it at -least half a dozen times upon a sheet of note-paper. -Then the ink did not run as freely as it should, and -further protracted operations of a cleansing and refilling -nature were necessary. Next a book on -which to rest the picture and a blotting-pad had to -be found and placed in position. Then, after further<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">164</a></span> -and repeated trial-trips of his pen upon the harbour -waters of a sheet of note-paper, he launched his craft -upon the big seas and settled down seriously to the -business of signing the photograph. Had it been a -death-warrant or a cheque for £100,000 to which he -was momentously affixing a signature, he could -not have gone to work more carefully. In a round, -neat, clerkly hand he slowly and laboriously penned -his name “Edward Whymper” with the date beneath -the portrait—and the deed was done.</p> - -<p>I have described thus lengthily the slow and -methodical way in which he set about signing this -photograph for the reason that, trivial as the incident -may seem, it is illustrative of the character and -methods of the man. He walked slowly, thought -slowly, worked slowly, and talked slowly, not -because of any sluggishness of brain or body, but -because every word, every action, was calculated -and deliberate. It was because he was so slow that -he was so sure. Just as in mountaineering he never -moved a step until he was certain of the foothold -in front of him, so in conversation he never spoke -before he thought.</p> - -<p>Artist as he originally was by profession, lecturer -and mountaineer as, either by chance or by circumstance, -he afterwards became, by temperament he -was essentially a man of science; and even in casual -conversation he hated what was slipshod, random, -or inexact. He was an admirable listener to anyone -who was speaking from knowledge; and I have -often admired the courtly, if somewhat stately, -attention he would accord to those who spoke, and -with authority upon some subject on which Whymper<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">165</a></span> -himself was not an expert. But when the conversation -was mainly in his hands, he liked to feel -that he was chairman as well as principal speaker -at the meeting, and would never allow the talk to -run off at a tangent. If his companion ventured -an opinion upon some side issue which the conversation -had suggested, Whymper would pull him up -magisterially by interposing, “You were saying -just now that you thought so and so. We will, if -you please, confine ourselves to that side of the -matter before opening up another.” Courteously -as he phrased it, his “if you please” was peremptory -rather than persuasive, and so in a sense was merely -formally polite.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>Of all the men I have ever known, none so habitually -refrained from talking shop as Whymper. -Hence of Whymper the mountaineer—and mountaineering -was in a sense with him a profession—as -well as of Whymper the artist and the lecturer, I -have nothing of interest to say. One reason perhaps -is that of mountaineering I know comparatively -nothing and of art even less. Of Whymper the -lecturer I am more competent to speak, as for ten -years I was his fellow lecturer, constantly either -preceding or following him upon the same platform -all over the country. We were both in the hands of -the same agent, I might say the only agent, for Mr. -Gerald Christy may be said to control the lecture -field and practically to be without a rival. Hence -as a fellow Christy minstrel (as Mr. Christy’s lecturers,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">166</a></span> -musicians and entertainers are sometimes -called) Whymper and I might be supposed occasionally -to compare notes. But though he was interested -to hear of my lecturing experiences he rarely spoke -of his own.</p> - -<p>Of one provincial platform and Press experience, -however, he was incontinently communicative and -explosive. He lectured for a Young Men’s Society -(not the Y.M.C.A. as was stated in some subsequent -Press notices) at the Claughton Music Hall, Birkenhead. -At either side of the platform was a door -leading into a small room for the use of artistes. In -the room on the right a cheerful fire had been -hospitably lit, by order of the committee, the unoccupied -room on the left being without a fire and -in total darkness. Between these two rooms and -leading out of each, was a flight of stairs, meeting -in the centre and then continuing in one flight -down to the ground floor of the building, where was -a back exit. Whymper, who was given to “exploring” -on a small scale, as well as a vast one, must -needs find out what was in the unlighted room as -well as in the lighted and fire-warmed room which -had been placed at his disposal. (“Please bear in -mind,” the secretary of the society subsequently -wrote to me, “that he had no business to be poking -into the place at all.”)</p> - -<p>Having examined, so far as he could in the dark, -the unoccupied room, Whymper then opened the -door leading out to the stairs, the flare of the fire on -the opposite side throwing into shadow the staircase -which lay between the two rooms. Thinking -that there was a level passage from one room to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">167</a></span> -other, he made to walk along it, and fell head first -down the stairs, severely injuring his shoulder. So -severe indeed was the injury, that the lecture had -to be abandoned, and Whymper to be taken in a -cab to his hotel and put to bed, where he remained -a week. He was extremely angry and exasperated -with the committee and the secretary, who were in -no way to blame, but his exasperation then was as -nothing to his fury when in a newspaper he read a -notice of the incident. It was headed “One of Life’s -Little Ironies,” and was to the effect that “though -Mr. Whymper, who had made the first ascent of -the Matterhorn when four of his companions had -lost their lives, had probably climbed more dangerous -peaks than any man living or dead, and without any -serious mishap to himself, it was surely one of life’s -little ironies that he should receive his most serious -hurt by falling off a platform while peacefully and -presumably safely addressing a Y.M.C.A. audience -in the provinces.”</p> - -<p>In one of Mr. W. W. Jacobs’s delightful books he -tells of a bargee whose language in hospital was so -awful that “they fetched one of the sisters and the -clergyman to hear it.” As an Irishman who dearly -enjoys the spectacle of “wigs on the green,” I could -have wished that the secretary and some of the -committee of the Young Men’s Society in question -could have been present as I was when the -newspaper paragraph quoted first came to Mr. -Whymper’s notice. The secretary humorously -suggests that the fact that Whymper demanded -payment of his doctor’s bill and hotel expenses from -the society, only to be politely told that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">168</a></span> -accident was no affair of theirs, probably played -some part in adding to the irritation and explosiveness -with which Whymper read the paragraph and -commentary upon the accident.</p> - -<p>One other accident that befell him—though not -in connection with lecturing—I may relate. He was, -as every one knows, a keen naturalist as well as an -entomologist, and when returning from Canada -brought with him a squirrel, which in the seclusion -of his cabin he used often to set free that he might -study its ways as he studied the ways of all creatures -whether free or in captivity. Aboard ship he was -less able to indulge his eccentricities in the matter -of unconventional hours for meals and for work -than when on shore, but even there he would often -read or work far into the night, making up for the -consequent loss of sleep by snatching a nap at an -hour when the majority of his fellow passengers were -most wide awake. On one such occasion Whymper -forgot to return the squirrel to its cage; and in -frolicking round the cabin, and leaping from floor -to berth, the little creature, having no fear of its -master, scampered along his prostrate form, and in -passing scratched slightly the sleeper’s face. Apparently -the squirrel had picked up some poisonous -matter in the curve of its sharp claw, which getting -into the scratch poisoned Whymper’s face, so that -for weeks, as he said, he was hideous to behold, and -had, I believe, to cancel certain lecturing engagements.</p> - -<p>“All my worse hurts,” he said to me when describing -the incident and waxing warm at the memory -of the lecturing accident, to which I have already<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">169</a></span> -referred, “came to me from some trivial cause. -When there is real danger ahead, no one is more -careful, more wary, or watchful than I. Luckily -there was no member of the Young Men’s Society -present on this occasion, or the reptilian who sent -paragraphs to the Press: ‘Edward Whymper, the -Great Mountaineer, falls off a lecturing platform -and seriously injures himself,’ would have earned -a scurrilous half-dollar by paragraphing the Press -with an announcement headed, ‘Edward Whymper -badly wounded by a squirrel.’”</p> - -<p>I assured him that it was the nimble journalist, -not any member of the Young Men’s Society, who -was responsible for the paragraph in question, but -his wrath at the memory of the incident was not to -be appeased, and, to whatever deserving institutions -he may have left legacies, I do not anticipate that -the Society in question was among them.</p> - -<p>Whymper, as I have said, never or rarely talked -shop, but he did talk—though never egotistically—of -himself. He told me that he came of a Suffolk -family, but could trace his descent, though he still -had hopes of doing so, no farther back than his great-great-grandfather. -The men of his race rarely -married. When they did marry they were nearly -always the fathers of girls. His brother Frank was, -he told me, Postmaster-General of India. Speaking -of his own extraordinary physical activity and -stamina, he said that he had actually walked the -entire length of the Canadian-Pacific Railway, being -nearly killed once while doing so. I gathered that -he had made more money out of certain businesses -in which he was interested, especially a colour-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">170</a></span>printing -process, than from either lecturing or -books, though his books and guide-book have of -course had a great sale, and early editions of his -mountaineering works fetch high sums among collectors. -Unlike some authors, so far from having -any grievance against publishers, he said that of -Mr. John Murray he could not speak too highly, -and that “going one better,” as he put it, than -Mrs. Bishop, the great traveller—who left in her will -her copyrights in token of her appreciation and -gratitude to Mr. Murray—he proposed while -he was alive to make Mr. Murray a present -of the copyright of some of his books. This purpose -he did not, I now understand, carry into effect during -his lifetime, but I believe I am correct in saying that -at his death his copyrights were bequeathed to Mr. -Murray. Speaking of his own career, he said that -not mountaineering, nor exploring, nor authorship -so fascinated him and gratified him as his discoveries -in geology.</p> - -<p>One of his geological anecdotes concerned a fossil -forest in Greenland, which, when Whymper heard of -it, he at once set out to explore. There he found a -large fossil cone which he was at great pains to split -into two halves, that he might the better examine -it. It was sent to a certain famous German professor, -an expert of world-wide reputation in fossil -flora, who wrote saying that he attached much importance -to the find, and asked Whymper to come -to see him, which Whymper did. Producing the -split cone, the professor pronounced it a magnolia, -in fact two magnolias and of different species. -“No, no,” said Whymper. “One magnolia.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">171</a></span> -There can’t be any doubt about that.” “You are -mistaken,” said the professor curtly, annoyed at -being contradicted. “I have put both under the -microscope, and I assert positively that they are -of a different species.” “One,” repeated Whymper. -“Two,” insisted the other. Then Whymper -joined the two halves.</p> - -<p>Next to geology Whymper seemed most interested -in aneroids. It was a subject on which he—by no -means a boastful man—claimed to be an expert and -on which he purchased every book that was issued. -Especially prized by him were two books on aneroids, -one bought in Rouen, the other in Geneva by a -Monsieur Pascal, whom Whymper said was generally -believed to be the writer Blaise Pascal, but was in -reality only a relative.</p> - -<p>Of his mountaineering experiences he said but -little, and never once during the thirteen years that -I knew him did he of his own accord refer to the -historic Matterhorn tragedy. He did, however, tell -me of the circumstances under which he became a -mountaineer.</p> - -<p>“It was purely accidental,” he said. “The idea -of climbing had never occurred to me, one reason -being, as you who have done some climbing yourself -will readily appreciate, that it costs money; -and I was then a young fellow with all his -way to make in the world, and was looking out for -a means to make money, not to spend it, and was -in fact rather at my wits’ end to know how to earn -a livelihood. The profession I was supposed to -follow was art, and even thus early my draughtmanship -and woodcut work were, I think I may say,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172">172</a></span> -creditable. Anyhow, more than one person who -was competent to judge thought so, and in fact said -so. It was owing to somebody saying so that I got -the job which led to my becoming a mountaineer. -There was a feeling among climbers that the record -of their work required illustrating. They’re human -like the rest of the world, and some of them fancied -that it would add to the éclat, the importance, and -the heroism of their achievements if they could be -depicted crossing a crevasse that yawned like a blue -hell below them, holding on for dear life and like a -fly to a wall against a perpendicular rock, with a -sheer abyss and drop of a thousand feet beneath -them, or skyed upon some heaven-piercing and -hitherto inaccessible peak that made unclimbing -folk turn sick and giddy to think of.</p> - -<p>“You know the sort of thing—Professor Tyndall -crossing the Great Crevasse, on this or that -mountain, Mr. Leslie Stephen negotiating the -most difficult and dangerous pass on t’other one, -or somebody else setting the British flag on a -hitherto unsurmounted peak. The question was -how to do it and whom to get to do it. To-day -they’d do it by photography; but photography -wasn’t then what it is now, and it was evident -that their man would have to be a capable -draughtsman, and that he’d have to be a man of -nerve, stamina and power of endurance, as he also -would have to do some climbing. Well, to cut a -long story short, some one who had chanced to -see my work in art and to think well of it, suggested -me as a likely man. I was glad of a job and jumped -at it, but once having started climbing, as I necessarily<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">173</a></span> -had to, in six months I had climbed peaks -that no one else had ever attempted; and that is -the history in brief, if not the whole story, of how I -became a climber.”</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Edward Whymper was a man of few friends, I had -almost written of no friends, for though he was upon -what, in the case of another man, would be described -as terms of friendship with many of the world’s most -distinguished workers, and though he enjoyed their -company and their intercourse as they enjoyed his, -I should describe the bond which held him and them -together as “liking” and interest in each other and -in each other’s achievements rather than as friendship -in the closer sense of the word. The mould -into which he was cast was austere, stern, and -could be forbidding. He was a “marked” man -wherever he went; and in all companies a man of -masterful personality, who inspired attention and -respect in every one, and something like fear in a -few, but who, except in the case of children, rarely -inspired affection. That he was aware his manner -was not always conciliatory—was in fact at times -forbidding—seems likely from a story which I have -heard him tell on several occasions and always with -infinite gusto.</p> - -<p>“I was walking up Fleet Street one day,” -he began, pursing his lips, mouthing and almost -smacking them over his words as if the flavour -were pleasant to the palate, “when I chanced -to see a sixpence lying upon the ground. Now<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">174</a></span> -according to the law of the land, anything we find -in the street is in a public place and must be taken -to the nearest police station. I wasn’t going to be -at the bother of picking up a sixpence merely to -take myself and it to the police station, so I cast an -eye around and walking just behind me I saw a poor -ragged devil without so much as a shirt to his back -or a pair of shoes to his feet. I didn’t require to -speak or even to point to the sixpence. I just caught -the fellow’s eyes and looked with my own two eyes -at the sixpence upon the pavement. That was -quite enough. He followed my glance, saw the coin -lying there, knew that my glance meant ‘You can -have it if you like,’ and my good fellow was down -on it in a moment. Well, I didn’t stop to let the -fellow thank me, but just walked on. It so happens, -however, that I’m peculiarly sensitive to outside -impressions. If I’m in the street and some one is -taking stock of me, even though I can’t see them, -I’m conscious of it in a moment. If I’m in a hall, -listening, say, to a lecture, and some one behind me -has recognised me, or is interested in me for any -reason, I’m just as aware of it as if I had eyes in the -back of my head. Well, I passed up Fleet Street, -and along the Strand till, approaching Charing -Cross, I became suddenly aware that some one -behind was watching me as if for a purpose. I -turned, and there was my ragged, shirtless, bootless -devil of a tramp, who had followed me all that way, -poor devil, I supposed to thank me. So I thought -it decent to slow my pace, and when he was just -alongside of me I half turned to give him the chance -to speak, and waited to hear what he had to say.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">175</a></span> -What do you think it was? To express his thanks? -Not a bit. When he was level with me, he hissed, -almost spat in my ear, ‘You blank, blank, blankey -blank, blank! too blanky proud blank, are you? to -pick up a sixpence—blank you!’</p> - -<p>“That, I said to myself at the time,” continued -Whymper, “is all the thanks you get for trying to -do a good turn to the British vagrant. But, on -thinking it over, I’ve come to the conclusion that -there was something unintentionally offensive or -shall we say patronising, in the way I looked at the -man and then at the sixpence—something which he -resented so bitterly that he had to follow me all that -way to spit it out.”</p> - -<p>Another incident, which amused him at the time, -happened when he and I had walked out from -Southend to Shoeburyness, a distance of some four -miles. It was on a Sunday morning, and when we -arrived at Shoeburyness he remarked:</p> - -<p>“I had some very salt bloaters for breakfast. -Do you mind if, Sunday morning as it is, I call at -the first inn to slake my thirst?”</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” I replied.</p> - -<p>As it was within the prohibited hours when inns -are closed except to <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">bona fide</i> travellers—by which is -meant those who have travelled three miles from -the place where they slept the previous night—we -found the inn door closed. Whymper knocked -sharply and loudly at it in his usual masterful way, -and, when it was opened by a frowsy looking fellow -in shirt sleeves, said dryly, in more senses than -one:</p> - -<p>“I am thirsty and want a drink, please.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">176</a></span> -“Are you <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">bona fide</i> travellers?” inquired the -fellow.</p> - -<p>“Well,” remarked Whymper partly to the fellow -and partly to me, “there was a time early in my -career when some doubts were cast upon my qualifications -as a mountaineer and even, upon my word, -in regard to my statement as to what had happened, -but, this is the first time I have been challenged in -regard to my being a <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">bona fide</i> traveller. I’ll say -nothing about the qualification of my friend here, -but considering that since the last time I passed this -hostelry I have travelled some seven or eight -thousand miles, I think I’m entitled to describe myself -as a traveller in a very <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">bona fide</i> sense. As a -matter of fact, we have come from Southend this -morning, which I believe is outside the statutory -three miles. Do I look, my good fellow, like a man -who’d tell you a lie about a thing like that?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” replied the man looking Whymper -very hard in the face, “but I’ll tell you what -you do look like if you wish. You look to me like -a man who if he’d made up his mind to have a drink -would have it whether he was a <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">bona fide</i> traveller -or not, and wouldn’t let no one else stop him from -having it, and that’s more.”</p> - -<p>“I observe, my man,” said Whymper sententiously, -as the door was opened to admit us, “that -you are no indifferent judge of character, but I am -curious also to know whether you are disposed to -have a drink yourself.”</p> - -<p>The man’s answer, in Parliamentary parlance, -was in the affirmative.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">177</a></span></p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>At what I am now about to say of Edward -Whymper, he would himself either have hooted with -cynical ridicule or else would have heard with a -slow and cold smile of amused scorn, but to me his -was a sad, gloomy, if not indeed a pathetic figure. -I do not say this because he was a lonely man—and -in all life I have met no one who was quite as lonely -as he—but because he walked always in the shadow -of self. I am not implying that he was selfish, for he -was not. In his business transactions—albeit not -an easy man to “best,” and not above driving a -hard bargain with those whom he distrusted—he -was not only as good as his word, but was the soul -of integrity and honour. Prepared as he was to -fulfil his share of the contract to the letter, he expected -and required that others should do the same. -Yet when dealing with those who had treated him -handsomely he could be quixotically generous. -Even to those to whom he owed nothing, he did -many unselfish kindnesses for which he expected no -gratitude, and was prepared to go unrequited. -While the professional mendicant was sternly and -mercilessly shown the door, the deserving poor he -was always, if stealthily and secretly, ready to help.</p> - -<p>Yet, looking back on him as I knew him all those -years, I ask myself whether there was really one -being in the world who really “mattered” to -Edward Whymper, or by whose death his serenity -would have been disturbed. It was Robert Montgomery, -I believe, who wrote a poem in which he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">178</a></span> -pictured the tragic loneliness of “the last man” -left alone in the world.</p> - -<p>Had it been possible, by some such universal -cataclysm as, say, a world-wide earthquake, for every -living creature, with one exception, to perish off -the face of the earth, and had Edward Whymper -been that one exception, I verily believe that, whistling -softly to himself at the wonder of it all, he would, -with untrembling fingers, calmly have filled and lit -his pipe, and have sat down, were anything left to -sit upon, to contemplate the ruins of a world, -and then, first of all, to consider how to get his next -meal, and, after that, to think out how to accommodate -himself to the unusual and inconvenient -circumstances in which he found himself. Nor -would he have forgotten, with such instruments as -happened to be within reach, to take such astronomical -and meteorological bearings as he thought -would prove valuable in the interests of science.</p> - -<p>It is of course preposterous and inconceivable to -suppose any such situation as I have imagined, and -some of my readers may reasonably suppose that I -am either laughing at them or wishing them to -laugh at Whymper or myself. I assure them I am -doing nothing of the sort, for, with no inconsiderable -knowledge of the man, I honestly believe that in -such circumstances he would have behaved exactly -as I have said. They are magnificent, those qualities -of absolute self-dependence, self-containment and -self-contentment which Whymper possessed, but -to me at least and at times they seemed almost superhuman. -He walked, as I have said, in the shadow -of self; was content so to walk, and apparently had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">179</a></span> -no conception of and no wish to live a life to the -happiness or sorrow of which it was in the power of -others to contribute. A man who can so isolate -himself is possibly to be envied, even if it never -occurred to him that he is also to be pitied. Yet in -spite of the fact that he was perfectly satisfied with -his lot in life, and in living that life according to the -cut-and-dried system by which he ordered it, and -in spite, too, of the fact that he would have assured -one that he was, and indeed believed himself to be, a -happy man, Edward Whymper was, as I have -said, not only the loneliest but the most pathetic -human creature I have ever known.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>Whymper’s comments upon his contemporaries -and their work were always exceedingly penetrative. -Of some he spoke very generously but never effusively, -of others critically and of a few sarcastically. -I well remember the cynical smile with which he -called my attention to an inscription in a presentation -volume. It had been sent to him by a well-known -writer, of whom I say no more than that he -had once held a very distinguished position in the -Society of Authors. The inscription ran: “To -Edward Whymper, Esq. with the author’s complements,” -and as I write, I seem to see Whymper’s -squarish finger stubbed under the guilty “e” in -compliments. No one did he seem to hold in greater -respect and regard than Mr. Edward Clodd, of -whom he once spoke to me as “not only a profound -thinker and scholar and brilliant writer, but a loyal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180">180</a></span> -and true friend and the intimate associate of many -of the great men of our time.” I remember once -inviting Whymper to be my guest at a dinner in -town, and mentioning that Clodd was to be of the -party.</p> - -<p>“You know,” said he, “how generally I hum and -ha when anyone asks me to a function or a dinner, -and that I’d rather at any time dine on bread and -cheese and in pyjamas (which he often wore in the -house) here in Southend than be at the trouble of -getting into a black coat and journeying up to -London to eat a ten-course dinner. But, if Clodd -is to be one of your guests, I’m your man.”</p> - -<p>I had only three guests, Whymper, Mr. Clodd, and -Mr. Warwick Deeping, and the two older men who -had not met for a very long time had so much to say -about celebrities who were the friends of both, and -of historic former meetings, that Deeping (always -a silent man by choice) and myself (host though I -was) were content for the most part to listen. Apart -from his wish to see an old friend whom he held in -great respect, Whymper had, if I am not mistaken, -another and more personal reason for accepting my -invitation to meet Clodd at dinner, which is why I -refer to that otherwise unimportant function.</p> - -<p>And this brings me to a somewhat painful incident -of which, when Whymper was alive, I was occasionally -reminded, always to his disparagement, by -literary friends. If I touch briefly upon it here, it -is not because I wish to rake up an old story, which, -inasmuch as it concerns two distinguished men who -are both dead, might very well be forgotten, but -because since Whymper’s death it has again been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181">181</a></span> -going the rounds, and because I have an explanation -to put forward in regard to what happened.</p> - -<p>Whymper was on a certain occasion—it is no use -mincing matters—unpardonably rude to one whom -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once described to me as -“the most modest, the most unassuming, and at -the same time the most learned man I have ever -known”—the late Grant Allen. It was my privilege -to know and to be the guest of Grant Allen in his -home, and I am of opinion that he was not only the -most modest, most unassuming, and most learned, -but also the gentlest, most generous, and most -lovable of men. Meeting Whymper at a dinner—I -was not present, but in common, I expect, with some -of my readers I have heard the story often—Allen -quite innocently, and never dreaming that the -question could give offence, asked Whymper concerning -the historic accident on the Matterhorn, to -be told curtly that the accident was his own -business, and he did not choose to discuss it.</p> - -<p>Unpardonably rude, as I have said, as such a reply -was, and to such a man as Allen, that rudeness is, -I fancy, capable of explanation. To those who -knew Whymper only slightly and—overlooking the -sensitive breathing nostrils, so wide and circular at -the opening—saw only the cold hardness of his face -and eyes, the rat-trap-like snap of mouth and jaw, -he seemed a man of iron; and this impression the -story of his indomitable courage, his dogged determination -to succeed where others had failed, went -far to confirm. That such a man, a man rough-hewn -as he seemed out of block granite, and with -sinews of steel, could be cognisant of the fact that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182">182</a></span> -he had “nerves,” much less could suffer from them, -would occur to no one. None the less, I happen -to know that the shock of that tragedy in early life -among the Alps, when, powerless to help them, he -had to stand inactively by and see his companions -hurled to certain death, left its mark upon him to -the end of his life, and was sometimes re-enacted in -his dreams. In his later years, when his iron constitution -began to weaken and when his nerves were -less steady than of old, any sudden reference to that -early tragedy would, in his more irritable moments, -annoy and anger him, and I am convinced that it -was in such conditions his rude and surly rebuff to -Grant Allen was spoken. That Whymper afterwards -regretted it I have reason to know. I -believe that it was because Clodd was the close and -devoted friend of Allen, and had, moreover, been -present when the rebuff was administered, and had -been pained by it, that Whymper was anxious to -meet Clodd, either for the reason that—indifferent -as he generally was to what others thought of him—he -was for once anxious to efface any bad impression -that the incident had created, or because he hoped -to have some opportunity of speaking of Allen (he -was too proud a man to have written to Allen direct) -in such a way as to mend matters.</p> - -<p>That this is not mere surmise on my part I am -convinced from what I have myself heard Whymper -say and from the way he afterwards spoke of Allen. -He was, as I say, a proud man, a taciturn man, and -sometimes a rude man, but at heart he was just; and -unnecessarily and undeservedly to have given pain -to another troubled him as much, if not more, than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">183</a></span> -anything <em>could</em> trouble one whom few things outside -himself could affect.</p> - -<p>Since writing the above I ventured to submit a -draft of this paper to my friend Mr. Clodd, whose -very interesting reply I have permission to quote -as written:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I read the enclosed last night. Like Cromwell, -Whymper would say, “Paint me, warts and -wrinkles and all,” and you have done as he would -have wished, producing a faithful and withal sympathetic -portrait.</p> - -<p>I have just queried an obscure sentence here and -there, but have not touched the punctuation, which -I presume has had your attention in the original.</p> - -<p>I don’t know whether the Tennyson story has -appeared in print. Edmund Gosse told it to me -years back. Of course the son wouldn’t admit anything -conveying an idea of his father’s gruffness. -When I referred to the <cite>Life</cite> as a Biography, Meredith -said to me, “Don’t call it that: ’tis only a -Eulogy.” What I now remember about the Allen -rebuff is that Whymper had been lecturing in -various places, and that Allen—who was thinking -of making money that way—asked him about his -fees. And this Whymper wouldn’t tell him. On the -same occasion, Hardy being of the company, Whymper -narrated in detail the Matterhorn catastrophe, -which gave Hardy the impetus to a sonnet. Whymper -was the only man Hardy ever expressed the -desire to meet again—hence their coming to me in -the Easter of 1910.</p> - -<p>You truly assess him as a lonely man, but there -was a soft place under a hard shell, and this comes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184">184</a></span> -out in the tenderness towards children and all helpless -things of which you speak. I am glad to have -your witness to his liking for me. His visits to me -remain a cherished memory.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours sincerely,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Edward Clodd</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>I was under the impression, before receiving Mr. -Clodd’s very interesting letter, and from what Grant -Allen told me of the rebuff, that it was the latter’s -question about the Matterhorn which caused the -trouble. But the incident happened under Mr. -Clodd’s roof, and his memory is not likely to fail -him. Possibly Allen had already annoyed Whymper -by asking to be told the story of the Matterhorn, -and the inquiry about lecture fees following -upon that provoked Whymper’s ready wrath. That -he should thereafter voluntarily have described the -ice accident to Mr. Thomas Hardy (at mention of -whose honoured name I stand respectfully at salute) -in no way surprises me, and in fact confirms what I -have said in an earlier section of this paper to the -effect that “the advance must always come from -Whymper himself,” that he was not indisposed to -talk when left to himself, but was quick to suspect -any appearance of being “exploited” or “drawn.” -That he resented having questions about the Matterhorn -catastrophe suddenly sprung upon him I have -reason to know, for I have more than once heard -him snub, almost savagely, a tactless inquirer. -Allen’s question about fees (he was the last man in -the world to be impertinent) may seem to some -readers unwarrantable, but none of us in Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">185</a></span> -Christy’s list made any secret of the matter, as -Allen—himself a lecturer, but not for Mr. Christy—was -aware. On the contrary, Whymper asked -me, soon after I first met him, what fees I received, -telling me in return what his own handsome payments -were.</p> - -<p>There we will leave the comparatively trivial -incident of his rudeness to Allen. I should not have -written thus lengthily of it, but for the receipt of -Mr. Clodd’s letter, and because my picture of -Whymper depends, for any faithfulness it has, not -upon bold strokes of the brush, but upon the slow -and careful painting in of comparatively unimportant -but none the less cumulative details.</p> - -<p>Edward Whymper was a man whom it was easy -to misjudge, and was so misjudged of many if only -for the reason that he would go out of his way to -flatter, to please, or to pay court to none, or to be -other than his natural self to all those with whom -he was brought into contact. Rank and title, great -social position, the power of the purse and the power -of the Press, nor his own self-interests, could ever -move Edward Whymper to seek the favour of those -who for their own sake, or for the sake of what they -have done, he did not already respect. Secure in -the knowledge of his own just and honourable dealings -with all men, and seeking only the approval of -his conscience, he was content to go his own way in -the world, a strange, strong, lonely, but in many -respects a remarkable man—I think in force of -character and determination the most remarkable -man I have ever known. To me, as to many others -of whom I am aware, he did many kindnesses and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">186</a></span> -showed constant friendliness, and if in the opinion -of my readers I seem but ill to have requited these -kindnesses and that friendliness, by drawing a -faithful rather than a flattering picture of the -man as I knew him, it is because he was too sincere, -too honest, too genuine, too fearless to wish it -otherwise. Let me, however, in concluding this -sketch, give one more picture of him as I often saw -him—a picture which I have purposely kept to the -last for the reason that it shows him in a light -which is probably all unknown to those who did not -see him in his home and in his daily life, and -because it is a memory of him upon which I like to -linger.</p> - -<p>Born bachelor as he always seemed to me—I left -Westcliff shortly before his marriage, and did not -know him and cannot imagine him as a married -man—he was extremely fond of and invariably kind -to children. With children he was another being, -and, grim as he could be to grown-ups, children invariably -liked and trusted him. My earliest experience -of this was on the evening after my first -supper with him. He had been to town, and, as I -was walking towards the station to purchase an -evening paper, I saw him stalking in front of me, -arrayed in a black greatcoat and top hat and black -leather leggings. In one hand he carried his bag, -and by the other he clasped the hand of a tiny girl-child, -poorly clad and hatless, whom he stooped to -comfort as tenderly as could any woman, and in -fact took out his own handkerchief to wipe away -her tears. The little mite, who hailed from East -London, had been sent by some charitable person<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">187</a></span> -for a week by the sea to one of the many Holiday -Homes for the Poor in Southend. How she had become -lost I do not remember, but lost she certainly -was, learning which Whymper had comforted, -quieted, and coaxed her into telling him where her -temporary home was, and when I met him he was on -his way to take her there. My own stepson, then a -lad of twelve and a cadet on H.M.S. <i>Worcester</i>, was -devoted to him, being especially proud that the -greatest of mountaineers was at the trouble of giving -him lessons in climbing. Up and down the cliff -slopes of Southend, Whymper marched the lad, -impressing upon him the importance of always -going at one steady and uniform rate, never, except -under exceptional circumstances when haste was -absolutely necessary, forcing the pace or indulging -in sprinting; teaching him to walk from the hips -mechanically and machine wise, so that no strain -was put upon the heart and lungs, and instructing -him in the control and use of the breath. When -after the holiday the boy went back to the <i>Worcester</i>, -he sent Whymper his autograph book, asking -him to inscribe his name therein. In it, the -man whom some people thought grim, surly, and -morose, wrote: “I have been dying to see you -again. When <em>are</em> you coming along? Edward -Whymper. Feb. 24, 1905.”</p> - -<p>The boy whom Whymper always spoke of as his -“friend” is at this moment serving his King and -country in France as a soldier, throwing up his post -in Canada directly war was declared. He is too -young to feel—as some of us who are young no -longer now, alas, feel, as has been said, that old<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">188</a></span> -friends are the best, and it is to the grave we must -go to find them; but he is only one of many to -whom, when they were children, the dead man -showed constant kindness, and who will to their -life’s end hold the name of the great mountaineer, -who was also a true child-lover, in honour, gratitude, -and affection.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">189</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_189">OSCAR WILDE</h2> -</div> - -<blockquote> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“To</span> the memory of one who by some strange -madness, beyond understanding, made -shipwreck of his own life and of the life -of others; one of whom the world speaks in -whispers, but of whom I say openly that I never -heard an objectionable word from his lips and saw -in him at no time anything more vicious than -vanity; to the memory of</p> - -<p class="center larger"> -<span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span>, -</p> - -<p class="in0">actor (in a great life tragedy as in everything else), -artist (in more crafts than one, including flattery), -poet, critic, convict, genius, and, as I knew him, -gentleman: I dedicate these pages in memory of -many kindnesses.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>In these words I wished, soon after Wilde’s -death, to dedicate a book, but the publisher of the -book in question was obdurate. He would not, he -said, have Wilde’s name on the dedication page of -any work issued by him, and went so far as to urge -me not to fulfil the intention I had even then formed -of one day writing a chapter on Oscar Wilde as I -knew him. Yet in Oscar Wilde as I knew him, as -stated in the above dedication, except for his vanity -there was no offence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">190</a></span> -The preface, since my relations with the publisher -of whom I speak were pleasant and friendly, I withdrew. -If I have let sixteen years elapse before -writing the chapter, it was for no other reason than -that I felt the thing could wait—would perhaps be -the better for waiting—and that the pressure of -other work kept me employed.</p> - -<p>But one day a man, who to my knowledge has -eaten Wilde’s salt and received many kindnesses -from him in the season of Wilde’s prosperity, called -to see me concerning some literary project. On my -shelves are books given and inscribed to me by -Wilde and signed “from his sincere friend,” and on -my mantelshelf stands a portrait similarly inscribed -and signed. Seeing this portrait, my caller observed:</p> - -<p>“If I were you I should put that thing out of sight, -and, if you happen at any time to hear his name -mentioned, I should keep the fact that he had been -a friend of yours to yourself.”</p> - -<p>That decided me to write my long delayed chapter. -I begin by a protest. In his very interesting <cite>Notes -from a Painter’s Life</cite>, my friend Mr. C. E. Hallé -speaks of Wilde’s “repulsive appearance.” At the -time of Wilde’s conviction some of the sketches of -him, presumably made in court and published in -certain prints, did so portray him, possibly because, -as he was just then being held up to public execration, -so to picture him fitted in with the popular -conception. Mr. Hallé wrote “after the event” of -Wilde’s downfall, when it is easy not only to be wise, -but also to see in the outer man some signs of the -evil within. But from the statement that Wilde’s -appearance was “repulsive” I entirely dissent. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">191</a></span> -is true there was a flabby fleshiness of face and neck, -a bulkiness of body, an animality about the large -and pursy lips—which did not close naturally, but -in a hard, indrawn and archless line—that suggested -self-indulgence, but did not to me suggest vice. -Otherwise, except for this fleshiness and for the -animality of the mouth, I saw no evil in Wilde’s face. -The forehead, what was visible of it—for he disposed -brown locks of his thick and carefully parted hair -over either temple—was high and finely formed. The -nose was well shaped, the nostrils close and narrow—not -open and “breathing” as generally seen in -highly sensitive men. The eyes were peculiar, the -almond-shaped lids being minutely out of alignment. -I mean by this that the lids were so cut and the eyes -so set in the head that the outer corners of the lids -drooped downwards very slightly and towards the -ears, as seen sometimes in Orientals. Liquid, soft, -large and smiling, Wilde’s eyes, if they seemed to -see all things—life, death, other mortals and most -of all himself—half banteringly, met one’s own eyes -frankly. His smile seemed to me to come from his -eyes, not from his lips, which he tightened rather -than relaxed in laughter. His general expression—always -excepting the mouth, which, its animality -notwithstanding, had none of the cruelty which goes -so often with sensuality—was kindly.</p> - -<p>The best portrait I have seen of Wilde is one in -my possession which has never been published. -It was taken when he was the guest of the late Lady -Palmer (then Mrs. Walter Palmer), with whom I had -at the time some acquaintance. She was a close -friend of Wilde (who christened her “Moonbeam”)<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">192</a></span> -and of George Meredith (whom she sometimes half-seriously, -half-playfully spoke of as “The Master”). -In the portrait, Lady Palmer is seated with Meredith, -Mrs. Jopling Rowe being seated on her right and Mr. -H. B. Irving on her left. Behind Meredith’s chair -stands Wilde with Miss Meredith (afterwards Mrs. -Julian Sturgis), Sir J. Forbes-Robertson, and I -think Mr. David Bisham on his right. The portrait -of Wilde, if grave, is frank, untroubled, and attractive, -for, when he chose to be serious, the large lines -of his face and features sobered into a repose and -into a massiveness which were not without dignity. -Too often, however, Dignity suddenly let fall her -cloak, and Vanity, naked and unashamed, was revealed -in her place.</p> - -<p>Yet there is this to be said of Wilde’s vanity, that -its very nakedness was its best excuse. A loin-cloth, -a fig-leaf would have offended, but it was so artlessly -naked that one merely smiled and passed on. -Moreover, it was never a jealous or a malicious -vanity. It was so occupied in admiring itself in the -mirror that the smile on its face was never distorted -into a scowl at sight of another’s success. Wilde’s -vanity, I repeat, was as entirely free from venom -as was his wit. No one’s comments on society, on -the men and women he met, the authors he read, -were more incisive or more caustic, but I remember -none in which the thought was slanderous or the -intention spiteful.</p> - -<p><i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">A propos</i> of Wilde’s vanity, here is a story told -me long ago by Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer, who -then held a post of some sort in connection with the -Masters in Lunacy. Visiting the Zoological Gardens<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">193</a></span> -one day—in his private capacity, I assume, not in -connection with the Lunacy Commission—he -entered the Monkey House. Within the big cement -wire enclosure a certain liveliness—the war phrase -seems to have come to stay—was evident. What it -was all about Colonel Spencer did not know, but -with one exception the occupants were very excited, -leaping wildly from end to end of the cage, and from -top to bottom, jabbering, groaning, snarling, emitting -shrill shrieks of terror or hoarse howls of rage.</p> - -<p>The one exception was an evil-looking and elderly -monkey which sat humped and brooding in a corner, -absolutely motionless except for the twitching of -his nostrils and the angry way in which he switched -his eyes first upon what he apparently thought to -be the staring human idiots outside, and then at -the capering and noisy monkey imbeciles within. -“What’s the matter with that monkey?” Colonel -Spencer inquired of a keeper. “Is he ill? He -seems too bored even to scratch.” The keeper -shook his head. “No, he isn’t ill, sir,” he answered. -“Wot’s the matter with ’im, sir? Why, wanity.” -Then stirring up the sulking monkey with his cane, -he added, “’Ere, get up—Hoscar Wilde!”</p> - -<p>One day it was Wilde’s caprice to amuse himself by -talking the most blatantly insincere nonsense, -directed against my own political views, and deliberately -intended to “draw” me. He was in his most -exasperating mood, exuding, or affecting to exude, -egotism at every pore, and fondling, or making pretence -to fondle, his vanity as some spinsters fondle -a favourite cat. At last I could stand it no longer, -and wickedly told him the story of Colonel Spencer’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">194</a></span> -visit to the Monkey House at the Zoo and the -keeper’s comment about the sulky monkey. “Wot’s -the matter with ’im, sir? Why, wanity. ’Ere, get -up—Hoscar Wilde.”</p> - -<p>So far from being annoyed, Wilde simply rocked, -or affected to rock with delight.</p> - -<p>“I hoped once,” he said, “to live to see a new -shape in chrysanthemums or sunflowers, or possibly -a new colour in roses, blue for choice, called after -me. But that one’s name should percolate even to -the Zoological Gardens, that it should come naturally -to the lips of a keeper in the Monkey House, is fame -indeed. Do remind me to tell George Alexander the -story. It will make him so dreadfully jealous.”</p> - -<p>And I answered grimly:</p> - -<p>“Your game, Wilde!”</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>My friendship with Wilde was literary in its beginnings. -Flattered vanity on my part possibly -contributed not a little to it, for when I was a young -and—if that be possible—a more obscure man even -than I am now, Wilde, already famous, was one of -the very first to speak an encouraging word. Here -is the first letter I received from him:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">16 Tite Street, Chelsea.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">If you have nothing to do on Wednesday, -will you come and dine at the Hotel de Florence, -Rupert Street, at 7.45—morning dress, and chianti -yellow or red!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">195</a></span> -I am charmed to see your book is having so great -a success. It is strong and fine and true. Your -next book will be a great book.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Truly yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>This letter, it will be observed, is undated. Apparently -Wilde never dated his letters, for of all the -letters of his which I have preserved not a solitary -one bears a date, other perhaps than the name of the -day of the week on which it was written, and that -only rarely. He had the impudence once at a dinner-party, -when taken to task by a great lady for not -having answered a letter, to reply:</p> - -<p>“But, my dear lady, I never answer or write -letters. Ask my friend there, whose faithful correspondent -I am.” Then turning to me, he said, “Tell -Lady —— when you heard from me last.”</p> - -<p>As I had heard from him that morning, I dissembled -by saying:</p> - -<p>“How can I answer that, Wilde, for among my -other discoveries of the eccentricities of genius I -have discovered that genius, at least as represented -by you, never dates its letters. I never had one -from you that was dated.”</p> - -<p>Not long after the receipt of this first letter, I proposed -to write what I may call a “grown-up fairy -story,” and asked Wilde whether I might borrow as -sub-title a phrase I had once heard him use of a fairy -tale of his own making—“A Story for Children from -Eight to Eighty.” He replied as follows, then, as -always, with a capital <em>D</em> for “dear”:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">196</a></span></p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap"><span class="l2">16 Tite Street,</span><br /> -Chelsea, S.W.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I am only too pleased that any little phrase -of mine will find a place in any title you may give -to any story. Use it, of course. I am sure your -story will be delightful. Hoping to see you soon.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Your friend,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>My story written and published, I despatched it -cap in hand to carry my acknowledgments to the -teller of supremely lovely fairy stories—imagined, -not invented—from whom my own drab and homespun-clad -little tale had impudently “lifted” a -beautiful sub-title to wear, a borrowed plume, in its -otherwise undecorated hat.</p> - -<p>Here is Wilde’s very characteristic reply. It -needs no signature to indicate the writer. No other -author of the day would have written thus graciously -and thus generously:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap"><span class="l2">16 Tite Street,</span><br /> -Chelsea, S.W.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I should have thanked you long ago for sending -me your charming Fairy Tale, but the season -with its red roses of pleasure has absorbed me quite -and I have almost forgotten how to write a letter. -However, I know you will forgive me, and I must -tell you how graceful and artistic I think your -story is—full of delicate imagination, and a symbolism -suggestive of many meanings, not narrowed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">197</a></span> -down to one moral, but many-sided, as I think -symbolism should be.</p> - -<p>But your strength lies not in such graceful winsome -work. You must deal directly with Life—modern -terrible Life—wrestle with it, and force it -to yield you its secret. You have the power and -the pen. You know what passion is, what passions -are. You can give them their red raiment and make -them move before us. You can fashion puppets -with bodies of flesh and souls of turmoil, and so you -must sit down and do a great thing.</p> - -<p>It is all in you.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Your sincere friend,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>That Wilde was an artist in flattery as well as an -egotist, is not to be denied, but when quite early in our -friendship I was shown by a certain woman poet a -presentation copy of Wilde’s book of poems inscribed -“To a poet and a poem,” and within the next few -weeks saw upon a table in the drawing-room of a -very beautiful and singularly accomplished woman, -the late Rosamund Marriott-Watson (“Graham -Tomson”), who was a friend of Wilde’s and mine, a -fine portrait of himself also inscribed “To a poet -and a poem,” I was not so foolish as to take too -seriously the flattering things he said.</p> - -<p>Egotist as Wilde was, his was not the expansive -egotism which, in spreading its wings to invite admiration, -seeks to eclipse and to shut out its fellow -egotists from their own little place in the sun. Most -egotists are eager only for flattery and applause. -Wilde was equally eager, but he was ready for the -time being to forget himself and his eagerness in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">198</a></span> -applauding and flattering others. Not many -egotists of my acquaintance, especially literary -egotists, write letters like that I have quoted, in -which there is no word of himself, or of his own work, -but only of his friend.</p> - -<p>The last letter I ever received from Wilde is in the -same vein. It is as usual undated, but as the play -to which it refers was his first, <cite>Lady Windermere’s -Fan</cite>, I am, by the assistance of Mr. Stuart Mason’s -admirably compiled <cite>Oscar Wilde Calendar</cite>, enabled -to fix the date as the middle of February, 1892.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap"><span class="l2">Hotel Albemarle,</span><br /> -Piccadilly, London.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">Will you come and see my play Thursday -night. I want it to be liked by an artist like you.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Yours ever,</span><br /> -O. W. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Wilde came to see me, I think, the morning after -the production of the play, or at all events within a -morning or two after, and hugged himself with -delight when, in reply to his question, “Do tell -me what you admired most in the play,” I -said:</p> - -<p>“Your impudence! To dare to come before the -footlights in response to enthusiastic calls—smoking -a cigarette too—and compliment a British audience -on having the unexpected good taste—for your -manner said as plainly as it could, ‘Really, my -dear people, I didn’t think you had it in you!’—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">199</a></span>to -appreciate a work of art on its merits! You -are a genius, Wilde, in impudence at least if in -nothing else.”</p> - -<p>“And you are a plagiarist as well as a flatterer,” -he replied. “You stole that last remark from a -story you have heard me tell about Richard Le -Gallienne. I’m going to punish you by telling you -the story, for, though you stole part of it, I am sure -you have never heard it. No one ever has heard -the story he steals and calls his own; no one ever -has read—the odds are that he will swear he has -never heard of—the book from which he has plagiarised. -Our friend Richard is very beautiful, isn’t -he? Wasn’t it you who told me that Swinburne -described him to you as ‘Shelley with a chin’? I -don’t agree. Swinburne might just as well have -described himself as ‘Shelley without a chin.’ No, -it is the Angel Gabriel in Rossetti’s National Gallery -painting of the Annunciation of which Richard -reminds me. The hair, worn long and fanning out -into a wonderful halo around the head, always reminds -me of Rossetti’s angel. However, my story -is that an American woman, in that terribly crude -way that Americans have, asked Richard, ‘Why do -you wear your hair so long, Mr. Le Gallienne?’ -Richard is sometimes brilliant as well as always -beautiful, but on this occasion he could think of -nothing less banal and foolish to say than ‘Perhaps, -dear lady, for advertisement.’ ‘But you, Mr. Le -Gallienne! You who have such genius!’ Richard -blushed and bowed and smiled until the lady added -cruelly—‘for advertisement!’”</p> - -<p>Wilde was quite right in saying I had heard the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200">200</a></span> -story before. It had been told me as happening -to himself in America in the days when he wore his -own hair very long, and I am of opinion that it was -much more likely to have happened to Wilde, who -was both a notoriety hunter and an advertiser, than -to Le Gallienne, who is neither.</p> - -<p><i xml:lang="la" lang="la">A propos</i> of Wilde’s love of advertising, I once -heard the fact commented upon—perhaps rudely -and crudely—to Wilde himself. Just as I was about -to enter the Savage Club in company with a Brother -Savage, who was well known as an admirer of -Dickens, we encountered Wilde, and I invited him -to join us at lunch.</p> - -<p>“In the usual way,” he answered, “I should -say that I was charmed, but out of compliment to -our friend here, I will for once condescend to quote -that dreadful and tedious person Dickens and -answer, ‘Barkis is willin’.’ Where are you lunching—Romano’s?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I said, “the Savage Club.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the Savage Club,” said Wilde. “I never -enter the Savage Club. It tires me so. It used to be -gentlemanly Bohemian, but ever since the Prince -of Wales became a member and sometimes dines -there, it is nothing but savagely snobbish. Besides, -the members are all supposed to be professionally -connected with Literature, Science, and Art, and I -abhor professionalism of every sort.”</p> - -<p>My Dickens friend, who shares every Savage’s -love for the old club (he told me afterwards, whether -correctly or not I do not know, that Wilde’s aversion -was due to the fact that his brother Willie Wilde -had unsuccessfully put up for membership), was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">201</a></span> -annoyed by what Wilde had said both about the -club and about Charles Dickens.</p> - -<p>“I can understand your dislike of professionalism—in -advertisement, Mr. Wilde,” he said bluntly. -“And, since you have condescended to stoop to -quote Dickens, I may add that, in the matter of -advertisement, Barkis as represented by Wilde is -not only willing but more than Mr. Willing the -advertising agent himself. Good morning.”</p> - -<p>One other story of Wilde and Le Gallienne occurs -to me. Wilde held Le Gallienne, as I do, in warm -liking as a friend and in genuine admiration as a -poet; but, meeting him one day at a theatre, bowed -gravely and coldly and made as if to pass on. Le -Gallienne stopped to say something, and, noticing -the aloofness of Wilde’s manner, inquired:</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, Oscar? Have I offended -you in anything?”</p> - -<p>“Not offended so much as very greatly pained -me, Richard,” was the stern reply.</p> - -<p>“I pained you! In what way?”</p> - -<p>“You have brought out a new book since I saw -you last.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, what of it?”</p> - -<p>“You have treated me very badly in your book, -Richard.”</p> - -<p>“I treated you badly in my book!” protested Le -Gallienne in amazement. “You must be confusing -my book with somebody else’s. My last book was -<cite>The Religion of a Literary Man</cite>. I’m sure you can’t -have read it, or you wouldn’t say I had treated you -badly.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the very book; I have read every word<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">202</a></span> -of it,” persisted Wilde, “and your treatment of me -in that book is infamous and brutal. I couldn’t have -believed it of you, Richard—such friends as we have -been too!”</p> - -<p>“I treated you badly in my <cite>Religion of a Literary -Man</cite>?” said Le Gallienne impatiently. “You must -be dreaming, man. Why, I never so much as mentioned -you in it.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just it, Richard,” said Wilde, smilingly.</p> - -<p>Here is a recollection of another sort. About the -time when Wilde’s star was culminating, he boarded -a Rhine steamer on the deck of which I was sitting. -The passengers included a number of Americans, one -of whom instantly recognised Wilde, and seating -himself beside the new-comer, inquired:</p> - -<p>“Guess, sir, you are the great Mr. Oscar Wilde -about whom every one is talking?”</p> - -<p>Smilingly, but not without an assumption of the -bland boredom which he occasionally adopted -toward strangers of whom he was uncertain, -Wilde assented. The other, an elderly man -wearing a white cravat, may or may not at -some time have been connected with a church. -Possibly he was then editing some publication, -religious or otherwise, and in his time may have -done some interviewing, for he plied Wilde with -many curious and even over-curious questions concerning -his movements, views, and projects. The -latter, amused at first, soon tired. His eyes wandered -from his interviewer to scan the faces of the -passengers, and catching sight of me made as if to -rise and join me.</p> - -<p>The interviewer, who had not yet done with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">203</a></span> -him, and was something of a strategist, cut -off Wilde’s retreat by a forward movement of -himself and the deck-chair, in which he was sitting, -so as to block the way. It was apparently merely -the unconscious hitching of one’s seat a little nearer -to an interesting companion, the better to carry on -the conversation, but it was adroitly followed by a -very flattering remark in the form of a question, and -Wilde relapsed lumpily into his seat to answer. For -the next few minutes I could have imagined myself -watching a game of “living chess.” Wilde, evidently -wearying, wished to move his king, as represented -by himself, across the board and into the square -adjacent to myself, but for every “move” he made -his adversary pushed forward another conversational -“piece” to call a check. At last, shaking his -head in laughing remonstrance, Wilde rose, and the -other, seeing the game was up, did the same.</p> - -<p>“It has been a real pleasure and honour to meet -you, sir,” he said. “Guess when I get home and tell -my wife I’ve talked to the great Oscar Wilde she won’t -believe me. If you would just write your autograph -there, I’d take it as a kindness.” He had been -searching his pockets while speaking for a sheet of -paper, but finding none opened his Baedeker where -there was a blank sheet and thrust it into Wilde’s -hand.</p> - -<p>The latter, with a suggestion in his manner of the -condescension which is so becoming to greatness, -scrawled his name—a big terminal Greek “e” tailing -off into space at the end—in the book, and bowing -a polite, in response to the other’s effusive, farewell, -made straight for a deck-chair next to me, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">204</a></span> -plumping himself heavily in it began to talk animatedly.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, the interviewer was excitedly going -the round of his party to exhibit his trophy.</p> - -<p>“Oscar Wilde’s on board, the great æsthete!” he -said. “I’ve had a long talk with him. See, here’s -his own autograph in my Baedeker. There he is, -the big man talking to the one in a grey suit.”</p> - -<p>The excitement spread, and soon we had the -entire party standing in a ring, or perhaps I should -say a halo, around the object of their worship, who -though still talking animatedly missed nothing of -it all, and by his beaming face seemed to enjoy his -lionising. I suspect him, in fact, of amusing himself -by playing up to it, for, seeing that some of his -admirers were not only looking, but while doing -their best to appear not to be doing so were also -listening intently, his talk struck me as meant for -them as much as for me. He worked off a witty -saying or two which I had heard before, and just as -I had seen him glance sideways at a big plate-glass -Bond Street shop window to admire his figure or -the cut of his coat, so he stole sideway glances at the -faces around as if to see whether admiration of his -wit was mirrored there.</p> - -<p>Then he told stories of celebrities, literary or -otherwise, of whom he spoke intimately, called -some of them, as in the case of Besant and Whistler, -by their Christian names, and so tensely was his -audience holding its breath to listen, that when at -Bingen he rose and said, “I’m getting off here,” -one could almost hear the held breath “ough” out -like a deflating tyre.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">205</a></span> -No sooner was he gone than the interviewer -seated himself in the deck-chair vacated by Wilde, -and inquired politely:</p> - -<p>“Are you a lit-er-ary man, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” I said, “I suppose so, in a way. -That’s how I earn my living.”</p> - -<p>“May I ask your name?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” I said (meaning thereby “you may -ask, but it does not follow that I shall tell you”). -“I am afraid ‘Brown’ is not a very striking name, -but don’t tell me you have never heard it, for there -is nothing so annoys an author as that.”</p> - -<p>He was a kindly man, and made haste to reassure -me.</p> - -<p>“I know it well,” he protested. “Yours is not -an uncommon name, I believe, in England. It is less -common in the States. Your Christian name is—is—is—?”</p> - -<p>“John,” I submitted modestly.</p> - -<p>His brow cleared. “Exactly,” he nodded. “I -know it well.”</p> - -<p>Then he seemed uncertain again, and looked -thoughtfully but absently at a castle-crowned hill. -I imagine he was running through and ticking -off as the names occurred to him the list -of all the illustrious John Browns. Possibly he -thought of the author of <cite>Rab and His Friends</cite>, and -decided that I was too young. Possibly of Queen -Victoria’s favourite gillie, who was generally pictured -in kilts, whereas I wore knickerbockers.</p> - -<p>“You have published books?” he asked.</p> - -<p>I nodded.</p> - -<p>“Only in England perhaps?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">206</a></span> -“No, they have been issued in America too.”</p> - -<p>“Sold?”</p> - -<p>“The people who bought them were,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Tell me the name of one of your books, please.”</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>“Can’t. Not allowed.”</p> - -<p>“Not allowed? Why not?”</p> - -<p>“Because,” I answered, rattling off the first -nonsense which came to my head, “I’m a member -of the famous ‘Silence Club,’ the members of which -are known as the W.N.T.S.’s. You have heard of -the club of course, even if you haven’t heard of me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said. “I feel sure I have; but I was -never quite sure what it meant. What does -W.N.T.S. stand for?”</p> - -<p>“It means ‘We Never Talk Shop.’ An author -who so much as mentions the title of his book -except to his publisher, his bookseller, or an agent -is unconditionally expelled.”</p> - -<p>Then I delivered my counter-attack. He had -mentioned to Wilde that he hailed from Boston. It -so happens that at my friend Louise Chandler -Moulton’s receptions I had met nearly every -eminent Boston or even American author, so I put -a few questions to my interviewer which showed an -inner knowledge of Boston and American literary -life and celebrities that seemed positively to startle -him. He was now convinced that I was a celebrity -of world-wide fame, and that such a comet should -come within his own orbit, without his getting to -know as much as the comet’s name, was not to be -endured by a self-respecting journalist. He literally -agonised, as well as perspired, in his unavailing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">207</a></span> -efforts to trick, wheedle or implore my obscure -name from me. For one moment I was minded to -tell him my name if only to enjoy the shock of its -unknownness, but I resisted the temptation and, -tiring in my turn as Wilde had tired, I rose and said -that as I was getting off at the next stopping place -I would wish him “Good day.” He did not even -ask for John Brown’s autograph. He even seemed -suddenly in a hurry to get rid of me, the reason for -which I afterwards discovered. He had, I suppose, -heard me tell Wilde that my luggage was on board; -and the last I saw of him was in the boat’s hold, -where he was stooping, pince-nez on nose, over the -up-piled bags, boxes, dressing-cases and trunks, -painfully raking them over, and every moment -hoping to be rewarded by finding mine labelled -“Robert Louis Stevenson,” “Rudyard Kipling,” -“Algernon C. Swinburne” or “Thomas Hardy.” -I trust he found it.</p> - -<p>When we were back in town I told Wilde my own -adventure with the interviewer after the former had -left the boat. His comment was:</p> - -<p>“It sounds like a terrible serial story that I -once saw in a magazine, each chapter of which -was written by a different hand. ‘The Adventures -of Oscar Wilde, by himself, continued by -Coulson Kernahan.’ How positively dreadful!”</p> - -<p>I wonder what Wilde will have to say to me, if -hereafter we should discuss together the brief and -fragmentary continuation of his own story which -in these Recollections I have endeavoured to carry -on?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">208</a></span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>Once when Wilde, a novelist and I were lunching -together, and when Wilde, after declaring that the -wine was so “heavenly” that it should be drunk -kneeling, was discoursing learnedly on the pleasures -of the table—how the flesh of this or that bird, fish -or beast should be cooked and eaten, with what wine -and with what sauce, the novelist put in:</p> - -<p>“If I were to adapt Bunyan, I should say that -you ought to have been christened Os-carnalwise -Wilde instead of plain Oscar.”</p> - -<p>“How ridiculous of you to suppose that anyone, -least of all my dear mother, would christen me -‘plain Oscar,’” was the reply. “My name has two -O’s, two F’s and two W’s. A name which is destined -to be in everybody’s mouth must not be too long. -It comes so expensive in the advertisements. When -one is unknown, a number of Christian names are -useful, perhaps needful. As one becomes famous, -one sheds some of them, just as a balloonist, when -rising higher, sheds unnecessary ballast, or as you -will shed your Christian name when raised to the -peerage. I started as Oscar Finghal O’Flahertie -Wills Wilde. All but two of the five names have -already been thrown overboard. Soon I shall discard -another and be known simply as ‘The Wilde’ -or ‘The Oscar.’ Which it is to be depends upon one -of my imitators—that horrid Hall Caine, who used -to be known very properly as Thomas Henry; quite -appropriate names for a man who writes and dresses -as he does. I can’t say which he does worse as I have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">209</a></span> -never read him, but I have often been made ill by -the way he wears his clothes.</p> - -<p>“And, by the by, never say you have ‘adapted’ -anything from anyone. Appropriate what is already -yours—for to publish anything is to make it public -property—but never adapt, or, if you do, suppress -the fact. It is hardly fair to Bunyan, if you improve -on him, to point out, some hundreds of years after, -how much cleverer you are than he; and it is even -more unfair, if you spoil what he has said, and then -‘hold him accountable.’”</p> - -<p>“That, I suppose,” said the novelist drily, “is -why when you said the other day that ‘Whenever -a great man dies, William Sharp and the undertaker -come in together,’ you suppressed the fact that the -same thing had already been said in other words by -W. S. Gilbert.”</p> - -<p>“Precisely,” said Wilde. “It is not for me publicly -to point out Gilbert’s inferiority. That would be -ungenerous. But no one can blame me, if the fact -is patent to all.”</p> - -<p>Mention of Sir W. S. Gilbert prompted the other -to say that a friend of his had occasion to take a cab -at Harrow where the author of <cite>The Bab Ballads</cite> -had built a house. Driving from the station to his -destination, his friend noticed this house, and asked -the cabman who lived there. “I don’t know ’is -name, sir,” said the cabman. “But I do know -(I have driven ’im once or twice) that ’e is sometimes -haffable and sometimes harbitrary. They -do say in the town, sir, that ’e’s wot’s called a -retired ’umorist, whatever that may be.”</p> - -<p>From Harrow the conversation shifted to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210">210</a></span> -neighbouring city of St. Albans, where I was then -living.</p> - -<p>“That reminds me,” said Wilde, turning to -me, “that I want to run down to St. Albans once -again to bathe my fingers in the mediæval twilight -of the grey old Abbey. We two will come to you to-morrow. -You shall meet us at the station, give us -lunch at your rooms—a cutlet, a flask of red chianti -and a cigarette is all we ask—and then you shall take -us over the Abbey.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be delighted,” I said, “but do you remember -my meeting you the other day when you -were coming away from the Royal Academy? I -asked you how you were, and you replied, ‘Ill, my -dear fellow, ill and wounded to the soul at the -thought of the hideousness of what in this degenerate -country, and these degenerate days, dares to call -itself Art. Get me some wine quickly, or I’m sure I -shall faint.’ Well, I’m living in bachelor diggings -where it would be highly inconvenient to have dead -or dying artists on hand or lying about. The pictures -on show in my bachelor rooms, like the furniture, -are not of my selection. If you were wounded by -what you saw in the Academy, you would die at -sight of one work of art on my walls. It is a hideous -and vulgar representation of ‘Daniel in the Lions’ -Den,’ done in crude chromo, four colours.”</p> - -<p>Wilde affected to shudder.</p> - -<p>“How awful!” he said. “But I can think of -something more awful even than that.”</p> - -<p>“What’s that?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“A poor lion in a den of Daniels,” was his reply.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211">211</a></span></p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>A factor in Wilde’s downfall was, I am sometimes -told, evil association, but if so it was a factor on -which I can throw no light, as if evil associates he -had I saw nothing of them.</p> - -<p>Louise Chandler Moulton sings of</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This brief delusion that we call our life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where all we can accomplish is to die,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">and of the many figures in the literary, artistic, and -social world of the day whom I met in Wilde’s -company, some have achieved death, some, knighthood -(Mr. Stephen Phillips once said in my hearing, -he was not sure which was the better—or the worse), -and some, distinction. Of the remainder, the worst -that could be said against them is that they have -since come a crash financially, as Wilde himself did. -It was only in money matters that I ever had cause -to think Wilde immoral.</p> - -<p>In setting down these recollections and impressions -I do not write as one of his intimates. We -were friends, we corresponded, I dined with him and -Mrs. Wilde at 16 Tite Street, and he with me, and -we forgathered now and then at clubs, theatrical -first nights, and literary at homes; but the occasions -on which we met were not very many, all told; nor -did I desire more closely to cultivate him, and for -two reasons. One was that the expensive rate at -which he lived made him impossible as other than a -very occasional companion, and the other was that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212">212</a></span> -“straightness” in money matters is to me one of -the first essentials in the man of whom one makes a -friend. On this point Wilde and I did not see alike. -He laughed at me when I said that, while counting -it no dishonour to be poor, I did count it something -of a dishonour deliberately and self-indulgently to -incur liabilities one might not be able to meet. In -his vocabulary there were few more contemptuous -words than that of “tradesman,” as the following -incident, which I may perhaps be pardoned for interpolating, -will show.</p> - -<p>When <cite>The Picture of Dorian Grey</cite> was in the -press, Wilde came in to see me one morning.</p> - -<p>“My nerves are all to pieces,” he said, “and I’m -going to Paris for a change. Here are the proofs of my -novel. I have read them very carefully, and I think -all is correct with one exception. Like most Irishmen, -I sometimes write ‘I will be there,’ when it should -be ‘I shall be there,’ and so on. Would you, like a -dear good fellow, mind going through the proofs, -and if you see any ‘wills’ or ‘shalls’ used wrongly, -put them right and then pass for press? Of course, -if you should spot anything else that strikes you as -wrong, I’d be infinitely obliged if you would make -the correction.”</p> - -<p>I agreed, went through proofs, made the necessary -alterations, and passed for press. Two or three -days after I had a telegram from Paris. “Terrible -blunder in book, coming back specially. Stop all -proofs. Wilde.” I did so, and awaited events. -Wilde arrived in a hansom.</p> - -<p>“It is not too late? For heaven’s sake tell me -it is not too late?” he affected to gasp.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">213</a></span> -“Oh, make yourself easy. It was not too late. -I stopped the proofs,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Thank God!” he exclaimed theatrically, throwing -himself into a chair and making a great show of -wiping away the perspiration from a perfectly dry -brow. “I should never have forgiven myself, or -you, had my book gone out disfigured by such a -blunder—by such a crime as I count it against art.”</p> - -<p>Then in a faint undertone, as if the thing were too -unholy to speak of above one’s breath, he said:</p> - -<p>“There’s a picture framer—a mere tradesman—in -my story, isn’t there?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said.</p> - -<p>“What have I called him?”</p> - -<p>“Ashton, I think. Yes, Ashton,” I answered.</p> - -<p>He simulated a shudder and seemed to wince at -the words.</p> - -<p>“Don’t repeat it! Don’t repeat it! It is more -than my shattered nerves can stand. Ashton is a -gentleman’s name,” he spoke brokenly, and wrung -his hands as if in anguish. “And I’ve given it—God -forgive me—to a tradesman! It must be -changed to Hubbard. Hubbard positively smells -of the tradesman!”</p> - -<p>And having successfully worked off this wheeze -on me, Oscar became himself again, and sat up with -a happy smile to enjoy his own and my congratulations -on the exquisiteness of his art.</p> - -<p>Wilde’s contempt for tradesmen, as instanced in -this anecdote, I did not share. Once, when he had -spoken thus contemptuously because a shopkeeper -was suing a certain impecunious but extravagant -artist acquaintance of his and mine for a debt incurred,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">214</a></span> -I told Wilde that even if I despised “tradesmen” -as he and the artist did, I should despise myself -much more were I to defraud a despised tradesman -by ordering goods for which I had neither the -means nor the intention to pay. He was not in the -least offended, perhaps because the remark suggested -an aphorism—the exact wording I forget, -but it was to the effect that only mediocrity concerned -itself with tradesmen’s bills, that a writer of -genius, whether a playwright or a novelist, ran into -debt as surely as his play or his book ran into -royalties. I remember the occasion well, though I -do not remember the phrasing of his aphorism, for -on that particular morning he had, for the first time -within my experience, shown less than his usual nice -consideration for others which—whether due merely -to love of approbation or to finer feelings—made -him so agreeable and delightful a companion.</p> - -<p>When he came in I offered him my cigarette case. -They were of a brand he had often himself smoked -in the past—in fact it was he who had first recommended -them to me—quite good tobacco and well -made, but moderate in price, and with no pretence -to be of the very best. He took one, lit it, drew a -few puffs, and then tossing it practically unsmoked -on the fire, drew out his own bejewelled case and lit -up one of his own. That was very unlike Wilde as -I had known him in his less prosperous days. Then -he would have said, “I have accustomed myself to -smoke another brand lately and am something of a -creature of habit. Do you mind if I smoke one of -my own?”</p> - -<p>Perhaps the omission was due only to preoccupation<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">215</a></span> -and forgetfulness. Perhaps the incident will -be accounted too trivial, thus seriously to put on -record. Possibly, but it is often by the cumulative -effect of small and seemingly trivial details—not -always by the bold broad strokes—that the truest -portrait is drawn. Into the tragedy of human life -we are not often permitted to look, but just as, -since all fish swim against the stream, a minnow -will serve to show the run of the current, no less than -a pike, so trivial incidents serve sometimes to point -the trend of life or of character as truly as great -happenings.</p> - -<p>Nor in Wilde’s case were other signs of change in -him wanting. His first play had just then been produced -and with success. He struck me on that -particular morning as unpleasantly flushed, as -already coarsened, almost bloated by success. There -was a suspicion of insolence in his manner that was -new to me, and from that time onward he and I—perhaps -the fault was mine—seemed to lose touch -of each other, and to drift entirely apart. Wilde -died in the late autumn of 1900. I never saw or -heard from him again after the spring of 1892.</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>Was it not Mr. Stead who defined paradox as a -truth standing on its head? Wilde’s aim in paradox -was so to manipulate truth and falsehood as to make -the result startle one by appearing to reverse the -existing standard. A paradox by him was sometimes -a lie and a truth trotting side by side together in -double harness like a pair of horses, but each so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">216</a></span> -cleverly disguised that one was not quite sure which -horse was which.</p> - -<p>More often a paradox by Wilde was a lie (or a -seeming lie) and a truth (or a seeming truth) driven -the one in front of the other tandem-wise; but whichever -Wilde had placed last was tolerably sure to -take one by surprise by lashing out with its heels -when one came to look at it. When Wilde had carefully -arranged a paradox with a kick in it and -wished to see one jump, he spoke the first half -smilingly to put one off one’s guard. Then he would -pause, suddenly become grave and thoughtful as if -searching his words. But the pause was not for loss -of a word. It was no pause of momentary inaction. -It was, on the contrary, if I may vary the simile, like -the backward swing of a rifle, and was meant only -to give fuller play and power to the forward thrust -that bayonets an enemy. No sooner was one off -one’s guard by the smile and the momentary silence, -than swift and sure came the sting of the stab.</p> - -<p>Let me give an illustration. Wilde once asked me -some question concerning my religious belief which -I did my best to answer frankly and, as he was good -enough afterwards to say, without the cant which he -so loathed. When I had made an end of it, he said -gravely:</p> - -<p>“You are so evidently, so unmistakably sincere -and most of all so truthful” (all this running -smoothly and smilingly) “that” (then came the -grave look and the pause as if at a loss for a word, -followed by the swift stab) “I can’t believe a single -word you say.”</p> - -<p>And so, having discharged his missile, Wilde, no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217">217</a></span> -longer lolling indolently forward in his seat, pulled -himself backwards, and up like a gunner taking -a pace to the rear, or to the side of his gun the -better to see the crash of the shell upon the -target, and then, if I may so word it, “smiled all -over.” He was so openly, so provokingly pleased -with himself and with this particular paradox that -not to be a party to the gratification of such sinful -vanity, instead of complimenting him, as he had -expected, on its neatness, I ignored the palpable hit, -and inquired:</p> - -<p>“Where are you dining to-night, Wilde?”</p> - -<p>“At the Duchess of So-and-so’s,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Precisely. Who is the guest you have marked -down, upon whom—when everybody is listening—to -work off that carefully prepared impromptu -wheeze about ‘You are so truthful that I can’t believe -a single word you say,’ which you have just -fired off on me?”</p> - -<p>Wilde sighed deeply and threw out his hands with -a gesture of despair, but the ghost of a glint of a -smile in the corner of his eye signalled a bull’s-eye -to me.</p> - -<p>“Compliments are thrown away on such coarse -creatures as you,” he said. “This very morning I -called into being a new and wonderful aphorism—‘A -gentleman never goes east of Temple Bar’—notwithstanding -which I have brought wit and fame -and fashion to lighten your editorial room in the -City. Why? To pay you the supremest compliment -one artist can pay another one. To make you -the only confidant of one of my most graceful and -delicate fancies. I was about to tell you——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218">218</a></span> -“Yes, I know,” I interpolated rudely, “you have -coined a witty new aphorism, or thought out a lovely -fancy. You do both and do them more than well. -But you are going to the Duchess’s dinner party to-night, -and you will contrive so to turn what is said -that your aphorism or fancy seems to rise as naturally -and spontaneously to the surface of the conversation -as the bubbles rise to the surface of the glass of -champagne at your side. But you are not, as actors -say, sure of your ‘words.’ You think it would be -as well to have something of the nature of a dress -rehearsal. So you have dropped in here, on your -way to your florist’s or to some one else, to try it -upon me as somebody is said to try his jokes on his -dog before publishing them. I don’t mind playing -‘dog’ in your rôle in the least, but I object to being -made a stalking-horse for the Duchess’s honoured -guest.”</p> - -<p>I have no intention in these Recollections to play -the reporter to my own uninteresting share in the -conversation, but one must do so sometimes for -obvious reasons. In this case, I wish to illustrate -the means by which I sometimes succeeded in -inducing Wilde to drop attitudinising and to be -his natural self.</p> - -<p>There is a certain Professor of my acquaintance, -a man of brilliant abilities and incomparable knowledge, -whom I used to meet at a club—let us call -him Clough. When Clough could be induced to talk -upon the matters in which he was an expert, he was -worth travelling many miles to hear. Unfortunately -he had an aggressive, even offensive manner, and -was troubled with self-complacent egotism. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">219</a></span> -was only after a systematic course of roughness and -rudeness at the hands of his fellow clubmen that -Clough was endurable, or could be got to talk of -anything but himself.</p> - -<p>One would sometimes hear a fellow clubman say, -“Clough is in the other room, just down from the -‘Varsity; and more full of information than ever. -Two or three capable members are administering -the usual course of medicine—‘Cloughing’ we call -it now—of flatly contradicting every word he says, -‘trailing’ him, snubbing him, and otherwise reducing -his abnormally swollen head to moderate -dimensions. Then he will be better worth listening -to on his own subjects than any other man in -England. Don’t miss it.”</p> - -<p>Similarly, in my intercourse with Wilde, I found -that a certain amount of “Cloughing,” such as, -“Now then, Wilde! You know you are only showing -off, as we used to say at home when I was one -of a family of kids. Stow it, and talk sense,” had -equally good result. He would protest at first when -minded to let me off lightly, that such “engaging -ingenuousness” alarmed and silenced him. At -other times he would vow that my coarseness made -him shudder and wince—that it was like crushing -a beautiful butterfly, to bludgeon a sensitive creature -of moods and impulses with unseemly jibes and -blatant speech. Having, however, thus delivered -himself and made his protest, he would often -stultify that protest and provide me with an excuse -to myself for my Philistinism, by throwing aside his -stilts (assumed possibly because he imagined they -advertised him to advantage above the heads of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">220</a></span> -those who walk afoot in the Vanity Fair of Literature -and Art), and by showing himself infinitely -more interesting when seen naturally and near at -hand than when stilting it affectedly in mid-air -above one’s head.</p> - -<p>At times, and when he had forgotten his grievance -at being thus rudely pulled down, he would forget—egotist -that he was—even himself, in speaking of -his hopes, his ambitions and his dreams; and in his -rare flashes of sincerity would show himself as -greater and nobler of soul than many who met and -talked to him only in the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">salon</i> or in society perhaps -realised.</p> - -<p>There is a graceful fancy of Wilde’s—I do not -know whether he ever told it in print—the hero of -which was a poet lad who had dreamed so often and -written such lovely songs about the mermaid, that -at last—since the dream-world was more real to -him than the waking world—he was convinced that -mermaids there really are in the seas around our -shores, and that if one watched long and patiently -they might by mortal eye be seen. So day and -night the poet watched and waited, but saw nothing. -And when his friends asked him, “Have you seen -the mermaids?” he answered, “Yes, by moonlight -I saw them at play among the rollers,” telling thereafter -what he had seen and with such vividness and -beauty that almost he persuaded the listeners to -believe the story. But one night by moonlight the -poet did indeed have sight of the mermaids, and in -silence he came away and thereafter told no one -what he had seen.</p> - -<p>So, of Wilde himself, I cannot but hope and believe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">221</a></span> -that though he told many stories of exceeding -beauty, none of which were true, yet hidden away -in his heart was much that was gracious, true, noble -and beautiful, the story of which will now never be -known, for like the poet lad of his fantasy he told -it to no one. Of what was evil and what was good -in his life, only a merciful God can strike the balance, -and only a merciful God shall judge.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>As one who knew Wilde personally, I am sometimes -asked whether I was not instinctively aware -that the man was bad. Frankly I was not. Possibly -because scandal does not interest me, and other -things do, I had not heard the rumours which I now -understand were even then prevalent, and so I took -him as I found him, an agreeable companion, a -brilliant conversationalist, a versatile and accomplished -man of letters. On the crime of which he -has since been committed, I make no comment, if -only for the reason that I did not follow the evidence -at his trial, just as I abstained from reading Mr. W. -T. Stead’s <cite>Maiden Tribute to Modern Babylon</cite>—not -because of any innate niceness on my part, but for -the same reason which causes me to turn aside if, -in my morning’s walk, I come across offal which it is -not my business to remove. The Wilde of the days -of which I am writing was foppish in dress and -affected in manner. He talked and wrote much -nonsense, as I held it to be, about there being no -such thing as a moral or an immoral book or -picture; that the book or picture was either a work<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222">222</a></span> -of art, or was not a work of art, and there the matter -ended; but much of this talk I attributed to pose, -and I had even then learned that some of the men -who are most anxious to have us believe them -moralists—and stern moralists at that—are often -less moral in their life than some of those who make -no pretence of any morals at all.</p> - -<p>To the folk who objected that Wilde has boasted -of being a “pagan” I replied that he probably used -the word—just then very much in vogue—in the -same sense in which Mr. Kenneth Grahame used it -when he entitled a volume, bubbling over with the -joy of life, with animal spirits, keen observation, -and exquisite humour, <cite>Pagan Papers</cite>. Wilde’s -“paganism” I took as meaning no more than that -he claimed for himself freedom from formula, most -of all freedom from cant in his attitude towards the -accepted conventions, whether literary, artistic, -social, or even religious.</p> - -<p>That he was not an irreligious man, I had reason -to know. One day when we were chatting together, -Wilde mentioned a little book of mine of which I -will say no more here than that it made no uncertain -confession of the writer’s faith in Christianity. -This led Wilde—uninvited by me, for I make it a -rule never to obtrude my religious views upon -others—to express himself upon the subject of -religion, especially of Christianity, and with such -intense reverence, such manifest earnestness, that -I perhaps looked something of the surprise I felt.</p> - -<p>“You are surprised,” he said, “to hear Oscar -Wilde, the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">poseur</i>, as people call him, the man who -is supposed to hold nothing too sacred, talking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">223</a></span> -seriously and on serious things. <em>No</em>, I am <em>not</em> -making believe to be earnest, as I do make believe -about so much else. I am speaking as I feel, and -you will perhaps hardly realise what an intense relief -it is to meet some one to whom one can talk -about such matters without cant. It is cant and -officialdom” (he spoke bitterly) “which is keeping -the men and women who think out of the churches -to-day. It is cant which more than anything else -stands between them and Christ. Shall I tell you -what is my greatest ambition—more even than an -ambition—the dream of my life? Not to be remembered -hereafter as an artist, poet, thinker, or -playwright, but as the man who reclothed the -sublimest conception which the world has ever -known—the Salvation of Humanity, the Sacrifice -of Himself upon the Cross by Christ—with new and -burning words, with new and illuminating symbols, -with new and divine vision, free from the accretions -of cant which the centuries have gathered around -it. I should thereby be giving the world back again -the greatest gift ever given to mankind since Christ -Himself gave it, peerless and pure two thousand -years ago—the pure gift of Christianity as taught by -Christ.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he went on, “I hope before I die to write -the Epic of the Cross, the Iliad of Christianity, -which shall live for all time.”</p> - -<p>On another occasion Wilde unfolded to me the -opening scene in a sort of religious drama which he -intended one day to write—the finding to-day of the -body of the Christ in the very rock-sepulchre where -Joseph of Arimathea had laid it, and a great and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">224</a></span> -consequent eclipse of faith in Him and in His -resurrection. Thereafter, by a new revelation of the -Christ, Wilde was, in his drama, newly to recreate -Christianity and faith in Christianity, but of this -Second Act of his World-Drama I heard no more, -as our talk was at this point interrupted, and he -never renewed it.</p> - -<p>I speak of this proposed religious drama here for -the singular reason that I, too, had long been turning -over in my mind some such work and some such -opening scene as in Wilde’s drama—I mean the -finding of the body of Christ.</p> - -<p>Wilde went no further with his project, but in a -book of mine, written some years after, I carried my -own project into effect. To this day I am uncertain -how much of my opening scene was Wilde’s, and -how much mine. The idea appears to have occurred -to both, but whereas, in Wilde’s mind, it was clear -and defined, in mine it was then no more than an -idea. I sometimes wonder whether his words did -not make vivid to me what before was vague. Of -one thing at least I am sure, that he was the first to -speak of such an opening scene, which fact in itself -constitutes some sort of previous claim. The rest of -the book was entirely mine, and probably the whole, -but the facts seem to me not uninteresting, and -having made confession of the possibility at least of -some debt incurred, I must leave it to the reader to -say whether I ought or ought not to be condemned -in “conscience money.”</p> - -<p>I have already said that I have reason to know -that Wilde was not irreligious, and I propose now -to give my reasons for refusing to believe him to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">225</a></span> -irreclaimably bad. One has some hesitation in -quoting oneself, but, in a dream-parable booklet of -mine, there is a passage which I may perhaps be forgiven -for printing here, when I say that I had Wilde -in my mind when I wrote it. In my dream-parable, -Satan, even as once of old he had presented himself -to speak with God concerning Job, appears to-day -before the Most High, urging that men and women -have become godless and faithless. He craves permission -to prove this by putting them to certain -tests. The permission is accorded on condition that -Satan himself becomes mortal, even as they. In the -following passage Satan is supposed to be speaking, -after the failure and defeat of his projects.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Master and Maker, hear me ere I die. For until -Thou didst in Thy wisdom decree that ere I might -work my will on mortals, myself must become -mortal even as they—until then, the thoughts of -these mortals were as foreign to my understanding -as are the thoughts in the brain of a bird, to the -fowler who spreads his net to catch the little -creature. Like the fowler, I knew that I must -change my bait, according to the creature that I set -out to snare, that this one could be taken by avarice, -that one by vanity, a third by spiritual pride, a -fourth by bodily lust. When they came to my lure, -and I caught them; when I saw the poor fools -struggling in my net, I laughed and hugged myself -to think of their misery and of the impotent anguish -of God. And so I grew wise in the ways and the -weaknesses of men and women, while knowing -nothing of the hearts which beat in their breasts.</p> - -<p>But now that I have become mortal, even as they,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">226</a></span>—now -at last, to the wonder and the mystery of -mortal life, are my eyes opened. Now perceive I -that, in the least and most shameful of these lives, -is to be seen, even in uttermost wreckage, something -so sacred, so august, so beautiful, so divine, -that the very angels of light might stand amazed in -envious wonder and awe.</p> - -<p>For if men and women have failed greatly, at -least they have striven greatly—how greatly, how -valiantly, how desperately, only the God Who sees -all, may know.</p> - -<p>It may be that by Him, that very striving itself, -even the unsuccessful striving, shall mercifully be -taken into account. The sin and the shame are -human: the wish and the effort to overcome them -are divine. For that which in a man’s truer, nobler -moments, he has longed unutterably to be, <em>that in -some sense he is, and shall be accounted</em>, in the eyes -of the God, Who taketh not pleasure in remembering -sin, but in rewarding righteousness.</p> - -<p>That even in sin, a man should think such thoughts, -should carry unsullied in his heart some white -flower of his childhood, and, in spite of what is ugly -and impure in himself, should project so pure and -perfect a vision of hoped-for, longed-for Loveliness -and Purity, sets that man, even in his sins, a world -removed above the angels. When I who was once -an angel fell, I fell from uttermost light to uttermost -dark. Ceasing to be an angel, I became a devil. -Man falls, but even in his fall retains something that -is divine.</p> - -<p>Yonder man into whose great brain I entered, -working strange madness within! Him first I -taught to love Beauty, because it is of Thee. Him -I haunted of beauty, haunted with visions of forms -more fair than earthly eyes may know, luring him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227">227</a></span> -at last to look upon Beauty as of greater worth -than all else, and as a law unto itself.</p> - -<p>And because the love of beauty is not far removed -from the love of pleasure, it was not difficult for me -to lead on such as he to love pleasure for itself. With -innocent pleasures at first I plied him, and when -they staled, I enticed him with grosser joys, till the -pleasure-seeker became the voluptuary, and, in the -veins of the voluptuary, desire soon quickened into -lust.</p> - -<p>Next, because wine, like water to drooping -flowers, lent fictitious strength to his flagging pulse, -made the live thoughts to quicken in his tired -brain, and set the tongue of his wit a-wagging; -because he loved to stand well with his comrades, -among whom to chink glasses together was the sign -of fellowship—because of all these I enticed him to -drink and yet again to drink, until Alcohol, the -Arch Destroyer, had stolen away his will power, -silenced his conscience, perverted his moral sense, -inflamed with foul passion his degenerate brain, -and made the wreck and the ruin of him that he -now is.</p> - -<p>Yet even now, as I steal gloatingly through the -dark chambers of that House of Shame which was -once the fair temple of the living God, even now -there still smoulders under the ashes of a fouled -hearthstone some spark of the fire which was -kindled of God, a fire which I strive in vain to -trample out, since, because it is of God, it is inextinguishable -and eternal.</p> - -<p>If therefore when I seem most to have conquered, -there never yet was God wholly defeated—of what -use is it further to wage the unequal conflict? For -God never entirely lets go His hold on a human -soul; and that to which God holds fast, Satan<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228">228</a></span> -shall never finally wrest from Him. Say the world, -think the world, what it will, in the warfare for -souls God wins, and has won all along the line.</p></blockquote> - -<p>It was, as I say, Wilde who was in my mind when -I penned that passage commencing “Yonder man -into whose great brain I entered, working strange -madness within.” To me he seems to have been less -hopelessly bad than partly mad.</p> - -<p>We are told that it is possible, by locating and -destroying certain cells or nerve-centres in the brain, -so to affect the mind of the subject as to destroy his -sense of colour, his sense of touch, or even, it is -believed, to destroy his sense of right and wrong.</p> - -<p>Wilde died of meningitis, which is a brain affection, -and I think that the fact should be considered -retrospectively. A post-mortem examination would -possibly have revealed some disease or degeneration -of certain brain-cells which may account for much -that is painful in his career and character. This -degeneration of brain-cells may have been inherited -and congenital, in which case, condemnation on our -part is silenced; or it may have been due to excesses -of his own choosing and committing. Even -if this be so, the price he paid was surely so terrible, -and so tragic, as in a sense to be accounted an atonement, -and even to entitle him to our pity. In the -passage quoted from my dream-parable, I have -hinted at some form of demoniacal possession which -may or may not be a positive, as opposed to a -negative form of madness. There is a brain derangement -by which the power to reason aright and to -co-ordinate ideas is lost; a brain derangement<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229">229</a></span> -which results mainly in vacancy of mind. But there -is yet another and more terrible form of derangement -in which, so it seems to me, that unseen evil -powers, outside himself, seize upon and possess the -brain chambers, thus vacated, and direct and rule -the unhappy victim, not according to his own will, -which indeed has passed out of his control, but -according to the wish or will of the power by which -he is possessed.</p> - -<p>On such a question we dare not dogmatise; but -I am humbly of opinion that in the great re-awakening -to the realities (not to the outward forms) of -religion, which some of us think will follow the war, -there will be a return to simplicity of belief, and that -the too often disregarded New Testament explanation -of certain mysterious happenings will be proved -to be more in accordance with the later discoveries -of Science than some advocates of the Higher -Criticism now think. For my own part I have never -doubted the accuracy of the Gospel records in regard -to demoniacal possession. We have Christ’s own -words: “For this saying go thy way; the devil is -gone out of thy daughter,” “Howbeit this kind -goeth not out but by prayer and fasting,” and “I -charge thee come out of him and enter no more into -him.”</p> - -<p>That some men and women whose wills are -weakened—possibly by habitual disregard of conscience -or by continued wrongdoing for which they -cannot be held irresponsible—<em>do</em> commit, under the -urging and direction of evil spirits by which they -are possessed, crimes and cruelties for which they -are not in the fullest sense responsible, I think more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230">230</a></span> -than possible. My friend, the late Benjamin Waugh, -Founder of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty -to Children, on more than one occasion placed before -me the full facts and the indisputable proofs of acts -so fiendish as to be difficult to ascribe to human -motive or passions.</p> - -<p>In the most terrible sonnet ever penned, Shakespeare -says:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The expense of spirit in a waste of shame<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is lust in action, and till action, lust<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">and, to lust, some particularly bestial outrages -which came before the Society were clearly attributable. -Others were as clearly the outcome of -avarice, greed, hatred, jealousy and blind fury of -anger. But some crimes there were, such as the -torturing of her own children by a mother, and, in -another case, the deliberate jabbing out of the eyes -of an unoffending pony by a woman, not under the -influence of drink, and in whom the medical experts -declared they otherwise found no symptoms of insanity, -which, if only for the sake of our common -humanity, one would be relieved to think were due -to demoniacal possession, for which the victim was, -in this last stage at least, irresponsible.</p> - -<p>In the near future it is possible that Science will -by closer inquiry and by completer records be found -once more in harmony with Scripture. Hypnotism, -a science which as yet is not a science, but merely -a haphazard accumulation of unorganised data, -pointing to the possession of unexplained powers -and possibilities by the individual, has established<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231">231</a></span> -the fact that the living can thus be influenced and -obsessed by the living. If so, why not by the dead, -who, when emancipated from the body, may possibly -be able to concentrate even greater spiritual force -upon the living than when they were themselves -alive?</p> - -<p>I am not likely to live to see it, but my belief is -that all these so-called occult matters, Hypnotism, -Thought-reading, Obsession, Clairvoyance, Spiritualism, -and the like will one day fall into line with -Science, and be proved to be not supernatural, but -merely the manifestation of natural laws—of certain -psychical powers and forces which may be easily -explainable and demonstrable with further and -exacter knowledge, but concerning the working of -which we are at present very much in the dark.</p> - -<p>I have written at greater length than I intended, -in hinting and in hoping that Wilde was at times -under the subjection of powers and forces of darkness -outside himself. I say “at times” intentionally, -and for the following reason. It would be -gratifying to one’s <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">amour propre</i> (I use a French -term for once, as it expresses my meaning more -nearly than any English equivalent) could I take -high ground, and aver that I was vaguely conscious—warned, -as it were, by some fine instinct—of -evil in the presence of Wilde, but so to aver would -be untrue. I have not lived to nearly threescore -years without meeting men from whom one does -thus instinctively shrink, and concerning whom one -found it impossible to breathe the same air. I experienced -nothing of the sort in Wilde’s company, -and, since his guilt seems uncontrovertible, I ask myself<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232">232</a></span> -whether it is not possible that Wilde lived a sort -of Jekyll and Hyde life, of the latter of which I saw -nothing, inasmuch as just as some wounded or -plague-stricken creature withdraws itself from the -herd, so, during the Hyde period of madness or -of obsession, some instinct moved him to withdraw -from his home, his haunts and the companions of -his everyday life, only to return when the obsession -or madness had passed, and once again he was his -sane and normal self.</p> - -<p>This “periodicity” is not infrequent in madness, -whether the madness be due to a brain derangement, -explainable by pathology, or to some such demoniacal -possession as that of which I have spoken. A memorable -instance is that of Mary Lamb, who was herself -aware of the return of homicidal mania, and at such -times of her own accord placed herself under restraint. -Recalling the fact that I saw in Wilde no -sign either of the presence of evil or of insanity, I -ask myself whether in picturing Dorian Grey as at -one season living normally and reputably, and at -another disappearing into some oblivion of iniquity, -he was not consciously or unconsciously picturing -for us his own tortured self. I write “tortured” -advisedly, for whether he were wholly, or only -partly, or not at all, responsible, I refuse to believe -that the man, as in his saner moments I knew him, -<em>could</em> sink thus low, without fighting desperately, if -vainly—how desperately only the God who made -him knows—before allowing himself in the hopelessness -of despair to forget his failures in filth, as -other unhappy geniuses have before now drowned -their souls in drink.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233">233</a></span> -One talk with him I particularly remember. I -had been reading the proofs of <cite>Dorian Grey</cite>, and, on -our next meeting, I said that he had put damnable -words into the mouth of one of his characters.</p> - -<p>“Such poisonous stuff is not likely to affect grown -men and women,” I said, “but for a writer of -your power and persuasiveness to set up a puppet -like Lord Henry to provide ready-made excuses -for indulgence, and to make evil seem necessary, -unavoidable, and easy, by whispering into the ears -of readers, of impressionable age and inflammable -passion, that ‘the only way to get rid of a temptation -is to yield to it’—when you do that, you are -helping to circulate devils’ doctrines in God’s -world.”</p> - -<p>Wilde was visibly perturbed.</p> - -<p>“You are quite right,” he said. “It <em>is</em> damnable; -it <em>is</em> devils’ doctrine. I will take it out.”</p> - -<p>But, alas, other influences, whether within himself -in the shape of the whisperings of some evil -spirit, by which he was, as I believe, at times possessed, -or in the form of so-called friends, whose -influence over him was of the worst, I cannot say, -but some days after the conversation recorded above -I received the following letter:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="smcap">Grand Hôtel de L’athenée,<br /> -<span class="l2">15 Rue Scribe, Paris.</span></span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">Thank you for your charming letter. I have -been very ill and unable to correct my proofs, but -have sent them off now. <em>I have changed my mind -about the passage about temptation.</em> One can’t pull<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234">234</a></span> -a work of art about without spoiling it, and after all -it is merely Luther’s “Pecca Fortiter” put dramatically -into the lips of a character.</p> - -<p>Do you think I should add to preface the definition -of “morbid” and “unhealthy” art I gave -in the <cite>Fortnightly</cite> for February? The one on -morbidity is really good.</p> - -<p>Will you also look after my “wills” and “shalls” -in proof! I am Celtic in my use of these words, not -English.</p> - -<p>You are excellent on Rossetti. I read you with -delight.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l4">Your sincere friend,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>When next I met Wilde I recurred to the matter, -but it was then too late, for the book, he said, was in -great part printed. Moreover, he had now another -excuse to put forward.</p> - -<p>“After I had left you,” he said, “I remembered -that a friend of mine, a well-known critic, had -read the book in manuscript when it was first -written. He said something to the same effect -as you did, but less strongly. Honestly it was -that, more than anything else, which finally decided -me to leave the passage in. Had I taken it out, he -would have claimed that I did so in deference to his -strictures, and haul down my flag to a professional -critic I never have and never will.”</p> - -<p>This incident (though Wilde has been dead sixteen -years I have neither written of it nor spoken -of it before) shows Wilde as weak, it shows him as -yielding—as we all, alas, too often yield—to evil -influences, and to inclination as opposed to conscience,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235">235</a></span> -and as a man who was determined to shine -at all costs. His vanity would not allow him to -withhold the word that he was pleased to think -daring, original, and above all brilliant, though he -knew that word to be only brilliantly bad. Even -in his sinning, it seems to me, he fed and flattered -his insatiable vanity, by electing, even in sin, to be -unlike others; and how far vanity, even more than -viciousness, was accountable for Wilde’s downfall, -only the God who made him and the devil who -fostered and fed that vanity, till it less resembled a -pardonable human weakness than a hideous excrescence -and disease, can ever truly say.</p> - -<p>The setting of Wilde’s sun (which had risen on so -fair a prospect, and with such promise of splendour) -in foul quagmires of sin and shame, was the greatest -tragedy I have known. I met his friend and mine, -Mr. Hall Caine, immediately after the verdict and -sentence. I have seen Caine ill, and I have seen him -deeply moved, even distressed, but I remember -always to his honour (for Wilde not seldom made -Caine’s writing the butt of his wit) the anguish in -his face as he said:</p> - -<p>“God pity him in this hour when human pity -there seems none! To think of it! that man, -that genius as he is, whom you and I have seen -fêted and flattered! whose hand we have grasped -in friendship! a felon, and come to infamy unspeakable! -It haunts me, it is like some foul and horrible -stain on our craft and on us all, which nothing can -wash out. It is the most awful tragedy in the whole -history of literature.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236">236</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="h_236">S. J. STONE, THE HYMN-WRITER</h2> -</div> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> Rev. S. J. Stone, <span class="smcap smaller">M.A.</span>, was the author -of two hymns that are known wherever -the English tongue is spoken, one the -beautiful Lenten litany of love, trust and repentance, -“Weary of earth and laden with my sin”; -the other that soul-stirring triumph-song, “The -Church’s One Foundation,” which—set as it is to -majestic battle-march music that fires the imagination—has -become, as it were, the Marseillaise of the -Church militant and victorious.</p> - -<p>When Stone died, and where he wished to die, in -the Charterhouse, the busy world learned that the -Rector of a City Church, who had done memorable -work in an East End parish, and was the author of -some famous hymns, had passed away. Those who -knew and loved him were aware that a great soul, -a hero-heart, a rarely beautiful spirit, had gone to -God.</p> - -<p>In my little life, the years of which are fast approaching -threescore, it has so happened that I have -known, sometimes intimately, a number of so-called -“eminent” women and men. I have known not a -few who in intellectual power, in the brilliance of -their gifts, their attainments and achievements, or -in what is called “fame,” stood immeasurably<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237">237</a></span> -higher than Stone. I have known none who, judged -by the beauty, purity, and nobility of life and -character, was half as great as he. I do not say this, -be it noted, under the emotional stress which follows -the death of a dearly-loved friend. In such an hour -of bitter self-reproach when in retrospect we think -of the kindly act which, had it been done (alas, that -it was not done!) would have helped our friend -through a time of trouble; the generous word -which had it been spoken (alas, that it remained -unspoken!) might have heartened him when we -knew him to be most cast down—these and possibly -our poignant sense of remorse, it may be for an -actual wrong done, not infrequently cause us to -lose our sense of proportion. For the time being at -least we over-estimate what was good in him, and -under-estimate what was indifferent, or worse.</p> - -<p>It is not so that I write of S. J. Stone. Sixteen -long years, in which life has never been, nor will be, -quite the same, missing that loved presence, have -passed away since he was laid to rest in Norwood -Cemetery; and to-day with my own life’s end nearing -I can say, not only for myself, but for many -others who knew him, that so brave of heart was he -as to make possible for us the courage of a Cœur de -Lion, so knightly of nature as to make possible the -honour of an Arthur or a Galahad, so nearly stainless -in the standard he set himself, in the standard -he attained, as to come, as near as human flesh and -blood can come, almost to making possible the -purity of the Christ.</p> - -<p>I am not unaware what will be in the mind of -many who read these words. Some will suspect me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238">238</a></span> -if not of insincerity, at least of the foolish use of -superlative and hyperbole. Not a few will hold my -last comparison as scarcely reverent. And all the -while there will not be a single woman or man, with -any intimate knowledge of Stone, who, reading what -I have written, will not say, at least of what is -wholly appreciative (many will resent what I have -hereafter to say of his temperamental weaknesses -and human defects), “All this is truth, sober and -unexaggerated, and yet the man himself was in -many respects infinitely greater than he is drawn.”</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>Ever since Stone died my intention has been, before -laying down my own pen, some day and so far -as I am able, to picture him as I knew him. It -seemed to me a duty, no less than a trust, that some -of us should put on record what manner of man it -was who wrote these noble hymns, and how nobly -he lived and died. My reason for delaying thus long -about what to me is a labour of love, was the difficulty -of picturing Stone as he was, without seeming -to exaggerate. Fortunately it has not been left -only to me to bear tribute, for the Rev. F. G. Ellerton, -Vicar of Ellesmere, to whose father we owe the -famous hymn, “Saviour, again to Thy dear Name -we raise,” has written a Memoir of his former Vicar -(I recollect Mr. Ellerton as Stone’s curate, more -than a score of years ago), which was prefixed to a -volume of “Selections” from Stone’s <cite>Poems and -Hymns</cite>. Only one who had lived and worked with -Stone could have drawn so true and sympathetic a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239">239</a></span> -picture of Stone the Christian, Stone the Churchman, -Stone the hymn-writer, and Stone the man; -and, except for the fact that Mr. Ellerton and I -approach our subjects from different standpoints, -his beautiful Appreciation will be found amply to -confirm what I say in my briefer Silhouette.</p> - -<p>It is to a sister of mine that I owe my first meeting -with Stone. From her girlhood upward she had -contributed poems, sketches and stories to the -magazines, earning each year by her pen sums which -to the rest of us—how wonderful it all was!—seemed -princely, and very proud of her we all -were.</p> - -<p>Ill-health, and her determination never, after -marriage, to let her writing interfere with her duties -as wife and mother, have prevented her from following -up, except very occasionally, the work in literature -which she so loved, though two years ago she -was able to publish, and with success, a first long -novel.</p> - -<p>But at that time she had made some girlish reputation -as a writer of religious verse, and was commissioned -to contribute “A Golden Song” each -week to a well-known periodical. Stone’s attention -was attracted by the sweet-briar simplicity and -beauty of some of these “Golden Songs,” and when -he and my sister chanced to meet, each was singularly -drawn to the other, and so it was that first she -and he, thereafter he and I, became friends and remained -so to the end.</p> - -<p>Now let me try to describe Stone as he was at the -time of our first meeting, when he was in early -middle life. Emerson said once that we take a man’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240">240</a></span> -measure when first we meet him—and every time -we meet him. One’s first comment at sight of Stone -would inevitably have been: “A Man!” And one’s -second: “An Englishman!”</p> - -<p>Englishman was written, as the phrase runs, “all -over him”—in appearance, in voice, as well as bearing—and -I can conceive no disguise out of which the -unmistakable Englishman would not have peeped. -Unmistakably English as he was in appearance, -yet, when one talked with him, and he became interested, -enthusiastic, excited, when he spoke of -his life’s work, his life’s hopes and dreams, but -most of all when one could induce him to talk of -England, Oxford, patriotism, loyalty, love, duty or -poetry, and saw the flash in the eye, the throb at -the temples, and heard the thrill in the voice, one’s -next comment was, “Here surely is not part Anglo-Saxon, -but all Celt!”</p> - -<p>The Celt in him, for—though he never told us -whence it came—the quicksilver of Celtic blood, -there must have been in his veins, made mock continually -of the Anglo-Saxon. Yet, either the Fairy -Godmother, or the forgotten forbear who was responsible -for this freakish intermingling of quick-running -Celtic blood, all ardour and eagerness, with -the slower, surer and steadier pulsing of an Anglo-Saxon -strain, doled out to Stone none of the Celtic -defects but only of the Celtic best. From the -irritability, uncertainty, and the “impossibility” -which make some Celts—at all events some of us -Irishmen—an inscrutable problem and mystery of -Providence, as well as an ever-present perplexity to -our best friends, Stone was entirely free. In that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241">241</a></span> -respect he was inwardly, and in character, as truly -English as he was truly English in the outer man.</p> - -<p>He was of exceptional physique and presence. -Only slightly above the middle height, but muscular -of limb, broad and square-shouldered, and deep-chested -as a lion, Stone was a fine specimen of virile -manhood. Proud of his strength, for, though devoid -of vanity, he had his full share of what I may call a -seemly and proper pride, he carried himself well and -erectly—head up, shoulders squared—walking with -a step that was firm, steady and soldierly.</p> - -<p>And here I may interpolate that, a soldier’s grandson -as he was, all Stone’s boyhood longings were set -on soldiering. Only the knowledge that it was the -heart’s desire of the father and mother he so revered -that he should follow his father by taking Holy -Orders, and later the conviction that he was called -of God to the ministry, kept him from a commission -in the Army. His renunciation of his boyhood’s -dream was the first great act of obedience in a life -of consistent obedience and devotion to duty. The -sacrifice—as it was—of his own wishes, was made -manfully and uncomplainingly, and he threw himself -whole-heartedly thereafter into his ministerial work. -But the pang remained, and to the last, when he -spoke of soldiering, there was that in his voice and -in his eye which reminded one of an exile, looking -across far waters to the land of his birth. To Stone, -to have led a company, or a half-company, and for -the first time, into action in the service of his -Sovereign and of his country, would have been, in -the words of George Meredith, the very “bend of -passion’s rapids,” as supreme a moment as Rossetti’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242">242</a></span> -“sacred hour for which the years did sigh.” -That he would have made a gallant soldier, I am sure, -but not a great one. Leading a charge, he would -have been irresistible, but his was too highly-strung, -too impulsive a temperament, calmly to -plan out and to carry through the cold-blooded -details of a campaign. He was to the last a soldier -in heart, if not in looks, for, by the beard and a -certain breezy bluffness of presence, he might very -well have passed for a sailor. The head was finely -moulded and on large leonine lines, the forehead -broad, full and lofty, the nose strong, straight, -purposeful and well-proportioned, and the set of -the firm mouth, and the shaping of the determined -chin, were in keeping with the forcefulness and the -frankness of the eyes and of the whole face. The -darkness—so dark as to be almost black—of the -straight thick hair, which was brushed up and off the -forehead, accentuated the Saxon ruddiness of his -complexion and the glossy red-brown (like that of a -newly-fallen chestnut) of his crisply curling moustache -and beard, which in sunlight were almost -auburn.</p> - -<p>His eyes instantly challenged and held your own, -for he invariably looked the person to whom he -spoke fully and fearlessly, but never inquisitively -(one cannot think of the word in connection with -Stone), in the face; and it was his eyes that most -remained in your memory when he was gone. “Intent,” -set, and full of fire, the look in them was like -the spoken word of command which calls soldiers -to attention. Brown in colouring, they were not the -hard, glittering and unrevealing brown which one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243">243</a></span> -sometimes sees in woman or in man, but eyes that, -when he was reading poetry, could shine as if his -soul were a lit taper, of which they were the flame. -At other times, I have seen them as merry as a -happy boy’s, as untroubled as cool clear agate -stones at the bottom of a brook. His were eyes that -recalled the love and devotion which look out at us -from the eyes of some nobly-natured dog, yet eyes -that when he was preaching, and the very soul within -him was trembling under a terrible sense of responsibility -to his people and to God, could burn -fiercely red, like a fanned coal in a furnace, but -always as true, brave and loyal eyes as ever looked -out of human head.</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>In the fact that Stone was at heart intensely -human lay the secret of his hold upon the hearts -of others. I have claimed high place for him and -have called him by high name, but a “saint” at -least I have never called him nor claimed him to be. -We have been told that it is impossible to be heroic -in a high hat, nor is it easy to picture a “saint” in -a very pepper of a temper (to say nothing of a boating -sweater) at loggerheads, and more than half -minded to knock down, a foul-mouthed bargee. -Stone’s Homeric laughter would not have accorded -ill with some Valhalla of the gods, but his rollicking -sense of fun, his schoolboy high spirits, still remembered -affectionately and joyfully as they are -by some who were with him, first as a boy, and thereafter -as more than a middle-aged man at Charterhouse,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244">244</a></span> -suggest neither a nimbus nor the Saints’ -Calendar.</p> - -<p>In later life, when the endless calls upon his time -barred him from following, other than rarely, the -field sports that he so loved, and even from the -exercise which was so necessary for a man of his -physique, Stone not only put on weight, as happens -always with athletes out of training, but developed -a tendency to stoutness—not, I gather, from some -study of the Old Masters, in keeping with the -character of Saints, who as a class do not appear to -run to flesh.</p> - -<p>Neither in looks nor in his life was there anything -about Stone of the ascetic who, living aloof and -apart, tells over to himself—the beads, as it were, in -a rosary of self-mortification—the list of pleasures -denied, until in the contemplation of his self-denials -he comes at last to find a melancholy pleasure. -Stone, on the contrary, was the most natural and -normal of men, with a healthy appetite for the good -things of this world. If he fasted, as was the case -during such a season as Holy Week, none knew of -it except himself. He held that the season, in which -the Church bids us look back in awe and worship -upon the agony of our Lord’s Passion, is not a -time for bodily indulgence by Christ’s minister. -But fasting in a monkish sense, or as followed by -the Roman Catholic Church, he neither followed -himself nor enjoined others to follow, and such -fasting as he practised was more in the way of -salutary discipline than anything else, and he -imposed no fasting upon others.</p> - -<p>None the less, though Stone was, as I have said,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245">245</a></span> -no saint, I doubt whether any saint who was ever -canonised had half so child-pure a heart or lived -half so stainless a life. His was not the negative -purity of the cold-blooded, the anæmic, or the -passionless, to whom the temptations of the flesh -made small appeal. He was a full-blooded, healthy -and whole-natured man, a splendid “animal,” by -whom the animal (which by God’s wisdom and grace -is in us all) was not done violence to, stamped down, -crushed out, and unnaturally suppressed, to his own -physical and spiritual detriment and even danger. -That is the unwisest of all courses to pursue. By -mutilating and maiming the beautiful work and -image of God in us, which since He made it must in -itself be innocent and beautiful, we sin against our -own human nature and against God. Human -nature is like a tree. It must have space in which -to fulfil the purpose for which it was intended, and -in which to grow. Crush down, and seek to crush -out, its natural expansion, and it takes distorted -shapes (crippled limbs, as it were, on the tree of life) -and hideous fungus-like boles and excrescences -appear on what would otherwise have been a fair, -straight, and shapely young growth. In Stone (to -return to my original metaphor) the animal, which is -in us all, was not a beast to be bludgeoned down, or -to drag us to earth, but a beautiful wild and winged -creature which brings strength and gladness to -human life, and, wisely guided and controlled, may -even bear us aloft and afar. In Stone it was so -dominated by an iron will, so sublimated by knightly -and noble ideals, and by his innate purity of soul, as -to make impossible what was gross, sensual or base.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246">246</a></span> -And may I add, perhaps wickedly, that the animal -in him was sometimes a joy as when by sheer brute -force, if you like so to call it, he fell upon (so I was -once told) three blackguards who, late one dark -night, were foully assaulting a poor girl in what was -then a lonely part of London Fields. Stone heard -her screams, rushed to her help, and knocked out his -first man with one blow. Then he closed with -number two, and trouncing him so soundly that the -fellow howled for mercy, flung him to the ground, -and made off after number three, who had taken to -his heels.</p> - -<p>I can well imagine Stone’s sportsmanlike joy and -the flash of his eyes when, as I am informed, he said, -“Thank heaven I learned to use my fists at Charterhouse! -and thank heaven for what rowing did for -my biceps at Oxford. I think I’ve given those two -scoundrels a lesson.” He shook his head reminiscently -and mournfully. “I’d have given five -pounds to have got my fists on that third rascal’s -hide. Honestly, I’ve enjoyed pommelling those -other two scoundrels more than anything that has -happened since I came to Haggerston.”</p> - -<p>Then, seeing, perhaps, a whimsical look in his -companion’s eye, and perhaps already asking himself -whether “taking on” three blackguards at -fisticuffs, and badly punishing two out of the three -in a fair fight, would by every one be considered -decorous or becoming in a clergyman, he broke into -infectious laughter that was directed entirely -against himself.</p> - -<p>No, apart from the question whether this story -(I tell it as it was told me long ago) be true or not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247">247</a></span> -true, I do not claim for S. J. Stone that he was a -saint. To some men the consciousness of what -Stevenson called “a healthy dash of the brute” -necessitates an ever watchful “on guard” lest one -day the brute spring out to overpower the angel. To -Stone—so wholly had he made honour, purity, and -truth the very habit of his life—a lapse into anything -false, impure, or dishonourable, into thinking -or speaking, or even into allowing others, in his -presence, to speak what was evil or slanderous, had -become impossible. Had the proofs, or what seemed -like the proofs, of some base act on Stone’s part been -brought to the knowledge of any friend who knew -him, as I knew him, that friend would not have -stooped to examine them. His reply would have -been, “I know this man, and though I am aware -that he can be prejudiced, stubborn, overbearing, -irritable, and that faults of temper, errors of judgment, -and the like, may be laid to his charge, I know -him well enough to be sure that of what is base -he is incapable. Were all the facts before me, -they would do no more than reveal him, possibly in -a quixotic, but at least in a nobly chivalrous -light.”</p> - -<p>For all his quixotism, chivalry, and hot-headedness, -Stone held so strongly that, as Christ’s minister, -a clergyman must in certain matters be so entirely -beyond even a shadow of reproach, that he was -singularly wise and guarded in his dealings with the -other sex. The foolish girls or women who go simpering -to a clergyman, especially if a bachelor as -Stone was, to ask advice on love-affairs and the like, -he instantly if considerately dismissed to seek the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248">248</a></span> -advice of their mother or of some good woman known -to him; and at all times, and upon all questions, he -avoided seeing women-callers alone—not because he -feared evil in them or in himself, but because he felt -he owed it to his sacred office to avoid even the -appearance of anything upon which evil-thinking -folk might choose to put an evil construction.</p> - -<p>He was not without experiences—what clergyman -is?—of, in other respects, worthy and well-meaning -women who, even in connection with Church work, -contrive to set people by the ears, or otherwise to -cause dissension and trouble. With these he was -impatient. He did not hesitate to deal summarily -with them, nor firmly, if considerately, to speak his -mind; but Womanhood, I might almost say every -woman, he held, if only for his own mother’s sake, -if only because of a woman the Saviour of the world -was born, in a reverence that no folly or sin could -altogether break down. I have heard him speak to -the poor harlot of the street—his “Sister” as he -would not have hesitated to call her—with sorrowful -courtliness, and with the pitifulness, the gentleness, -and the consideration, which one uses to (as -indeed not a few of such unhappy women are) an -erring and ignorant child.</p> - -<p>I remember, on another and very different occasion, -a girl of the soft and silly type coming to the -vicarage one day when I was with Stone—I think -she came about a Confirmation Class. She had a -certain innocence in her face; not the challenging, -starry purity that one sees in some faces, but a negative, -babyish innocence, which was pretty enough, -and appealing in its way, but that meant no more,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249">249</a></span> -probably, than that the girl had not yet had to make -choice for herself between good and evil.</p> - -<p>“Did you notice the flower-like beauty of that -child’s face?” Stone asked me, when she had gone. -“In the presence of such exquisite purity and innocence,” -he went on gravely, and with intense -reverence in his voice, “one feels convicted of sin, -as it were. One is so conscious of one’s own coarseness, -grossness, and impurity as to feel unworthy to -stand in such presence!”</p> - -<p>And all the time, the white armour of purity in -which he was clad, the armour and purity of his own -soul’s—a strong man’s—forging, was compared with -hers, as is the purity of fine gold tried in the furnace -to metal mixed with base earth and newly brought -all untested from a mine.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>His unfailing sense of humour, his boyish and -buoyant love of fun, like the cork jacket by means -of which a swimmer rides an incoming wave, carried -Stone through difficulties which would have depressed -another. Let me put one such instance on -record. To brighten in any way the drab days of the -poorest folks in his East End parish, he counted a -privilege as well as a happiness, and he was constantly -devising means for bringing some new gladness -to their lives—the gift of a sorely needed bit of -furniture, or a coveted ornament, a boating party -with the children in Victoria Park, a magic-lantern -entertainment—anything in fact which seemed to -him likely to make them forget their many troubles -and to call them out of themselves.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250">250</a></span> -Most of the women in his parish were poor, many -pitifully so. Here was a wife toiling all day in a -laundry, to keep the home together, while her husband -was out of work, or worse still, while her -husband was on the drink; and there, a widow, the -sole support of several children.</p> - -<p>One day when Stone received an unexpected -cheque—I think it was for the sale of his book of -poems—he unfolded to me, radiant himself with -happiness at the thought, a plan for taking some -score of the very poorest mothers of the parish for -an outing to Southend.</p> - -<p>The great day—as it was in the lives of these poor -people—came, and was fortunately fine. The party -caught an early train to Southend, spent a long -summer day by the sea, gathered at the appointed -time, happy if tired, at the railway station, to find -that Stone had misread the time-table, and that the -last train to London had just gone. Here were some -twenty mothers—mostly with husbands who looked -to them for the preparation and cooking of supper -at night, and of breakfast next morning. To these -husbands telegrams of explanation and appeasement -must, if the worse came to the worst, and return -that night were impossible, be despatched. -Other mothers there were with children awaiting -their mother’s home-coming for a last meal and to -be put to bed; and all the twenty good women—if -to London they could not get that night—themselves -requiring supper, and some decent place in -which to sleep. Stone’s face, brick-red with mortified -self-anger at his own muddling, as the agitated -mothers crowded and clamoured around him, two or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251">251</a></span> -three shrilly or tearfully expatiating on the terrible -things that would await them at the hands of their -lord and master, should that lord and master and -the children go supperless to bed, and rise breakfastless -next morning, was, I am told, a study in -dismay and bewilderment, until he discovered that, -by paying for it out of his own pocket, a special train -could be run.</p> - -<p>Relieved to find that no one except himself would -have to suffer for his carelessness, and even while -ruefully regarding the document by the signing of -which he made himself responsible for the entire -cost (no inconsiderable sum to a poor man as he was) -of the special train, the Gilbertian side of the situation—that -he, a bachelor, should have a score of -wives and mothers upon his hands—dawned upon -him. He broke, so my informant tells me, into bluff -and hearty Berserker-like laughter, till his chestnut -beard wagged, and his burly form rocked; and -vowing that—though he must in consequence go -short for many a day of every luxury—the lesson he -had received, and the story which he would then be -able to tell against himself, were cheap at the price, -he signed the document, and made mock of himself -and his own carelessness all the way home.</p> - -<p>Another story was once told me of Stone, concerning -the accuracy of which I have my doubts. -What happened might well, I admit, have happened -to him, but my impression is that it was a friend of -his who was the guilty party. However, here is the -story, as it was told me, of Stone.</p> - -<p>He was to take an afternoon service at a church—I -think in Hoxton. Like many poets and some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252">252</a></span> -clergymen he was not always punctual, and when -he arrived he surmised, by the fact that the bell -had stopped, and that there was no thin and -dribbling stream of late-comers filing through the -doors, that he was more than a little late. The -congregation as he saw was on its knees, so diving -into the vestry, which was empty, he hastily threw -his surplice over his head, and hurrying to his place -in the chancel, read out the opening words of the -Evening Prayer.</p> - -<p>“When the wicked man turneth away from his -wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that -which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive,” -and thence passed on to the familiar “Dearly beloved -brethren,” and so on to the end of the service—to -discover when returning to the vestry, that he -had inflicted upon the unfortunate congregation -the penance of two Evensongs on the same afternoon. -He had been under the impression that the -service commenced at four o’clock, whereas the hour -fixed was three. In Stone’s absence the curate-in-charge -had felt that there was nothing for it but for -him, the curate, to read the service himself, which -he did, and in fact he had made an end of it, had -pronounced the Benediction, and for some reason -had left the church, not by the vestry, but by -another door leading direct to the vicarage. It was -the custom at the church in question for the congregation -to stand while the clergy were passing out, -and to return to their knees for a brief silent prayer, -after the clergy had passed out. It was at this -moment that Stone is supposed to have arrived and -hurried in, to begin the service all over again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253">253</a></span></p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>At Oxford Stone had been an athlete, and an -athlete and sportsman—oarsman, skater, fisherman -and first-class shot—he remained almost to his -life’s end. He was captain of the Pembroke boat, -and stroked the college eight. Legend has it that -he was chosen for his “Blue”—but did not have -the honour of rowing against Cambridge for the -following reason.</p> - -<p>Between his merits as an oarsman and those of -another candidate, there was absolutely nothing to -choose. The other man was as good as, but no -better than Stone, and Stone was as good as, but -no better than, the other. As a way out of the -difficulty it was thought best to decide the question -by the spin of a coin, and Stone’s luck was uppermost. -He was delighted, for no man would more -eagerly have coveted his “Blue” than he, until he -learned that it was a matter of “now or never” for -his rival, who was shortly going down, and so would -stand no other chance of rowing in the great race. -As it could matter neither way for the boat’s success -which had the seat, Stone, who was staying on at -Pembroke and so would be eligible another year, -pleaded that his rival be given this, his only chance—with -the result that Stone’s own second chance never -came.</p> - -<p>So runs the legend of how Stone missed his “Blue.” -As I never questioned him concerning its truth, and -he was the last man to speak of such an incident -himself, I relate it merely as it was related to me,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254">254</a></span> -and with no other comment than that such impulsive -generosity is just what might have been expected -from this clerical Don Quixote of lost causes, -lost chances, forlorn hopes and self-forgetful -chivalry.</p> - -<p>To say of a man that all his geese were swans, as -was often said of Stone, implies, indirectly, that he -was something of a fool, if a generous one. It is -true that Stone wished to think well of whatever -a friend had done. If it were ill done he was -not so blind as not to know it was ill done, and was -too honest not to say so, if asked for an opinion, or -to remain silent, if unasked. But if it were not ill -done, then young and keen-visioned Joy, as well as -dim-eyed Dame Pride alike clapped magnifying -glasses on nose, to show him the thing not as it was, -but as it appeared through the eyes of joy and pride -in a friend’s work.</p> - -<p>So, too, in regard to the friend himself. If Stone -saw, or thought he saw, in his friend, some streak, -no matter how rudimentary or infinitesimal of, let -us say unselfishness, he saw it not as it was in his -friend, but magnified to the scale in which it existed -in himself. Hence his appreciation of a friend’s -gifts or qualities and his own gratitude for some -small service rendered were preposterously out of -all proportion to the facts. For instance, I had been -at some quite small trouble in reading, by his wish, -the proofs of his <cite>Lays of Iona</cite>, and also, by his wish, -in sending him my criticisms. Here is his letter -(Oct. 23, 1897) in acknowledgment:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255">255</a></span></p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">What <em>thoroughness</em> of friendship you have -shown me from first to last in the matter of the -<cite>Lays</cite>! Certainly I will alter the “no” to “not” -in the Preface, if a second edition permits me. I -had not noticed the error and jumped with a “How -could I”! of exclamation when I read your note. -You comforted me very much in the latter part of -your note when you spoke of sundry passages you -approved, especially by what you said of the -humorous part of the work. I had specially feared -about this, and indeed I had put in these two -occasional pieces only to please my sister.</p> - -<p> -Good-bye, dear friend,</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Ever yours gratefully and affectionately,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">S. J. Stone</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Everyone who knew Stone intimately will bear -me out in saying that the gratitude here expressed, -and disproportionate as it may be, was absolutely -sincere. He literally glowed with gratitude for any -small service done, or trivial personal kindness, and -said no word more than he meant in making his -acknowledgment, for of “gush,” of what was -effusive or insincere, he had something like horror, -and was as incapable of it, as he was of falsehood or -of craft. And in regard to men and women whom -he loved, it was not so much that he mistook geese -for swans, as that he remembered that, on land, a -swan’s waddle is no less unlovely than a goose’s, -whereas, on water or on wing, a goose, no less than -a swan, is not without grace. He idealised his -friends—he saw in his mind’s eyes, his geese a-wing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256">256</a></span> -in the heavens or a-sail on water, as well as waddling -on land, and loved them for the possibilities, and -for the hidden graces he saw within. He was by no -means the merely credulous, if generous fool, that -some thought him. On the contrary, for most -human weaknesses, he had an uncommonly shrewd -and sharp eye, but he appealed always to the best -and noblest, never to the vain or selfish side of those -with whom he came into contact, and so his own -unwavering faith in God, in Christ, and in human -nature, was not only the cause of, but seemed to -create similar and sincere faith on the part of others, -just as his own integrity made even the rascal or the -infirm of purpose ashamed of rascality or of weakness. -But tricked, betrayed and deceived, or confronted -with evil, Stone’s wrath was terrible and consuming.</p> - -<p>I remember the blaze in his eyes, the fury in his -face, concerning a scoundrel who had boasted of the -deliberate betrayal, and cowardly and calculated -desertion of a trustful girl. Had the villain fallen -at the moment, when Stone first heard the facts, -into my friend’s hands, there would have been left -upon the fellow’s body and face, and from Stone’s -fist, marks which would have borne witness to the -end of his life of the punishment he had received. -His own bitterest enemy, Stone could freely forgive, -but for the man or woman whom he held to be the -enemy of God, he had small mercy. Even in matters -not of great consequence, but upon which he felt -strongly, he was inclined to override his opponent, -and generally to carry things with a high hand. -That he always spoke, wrote, or acted with judgment,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257">257</a></span> -I do not maintain. His motives none could -question, but his judgment, even his best friend -sometimes doubted.</p> - -<p>When I speak of him as obstinate, I must not be -understood as meaning the type of obstinacy which -is more frequently associated with weakness than -with strength. Obstinacy, however, of a sort—stubbornness -if you so like to call it—was undoubtedly -a temperamental defect. He was inflexibly convinced -that his own beliefs in regard to God, to the -Throne, to the State, to the Church, and even in -regard to politics—inherited as some of these beliefs -were, influenced as were others by class feeling, by -education, and by environment—were the only -possible beliefs for a Christian, a Churchman, an -Englishman and a gentleman. Hence he could not -understand the position of those who differed, and -was impatient of opposition.</p> - -<p>I once heard him described by some one who -misunderstood him as a man with a grievance, and -a man with too thin a skin. His sensitiveness I do -not deny, but it was a sensitiveness which was all -for others, never for himself. And so far from being -one of those single-cuticle abnormalities whose skin -“goose-fleshes” at the very thought of cold, who -at the approach of a rough blast wince in anticipation -as well as in reality, and suffer more perhaps -from the imagined effects of the buffeting than from -the buffeting itself, Stone not only never troubled -to ask whether the blast was, or was not, coming -his way, but enjoyed battling with it when it came. -If things went badly with him, he took Fate’s blows -unconcernedly, and blamed only himself. About<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258">258</a></span> -his own ills and sorrows, or breakdown in health, -he was the most cheerful of men, but he could and -would concern himself about the sorrows or troubles -of others, and would move heaven and earth in his -efforts to right their wrongs, if wrongs to be righted -there were. That is not the way of the man with a -grievance. The man with a grievance growls but -never fights. He wears his grievance as a badge -in his buttonhole, that all may see, and you could -do him no unkinder turn than to remove the cause -of it.</p> - -<p>Stone never had a grievance, but he was ready to -make the grievances of his people, real grievances, -their grievous wrongs, not fancied ones, his own; and -more than one employer of sweated labour, more -than one owner of an insanitary slum, and occasionally -some Parish Council, or public body in -which Bumbledom and vested interests were not -unknown, had cause to think Stone too touchy, too -sensitive, and too thin-skinned, where the lives of -little children, and the bodily and spiritual welfare -of his people were concerned.</p> - -<h3>VI</h3> - -<p>In politics Stone was the stoutest of old-fashioned -Tories, and by every instinct and sympathy an -aristocrat. Like a certain courtier of high birth -who expressed pleasure at receiving the Garter -because “there is no pretence of damned merit -about it,” he believed whole-heartedly in the hereditary -principle. I am not sure, indeed, that he would -not have thought it well that spiritual as well as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259">259</a></span> -temporal rank should go by inheritance. An archbishop -who came of a long line of archbishops and -was trained from birth upwards for that high office, -Stone would probably have held to be a more fitting -Spiritual Head than one whose preferment was due -to his politics, to his suavity, and to the certainty -that he would act upon “safe” and conventional -lines. He believed in Government at home and -abroad, in Great Britain as well as in her Dominions -and Colonies, by the “ruling orders,” by the class -that he held to be born with the power to command. -In himself he possessed the power to command in -a remarkable degree. I have heard him sternly -rebuke and even silence seditious or blasphemous -Sunday afternoon speakers in Victoria or Hyde -Park, and I do not remember one occasion when he -was answered with other than a certain sullen and -unwilling deference, for, in spite of his authoritative -and even autocratic way, something there was -about him that compelled respect. A Socialistic -orator of my acquaintance once spoke of him—not -to his face—as one whose politics were pig-headed -and his loyalty pig-iron. I am not altogether sure -what constitutes pig-iron, but if the Socialist meant -that Stone’s loyalty was rigid and unbending I do -not know that I should quarrel with the description. -It was in his loyalty to the throne that all his -intolerance came out. Even those who were at -heart no less loyal than he laughed sometimes at -the boyishness and the extravagance of his worship -for the Queen. The Queen, since she reigned by -divine right, could do no wrong, and had Stone -lived in Stuart times he would have died upon the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260">260</a></span> -scaffold, or fallen upon the field, for his Sovereign’s -sake; nor am I sure that even for a Richard the -Third or a King John, had either been his Sovereign, -he would not equally have drawn the sword.</p> - -<p>In religious as in other matters, all Stone’s sympathies -were with those who have an affirmation to -make, as contrasted with those who have an objection -to lodge. He detested iconoclasts, and was -prejudiced beforehand against any belief that he -classed with “negatives” as opposed to “positives.” -Just as he disliked the name of Protestant, because -he could not understand a Christian man electing to -be known by a name which “protests” against -another’s faith, instead of affirming his own, so he -found it hard to understand a Church which by its -name proclaimed itself as not being in “conformity” -with or as “dissenting” from another Church.</p> - -<p>Stone could not understand that anyone should -prefer the Free Church to the Anglican Catholic -Church, but since it was so (and that it was so he -sincerely and deeply grieved) he felt it better, while -friendly and cordial to all the Nonconformists with -whom he was brought into contact, that each should -go his own way and worship God in his own manner. -Hence he was not of the school of Churchmen who -busy themselves in bringing about a closer union -between Anglicanism and the Free Churches, and -are for the removal of landmarks and the interchange -of pulpits.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, he attacked the religion of no -one who believed in the Fatherhood of God, the -Divinity, Atonement, and Resurrection of our Lord, -but reserved all his fighting power for what (a true<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261">261</a></span> -Browning lover) he would have accounted “the -arch fiend in visible form”—the enemies of God -and His Christ. He had no sympathy whatever -with Churchmen who occupy themselves in bickerings -and controversies with Nonconformists, or in -denouncing the Church of Rome. To him good -Churchmanship—and never was there stronger -Churchman than he—meant, not disapproval of, -dislike to, or antagonism towards other Churches, -be they Roman or Free, but active love, practical -loyalty and devotion to his own beloved Mother -Church. Hence he never proselytised. He never -sought to turn a Nonconformist into a Churchman, -or a Roman into an English Catholic, but he would -have fought to the last to keep a member of the -Church of England from forsaking that Communion -for any other.</p> - -<p>But there was no indefiniteness about his attitude -to Rome. Writing to me in 1899 about some one he -and I knew, who had gone over to Rome, he said:</p> - -<p>“I am deeply sorry. Rome is a real branch of the -Church of the Redemption, and has the creeds, the -ministry, and the Sacraments. But to leave our -august Mother for Rome! I do not mean to imply -that to be a Roman, or to become a Roman, has -necessarily anything to do with vital error. I speak -strongly only on the point of <em>comparison</em>, and as a -loyal, happy, and satisfied Catholic of the English -branch. Certain defects I own to in our English -Mother, but they are very small and few, as regards -the accretions and superfluities, to say the least of -them (of which the gravest is Mariolatry), of her -Roman Sister. On the other hand they <em>are</em> sisters.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262">262</a></span> -He loved the name of “Catholic,” and resented -the somewhat arrogant claim to a monopoly in that -beautiful word by the Church of Rome, and if one -of his own congregation used it in this restricted -sense, he never failed, gently but firmly, to make -the correction “Roman Catholic.” His own -Churchmanship he would probably have described -as that of an Anglican Catholic to which, while -agreeing, I may add that he was, at one and the -same time, of the Sacerdotal and of the Evangelical -Schools.</p> - -<p>Stone’s sacerdotalism, paradoxical as it may seem -to say so, was not of a “priestly” order, and -“priest” was perhaps the last word which anyone -who did not know him to be a clergyman would -have used of him, or by which his personality would -by a stranger have been described. A Sacerdotalist -he undoubtedly was in the sense of holding firmly -by apostolical succession; but to me he seemed a -Sacerdotalist chiefly in the taking of his sacred -office sacredly. Nor to this day, and for all his -sacerdotalism, am I sure which of the two he placed -the higher—the priesthood or the people. None -could have held more firmly than he that a priest is -consecrated of God. None could have been more -entirely convinced that the priesthood is consecrated -by, and exists only by, and for, the people. He was, -if anything, more of a congregationalist—using the -word apart from its purely denominational meaning—than -are the majority of ministers of that denomination -themselves. The congregational character -of the service at his church was, next to reverence, -the outstanding feature. The congregation were as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263">263</a></span> -much in evidence throughout as the clergy. They -repeated aloud every prayer for which there was -precedent, or authority for so doing, instead of the -prayer being offered, as in most churches, only by -one of the clergy.</p> - -<p>So, too, with the musical service. There was no -anthem, and so far from the burden of the singing -resting upon the choir, Stone often announced a -hymn thus: “The congregation alone singing all -except the first and last verses.” More “hearty” -congregational singing than at his church I have -never heard outside the Metropolitan Tabernacle -(unlovely name for a Christian Church!) when under -that great preacher and true minister of God, -Charles Haddon Spurgeon, five thousand voices -unaccompanied by organ or any other musical instrument -joined in singing the Old Hundredth. -High Churchman as doctrinally Stone was, he was -not a Ritualist. Incense and vestments were never -used in any church of his, and though his people -turned naturally to him for help and advice in -trouble, “Confessions,” in the accepted sense of -the word, were unknown. He was never in conflict -with his Bishop, or the other ecclesiastical authorities, -if only for the reason that his loyalty and his -fine sense of discipline made him constitutionally -incapable of breaking the law. He knelt reverently -in prayer before and after Consecration, and at -other times, but genuflexions and ceremonious and -constant bowing to the altar on the part of the -celebrant, his assistants and the choir, were absent -from the service for which he was responsible.</p> - -<p>On one slight but significant act of reverential<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264">264</a></span> -ritual he, however, laid stress. Whenever, in church -or out of church, Stone spoke or heard spoken the -name of our Lord, he never failed, no matter where -or with whom he was, reverently, even if unnoticeably, -slightly to bow his head. “God the Father -and God the Holy Ghost,” I once heard him -say, “no man has ever seen. But God, the Son, -for our sakes, stooped to become Man, and to be -seen of men. For that reason, a reason surely which -should make us more, not less loving and adoring, -some have doubted or denied His Godhead. Hence -when I hear that Holy Name, I incline my head in -adoring worship, as a protest if you like against the -base ingratitude which—because for our sakes He -stooped to become Man—would deny that He is -more than man, and in acknowledgment of Him as -my Redeemer, my Lord and my God.” He was indeed -so entirely a poet that no word or name, which -stood for that which he revered, was ever by him -lightly uttered or used. Between his mother and -himself—his father died either just before, or soon -after, I came to know the son, and I never saw the -two together, though I know that their relationship -was ideal—existed the most beautiful love and -devotion, and if only for her sake, the very word -“mother” was consecrate upon his lips. Four -times only is the halo seen around the head of -mortal. Around the head of a little soul newly -come from God, there is seen the rainbow-hued halo -of childhood; around the head of lad or maiden, -man or woman, who, in love’s supreme and sacred -season, is lifted nearest to God, there radiates the -rose-coloured halo of love; around the head of those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265">265</a></span> -who have newly gone to God, glows the purple-royal -halo of death; and around the head of a young -mother, fondling her first-born, shines out the white -and sacred halo of motherhood.</p> - -<p>To Stone the halo of motherhood was visible, even -around the head of those whom this world counts -and calls “fallen.” Motherhood was to him, in itself, -and apart from the attendant circumstances, -so sacred and beautiful, that the very word -“mother,” as he spoke it, seemed surrounded by the -halo of his reverence. The widowed Queen whom -he knew and loved, and by whom he was held in -regard and esteem, was to him no less our Mother—the -type and symbol of English Motherhood—than -she was our Sovereign. Of the august and ancient -Catholic Church of which he was so loyal a son he -rarely used the simile “The Bride of Christ,” which -one frequently hears in sermons, but spoke of her, -and with eyes aglow, as the Mother of her people; -and it was of England, our Mother, that he sang -with passionate love in many of his poems. So, too, -the words “Holy Communion” assumed, as he -spoke them, a meaning that was sacramental. The -reverent lowering of his voice was like the dipping -of a battleship’s ensign.</p> - -<p>Again, in that portion of the service, in which, -preceding the reading of the Ten Commandments, the -Celebrant says, “God spake these words, and said,” -many clergymen lay no stress on any particular -word, but speak or intone all six in one more or less -monotonous voice. It was not so with Stone. He -spoke the passage thus:</p> - -<p>“God——” the Holy Name was uttered with intense<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266">266</a></span> -reverence and solemnity, which recalled to the -congregation how awful is the Source whence these -ancient Commandments come. Then there was a -pause that every hearer might attune his or her -thought to reverent attention, and the Celebrant -would continue—“spake these words, and said,” -passing on thence to the First Commandment.</p> - -<p>And, lastly, I would say that I never heard -human voice thrill with such devotion, such worshipping -and wondering adoration, as that with -which he spoke the name of our Saviour. That -Name, the Holy and adored Name of <span class="smcap">Jesus</span>, was so -linked with all that he held sacred that he never -uttered it without pausing before and after the Holy -Name, that no less hallowed a word should be neighbour -to that Name on his lips.</p> - -<h3>VII</h3> - -<p>Upon one incident in my long friendship with -Stone I look back with pain and sorrow. He came -in late one night, just as the last post had brought -me the news—I would not write of such things here -except in so far as it bears upon my friend—that the -whole edition of my first little book had been sold -out.</p> - -<p>To-day the writing of a book, if only because it -may be the means of bringing influence to bear upon -others, is, I am of opinion, an occupation to be followed -diligently, conscientiously, and with pleasurable -zest. None the less, as compared with what some -men are doing in the way of direct personal service -to God, to their King, their country and their fellow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267">267</a></span> -creatures, it seems to me an occupation too inactive -to afford cause for congratulation that one is thus -employed. But in those days I desired nothing more -than to be a successful author, little imagining that -success in authorship does not necessarily mean the -making either of literature or of a man.</p> - -<p>When Stone came in that night, so full was I of -the great news, as I held it to be, about my book, -that I must needs rush at him, as volubly and importantly -to pour it all out, as if the fate of empires -hung upon the issue. He had a genius for friendship, -and heard me out patiently and gently to the -end, to say: “I am so glad, so very glad, dear -fellow, and congratulate you with all my heart,” -or words to that effect. Then he broached the subject -of his call, a matter of infinitely more importance -than any news of mine. It did not concern -himself, or I should, I hope, have acted differently, -but a member of his congregation, unknown to me, -whom Stone was trying to assist in a time of trouble -and anxiety. So far as I remember I hastily promised -the assistance for which he asked, but, when he -essayed to speak further of the matter, I interrupted -him rudely, once again and boastfully to speak of -my book.</p> - -<p>Stone so habitually suppressed it, that few suspected -how great was his gift of satire. When he -chose, or rather had he so chosen, he could so wing -his satiric shaft as to pierce the thickest hide, and -never was he more tempted to employ this “devil’s -weapon” as he held it to be, than when irritated -by vulgar boastfulness.</p> - -<p>Looking back long years after upon this incident,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268">268</a></span> -I know that to no one could what happened that -night be more irritating, and even objectionable, -than to Stone. On the part of a friend, it was an -affront to everything by which he held in our -social code, a wound to his own pride of breeding -and good manners. How sorely I must have -tempted and irritated him, I now fully realise, yet -his affection for the offender held back the stinging -word, and neither then, nor at any other time in our -long friendship, did I ever hear from him one reproachful -or ungentle word. I recall his forbearance -to me—a very young man when he was becoming -middle-aged, and so might reasonably have spoken—on -this particular occasion, an occasion which -even now I cannot recall without shame. I recall -a score of times when I grieved him by my apathy -upon some question upon which he felt intensely, -for Stone’s convictions were so positively held that -he would readily have gone to the stake in defence -of them, and that those he loved, and to whom he -looked for sympathy, could be apathetic upon -matters which he held to be of vital consequence, -was to him a positive pain. I recall all these, and -many other things in which I failed or wounded him -by some indifference, some thoughtless act, or unconsidered -word, and remembering that never once -did he fail me by sympathy, interest, help or love -withheld—I sicken at my own unworthiness, and at -the thought of the sorry return I made for all his -love and forbearance.</p> - -<p>It is with relief that I turn to another incident in -the early days of our friendship.</p> - -<p>One night, in the eighties, when I was dining with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269">269</a></span> -Stone and his and my kind old friend, the Rev. -Frederick Arnold, at St. Paul’s Vicarage, Haggerston, -a maid brought in the last post. Stone asked -permission to run through his letters, in case there -was anything requiring an immediate answer. Over -one he uttered an exclamation of glad and grateful -surprise.</p> - -<p>“Good news?” one of us asked.</p> - -<p>“Very good,” said Stone, flushed and radiant. -He hesitated a moment. Then, handing Mr. Arnold -the letter, he said, “There is no reason why you -two, one an old, and the other a young, but both -true and dear friends of mine, should not see it.”</p> - -<p>It was from the Bishop of London—I think Bishop -Jackson, but of this I am not quite sure. In any -case it was a very gracious letter. Upon Stone, the -Bishop said, the mantle of John Keble had by virtue -of his hymns, admittedly fallen. Thus far Stone had -for some fifteen years given all his time, energies, -and abilities to working among poor and uneducated -folk in an East End parish, where practically -the whole of the small stipend was swallowed -up in church work and charities, and where Stone -had no time or opportunity to do justice to his gifts -as a writer. The Bishop was aware, he said, that -Stone was fast wearing himself out, and could not -go on much longer. Hence he had pleasure in putting -before Stone the offer of preferment to a West -End parish, where he would have an educated, intellectual, -and appreciative congregation, as well -as the leisure and the opportunity to devote his -great gifts as poet and hymn-writer for the benefit -of the church and the world.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270">270</a></span> -It was a tempting offer, for much as Stone loved -sport and travel he had hitherto had neither the -time nor the money for anything more extended -than a few weeks in Switzerland or in “God’s Infirmary” -(as quoting George MacDonald he often -called the country), generally on a visit to his old -friend the Rev. Donald Carr, of Woolstaston Rectory, -Salop. Moreover, though Stone grudged no service -given to God or to his own congregation, he grieved -sometimes that he had so little time to devote to -hymn-writing and to literature, concerning which -he had many projects. In a letter dated June 15, -1892, he had written to me, “I am up to my ears -in work and behindhand because, if you please, I -am in the thick of writing a religious novel. I am -not really joking!”</p> - -<p>But grateful as he was for the Bishop’s kind and -fatherly offer, Stone declined it as, later on, he -declined similar offers, including a Colonial Bishopric.</p> - -<p>“I am not and I do not expect to be the man -I was,” he said to Mr. Arnold and me that night, -“but I ought to be, and am, thankful that, nervously -constituted as I am, I have gone through fifteen -years in the East End, out of twenty-three in the -Ministry. When health and strength give out, when -for my people’s sake I must let the work pass into -younger and stronger hands, I will go. Till then, in -Haggerston, where my heart is, and where the people -whom I love are living, I must remain.”</p> - -<p>And in Haggerston he remained working early in -the morning and late in the night until 1890, when -the collapse, alike of nerve and physical strength,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271">271</a></span> -came, and he had to resign—to be appointed by the -Lord Chancellor to the comparatively easy living of -All Hallows, London Wall.</p> - -<p>But Stone was not the man to spare himself in his -new sphere of labour. What the wrench of parting -and the strain necessitated by sweeping aside the -cobwebs, and by trying to warm into life the dry -bones, as he put it, of a long-neglected City church -cost him, may be gathered from the one and only -sad letter I ever had from him. It is written from -the house of his sister, Mrs. Boyd.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2"><span class="smcap">Woodside Lodge</span>,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">South Norwood Hill, S.E.</span>,<br /> -<span class="l2"><i>Nov. 28, 1891</i>.</span> -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Kernahan</span>,</p> - -<p class="let">I have, in a very busy life, never passed -through such a time of depression as in the last nine -or ten months. In the Spring I left the old Parish -of 21 years’ work and 31 years’ memories—and how -I got through the next couple of months I scarcely -know. Only by Grace of God. I went to Southend -for a fortnight, but it was simply a <em>ghastly</em> time, I -was ill in body and mind. Except for the faith -which Tennyson describes in the case of Enoch -Arden’s coming home, through which a man (believing -in the Incarnation, and therefore in the -Perfect Human Sympathy of God) cannot be “all -unhappy,” I don’t know what would have become -of me. I left behind me, you know how much—how -many is represented by 537 communicants, -nearly all of them my spiritual children, and I had -before me, not a “howling wilderness” but a silent -wilderness of the worst of the City churches. A -howling wilderness would have stirred up the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272">272</a></span> -soldier’s blood that is in me—but the desolation -which I felt so ill was like a winding sheet. You -must come and see me at All Hallows, and while I -show you the beautiful present, I will show you in -actual fact some of the dry bones.</p> - -<p>I need not tell you that I have had a great deal to -do Haggerstonwards. And oh! my correspondence -with my old children!</p> - -<p>I hope this does not sound to you like complaint -or self-pity. I only mean it as explanation—which -would not be given in these terms, except to one -very much (I know) of my own temperament. Indeed, -there is no cause for anything but thankfulness. -My nerves were too worn out for Haggerston -any longer. My successor is one almost entirely -after my own heart—my new parish is exactly one -(nearest to Haggerston in the City) I wished for. -The task of renovation, though it makes me a poor -man for a year or two, has been very good by way -of distraction and for the delight of making a -garden out of such a wilderness of dry bones, and -after another six or nine months I may be able to -afford a curate, and, having no further special -financial or parochial anxieties, be able to settle to -some final literary work. Indeed, I am as I ought to -be, very thankful.</p> - -<p>So far most egotistically.</p> - -<p>I am interested with my whole heart in what you -tell me of yourself. Do come and see me, to tell -more. I will promise to send you what I write, if -you will undertake to do the same.</p> - -<p>God bless you, dear friend.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l1">Ever your most affectionate,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">S. J. Stone</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273">273</a></span> -The depression passed, and Stone recovered -sufficiently to throw himself, heart and soul, and for -some years, into his now memorable work among -the “hands” employed in City warehouses, shops -and factories. Once again it was for the poor, or for -the comparatively poor that he toiled, and once -again he spared himself in nothing. His letters (I -have enough almost for a book) tell of the joy and -contentment he found in the work, and of his thankfulness -to God for what had been done.</p> - -<p>But he had made the change from the heavier -work at Haggerston too late, and even in the easier -charge, which, in order that he might husband his -failing strength and outworn energies had been -found for him, he would not, or could not spare himself—with -the result that, in the autumn of 1899, -he had another breakdown. Meeting him unexpectedly -one day on the Embankment, after not -seeing him for some little time, I was inexpressibly -shocked at the change. He told me that he had -been feeling very ill for some weeks, and was then -on his way to meet the friend who was accompanying -him to see a specialist, and that I should, without -delay, know the result of the examination which -was to be made. Not many hours had passed before -I had a letter. The malady, Stone said, was cancer, -it was feared in a malignant form, and there must -be an operation, and soon.</p> - -<p>With all the old and infinite thought and tenderness -for others, he gave me gently to understand -that the case was not too hopeful—he was terribly -run down, his heart was weak: he had overstrained -it while at Oxford—and even should he survive the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274">274</a></span> -operation, there was small likelihood of recovery. -Here is the conclusion of his letter:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Keep a quiet mind about me, dear friend. I have -not so learned Christ that I make any real difference -between life and death, but remember me before -God.</p> - -<p class="sigright"> -<span class="l2">Ever yours most affectionately,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">S. J. Stone</span>. -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Scarcely a day of the months which followed was -free from pain. Yet he wrote, “I live in a kind of -thankful wonder that I should be so encompassed -by the goodness of God and the lovingkindness of -men.” To the end he retained all his old interests. -He continued, in the brief respites from terrible -bouts of pain, to attend the church of All Hallows, -of which he was still rector, and to minister to his -people, and even to follow, with intense patriotic -interest, every event in the South African War.</p> - -<p>The day preceding his death, Sunday, he was at -All Hallows; and the very day of his passing he -wrote, “I am in such pain that I can neither write -nor dictate. At others I am just able to write ‘with -mine own hand.’ But whether at the worst or at the -best in a <em>bodily</em> state, spiritually I am not only in -patience, but in joy of heart and soul.” Soon after -came a brief space of unconsciousness and—the end.</p> - -<p>So died one who was liker Christ than any other -man or woman I have known. His love for his -fellows was so passionate and so unselfish that, could -he have taken upon himself, to save them from sin, -sorrow, and suffering, a similar burden to that which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275">275</a></span> -his Lord and Master bore, he would not have hesitated—he -would gladly have hastened—to make -the sacrifice.</p> - -<p>The mistakes he made were many, though I remember -none that was not made from high motive, -generous impulse, misplaced zeal, or childlike -singleness of purpose, which to the last led him to -credit others with truth, loyalty, honour, and sincerity, -like to his own. In the beautiful hymn -which he so loved, and with which he so often ended -evensong, we read:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And none, O Lord, have perfect rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For none are wholly free from sin,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">but if sin there was in Stone, as in all that is human, -I can truly say that, in our twenty-five years’ intimate -friendship, I saw in him no sign of anything -approaching sin, other than—if sins they be—a -noble anger and a lofty pride. To have loved, and -to have been loved and trusted by him, was no less -a high privilege than it was a high responsibility, -for if any of us, who at some time of our lives, shared -Stone’s interests and ideals, and were brought under -the compelling power and inspiration of his personality, -should hereafter come to forget what -manner of man he was—should play false with, or -altogether fall away, from those ideals, or be content -to strive after any less noble standard of conduct -and character than he set and attained—then heavy -indeed must be our reckoning, in the day when for -these, to whom much has been given, much will be -required.</p> - -<p>For Stone had something of the talismanic personality<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276">276</a></span> -of his Master. Just as, without one spoken -word—without more than a look—from the Christ -the unclean were convicted of sin by the talisman -of His purity, so all that was noblest, divinest and -knightliest in man, all that was white-souled, selfless, -tender, true, lofty, and lovely in womanhood, -recognised something of itself in Stone, and in his -presence all were at their highest and their best.</p> - -<p>Nor was this due merely to what has been called -a “magnetic personality.” That there are men and -women who for good or for evil (it is just as likely -to be for the latter as for the former) possess some -magnetic or mesmeric power over others, I am, and -from personal knowledge, aware. But Stone’s influence -was neither mesmeric nor magnetic. It was -by the unconscious spiritual alchemy of a soul so -rare (I repeat and purposely near the end of this -article what I said in the beginning) as to make -possible the courage of a Cœur de Lion, the honour -of a King Arthur or Sir Galahad—as to make possible -even in a sense the sinlessness of Christ. To have -known, if only once in a lifetime—and in spite of -bitter disillusionments, of repeated betrayals on the -part of some others—such a man as S. J. Stone, is -in itself enough to keep sweet one’s faith in humanity, -in immortality, and in God.</p> - -<p>Some time before Stone’s death I had been much -thrown into the company of a gifted and brilliant -thinker and man of Science, who had very little belief—I -will not say in the existence of a God, but at -least in the existence of a God who takes thought -for the welfare of mortals, and no belief whatever -in existence after death. In our walks and conversations<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277">277</a></span> -he had adduced many arguments in -support of annihilation, which it was difficult to -answer; and I remember that, when on the morning -that Stone died, I stooped to press my lips to the -forehead of the friend I loved and revered as I have -loved and revered none other since nor shall again, -it seemed for a moment as if the man of whom I -have spoken as disbelieving in personal immortality, -were, in spirit, at my elbow and whispering in my -ear. “Look well upon your friend’s face!” the -Voice seemed to say, “and you shall see written -there: ‘Nobly done, bravely done, greatly done, if -you will,’ but you shall also see written there, ‘<em>Done -and ended! done and ended—and for evermore!</em>’” -I remember, too, that it seemed as if some evil -power, outside myself, were trying, by means of -what hypnotists call “suggestion,” to compel me -to see, upon the dead face, what that evil power -wished me to see there.</p> - -<p>For one moment, after the whispering of the words -“Done and ended! done and ended—and for evermore,” -I thought I saw something in the dead face -that seemed dumbly to acquiesce in, and to endorse -the tempter’s words, until another and very different -voice (I have wondered sometimes whether it were -not my friend’s) whispered to me, “If the friend -whom you loved be indeed annihilated and has -ceased to be—then the Eternal and Omnipotent -God whom he, a man and a mortal, ever remembered -<em>has forgotten him, for annihilation means no more and -no less than utterly to be forgotten of God</em>. If that be -so, if God can forget, if He can forget those who -never forgot Him, then is that God less loving, less<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278">278</a></span> -faithful, and less remembering than the mortal -whom He has made. Can you, dare you, think this -awful and unthinkable thing of the Living and -Loving God in whom your friend so wholly -trusted?”</p> - -<p>And, looking upon the face of my friend, I saw -written there, not only the august dignity, the lone -and awful majesty of death, but also the rapture, -the peace, the serenity, the triumph of one who -staggers spent and bleeding but victorious from the -battle, to hear himself acclaimed God’s soldier and -Christ’s knight, and to kneel in wondering awe, in -worshipping ecstasy, at the feet of his Saviour and -his God.</p> - -<p>And remembering what I saw written on the dead -face of my friend, remembering the life he led and -the God in whom he trusted, I have no fear that my -own faith will fail me again in life or in death.</p> - -<p><em>And we also bless thy holy Name for all thy servants -departed this life in thy faith and fear; beseeching -thee to give us grace so to follow their good examples, -that with them we may be partakers of thy heavenly -kingdom. Grant this, O Father, for Jesus Christ’s -sake, our only Mediator and Advocate.</em> Amen.</p> - -<p class="p2 center smaller">THE END</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279">279</a></span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>SOME OPINIONS OF MR. KERNAHAN’S PUBLISHED WORK</h2> -</div> - -<p><cite>Saturday Review.</cite>—“There is a touch of genius, perhaps even -more than a touch, about this brilliant and original booklet.”</p> - -<p><cite>Times.</cite>—“A writer of much insight and originality.”</p> - -<p><cite>Spectator.</cite>—“Truly as well as finely said.”</p> - -<p><cite>Contemporary Review.</cite>—“A brilliantly versatile novelist and -a charming essayist.”</p> - -<p>Sir <span class="smcap">J. M. Barrie</span>, in the <cite>British Weekly</cite>.—“The vigour of -this book is great, and the author has an uncommon gift of -intensity. On many readers, it may be guessed, the book will -have a mesmeric effect.”</p> - -<p>Sir <span class="smcap">A. Quiller-Couch</span>.—“It is, as is every story which Mr. -Kernahan writes, vivid, and effectively told.”</p> - -<p><cite>Daily Chronicle.</cite>—“Of haunting beauty.”</p> - -<p><cite>Academy.</cite>—“His book is a fine one, and we think it will live.”</p> - -<p><cite>Bookman.</cite>—“Work which deserves to live.”</p> - -<p><cite>Punch.</cite>—“Rises are freely predicted in Kernahans.” (Mr. -Punch on “The Literary Stock Exchange.”)</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">I. Zangwill</span>.—“A genius for poetical and spiritual -allegory.”</p> - -<p><cite>Truth.</cite>—“No one approaches Mr. Kernahan in the sincerity -and intensity of his imaginative flights. For myself I can say -that I have read <cite>Visions</cite> with the keenest pleasure. They -have the penetrating and the revealing power of Ithuriel’s -spear.... Extraordinarily powerful.”</p> - -<p><cite>Morning Post.</cite>—“The prose is fascinating, the matter is -important to every thinking man, the treatment is so attractive -that one is compelled to read the book from cover to cover at -once. Studies in which the imagination takes strong wings, -written in prose that is both masculine in quality and haunting.”</p> - -<p><cite>Globe.</cite>—“A brilliant success.”</p> - -<p><cite>Daily Telegraph.</cite>—“Great reverence and much literary -power.”</p> - -<p><cite>Athenæum.</cite>—“Of singular beauty and tenderness, but at the -same time full of critical insight.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280">280</a></span> -<cite>St. James’s Gazette.</cite>—“It would seem as if the author of <cite>A -Dead Man’s Diary</cite> and <cite>A Book of Strange Sins</cite> had found -for the weird moods and impulses, the sighs and sobs from a hidden -world, which he has before controlled in the realm of fiction, -a local habitation and a name in the personalities of the actual -mortals he delineates in these luminous sketches.”</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Eden Phillpotts</span>.—“These scholarly papers. His essay -on Heine shows a wonderfully accurate estimate of that fantastic -genius, while his <cite>Rossetti</cite> shows critical insight of a high order.”</p> - -<p><cite>Pall Mall Gazette.</cite>—“If one of the wholesome offices of tragic -literature be to purify the soul by terror, Mr. Kernahan has done -something towards the purification of the world.”</p> - -<p><cite>Daily Mail.</cite>—“Crowded with pictures of great imaginative -beauty.... There can be no doubt that this little book must -make a very deep and abiding impression upon the hearts and -minds of all who read it.”</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">T. P. O’Connor</span>.—“I do not remember to have read for -a long time a study of the deadliness to soul and body—of what -I may even call the murderousness of purely sensual passion—in -which the moral is so finely, and I must use the word, awfully -conveyed.”</p> - -<p><cite>Evening News.</cite>—“The revelations are those of a man of -genius. Callous or brainless must the man or woman be who -can rise from its perusal without tumultuous and chastening -thought.”</p> - -<p><cite>The Daily Chronicle.</cite>—“A writer possessing not only a fine -literary gift, and a marvellous power of intense emotional -realisation, but a fresh, strange, and fascinating imaginative -outlook. We know of nothing published in recent years which, -in lurid impressiveness and relentless veracity of rendering, is to -be compared with this.”</p> - -<p><cite>The Sketch.</cite>—“The daring freshness of his thought, his great -ability in expressing it, his contempt for common tradition, the -sincerity which exudes from every page of his work, captivate -the reader. I do not know any piece of prose which opens up so -many great questions in so few lines.”</p> - -<p><cite>The Star.</cite>—“Palpitating with life. Terrible in their intensity -and vivid vivisection of human mind and character. In dealing -with such subjects as these, any one but Mr. Kernahan would be -morbid, perhaps revolting. Mr. Kernahan writes of them with -a power which is often genius. The work of a man who, seeing -beneath the crust of life, had the courage and the power to write -what he saw.”</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Barry Pain</span>.—“We find beautiful and appreciative -writing in these pages.”</p> - -<p><cite>The Illustrated London News.</cite>—“All must recognise the boundless -charity, the literary power, and the intense sincerity of one -of the most interesting works of the year.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281">281</a></span> -The late Mr. <span class="smcap">B. Fletcher Robinson</span>, in <cite>Daily Express</cite>.—“There -are two Coulson Kernahans. The one is a novelist who -loves a good plot, and a dashing adventure; the other a serious -thinker who rises to imaginative heights in his efforts to pierce -the mystery that cloaks the future life of us poor mortals.”</p> - -<p><cite>The Times.</cite>—“He is perhaps the hundredth individual who -in recent fiction has devoted himself to amateur detection, and -he is certainly ‘one in a hundred’ as regards his exceptional -success.... This simple sample must suffice for extract, but -we may assure the reader that there are plenty more where it -came from.”</p> - -<p><cite>World.</cite>—“A writer of fiction who has come among us carrying -Aladdin’s lamp—imagination.... Bold and brilliant in -inception.... Deep and tender humanity pervades the whole -work.”</p> - -<p><cite>Literary World.</cite>—“A man with a command of beautiful -English with exquisite insight into the poetry of life and with -the delicate touch of the rare literary critic.... A volume of -delightful essays, almost Lamblike in their tender pathos and -humour.”</p> - -<p><cite>New York World</cite> (U.S.A.).—“The strongest stories that have -been written in many a long day. No one who is guilty of sin -can read these stories without realising their truth. They are -like Conscience sitting alone with him staring him steadily -sternly in the face.... This spiritual rhapsody shows you one -facet of this brilliant Irishman’s genius. Turn to the <cite>Literary -Gent</cite>, and you will see another utterly different—fearful, almost -cruel.”</p> - -<p><cite>Boston Herald</cite> (U.S.A.)—“A book which must certainly be -accounted one of the pronounced literary successes of the time. -It has gone through various editions in America, as well as in -England, and I think no one who has read it could ever quite -escape from its haunting spell. It contains passages of poetic -prose, which no lover of the beautiful will overlook, and its -appeal to the consciences of men is even more strenuous. I am -not surprised to hear that the first English edition of 2000 copies -was exhausted a few days after publication.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Louise Chandler Moulton</span> (U.S.A.) in Syndicate Article, -“Four Modern Men.”—“A story which Hawthorne might have -been content to sign.... Two prose-poems which to my mind -far surpass the prose-poems of Turgenieff.... This has been -compared to Mrs. Gatty’s <cite>Parables from Nature</cite>, but Mrs. -Gatty has never written anything to rank with it for poetic -charm. To find this exquisite and tender idyl among these -tragedies of shipwrecked souls is like hearing the divine note of -the nightingale through the stress and clamour of a tempest.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282">282</a></span> -[In collaboration with the late Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson.]</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>, C.B., in the <cite>Illustrated London News</cite>.—“Where -so many skilful hands have tried to produce rival -anthologies, these two, each in its own class, preserve their unquestionable -superiority. Mr. Locker-Lampson has been helped -in re-publication by Mr. Coulson Kernahan, who has entered -into the elegant spirit of the Editor, and has continued his -labours with taste and judgment.”</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">A. C. Swinburne</span>, in his volume, <cite>Studies in Prose and -Poetry</cite>.—“There is no better or completer anthology in the -language. I doubt, indeed, if there be any so good or so complete. -No objection or suggestion which can reasonably be -offered can in any way diminish our obligation, either to the -original Editor, or to his evidently able assistant, Mr. Coulson -Kernahan.”</p> - -<div class="chapter adbox"> -<p class="center wspace vspace"> -<span class="larger">THE WORKS OF</span><br /> -<span class="xxlarge">Oscar Wilde</span> -</p> - -<blockquote class="hang"> - -<p>SALOME. <span class="smcap">A Tragedy in One Act.</span> Translated from -the French of Oscar Wilde. With a Cover-design after <span class="smcap">Aubrey -Beardsley</span>. Royal 16mo. Price 2s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>SALOME. <span class="smcap">A Tragedy in One Act.</span> Translated from -the French of Oscar Wilde, with an Introduction by <span class="smcap">Robert Ross</span>, -and 16 Full-page Illustrations by <span class="smcap">Aubrey Beardsley</span>. Fcap. 4to. -10s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>SALOME. 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Imperial 4to. £3 3s. net.</p></blockquote> -</div> - -<div class="chapter adbox"> -<p class="center wspace vspace"> -<span class="larger">THE WORKS OF</span><br /> -<span class="xxlarge">STEPHEN PHILLIPS</span> -</p> - -<blockquote class="hang"> - -<p>POEMS. With which is incorporated “CHRIST IN -HADES.” Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>LYRICS AND DRAMAS. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>PAOLO AND FRANCESCA. <span class="smcap">A Play.</span> With a Frontispiece -after G. F. WATTS, <span class="smcap smaller">R.A.</span> Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>HEROD. <span class="smcap">A Tragedy.</span> Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>ULYSSES. <span class="smcap">A Drama in a Prologue and Three -Acts.</span> Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>NEW POEMS. Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>THE NEW INFERNO. Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. Also -EDITION DE LUXE, with 16 full-page Drawings, -End-Papers, Title-Page, and a Cover Design by <span class="smcap">Vernon -Hill</span>. 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(Uniform -with “The Dream of Gerontius.”) 3s. 6d. net.</p></blockquote> -</div> - -<div class="chapter adbox"> -<p class="center wspace vspace"> -<span class="large">MEMOIRS, BIOGRAPHIES, Etc.</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<blockquote class="hang"> - -<p>LIVELY RECOLLECTIONS. By <span class="smcap">Canon Shearme</span>. -Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.</p> - -<p>THE HANMERS OF MARTON AND MONTFORD -SALOP. By <span class="smcap">Calvert Hanmer</span>. With numerous -Illustrations. Crown 4to. 10s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>CHARLES FROHMAN: Manager and Man. By -<span class="smcap">Isaac F. Marcosson</span> and <span class="smcap">Daniel Frohman</span>. With an -appreciation by <span class="smcap">Sir J. M. Barrie</span>. Many Portraits and -Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>SOLDIER AND DRAMATIST. Being the letters of -<span class="smcap">Harold Chapin</span>, American Citizen, who died for -England at Loos on September 26th, 1915. With -Introduction by <span class="smcap">Sidney Dark</span>. Two Portraits. Crown -8vo. 5s. net. (Second Edition.)</p> - -<p>THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF SIR JOHN -HENNIKER HEATON, <span class="smcap">Bart</span>. By his Daughter, -<span class="smcap">Mrs. Adrian Porter</span>. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo. -10s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>GAUDIER-BRZESKA. A Memoir. By <span class="smcap">Ezra Pound</span>. -With 38 Illustrations. Crown 4to. 12s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>A MERRY BANKER IN THE FAR EAST -(AND SOUTH AMERICA). By <span class="smcap">Walter H. -Young</span> (Tarapaca). With 36 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. -5s. net. (Second Edition.)</p> - -<p>MEMORIES. By <span class="smcap">The Hon. Stephen Coleridge</span>. -With 12 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>AND THAT REMINDS ME. Being incidents of a -life spent at sea, and in the Andaman Islands, Burma, -Australia, and India. By <span class="smcap">Stanley Coxon</span>. With a -Frontispiece and Forty Illustrations. Demy 8vo. -12s. 6d. net.</p> - -<p>FROM STUDIO TO STAGE. By <span class="smcap">Weedon Grossmith</span>. -With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. -16s. net.</p></blockquote> -</div> - -<div class="chapter adbox"> -<p class="center wspace vspace"> -<span class="larger">THE NEW PEPYS</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center vspace"> -<span class="xxlarge">A Diary of the Great Warr</span><br /> -<span class="large">By SAMUEL PEPYS, <span class="smcap">Junr.</span></span><br /> - -<span class="smaller">With 16 Illustrations by</span><br /> -<span class="larger">M. WATSON-WILLIAMS</span><br /> - -<em>Crown 8vo. <span class="in2">5s. net.</span> <span class="in2">Sixth Edition.</span></em> -</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><cite>Times.</cite>—“All that has happened, all that has been said or thought -about the war, is preserved by Mr. Pepys, Junior, in a style that robs -it of all offence and gives us a faithful mirror of our times.”</p> - -<p><cite>Scotsman.</cite>—“The trick of intermingling small things with great and -of slipping without effort, in the immortal Samuel’s best style, from the -great European conflict to his wife’s hats is so reminiscent that the -pages move the reader to constant smiles.”</p> - -<p><cite>Pall Mall Gazette.</cite>—“It is hard to decide which is more pleasing in -this book—the text or the illustrations. The Senior Pepys has transmitted -something of all his wonderful and divers qualities to the -descendant—his ubiquitous eye, his garrulousness, his exuberant egoism -and perfect selfishness, and his humour.”</p> - -<p><cite>Star.</cite>—“A more agreeable gallery of diverting worldlings we have -seldom met.”</p> - -<p><cite>Westminster Gazette.</cite>—“Being absolutely inimitable, Pepys has had -many imitators. But none with whom we are acquainted has succeeded -so well in a most difficult task as ‘Samuel Pepys, Junr.’”</p> - -<p><cite>Land and Water.</cite>—“Great events have crowded so quickly on one -another that already we find it difficult to arrange our recollections -rightly. In this diary, flavoured with Attic salt, we are carried back to -hours and controversies which seem to-day almost to belong to a -previous life. Into whatever page one may choose to dip, there is -something to arrest attention, to encourage reading and to awaken -mirth.”</p> - -<p><cite>To-Day.</cite>—“Here at length we have an imitation of Pepys’ Diary -which is as perfect and satisfying as such a thing could well be. Samuel -Pepys, Junior, knows the original with uncanny exactitude.”</p> - -<p><cite>British Weekly.</cite>—“A book of genius. In many ways it is the most -wonderful book that this war has produced.”</p> - -<p><cite>Daily Mail.</cite>—“It is the most diverting book that has appeared for -many a day. Laughable though the book is, it has the seriousness and -the acid of all good satire, and is as faithful a history withal of these -days as any that the serious historians have penned.”</p></blockquote> -</div> - -<div class="chapter adbox"> -<p class="center wspace vspace"> -<span class="larger">BOOKS BY PIERRE MILLE</span></p> - -<p class="smaller"><cite>Morning Post.</cite>—“Pierre Mille has a right to be considered the -French Kipling.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center xlarge wspace"> -UNDER THE TRICOLOUR</p> - -<p class="center vspace">Translated by <span class="smcap">B. Drillien</span><br /> -With Illustrations in colour by <span class="smcap">Helen McKie</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.</span> -</p> - -<p><cite>Morning Post.</cite>—“The most hilarious of all the stories ... would -make the sides of an archbishop ache with laughter; it is an irresistible -thing.”</p> - -<p><cite>Sunday Times.</cite>—“The stories are veritable gems. No student of the -soldier spirit or of the psychology of our gallant allies should miss this -book. Admirably translated and excellently illustrated.”</p> - -<p><cite>Evening Standard.</cite>—“We commend the book to the ordinary man ... -the tales are well told and abound in happy touches.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center xlarge wspace"> -BARNAVAUX</p> - -<p class="center vspace"><span class="smaller">Author of “Under the Tricolour.”</span><br /> - -Translated by <span class="smcap">B. Drillien</span><br /> - -With 8 Illustrations in colour by <span class="smcap">Helen McKie</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.</span> -</p> - -<p>Those who have read “Under the Tricolour” will recognise -Barnavaux at an old friend, as he is the “hero” of many of the stories -in both works. All the stories are entirely original, and they are -striking in different ways, many of them being worthy of comparison -with the works of the greatest French short-story writers.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center xlarge wspace"> -LOUISE AND BARNAVAUX</p> - -<p class="center vspace"><span class="smaller">Author of “Under the Tricolour.”</span><br /> - -Translated by <span class="smcap">B. Drillien</span><br /> - -With 8 Illustrations in colour by <span class="smcap">Helen McKie</span><br /> - -<span class="smaller">Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.</span> -</p> - -<p>There is yet another volume of short stories dealing mostly with the -French Colonial soldiery, and the ever delightful Barnavaux is again one -of the most conspicuous figures.</p> - -<p>Some of these stories are undoubtedly among the best that Mr. Mille -has written.</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter adbox"> -<p class="center wspace vspace"> -<span class="larger">THE WORKS OF</span><br /> -<span class="xxlarge">ANATOLE FRANCE</span><br /> - -In an English Translation edited by <span class="smcap">Frederic Chapman</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">Uniform. Demy 8vo. 6s.</span> -</p> - -<blockquote class="hang"> - -<p><a href="#Footnote_C" class="fnanchor">C</a>THE RED LILY</p> - -<p>MOTHER OF PEARL</p> - -<p>THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS</p> - -<p><a id="FNanchor_C" href="#Footnote_C" class="fnanchor">C</a>THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD</p> - -<p>THE WELL OF ST. CLARE</p> - -<p>THAIS</p> - -<p>THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN</p> - -<p>THE WHITE STONE</p> - -<p>PENGUIN ISLAND</p> - -<p>BALTHASAR</p> - -<p>THE ELM-TREE ON THE MALL</p> - -<p>ON LIFE AND LETTERS. 2 vols. 1st and 2nd Ser.</p> - -<p>THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNEBROCHE</p> - -<p>AT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PEDAUQUE</p> - -<p>JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT</p> - -<p>THE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN</p> - -<p>THE OPINIONS OF JEROME COIGNARD</p> - -<p>MY FRIEND’S BOOK</p> - -<p>THE GODS ARE ATHIRST</p> - -<p>THE REVOLT OF THE ANGELS</p> - -<p>CRAINQUEBILLE</p> - -<p>THE PATH OF GLORY. With Illustrations. Written -by <span class="smcap">Anatole France</span> to be sold for the benefit of French disabled -soldiers.</p> - -<p>THE AMETHYST RING [<i>In the Press</i></p> - -<p>PIERRE NOZIÈRE</p> - -<p>FOUR PLAYS [<i>In Preparation</i></p></blockquote> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_C" href="#FNanchor_C" class="fnanchor">C</a> Also Cheap Edition, bound in Cloth, with Illustrated Coloured -Wrapper, Crown 8vo, 1s. net.</p></div> - -<p class="center"><i>ALSO UNIFORM IN SIZE</i></p> - -<p>JOAN OF ARC. <span class="in1">With 8 Illustrations.</span> <span class="in1">2 vols.</span> <span class="in1">25s. net.</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center">JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak p1">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected. Punctuation, hyphenation, -and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was -found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> - -<p>Page <a href="#Page_274">274</a>: “lovingkindness” was printed as one word.</p> -</div></div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In Good Company, by Coulson Kernahan - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN GOOD COMPANY *** - -***** This file should be named 51572-h.htm or 51572-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/5/7/51572/ - -Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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