“_Now_, you see why one puts ‘ye’ for ‘you,’ and ‘ye be’ for
‘you are,’ and mentions the Law in so many words. It is not very
difficult to do, and when one does succeed, one gets what I call A1
copper-bottomed poetry.”
He went to a corner of the room, opened a large, scented,
velvet-bound book upon a brass reading-desk, looked at me severely,
coughed twice, and began as follows:
“I am about to read you ‘In the Confessional.’ The greatest critic
of the century has called this the greatest poem of the century. I
begin at the third verse, and the seventeenth line:--
* * * * *
“Lest he forget the great ally
In heaven yclept hypocrisy,
So help me Bawb! I’ll mark him yet--
Lest he forget! Lest he forget!”
* * * * *
He closed the book with becoming reverence.
And there was a silence, during which the grand words went on
running in my head as their author had meant them to do. “Lest he
forget! Lest he forget!” Ah, may heaven preserve its darling poet,
and never let him fall from the height of that great message.
“Well,” said he, genially, anticipating my applause, “Good-bye.
But before you go please let me beg you to tell the public that
I lately wrote something for the _Times_ a great deal better
than anything else I have ever written. Nobody seems to read the
_Times_,” he continued, in a tone of slight petulance, “and I have
not seen it quoted anywhere. I wonder if it is properly known?
Please tell people that that little note about ‘copyright’ is only
for fun. _Anyone_ may use it who likes--I had a paragraph put
in the papers to say so. It’s like this--” He then added a few
conventional words of God-speed, and I left him. I have never seen
him since.
And yet ... and yet....
The student will now pardon me, I trust, if I go somewhat more
deeply into things than is customary in text books of this class.
That little conquest over pride, that little task honestly
performed, earned me something I shall value for ever, something
that will be handed down in our family “even unto the third and
the fourth generation” (_Habb._ vii. 13). It is something that
means far, far more to me than a mere acquaintance with an author
could possibly have done. For who can gauge so volatile a thing as
friendship? Who could with certitude have pointed me out and said,
“There goes _His_ friend”? The Written Thing remained.
In my room, nay, just above me as I write, hangs framed the
following note in pencil.
“Awfully glad to see the stuff in the ‘Herald,’ but say--are you
old Caliban? That was rather stiff on a jack high? Wasn’t it? Never
mind. You didn’t ask me for my auto, but I send it herewith right
along, for I _like_ you.”
There is the Man Alone as He IS--.... It seems of small moment,
but there is something more. Framed in dark oak and gold very
sumptuously, and hanging quite apart, is the little shred of paper
which He enclosed. Shall I whisper what is written upon it?...?...
The first few jotted notes of the glorious song which rang through
the Empire like a bugle-call, and hurled it at Nicaragua.
[Sidenote: _Mem.--Can a preposition begin with a capital?_]
Hark and attend my Chosen: Ye have heard me
_ye_ _people_
Out of the East,
_with an introduction_?
[Sidenote: _Mem.--Alternative, “with a bag and a blanket.”_]
I came and the nations trembled: I bore the Mark
_with a_ ■■■■■■■■■■■■
■■■■■■■
_glory about me?_
of the Beast,
[Sidenote: _Good!_]
And I made ye a hundred books--yea! even an hundred and one
Of all the labours of men that labour under the sun,
[Sidenote: _Second “yea”? Uncle says “delete.”_]
And I clad me about with Terrors: Yea! I covered my paths with dread,
And the women-folk were astonished at the horrible things I said.
And the men of the Island Race were some of them woundily bored,
But the greater part of them paid me well: and I praised the Lord.
And when--as the spirit was full--I sniggered and lapped and swore
[Sidenote: _Dick says “Days of Yore” is commonplace. Tore? Gore?
Lore? More? provisional: see Emily also about it._]
As ever did men before me, men of the days of yore
(?)
When-as the spirit was full--But when it was rare and low
I copied the Psalms at random; and lo! it was even so!
■■■■■■■
(_Fill in here: ask_ ■■■■■■■)
_Publisher_
[Sidenote: _Uncle says that repetition is Greek. Mem.--plagiarism?_]
Then up and arose the Daughter-Nations: Up and arose
Fearless men reciting me fearlessly through the nose,
Some of them Presbyterian, and some of them Jews, and some
[Sidenote: _Frivolous. Change._]
Of the Latter-Day Church, King Solomon’s sect--which is awfully rum.
(_Stuck_.)
... the lot of it ... Anglo-Saxons ... shout it aloud
... at it again? ... back the crowd?
(_Fill in. Mem.--must be consecutive_)
Things are not as they were (_commonplace_)
(_delete_)
Things are not as they.... Things and the Change....
Things and ... things....
(_Leave this to fill in_)
* * * * *
And some of ye stand at a wicket, and they are the luckier men,
[Sidenote: _Whenas. Good. Mem.--use in “Horeb.”_]
But others field afar on a field, and ever and then,
When-as the over is over, they cross to the other side,
A weary thing to the flesh and a wounding thing to the pride.
[Sidenote: _He will have to go._]
And Cabinet Ministers play at a game ye should all avoid,
It is played with youngling bats and a pellet of celluloid,
And a little net on a table, and is known as the named (_better_)
PING and the PONG.
England, Daughter of Sion, why do you do this wrong?
And some, like witherless Frenchmen, circle around in rings,
England, Daughter of Sion, why do you do these things?
Why do you....
(_Mem.--after Uncle to-morrow. Billy’s: refuse terms._)
These are the chance lines as they came--the disjointed
words--everything--just as He wrote them down.
Reader--or whatever you be--was that a small reward? Are you
willing _now_ to say that Interviewing has no wages of its own?
Will you sneer at it as unfit to take its place in your art? Truly,
“Better is he that humbleth himself than a pillar of brass, and a
meek heart than many fastenings.”