In a distant country, at a remote epoch, was born of humble parents a
poet. "Born" advisedly, since the poet is always born, not made. Even
before he could write he composed little poems, which he would
recite aloud. The simple pleasures of the poor, among whom he grew
up--intoxication, pugilism, funeral merry-makings--furnished the themes
of his verse.
Upon reaching man's estate he adopted the calling of night-watchman,
an occupation which provided him at once with a livelihood and ample
opportunities for meditation. It is to this period that the "Nocturnes"
belong.
Now it happened that the poet's work reached the eye of the Prince, who,
anxious to encourage genius, appointed him to some minor place about
Court and endowed it with a pension. Moreover, to complete his happiness
he gave him in marriage a beautiful and accomplished maiden, for whom
the poet had long cherished an ardent but hopeless passion. So, as by
enchantment, the course of the poet's existence was changed. He no
longer waked while others slept. On the contrary he seldom left his
couch until a late hour in the morning, and when at last he rose it was
often to pass the rest of the day in a Turkish bath.
Yet in spite of altered circumstances he still remained a poet, for the
poet is born, not made, or unmade. The tenor of his poetry however
was changed. Instead of the rude and vigorous subjects which formerly
engaged his lyre he would now employ his art in verse of the daintiest,
to celebrate flowers, ladies' eyebrows and similar trivialities.
This style however was not altogether to the taste of the munificent
Prince. He had expected something stronger, something more in the grand
manner. So he consulted a Wise Man, an adept in the ways of poets, one
greatly in demand as a writer of biographical prefaces to poetical
reprints.
The Wise Man heard him to the end and replied as follows: "Sire, you
have been ill-advised. Who ever heard of a happy poet? Poetry and
prosperity are incompatible. Instead of trying to make your _protégé_
joyful you should have heaped sorrow upon him. It is well known that
sorrow ennobles a man and enlarges his emotional experience. 'Poets
learn in suffering what they teach in song' sang one of them who knew.
"However it is not too late. When next he seeks your Presence, indicate
to him with that tact which is the birthright of princes that he no
longer enjoys your favour. At the same time stop his pension and allow
him to taste once more the life from which your bounty removed him.
Could you contrive that he loses the affection of his wife, and that he
falls into a consumption, so much the better. In addition, if it please
your Highness, I will arrange that all his work is unfavourably noticed
in the Press and that calumnies concerning his private life are
circulated in the personal paragraph columns."
"Thanks very much," said the Prince, and dismissed the Wise Man with a
handsome fee.
A few days later, when the poet presented himself at Court, the monarch
rose from his throne, took a short run and kicked him in a vulnerable
part. Breathless the poet was borne by lackeys from the royal presence,
wherein he never again showed himself. At the next meeting of the
Council the Prince annulled his pension by a stroke of the pen. Thus the
poet was thrust back into the cold world.
Now began a period for him of intense unhappiness. Having lost his old
business connection he could no longer obtain employment in his original
vocation. He had therefore no alternative to avert starvation but to
follow the precarious calling of a cab-runner. These events, it will
be recalled, happened in a bygone age, before the motor superseded
the horse. Often, after a weary trail half across the town behind a
luggage-laden Cab, only to find that the family kept a man-servant,
he would return to the cellar that was now his home, penniless and
exhausted.
Long hours spent over the washtub, to eke out their scanty earnings, had
rendered his wife--once the "Fay" of the "Love Songs"--both muscular and
short-tempered. On such occasions she would lay hands on the poet and
thrash him till he wept. But throughout all he remained a poet, for the
poet is born not made. Every tear in falling turned to a sonnet.
His sorrows were transmuted into poems--poems now suffused with the
concentrated emotions of the human race.
Nevertheless each one as it appeared was brutally slated in the organs
controlled by the literary adviser to the Crown, and himself belittled
and ridiculed. When, as luck would have it, his wife eloped with a
wrestler, a flood of melody poured from his soul which, connoisseurs
have assured us, ranks high amongst the lyrical masterpieces of the
world. These verses will be found amongst the collection known as
"Swan Songs," published posthumously, for, not long after, the poet
unfortunately developed phthisis and died.
But though he was thus cut-off in early manhood his name will live for
ever. It is borne by a square in the boarding-house quarter of the
capital and by a cravat which, though, alas, no longer in the fashion,
is still worn every Sunday by countless artisans.
His poems too have achieved immortality. Showily bound they make a
favourite school prize and have given entertainment to generations of
cultured refined persons, who have never paused in their reading to give
a thought to the author of their enjoyment, the sagacious Prince to
whose action they owe their emotional treat. His royal Highness's reward
was his own aesthetic satisfaction. "By Heaven, this is more like," he
rapturously exclaimed as he laid down the last volume of the collected
works; "this verse has got some stuff in it." And on the occasion of his
next birthday he conferred the Companionship of a Household Order upon
the poet's publisher.
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"Lord Basil's scratching is said to be due to soreness."--_Daily
Sketch_.
It frequently is.
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[Illustration: OUR WEALTHY WORKERS.
_Host (to guest with Socialistic opinions)._ "I hope you'll be careful
what you have to say about the moneyed classes. Our maid is very
sensitive."]
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