Between impartial sips at his own and my liquor the old gentleman
perused the small volume which he had taken from my pocket. After he
had read it he buttoned the book in his own pouch and addressed me with
great kindness--
"In some respects," said he, "poets differ materially from other
animals. For instance, they seldom marry, and when they do it is only
under extreme compulsion.--This is the more singular when we remember
that poets are almost continually singing about love. When they do
marry they instantly cease to make poetry and turn to labour like the
rest of the community.
"It has been finely said that the poet is born and not made, but I
fancy that this might be postulated of the rest of creation.
"Many people believe that all poets arise from their beds in the middle
of the night, and that they walk ten miles until they come to a
hillside, where they remain until the dawn whistling to the little
birds; but this, while it is true in some instances, is not invariably
true. A proper poet would not walk ten miles for any one except a
publisher.
"The art of writing poetry is very difficult at first, but it becomes
easy by practice. The best way for a beginner is to take a line from
another poem; then he should construct a line to fit it; then, having
won his start, he should strike out the first line (which, of course,
does not belong to him) and go ahead. When the poet has written three
verses of four lines each he should run out and find a girl somewhere
and read it to her. Girls are always delighted when this is done.
They usually clasp their hands together as though in pain, roll their
eyes in an ecstasy, and shout, 'How perfectly perfect!' Then the poet
will grip both her hands very tightly and say he loves her but will not
marry her, and, in an agony of inspiration, he will tear himself away
and stand drinks to himself until he is put out. This is, of course,
only one way of being a poet. If he perseveres he will ultimately
write lyrics for the music halls and make a fortune. He will then wear
a fur coat that died of the mange, he will support a carnation in his
buttonhole, wear eighteen rings on his right hand and one hundred and
twenty-seven on his left. He will also be entitled to wear two
breast-pins at once and yellow boots. He will live in England when he
is at home, and be very friendly with duchesses.
"Poetry is the oldest of the arts. Indeed, it may be called the parent
of the arts. Poetry, music, and dancing are the only relics which have
come down to us from those ancient times which are termed impartially
the Golden or the Arboreal Ages. In ancient Ireland the part played by
the poet was very important. Not alone was he the singer of songs, he
was also the bestower of fame and the keeper of genealogies, and,
therefore, he was treated with a dignity which he has since refused to
forget. When a poet made a song in public, it was customary that the
king and the nobility should divest themselves of their jewels, gold
chains, and rings, and give this light plunder to him. They also
bestowed on him goblets of gold and silver, herds of cattle, farms, and
maidservants. The poets are not at all happy in these constricted
times, and will proclaim their astonishment and repugnance in the
roundest language.
"A few days ago I was speaking in Grafton Street to a poet of great
eminence, and, with tears in his voice, he told me that he had never
been offered as much as a bracelet by any lady. Times have changed;
but for the person who still wishes to enter this decayed profession
there is still every opportunity, for poetry is only the art of cutting
sentences into equal lengths, and then getting these sentences printed
by a publisher. It is in the latter part of this formula that the real
art consists.
"There are a great many poets in Ireland, particularly in Dublin. In
an evening's walk one may meet at least a dozen of this peculiar
people. They may be known by the fact that they wear large, soft hats,
and that the breast-pockets of their coats have a more than noticeable
bulge, due to their habit of carrying therein the twenty-seven
masterpieces which they have just written. They are very ethereal
creatures, composed largely of soul and thirst. Soul is a far-away,
eerie thing, generally produced by eating fish."
The old gentleman borrowed the price of a tram home; but as he
instantly stood himself a drink with it, I was forced to relend him the
money when we got outside.