My dear Charles,--I know that from your superior standpoint as a
Londoner you are disposed to regard us as dwellers in a quiet backwater,
unswayed by the currents of political strife, but you must not imagine
that the stirring events of the past few weeks have failed to leave
their mark on the life of our little town. A study of the Press--that
faithful mirror of our time--would quickly convince you to the contrary.
The Press, as you know, is here represented by _The Signal_, a fine old
weekly journal of inflexible Unionist views. Well, last week, rising on
a wave of enthusiasm, _The Signal_ burst into poetry.
_The Gun Runners_, it is called, by "Cecilia Merrifield."
The air is still, the night is dark;
Along the harbour side
There stands a silent, waiting park
Of motors, full inside.
That is the opening stanza. You may possibly take exception to the
French rhyme, but you cannot fail, Charles, to appreciate the fine
spirit of it.
What are they full of? Not of man,
But rifles, neatly packed,
Taken from out the good ship _Fan_,
Now in the harbour backed.
Strictly speaking, I believe it was not the _Fan_ at all, but that is a
small matter.
Brave men have toiled across the sea
To bring those rifles in,
With helm held stoutly hard-a-lee
Amid the breakers' din.
I am not at all certain of the accuracy of the term "hard-a-lee" in this
connection, but what a fine sense of stedfast heroism that run of
aspirates awakened. "With helm held stoutly hard-a-lee."
Amid the breakers' strident cry
They kept their courage cool,
For thus, they said, Home Rule must die,
We will not have Home Rule!
They 'scaped the vessels of the Fleet
By lavish use of paint;
The warships had to own defeat
With loud and long complaint.
But I cannot give you more than a selection from these noble verses.
They continue in the same lofty strain until the good ship is warped
safely in port. Then comes another dramatic change of tense. We are
again on the quayside.
The night grows darker. All at once
An order sharp we hear--
The order waited for for months;
The motors come in gear.
Yes, I admit that this stanza is open to criticism on more than one
count, but I would not have it changed. It bears the impress of red-hot
inspiration.
Criticism must always be silent when confronted with that.
The joy of having to obey
Lights up each driver's face,
And so the motors move away
Each to its destined place.
You must not suppose, however, that there was no show of opposition. As
you have observed, our poetess believes, on the whole, in sticking
closely to historical truth.
The minions of the Government,
A weak and craven breed,
Stand by, quite helpless to prevent
This great heroic deed.
I cannot say I altogether like the tone of the second line, but the fury
of enthusiasm, shackled by the exigencies of rhyme, must be forgiven
much. Let us continue.
Across the night the motors throb
Without the slightest hitch,
For this is quite a business job,
Though in romance so rich.
Indeed, the whole stupendous plot
Is cleverly arranged;
Even the motor-cars have got
Their number plates all changed.
And so they speed by tortuous ways
With Freedom in the van,
And patriotism sets ablaze
The face of every man.
And so on. Then we come from the general to the particular, and follow
the fortunes of a single consignment of arms until it reaches its
destination.
And into cellar, pantry, shed,
In kitchen, bedroom, loft,
The rifles go. Home Rule is dead!
The words are uttered oft.
The ammunition, too, is hid
In many a secret hole,
Each bearer doing as he's bid,
Intent upon the goal.
The goal being, I take it, the final death of Home Rule. And now comes
the wonderful peroration, in which the whole great adventure is brought
to its dignified and eloquent climax. It runs into twenty-three stanzas,
of which I will give you the last two without comment--
Freedom is what we labour for,
Freedom, it is our right;
We have no wish for bloody war,
But, if we must, we'll fight.
This is our message sent to him,
The dark Dictator's tool--
Whatever happens, sink or swim,
We Will Not Have Home Rule!
There, Charles! I challenge you to produce anything approaching that
from all your boasted London dailies.
Yours,
Robert.
* * * * *
"A villager will always tell the difference between a good coin
and a bad one, but he cannot tell the difference between a bad
coin and a good one."--_Pioneer._
He must try to enlarge his mind.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Perspiring Sportsman (who has been riding in
fourteen-stone point-to-point race)._ "Well, thank goodness that's the
last of the season!"
_Friend_. "Thought you liked it."
_Perspiring Sportsman_. "Yes, if it weren't for the wasting you've got
to do to ride the weight?"]
* * * * *