It was on a beautiful March afternoon that I sought out the
Poet-Laureate of England in his official sanctum in London. A splendid
mantle of fog hung over the street, shutting out the otherwise all too
commercial aspect of that honored by-way. It was mid-day to the stroke
of the hour, and a soft mellow glare suffused the perspective in either
direction, proceeding from the gas-lamps upon the street corners, which,
like the fires of eternal youth, are kept constantly burning in the
capital city of the Guelphs.
I approached the lair of England's first poet with a beating heart, the
trip-hammer-like thudding of which against my ribs could be heard like
the pounding of the twin screws of an Atlantic liner far down beneath
the folds of my mackintosh. To stand in the presence of Tennyson's
successor was an ambition to wish to gratify, but it was awesome, and
not a little difficult for the nervous system. However, once committed
to the enterprise, I was not to be baffled, and with shaking knees and
tremulous hand I banged the brazen knocker against the door until the
hall within echoed and re-echoed with its clangor.
Immediately a window on the top story was opened, and the laureate
himself thrust his head out. I could dimly perceive the contour of his
noble forehead through the mist.
"Who's there, who's there, I fain would know,
Are you some dull and dunning dog?
Are you a friend, or eke a foe?
I cannot see you through the fog,"
said he.
"I am an American lady journalist," I cried up to him, making a
megaphone of my two hands so that he might not miss a word, "and I have
come to offer you seven dollars a word for a glimpse of you at home."
"How much is that in L _s_. _d_.?" he asked, eagerly.
"One pound eight," said I.
"I'll be down," he replied, instantly, and drawing his noble brow in out
of the wet, he slammed the window to, and, if the squeaking sounds I
heard within meant anything, slid down the banisters in order not to
keep me waiting longer than was necessary. He opened the door, and in a
moment we stood face to face.
"Mr. Alfred Austin?" said I.
"The same, O Lady Journalist,
I'm glad to take you by the fist--
Particularly since I've heard
You offer one pun eight per word."
said he, cordially grasping me by the hand.
"Come right up and make yourself perfectly at home, and I'll give you
an imitation of my daily routine, and will answer whatever questions you
may see fit to ask. Of course you must be aware that I am averse to this
sort of thing generally. The true poet cannot permit the searchlight of
publicity to be turned upon his home without losing something of that
delicate--"
"Hold on, Mr. Austin," said I. "I don't wish to be rude, but I am not
authorized to pay you seven dollars apiece for such words as these you
are uttering. If you have any explanations to offer the public for
condescending to let me peep at you while at work, you must do it at
your own expense."
A shade of disappointment passed over his delicate features.
"There's a hundred guineas gone at a stroke," he muttered, and for an
instant I feared that I was to receive my conge. By a strong effort of
the will, however, the laureate pulled himself together.
"If that's the case, O Yankee fair,
Suppose we hasten up the stair,
Where every day the Muses call,
And waste no words here in the hall,"
said he. And then he added, courteously: "I am sorry the elevator isn't
running. It's one of these English elevators, you know."
"Indeed?" said I. "And what is the peculiarity of an English elevator?"
"Like Britons 'neath the foeman's serried guns,
The British elevator never runs,
For like the brain of the Scottish Thane,
The Thane, you know, of Cawdor,
Our lifts are always out of order,"
he explained. "It's very annoying, too, particularly when you have to
carry poems up and down stairs."
"You should let your poems do their own walking, Mr. Austin," said I.
"I beg your pardon," said he. "But how can they?"
"Those I've seen have had feet enough for a centipede," said I, as
dryly as I could, considering that I was still dripping with fog.
The laureate scratched his head solemnly.
"Quite so," he said, at length. "But come, let us hasten."
We hastened upward, and five minutes later we were in the sanctum. It
was a charming room. A complete set of the British Poets stood ranged in
chronological sequence on the table. A copy of _Hood's Rhymster_, well
thumbed, lay open on the sofa, and a volume of popular quotations lay on
the floor beside the poet's easy-chair.
A full-length portrait of her Majesty the Queen, seven inches high and
sixteen wide, hung over the fireplace, and beneath it stood a charming
bust of the late Lord Tennyson with the face turned towards the wall.
[Illustration: "'A BEAUTIFUL WORKSHOP,' SAID I"]
"A beautiful workshop," said I. "Surely one sees now the sources of your
inspiration."
"'Tis true my dear. 'Tis very, very true.
Here in my sanctum, high above the pave, ma'am,
I can't help doing all the things I do,
Not e'en my great immortal soul to save, ma'am.
You see, a man who daily has to write
Of things of which Calliope doth side-talk,
Must get above the earth and leave the wight
Who dully plods along along the sidewalk,"
he answered. "That's why I live under the roof instead of hiring
chambers on the ground-floor. Up here I am not bothered by what in one
of my new poems I shall call 'Mundane Things.' Rather good expression
that, don't you think? The first draft reads:
"'Mundane things, mundane things,
Hansom cabs and finger rings,
Drossy glitter and glittering dross,
May I never come across
Merely mundane, mundane things.'
"Rather clever, to be tossed off on a scratch pad while taking a
shower-bath, eh?"
"Yes," said I. "What suggested it?"
"The merest accident. I got some soap in my eye and was about to give
way to my temper, when I thought to myself that the true poet ought to
rise above petty annoyances of that nature--in other words, above
mundane things."
"Wonderfully interesting," I put in. "Was your appointment a surprise to
you, Mr. Austin?"
"Surprise? Nay, nay, my lovely maid.
Pray why should I surprised be?
Despite that Fortune's but a fickle jade,
I knew the thing must come to me,
For in these days commercial, don't you see,
From eyes like mine no thing can e'er be hid;
And when they advertised for poetry,
'Twas I put in the very lowest bid,"
he replied. "You see, as a newspaper man I knew what rates the other
poets were getting. There was Swinburne getting seven bob a line, and
Sir Edwin Arnold asking a guinea a yard, and old Kipling grinding it
out for one and six per quatrain, and Watson doing sonnets on the Yellow
North, and the Red, White, and Blue East, and the Pink Sow'west, at five
pounds a dozen. So when Salisbury rang me up on the 'phone and said I'd
better put in a bid for the verse contract, I knew just how to arrange
my rates to get the work."
"You had a great advantage over the others," said I.
"Which shows the value of a newspaper training. Newspaper men know
everything," he said. "I had but one fear, and that was your American
poets. They are hustlers, and I didn't know but that some enterprising
American like Russell Sage or Barnum & Bailey would form a syndicate and
corner America's poem-supply, and bowl my wickets from under me. Working
together, they could have done it, but they didn't know their power,
thank Heaven!--if I may borrow an Americanism."
"Well, Mr. Austin," said I, rising, "I am afraid I shall have to go. I
fear your words have already exceeded the appropriation. Ah--how much do
I owe you?"
The laureate took from beneath his chin a small golden object that
looked like a locket. Opening it, he scanned it closely for a moment.
[Illustration: CONSULTING HIS CHINOMETER]
"My chinometer says nine hundred and sixty-three words. Let us call it a
thousand--I don't care for trifles," said he.
"Very well," I replied. "That is $7000 I owe you."
"Yes," he said. "But of course I allow you the usual discount."
"For what?" said I.
"Cash," said he. "Poole does it on clothes, and I've adopted the system.
It pays in the end, for, as I say in my next ode to the Queen, to be
written on the occasion of her Ruby Jubilee, 'A sovereign in hand is
worth two heirs-presumptive in the bush.'"
"In other words, cash deferred maketh the heart sick."
"Precisely. I'll put that motto down in my note-book for future use."
"I thank you for the compliment," said I, as I paid him $5950.
"Good-bye, Mr. Austin."
"Good-bye, Miss Witherup," said he. "Any time when you find you have a
half hour and L1000 to spare come again.
"Say au revoir, but not good-bye,
For why?
There is no cause to whisper vale,
When we can parley
Without a fear
That words are cheap, my dear,"
said he, ushering me down-stairs and bowing me out into the fog, which
by this time had lightened so that I could see the end of my nose as I
walked along.