THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED 
 
 SIX LIVES OF GREAT MEN 
 
 BY 
 
 R. C. LEHMANN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'ANNI FUGACES ' 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MCMIII 
 
 AU Rights rtservtd
 
 NOTE. 
 
 I AM indebted to the courtesy of Messrs Bradbury & 
 Agnew, the Proprietors of ' Punch,' for permission to 
 republish the greater number of pieces included in this 
 volume. " Inter Amicos " and " The Cham of Tartary " 
 appeared originally in ' Blackwood's Magazine,' and I 
 desire to thank the Editor for allowing me to republish 
 them here. My acknowledgments are also due to the 
 Editor of 'The Granta' for "Ad Grantanos" and "To 
 Phyllis in Cambridge." 
 
 8GG747
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY ...... 3 
 
 ON SATURDAY MORNING EARLY .... 7 
 
 THE RAG-DOLL ...... IO 
 
 FAIRIES ON THE LAWN ..... IJ 
 
 BACK AGAIN t ....... l6 
 
 PATTERING FEET . . . . . 1 8 
 
 A GRANDMOTHER'S GIFT . . . 20 
 
 TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL ..... 22 
 
 THE CANARY'S CHALLENGE . . . .25 
 
 PEGGY, A PONY ...... 28 
 
 DUKE, A DRAY-HORSE ..... 30 
 
 A DITTY OF CHAMPAGNE ..... 33 
 
 A CANTO OF CLARET ..... 35 
 
 LA BENEDICTINE ...... 40 
 
 A CHRISTMAS BOWL . . . . .44 
 
 THE HAPPY HILLS OF LEA . . . .49 
 
 INTER AMICOS . . . . . .51 
 
 THE FANCY-DRESS DINNER . . . 55 
 
 INSTANS SENECTA ...... 58
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 AT ANCHOR ....... 62 
 
 BACK TO "THE BACKS" ..... 64 
 
 HAPPY SHADES IN COLLEGE . . . .66 
 
 AD GRANTANOS ...... 69 
 
 TO PHYLLIS IN CAMBRIDGE . . . -73 
 THE PERFECT OAR . . . . . -75 
 
 STYLE AND THE OAR . . . . .79 
 
 LAUS REMIGII . . . . . 8 1 
 
 THE CORK REGATTA ..... 83 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE LEE . . . . .86 
 
 THE SEASON ...... 88 
 
 THE QUEEN'S LOOK. ..... 90 
 
 HAPPY CHANCE . . . . . -91 
 
 LIVES OF GREAT MEN 
 
 I. THE BISHOP OF PECKHAM GREEN . . -95 
 
 II. THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW . . IO4 
 
 III. THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP, M.P. 1 16 
 
 IV. HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER . . .128 
 V. HOMER THEOPHILUS RENTON . . .138 
 
 VI. THE CHAM OF TARTARY .... 145
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY. 
 
 KEEN is the morning, keen and bright, 
 
 And all the lawn with frost is white ; 
 
 In every bush, in every tree, 
 
 The birds sit watching warily. 
 
 Now out, now in, they hop and peer, 
 
 And cock their cunning heads to hear 
 
 The chirping of a childish voice : 
 
 They know it well, and they rejoice 
 
 When, resolutely stepping, comes, 
 
 To scatter here her gift of crumbs, 
 
 Her round face topped with shining curls, 
 
 My little laughing girl of girls. 
 
 And, O ye soft and feathered things, 
 
 Redbreasts who flit on fearless wings, 
 
 Familiar, friendly, boldly shy, 
 
 Birds of the liquid, trustful eye ; 
 
 Ye sparrows chattering o'er your food, 
 
 Linnets, and all the pretty brood 
 
 Of finches, blackbirds yellow- billed, 
 
 And thrushes with your music stilled 
 
 Since winter's icy breath makes mute 
 
 The swelling ripple of your flute ;
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY. 
 
 Ye, too, ye sable-suited rooks, 
 
 Timid for all your threatening looks, 
 
 Who in solemnity survey 
 
 Your twittering colleagues at their play, 
 
 Where on the poplar's top you swing, 
 
 And desperately claw and cling, 
 
 Then, when each bird has pecked its last, 
 
 And all the fluttering rout is past, 
 
 And all the chirpings duly dumb, 
 
 Swoop down, but rarely find a crumb ; 
 
 All ye, whose hungry bills are fed 
 
 By Helen's daily doles of bread, 
 
 Be not afraid, be not afraid 
 
 To gather round my rosy maid. 
 
 Oh, give a kindly thought to her, 
 
 Your little friend and minister ; 
 
 And, as you watch her, pass the word 
 
 " She's but a plump unfeathered bird." 
 
 So when the day is done, and night 
 
 Sets all the twinkling stars alight, 
 
 You'll breathe a bird-wish, as you sleep, 
 
 That One who guards the birds may keep 
 
 Cosy and safe from every ill, 
 
 From winds that bite and frosts that chill, 
 
 And through the night's long hours defend 
 
 The birds' unfeathered little friend. 
 
 Ye sportive mice that swiftly go 
 Behind the wainscot to and fro, 
 And sometimes to your outlets creep 
 And half pop out and take a peep,
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY. 
 
 Alert, but ready to retreat, 
 
 Into a world where cheese smells sweet 
 
 Ye quivering, twisting specks of fur 
 
 With whisking tails and ears astir, 
 
 We do not grudge you of our store : 
 
 A little less, a little more, 
 
 It matters not, so nibble on 
 
 In peace, then like a flash begone. 
 
 I cannot bear to bar the house 
 
 To here and there a tiny mouse. 
 
 And Helen, if she marks at all 
 
 Your scamperings from wall to wall, 
 
 Will smile to hear you frisk and run : 
 
 " It's mousies, Daddy, having fun." 
 
 So, Helen, ere at eve you steep 
 Your busy baby-brain in sleep, 
 Your mother takes you on her knee 
 And whispers to you tenderly. 
 You watch her lips, you clasp her hand, 
 And, though you may not understand 
 Each word she says or all that's meant, 
 You listen and you purr assent. 
 And it may chance that, on a day 
 Far hence, to this your thoughts will stray, 
 And in a dream you'll seem to hear 
 The words with all their meaning clear : 
 Ah, then you'll recollect and know 
 What the dear voice said long ago : 
 " My sweet, be sure no gentle thought 
 That from God's love a ray has caught,
 
 CRUMBS OF PITY. 
 
 No tender childish pity spent 
 
 On creatures meek and innocent, 
 
 No mercy for their lowly lot 
 
 Is ever wasted or forgot. 
 
 God, who gave children pity, heeds 
 
 Such loving thoughts, such gentle deeds 
 
 He sets them, gold and clustering gems, 
 
 On angels' brows as diadems, 
 
 And looks Himself in pity mild 
 
 On bird, and mouse, and little child."
 
 ON SATURDAY MORNING EARLY. 
 
 ON Saturday next at half-past eight 
 I mustn't be half a second late 
 I'm going out at the garden gate 
 
 When the dew is glittery-pearly. 
 I'm going, I'm going, I don't know where, 
 But I think I shall find some others there, 
 On Saturday next if the sun shines fair, 
 
 On Saturday morning early. 
 
 Perhaps it's the home of the big torn-tit, 
 Or the land where the little blue fairies flit, 
 For Daddy he said I should visit it, 
 
 And go for a treat alone, too, 
 In a marvellous carriage with golden springs, 
 And six white horses with twelve white wings, 
 And a coachman all over curls and things, 
 
 And a footman all of my own, too. 
 
 Or perhaps I shall go to the doll-country, 
 Where the dollies are all as big as me, 
 And all have raspberry jam for tea, 
 With huge thick slices of some cake :
 
 ON SATURDAY MORNING EARLY. 
 
 It might be sponge, or it might be bright 
 With cherries, and iced as smooth and white 
 As the pond when the feathery snow falls light, 
 Or it might be, possibly, plum-cake. 
 
 What fun it'll be to see Boy Blue, 
 
 And Jack and the stalk that grew and grew, 
 
 And Puss in Boots and his Marquis too, 
 
 And giants and giantesses ; 
 And wonderful gleaming golden towns, 
 And Kings with sceptres and swords and crowns, 
 And Queens with fur on their satin gowns, 
 
 And beautiful young Princesses ! 
 
 And if I should see Red Riding Hood 
 And her grandmamma in the dark old wood, 
 I shall run away, as a good girl should 
 
 For fear that a wolf might meet her. 
 But grandmamma will perhaps explain 
 If teeth, when they bite you, give you pain, 
 And how she ever got out again 
 
 When the wolf had managed to eat her. 
 
 And, oh, I shall find where the tulips go, 
 And the golden crocuses all aglow, 
 And where the little white daisies grow 
 
 When they vanish away together ; 
 And the place where the pretty blue-bells stay, 
 And the pinks and the roses bright and gay, 
 When they go away and "Good-bye," they say, 
 
 " Good-bye for the winter weather."
 
 ON SATURDAY MORNING EARLY. 
 
 I must take my funny dog Buff, the Skye, 
 
 With his little short legs and his ears cocked high, 
 
 And his long rough hair, and his hidden eye, 
 
 And his face like a great grey pansy. 
 Doll Jane I shall leave on the nursery floor, 
 For she doesn't go travelling any more : 
 Since her head got squeezed in the bedroom door 
 
 There's not very much she can see. 
 
 So I'm ready, I'm ready ! I've packed some socks, 
 A bonnet, a bib, and two holland frocks, 
 And a pair of shoes in a brand-new box ; 
 
 And I've given my Mummy warning. 
 I shall take a mug and a fork and spoon, 
 And the musical box that plays one tune, 
 And I'll hurry away but I'll come back soon 
 
 On Saturday next in the morning.
 
 10 
 
 THE RAG-DOLL. 
 
 THE Rag-doll here and the Rag-doll there ! take care of the 
 
 Rag-doll, do ! 
 She's a dollopy, dumpy, dowdy doll with a grin on her face 
 
 for two. 
 She's a dollopy doll with two stuffed legs but she's only 
 
 got one stuffed arm 
 But, oh ! take care of the Rag-doll, do, and see that she 
 
 takes no harm. 
 
 Her face is as flat as a girdle-cake, the tint of her cheeks is 
 
 pink; 
 Her eyes have a fixed and glassy stare that would make a 
 
 policeman blink. 
 Her nose is a blob and her teeth are paint, and I'm sorry I 
 
 can't say more 
 For the looks of the doll who takes her ease all day on the 
 
 nursery floor. 
 
 But you can't judge dolls by their looks, you know : this 
 
 doll has a wondrous way 
 Of being a Fairy Prince by night, while she's only a doll 
 
 by day :
 
 THE RAG-DOLL. II 
 
 A Fairy Prince with his tossing curls and a smile that is 
 
 bright and bold, 
 And a trusty sword and a waving plume on a helmet of 
 
 shining gold. 
 
 And forth on his milk-white steed he rides, a gay and a 
 
 gallant sight 
 He was only a feminine doll by day ; he's a regular Prince 
 
 by night. 
 He fights and he curvets all night long at the head of his 
 
 troop of men, 
 And, lo, at the break of dawn he's back, a dowdy old doll 
 
 again. 
 
 On the following night it is presto, change ! and, lo, she is 
 
 off to steer 
 On a ship of her own to the Southern Seas, for now she's a 
 
 buccaneer. 
 There hasn't been seen a Pirate King that ever had half his 
 
 scars, 
 Or caverns so full of round doubloons and jewels and 
 
 golden bars. 
 
 And nobody chops and lops like him, or sneers with such 
 curling lips 
 
 At the shivering, shrinking, cringing crews, and the 
 captains of merchant ships, 
 
 And he laughs, ha ! ha ! when the storm winds blow, and 
 he never gives way to fear, 
 
 This scar-seamed King of the Caribbees who is only a Rag- 
 doll here.
 
 12 THE RAG'DOLL. 
 
 A Beauty asleep, a Gnome, a Queen, a Knight of the Golden 
 
 Spur 
 Old Raggy she takes them all in turns : they're one and 
 
 the same to her. 
 She has mounted in haste her chanfroned horse, and her 
 
 sword she has girded on, 
 And has thundered away on a new Crusade to the towers of 
 
 Ascalon. 
 
 She has thundered away with the Christian host a Saracen 
 
 town to win, 
 But, oh, when the night is half-way through she's fighting 
 
 as Saladin. 
 She's a wonderful changeable doll, in short, as ever a mortal 
 
 knew; 
 So I say, take care of the old Rag-doll, take care of the 
 
 Rag-doll, do!
 
 FAIRIES ON THE LAWN. 
 
 A Child's Recollection. 
 
 ONE night I peeped through the window just after I went 
 
 to bed; 
 I ought to have been in my cot, I know, my pillow beneath 
 
 my head ; 
 But somebody seemed to whisper " Come ! " and so I made 
 
 up my mind, 
 Climbed out and tiptoed across the floor, and lifted the old 
 
 red blind. 
 
 It wasn't as dark as some nights are, for up in the purple 
 
 sky 
 The round moon showed me her battered face : it didn't 
 
 seem very high. 
 And all the trees that I know so well looked funny and far 
 
 and white ; 
 And all of them murmured, " Hush ! hush ! hush ! we can't 
 
 make a noise to-night." 
 
 I wasn't afraid, not quite afraid, but I wasn't as bold as 
 
 brass, 
 When I looked and I saw a shining sight out there on the 
 
 silver grass.
 
 14 FAIRIES ON THE LAWN. 
 
 And oh, I think I shall never see such a beautiful sight 
 
 again, 
 As the wonderful shining sight I saw when I looked through 
 
 the window pane. 
 
 In the place of the garden arbour with its walls and its seats 
 
 of wood, 
 And its thatched roof covered with creepers a marvellous 
 
 palace stood : 
 I seemed to have known it always (though it couldn't be 
 
 ages old), 
 With its pillars of rainbow crystal and its towers of polished 
 
 gold. 
 
 Then a voice said, " Look at the Fairies ! " and out in a 
 
 troop they came; 
 I had seen them by dozens in picture-books, and these 
 
 were the very same. 
 The same, only much, much better, for these were alive, 
 
 alive ; 
 And the sound of their little voices was the buzz of a big 
 
 bee-hive. 
 
 For oh, they shouted and tumbled and frisked and fluttered 
 
 and played : 
 A jolly delightful romp they had, and nobody seemed 
 
 afraid ; 
 
 And I, who had held my breath so, just didn't I want to go 
 And join in the games they played at out there on the lawn 
 
 below !
 
 FAIRIES ON THE LAWN. 15 
 
 I have seen my Mamma wear jewels, and these were like 
 jewels bright, 
 
 Like opals alive and leaping all over the grass at night 
 
 When clear from the golden palace came sounding a trum- 
 pet's call, 
 
 And they fell into lines like a regiment and stood at atten- 
 tion all. 
 
 And wasn't there lovely music, the music that makes you 
 
 cry, 
 
 The music Mamma sings softly she calls it a lullaby. 
 And riding a mouse-sized charger, the tiniest ever seen, 
 Out pranced to her faithful Fairies the beautiful Fairy Queen. 
 
 To think I should see her really to think I should see her 
 
 there, 
 As I peeped through the bedroom window, perched up on 
 
 a bedroom chair ! 
 I was only a little girl, you know, and I think it was very 
 
 kind 
 To let me look at the Fairy Queen when I lifted the old 
 
 red blind. 
 
 But just as I said, " I'll ask her up to come to my room 
 
 and play ; 
 And won't we have romps at night-time, and won't we have 
 
 fun by day ! " 
 A black cloud covered the moon's face, and I I was back 
 
 in bed 
 (But I never knew how I got there) with my pillow beneath 
 
 my head.
 
 16 
 
 BACK AGAIN! 
 
 IT'S back again and home again to hear the thrushes sing, 
 To feel upon my face once more the breathing of the 
 
 Spring 
 
 The fresh and gentle English breeze that stirs a wild desire, 
 And makes the step as light as air and sets the heart afire. 
 
 It's back again and home again ! and never have. I seen 
 The hedgerows starting into life with brighter bursts of 
 
 green; 
 
 A dead and joyless sight they were when April had begun, 
 But now they seem to sing with life beneath the kindly sun. 
 
 "Make haste, ye trees," the blackbird calls, "your shining 
 
 white to don ; 
 
 The cherry-tree is ready robed, her bridal dress is on ; " 
 And out the modest blossoms peep, then flash into the light, 
 And every blazing fruit-tree bears its coronal of white. 
 
 Let others praise their foreign skies and all the claims 
 
 advance 
 
 Of sun-steeped fields in Italy and vine-clad slopes in France ; 
 And let them sing the land of Spain and all that makes it 
 
 fair 
 One dewy patch of English lawn is worth a province there.
 
 BACK AGAIN ! 17 
 
 One velvet patch of English lawn, and on it running free 
 The little fair-haired short-frocked maid who's all the world 
 
 to me. 
 Her hair outshines Italian suns, and all the flowers that 
 
 grace 
 The meads of France can never match the roses in her 
 
 face. 
 
 So it's back again and home again ! and when the evening 
 
 comes 
 We sit and hear the clash of swords, the rolling of the 
 
 drums 
 
 (It's all a story old as old), and, lo, the trumpets call, 
 And twenty thousand mail-clad men come spurring through 
 
 the hall. 
 
 And maidens to the book-shelf bound (it serves in place of 
 
 tree) 
 Await the young, the gallant knight who rides to set them 
 
 free; 
 
 And giants in the corners lurk beware ! my dear, beware ! 
 And little flitting fairy shapes play sentry on the stair. 
 
 " Good-night, God bless you, Daddy," and so it's off to bed, 
 
 And soon upon the pillow shines the curly little head. 
 
 Ye tricksy fairies, kind and gay, wing hither swift your 
 
 flight, 
 Oh, keep your watch about her cot and guard her through 
 
 the night !
 
 PATTERING FEET. 
 
 SOMETHING'S afoot ; beware, beware ! 
 Something is climbing the bedroom stair. 
 With here a stumble and there a slip, 
 Into the passage trip, trip, trip. 
 
 Sharp little footfalls queer and quick, 
 Never a careful step they pick. 
 Quaintly marking a morning song, 
 Hurry-scurry they rush along. 
 
 Tripping bright on the passage floor, 
 Up they come to your bedroom door ; 
 Never was music half so sweet 
 As the pit-a-pat patter of tiny feet. 
 
 Dear little voices, high and clear, 
 Ring like a bell in the sleeper's ear. 
 Small hands pluck at his touzled head, 
 " Daddy, oh Daddy, get out of bed ! "
 
 PATTERING FEET. 19 
 
 Keeping the rules it's all a game 
 Out they patter as in they came, 
 But somehow the song moves rather slow, 
 As down the passage and off they go. 
 
 And it's oh for the years that have passed away, 
 And the feet that pattered at break of day. 
 Now they are heavily booted feet, 
 And they tramp and stamp in the busy street. 
 
 And some of them seemed to tire of fun, 
 So they wandered away till they met the sun ; 
 But he sends them sliding along his beams, 
 To patter again in your morning dreams.
 
 20 
 
 A GRANDMOTHER'S GIFT. 
 
 [" I am having the little grave and cross of our baby Pamela here made 
 lovely with wreaths and holly for to-morrow, Christmas Day. I can't bear 
 somehow to think of the other children all happy in St Andrews with.itheir 
 Christmas tree and their toys and joys, and this little one lying in the cold 
 far away, silent and alone." Extract from a letter.] 
 
 SOFT dimpled cheeks, and shining eyes of blue, 
 
 Wee clinging hands, and tiny tender feet, 
 That bore no burden, since they never grew 
 To climb the stairs or patter down the street ; 
 And ah, the baby smile that came and went 
 Like a meek spirit bright and innocent. 
 
 These still are with me, though my aged eyes 
 
 May never see them, and these arms no more 
 Meet the small arms that spread in glad surprise, 
 Or clasp the living shape that once they bore. 
 Yet in the night I sometimes wake and start 
 To feel the dead child plucking at my heart. 
 
 Poor little soul so silent and alone ! 
 
 Lapped in the cold obliterating earth, 
 Her golden head beneath a cross of stone, 
 
 Low now she lies ; and I who watched her birth 
 And held her in my arms can only give 
 Flowers to her grave, and thoughts less fugitive.
 
 A GRANDMOTHER'S GIFT. 21 
 
 Yet, while her brothers and her sister play 
 
 Warm in their home that fronts the Northern Sea, 
 And laugh and sing the Christmas-tide away, 
 They have my smiles, but she my memory. 
 Oh, blithe young voices, I may hear you yet, 
 But not her voice whom I may not forget. 
 
 She too shall have her gifts : these hands shall spread 
 
 (Tread soft, speak low !) her coverlet of moss 
 With fragrant violets, and by her head 
 
 Holly shall wreathe and cluster round her cross. 
 So the white stone shall to the dead child be 
 My sign of love, her little Christmas tree.
 
 22 
 
 TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL. 
 
 RUFUS, a bright New Year ! A savoury stew, 
 
 Bones, broth and biscuits, is prepared for you. 
 
 See how it steams in your enamelled dish, 
 
 Mixed in each part according to your wish. 
 
 Hide in your straw the bones you cannot crunch 
 
 They'll come in handy for to-morrow's lunch ; 
 
 Abstract with care each tasty scrap of meat, 
 
 Remove each biscuit to a fresh retreat 
 
 (A dog, I judge, would deem himself disgraced 
 
 Who ate a biscuit where he found it placed) ; 
 
 Then nuzzle round and make your final sweep, 
 
 And sleep, replete, your after-dinner sleep. 
 
 High in our hall we've piled the fire with logs 
 
 For you, the doyen of our corps of dogs. 
 
 There, when the stroll that health demands is done, 
 
 Your right to ease by due exertion won, 
 
 There shall you come, and on your long-haired mat, 
 
 Thrice turning round, shall tread the jungle flat, 
 
 And, rhythmically snoring, dream away 
 
 The peaceful evening of your New Year's day. 
 
 Rufus ! there are who hesitate to own 
 Merits, they say, your master sees alone.
 
 TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL. 23 
 
 They judge you stupid, for you show no bent 
 To any poodle-dog accomplishment. 
 Your stubborn nature never stooped to learn 
 Tricks by which mumming dogs their biscuits earn. 
 Men mostly find you, if they change their seat, 
 Couchant obnoxious to their blundering feet ; 
 Then, when a door is closed, you steadily 
 Misjudge the side on which you ought to be ; 
 Yelping outside when all your friends are in, 
 You raise the echoes with your ceaseless din, 
 Or, always wrong, but turn and turn about, 
 Howling inside when all the world is out. 
 They scorn your gestures and interpret ill 
 Your humble signs of friendship and goodwill ; 
 Laugh at your gambols, and pursue with jeers 
 The ringlets clustered on your spreading ears ; 
 See without sympathy your sore distress 
 When Ray obtains the coveted caress, 
 And you, a jealous lump of growl and glare, 
 Hide from the world your head beneath a chair. 
 They say your legs are bandy so they are : 
 Nature so formed them that they might go far ; 
 They cannot brook your music ; they assail 
 The joyful quiverings of your stumpy tail 
 In short, in one anathema confound 
 Shape, mind and heart, and all my little hound. 
 Well, let them rail. If, since your life began, 
 Beyond the customary lot of man 
 Staunchness was yours ; if of your faithful heart 
 Malice and scorn could never claim a part ;
 
 24 TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL. 
 
 If in your master, loving while you live, 
 You own no fault or own it to forgive ; 
 If, as you lay your head upon his knee, 
 Your deep-drawn sighs proclaim your sympathy ; 
 If faith and friendship, growing with your age, 
 Speak through your eyes and all his love engage ; 
 If by that master's wish your life you rule 
 If this be folly, Rufus, you're a fool. 
 
 Old dog, content you ; Rufus, have no fear : 
 While life is yours and mine your place is here. 
 And when the day shall come, as come it must, 
 When Rufus goes to mingle with the dust 
 (If Fate ordains that you shall pass before 
 To the abhorred and sunless Stygian shore), 
 I think old Charon, punting through the dark, 
 Will hear a sudden friendly little bark ; 
 And on the shore he'll mark without a frown 
 A flap-eared doggie, bandy-legged and brown. 
 He'll take you in : since watermen are kind, 
 He'd scorn to leave my little dog behind. 
 He'll ask no obol, but instal you there 
 On Styx's further bank without a fare. 
 There shall you sniff his cargoes as they come, 
 And droop your head, and turn, and still be dumb- 
 Till one fine day, half joyful, half in fear, 
 You run and prick a recognising ear, 
 And last, oh, rapture ! leaping to his hand, 
 Salute your master as he steps to land.
 
 THE CANARY'S CHALLENGE. 
 
 FROM the far Harz his parents came : 
 He from his birth had learnt to tame 
 The longing wild, the deep delight 
 That spurs th' untutored bird to flight 
 Up in the azure- belts of air, 
 He knows not why, he recks not where, 
 But up and up above the ground, 
 And on and on, and round and round, 
 Till, tired, but at his own desire, 
 He stays his sudden flight of fire, 
 And floats and sways and checks his fall, 
 Then drops, a tiny feathered ball, 
 His notes of passion spent and spilled, 
 And all his eager quiverings stilled, 
 Down from his height, and so retrieves 
 His strength amid his sheltering leaves. 
 No fierce desire for freedom stirred 
 The little cage-born British bird. 
 Comfort he had, and soon resigned 
 The native wildness of his mind ; 
 And, still contracting to his cage, 
 Forgot his ancient heritage,
 
 26 THE CANARY'S CHALLENGE. 
 
 His sires' untrammelled life forgot, 
 Forgot their airy flight, but not 
 The gift that erst had marked them free, 
 That kept him bound their minstrelsy. 
 He was his home's delight, and grew 
 To love his master ; and he knew 
 His gentle mistress and her care, 
 And kissed her lips and sang her fair. 
 Gladys he loved, who served his needs, 
 And Doris with her freight of seeds ; 
 And oft he shook his trembling tongue 
 With note on note divinely strung, 
 Intent to greet in glad surprise 
 Sweet Cicely of the shining eyes. 
 And he was manumitted too 
 From his dear cage, and lit and flew 
 Out and about through all the room's 
 Expanse, a flash of yellow plumes. 
 Perched on a chair he would prolong 
 His pure ecstatic burst of song, 
 Then seek his master's hand, and then 
 Hop meekly to his cage again. 
 
 They took him down one summer's day, 
 And bore him, cage and all, away, 
 Far from his loved familiar home 
 To England's verge and o'er the foam. 
 Within the Custom-house the crowd 
 Was striving, jostling, talking loud : 
 Some talked in Anglo-French, and some 
 Talked English nobody was dumb.
 
 THE CANARY'S CHALLENGE. 27 
 
 The porters of that seaport town 
 Banged each his load of luggage down ; 
 Worn travellers, fumbling at the locks, 
 Opened a trunk, a bag, a box j 
 Costumed officials barred a path 
 To women voluble with wrath ; 
 And boys were darting here and there, 
 And all was chaos and despair 
 When on that crowd, in heat immersed, 
 Three clear cool notes of music burst. 
 A moment's pause, and then it thrilled 
 In one triumphant swell that filled 
 The shed our throng was pent within : 
 Oh, how it seemed to pierce the din 
 With rapier thrusts of melody ; 
 The porters half forgot their fee, 
 And all the noise died down and seemed 
 Asleep, while still the bird-voice streamed 
 In sudden twists, in quivering twirls, 
 In rippling rows of liquid pearls, 
 Gushing, as in a thirsty land 
 A fountain splashes on the sand. 
 For a short space no sound was heard 
 But Cicely's little captive bird, 
 Who sang as if his heart must break, 
 With mere excess of trill and shake, 
 And flung the challenge of his notes 
 Defiant down the Frenchmen's throats. 
 
 He ceased ; the clamour rose again, 
 And so at last we caught the train. 
 
 \
 
 28 
 
 PEGGY, A PONY. 
 
 MUCH have we talked of Juno, of Rollo and of Roy, 
 But little Shetland Peggy is now our only joy ; 
 And all the great St Bernards they eye with jealous air 
 Our latest toy and treasure, the tiny Shetland mare. 
 
 No dog can well imagine and dogs can think, of course- 
 That any shape so dwarfish can truly be a horse. 
 They deem her in their wisdom a sort of canine Gog, 
 And contemplate with anger so very large a dog. 
 
 But Peggy, dauntless Peggy, has wrinkled up her nose ; 
 She charges down on Rollo, she tramples on his toes ; 
 And, if he sniffs too closely, the little vixen jibs, 
 And, lo, a pair of hooflets strike thudding on his ribs. 
 
 Yet is she kind and gentle : the children stroke her side ; 
 They pull her shaggy top-knot and clamour for a ride ; 
 Diminutive but fearless, she lets herself be fed 
 By little human Shetlands who cluster round her head. 
 
 Then see her in her harness how well she plays her part : 
 Her driver sure should drag her while she sits in the cart. 
 But plucky little Peggy makes nothing of her load, 
 And like a clock her footfalls go ticking down the road.
 
 PEGGY, A PONY. 2Q 
 
 Ten hands the lady measures just that and nothing more : 
 It's only forty inches to Rollo's thirty-four. 
 I think we'll try them tandem, and show a turn of speed 
 With Peggy as the wheeler and Rollo in the lead. 
 
 In Fairyland, I warrant, are many such as she, 
 
 Or tethered to a poppy or stabled in a tree. 
 
 As Queen Titania's palfrey she might have kicked her 
 
 heels, 
 Or drawn in Court processions a nautilus on wheels. 
 
 Undipped, undesecrated, her coat is like a mat ; 
 
 One wild rough mane her crest is : no weight could keep 
 
 it flat. 
 
 Her liquid eye is friendly, and, oh, I never knew 
 A mortal eye more darkly unfathomably blue. 
 
 Yet on her peat-moss litter, to luxury resigned, 
 She seems to catch the echoes of every stormy wind ; 
 And, sad but uncomplaining, she seems to see the foam 
 Tossed from the angry breakers that beat about her home. 
 
 For, ah, she must remember that home so wild and free 
 Amid the wind-swept islets that stud the northern sea, 
 Where late she snuffed the tempests and heard the curlews 
 
 call, 
 Before she knew a bridle or moped within a stall.
 
 DUKE, A DRAY-HORSE. 
 
 ONLY a horse ! But who can well decide 
 
 How much was lost when Duke, the dray-horse, died ? 
 
 Mildness inborn and honesty untaught, 
 
 Majestic patience and sagacious thought, 
 
 Faith that endured and love that knew no end 
 
 Such was old Duke, our huge and dappled friend. 
 
 Oft have I seen him pacing on his way, 
 
 Single, or paired with Paladin, the bay, 
 
 Now on the level, calm and debonair, 
 
 His shaggy forelock tossing in the air, 
 
 Now, his neck stretched, his breathing quick and deep, 
 
 With pointed forehoofs clawing up the steep, 
 
 Till, when the top was won, he'd pause and seem 
 
 A mammoth spectre in a cloud of steam. 
 
 The little children marked with wondering eyes 
 
 His swelling muscles, his gigantic size, 
 
 Forsook their sports to flock about his knees, 
 
 And pat and smooth him while he stood at ease. 
 
 Then Duke, refreshed and resolute and gay, 
 
 Leaned to his work once more and drew the dray. 
 
 How firm his footfalls, while the noisy load 
 
 Came rumbling after, struck the echoing road !
 
 DUKE, A DRAY-HORSE. 31 
 
 How, without effort, mightily he moved, 
 
 Joyous and proud and grand and unreproved ; 
 
 For all he knew of whips was this in brief : 
 
 They sometimes cracked and sometimes flicked a leaf. 
 
 Let others flinch he could not be afraid 
 
 On whose broad back no lash was ever laid. 
 
 And when at eve within his stall he stood, 
 
 Massive but tired, and munched his simple food, 
 
 His body cool, his legs washed down and dried, 
 
 His honest forehead in his headstall tied, 
 
 While on the air the rhythmic sound was borne 
 
 Of steady teeth all grinding at the corn 
 
 If, on his rounds, his well-loved driver came, 
 
 Patted his flank and softly called his name, 
 
 Straight, making room, he shifted on his bed, 
 
 And pricked his ears and lifted up his head, 
 
 And, strong in love as in his gesture meek, 
 
 Laid his soft nose against the man's rough cheek. 
 
 Still, when the slow withdrawing step was heard, 
 
 He looked and mutely asked another word ; 
 
 Then the sound faded and the horse was fain 
 
 With one deep sigh to turn and munch again. 
 
 Next to this friend, throughout his hours of rest 
 One little comrade always pleased him best, 
 A stunted cat, a cat so inky-black 
 She seemed a blot upon his good grey back, 
 Where oft in meditation rapt she lay, 
 Kneading his skin, and purred the time away. 
 Nor did she fail to bring her kittens all 
 For Duke's approval to the straw-laid stall :
 
 32 DUKE, A DRAY-HORSE. 
 
 Kind in her purpose, in her method rough, 
 
 She seized her vocal offspring by the scruff, 
 
 And laid them one by one, an offering meet, 
 
 In anxious triumph at her playmate's feet, 
 
 Who looked and snuffed and wondered what they were, 
 
 And gazed again, but never hurt a hair. 
 
 True to the end and staunch, whate'er befell, 
 Farewell, strong body, gentle heart farewell ! 
 Service and zeal and kindliness and sense 
 You gave them all, nor craved a recompense ; 
 But, proud to own and quick to understand 
 The trifling tribute of a flattering hand, 
 Toiled at your task with undivided mind, 
 Grateful for this : if only men were kind. 
 So if I let my pleasant fancies stray 
 Beyond the limit of your earthly day, 
 Grand as in life, old friend, I see you stand 
 Cropping sweet clover in a happy land, 
 Where no hills tire, no granite gives you pain, 
 But grass grows deep and all is level plain, 
 With spreading trees to make a green retreat, 
 And rippling streams to cool your unshod feet ; 
 And not a fly, howe'er the heat increase, 
 To move your tail or mar your perfect peace.
 
 33 
 
 A DITTY OF CHAMPAGNE. 
 
 THIS is the fellow for strut and swagger : 
 With his tilted sword and his rakish dagger, 
 And his breast as gay as a herald's tabard, 
 And his cloak caught up on the long sword's scabbard, 
 And the fine hose fashioned for summer weather, 
 And the cap aflame with its red cock's feather, 
 And the doublet slashed into purple gashes, 
 And a fluttering hint of his gold-edged sashes, 
 And the long red shoes with their pointed toes, 
 Out and about and back he goes ; 
 Swaggers, his hair all crisp and curled, 
 And the ends of his saucy moustaches twirled, 
 Free to the edge of the happy world. 
 And hark to the echoes rolling, rolling 
 To the song that the beggar's voice is trolling : 
 " All good fellows of each degree, 
 Hurry and join my company ! 
 Show me your souls and I'll give them wings, 
 Crown them, sceptre them, make them Kings. 
 Roistering, flashing, and all zig-zagging, 
 Off we go with our tongues a-wagging ; 
 And each of our band, when he meets another, 
 Salutes him straight as his heart's own brother. 
 
 c
 
 34 A DITTY OF CHAMPAGNE. 
 
 Take but a look, and, your minds on fire, 
 
 Each of you owns his dear desire ; 
 
 Laughs for it, hugs it, always sought it, 
 
 But never found it and never bought it, 
 
 Until, with a smile that pierced right through him, 
 
 And a wave of my hand, I gave it to him." 
 
 Then swift he summons to meet your need 
 
 A curvetting flame-eyed chestnut steed ; 
 
 And before you have time to think or stammer, 
 
 The world flies by that his hoof-beats hammer, 
 
 And you on his back, with your knees set tight, 
 
 And your being a blaze of golden light, 
 
 Off and away with the steed's mad flight, 
 
 Reckless of all that the rush may bring, 
 
 Off you clatter and on you swing. 
 
 Back rolls memory's curtain, back, 
 
 And it's gold, pure gold, that was once mere black. 
 
 Golden visions of golden hours 
 
 Spent in a garden of rich red flowers, 
 
 Where warm to your throbbing breast you fold 
 
 A wonderful girl with a heart of gold. 
 
 This is the fellow for me, and I, Sir, 
 I wouldn't change him for King or Kaiser. 
 Wherever his swaggering steps go free 
 He may count me one of his company.
 
 35 
 
 A CANTO OF CLARET. 
 To W. J. J. 
 
 ON an evening oh, it was long ago 
 
 In the years when life had a rosy glow, 
 
 When each black cloud, though we never feared it, 
 
 Yielded and faded the more we neared it, 
 
 Like a thin wan mist by the sun's rays scattered ; 
 
 And nothing at all in the wide world mattered, 
 
 Nothing but joy and the right to choose it, 
 
 And the strength of our arms and the right to use it ; 
 
 When gold, not ingot or coin or bar, 
 
 But better and richer and rarer far, 
 
 Was ours, not toiled for or snatched for or groped for, 
 
 In the friends we had and the friends we hoped for, 
 
 All of them tested and staunch and truthful, 
 
 And all, like ourselves, immensely youthful 
 
 On a certain evening in mid-November 
 
 We sat and we talked do you remember ? 
 
 And all of a sudden, neat and thin, 
 
 A third to our party came gliding in ; 
 
 Neat and thin and sedate and prim, 
 
 With a fine smooth cap, and a dress so trim 
 
 That the least rough movement might disarrange it ;
 
 36 A CANTO OF CLARET. 
 
 And a look but I didn't wish to change it 
 
 Fixed and sober and cool and quiet, 
 
 With never a hint of noise or riot ; 
 
 So calm and gentle that, but for staring, 
 
 We might have missed when a fire came flaring 
 
 Forth from his eyes, as swift and bright 
 
 As the sparks from a horse's hoofs at night, 
 
 When the road gleams out by his gallop fired 
 
 So quickly it flashed and so expired. 
 
 Then he looked us here and he looked us there, 
 
 And I thought, thought I, I must speak him fair. 
 
 He's a gentleman, every inch, that's clear ; 
 
 So let him be welcome and sit down here ; 
 
 And if he can talk, so much the better : 
 
 Right gladly I'll listen, and be his debtor 
 
 For a story told, and, unless I'm cheated, 
 
 It's bound to be good so I said, " Be seated ; 
 
 Be seated, friend, at your utmost ease, 
 
 And tell us your story, if you please." 
 
 So our friend sat down, and his voice came slow, 
 
 But it wasn't a story at all, you know, 
 
 For it didn't begin, and it hadn't a middle, 
 
 And there wasn't the least little plot to unriddle, 
 
 And you couldn't say, when the voice diminished 
 
 And paused at last, that the tale was finished, 
 
 Coffined and clamped and buried deep 
 
 In the place where the good and the bad tales sleep, 
 
 And never to wake again, you'd pray, 
 
 Till the last trump roused it at Judgment Day. 
 
 For, although he spoke, it wasn't a story, 
 
 But a blaze of light with a trail of glory,
 
 A CANTO OF CLARET. 37 
 
 A dragon of fire with all his joints 
 
 Gemmed with a circle of ruby points, 
 
 His breath like a flaming exhalation, 
 
 And his wings one emerald coruscation, 
 
 Fanning the sky with a noise of thunder 
 
 A shape that a man might see and wonder, 
 
 With his matter of fact and his logic banished, 
 
 Whence it appeared and whither it vanished ; 
 
 And now it seemed like the burst sonorous 
 
 Of a wonderful magical ancient chorus : 
 
 Not a roundelay for a festal dance meant, 
 
 But an air with a most divine entrancement, 
 
 That lifted you up and made you seem 
 
 Like a floating shade in a happy dream, 
 
 All thoughts gone that your heart offended, 
 
 Your strivings over, your struggles ended ; 
 
 Nothing left that could now remind you 
 
 Of tempests and tossings far behind you ; 
 
 Envy stifled and anger muffled, 
 
 And, born in their place, a calm unruffled, 
 
 A marvellous peaceful stretch immense, 
 
 Beyond the limits of sight or sense, 
 
 Smooth as glass, but with just a swell, too, 
 
 A long low swell that you rose and fell to, 
 
 With the music to lull you and give you the swing of it, 
 
 And you on its surface the one lord and king of it. 
 
 And then, it seemed, with a kind of shake up 
 
 You'd come to yourself and start and wake up, 
 
 And see in a valley green and gay 
 
 Brown-faced maidens and boys at play, 
 
 Full in the sun on a happy day,
 
 38 A CANTO OF CLARET. 
 
 Laughing and singing and footing and frisking it, 
 
 The boys for a kiss and the girls all risking it, 
 
 Their eyes so bright that you couldn't but love them, 
 
 And a shepherd stretched on the bank above them, 
 
 Fingering deftly and blowing neatly 
 
 On his oaten pipe till it sounded sweetly 
 
 With notes that a wood-nymph might have sung 
 
 In the pleasant years when the world was young. 
 
 And, lo ! you saw with your own two eyes 
 
 Saw it yourself without surprise, 
 
 For indeed it seemed a sight to be glad about 
 
 You saw yourself in the thick of the gad-about, 
 
 Playing a game that you seemed quite pat in, 
 
 With a girl to help you who whispered Latin, 
 
 While you whispered love, or its Latin analogy, 
 
 Soft in the ear of your Phyllis or Lalage. 
 
 And next, like a joyous bird sublime, 
 
 You were poised aloft on the winds of Time, 
 
 With sun upon sun in the sky to show you 
 
 The wide world plain to your sight below you ; 
 
 And you knew what it meant and how it had risen, 
 
 Cause and effect, from its cramping prison, 
 
 When first the marvellous word was spoken, 
 
 And the bars were burst and the shackles broken, 
 
 And, elate with the ordered freedom gained for it, 
 
 The globe swung out on the course ordained for it. 
 
 And still our friend was telling his tale, 
 
 Talking at ease till the light came pale 
 
 Through the rents and chinks of the window curtain ; 
 
 And (this much is sure though the rest's uncertain)
 
 A CANTO OF CLARET. 39 
 
 The room was cold, and the lamp was flaring, 
 
 And you and I were awake and staring, 
 
 Dazed with the tale that we both had heard, 
 
 And echoing still with the man's last word, 
 
 And thinking him still on the self-same spot there 
 
 Till we rubbed our eyes and, lo ! he was not there.
 
 LA BENEDICTINE. 
 
 THE Normandy coast is a pleasant coast, 
 
 For never, I know, could sapphire boast 
 
 A blue more clear than the sea boasts there 
 
 When the winds are hushed and the sky is fair, 
 
 And, tricked like a girl whose smile enhances 
 
 The glow of her eyes, a ripple dances, 
 
 Whispering, murmuring, lulling, cooing, 
 
 Withdrawing awhile and again pursuing, 
 
 And striving still with a laugh to reach 
 
 Over the rocks to the pebbly beach. 
 
 And up and up from the grey old strand, 
 
 Green, fresh, beautiful folds of land, 
 
 Dotted with houses, thatched or slated, 
 
 Coil to the top till their sides are mated 
 
 In a shimmering glory of cornfields spread, 
 
 Like a cover laid on a royal bed, 
 
 With the impudent poppies to speckle and prank them, 
 
 And the green, cool patches of trees to flank them. 
 
 On either hand of the coombes you'll see 
 
 Chalk-cliffs jutting defiantly. 
 
 Sheer, since the march of time began, 
 
 Is the height, and not to be climbed by man.
 
 LA BNDICTINE. 41 
 
 He must hate his life who would strive to win it, 
 
 Though he glowed for the toil with his whole soul in it 
 
 Climbing warily, straining, gasping, 
 
 His foot in a cleft, and his body rasping, 
 
 His hand on the grip for a flint to hitch to, 
 
 And his bruised knee set in a shallow niche, too, 
 
 He might rise for a hundred feet or so, 
 
 And still have double the height to go. 
 
 And so he might pause on a narrow ledge of it, 
 
 And strain his eyes for the topmost edge of it, 
 
 And rise again to the task that drew him 
 
 Till the torn hands loosed, and the sheer cliff threw him. 
 
 And Fecamp town is a pleasant town : 
 
 If you come by land, as you first look down 
 
 From the winding road and so catch sight of it, 
 
 You may think it gloomy and make too light of it ; 
 
 For there's not much colour and hardly a spark in it 
 
 But its sombre slate-roofs deaden and darken it, 
 
 Making it look like a dead survival 
 
 Of days when it shone with scarce a rival ; 
 
 When the trumpet called to its heights and valleys 
 
 To gather their hosts and man their galleys, 
 
 With their lances flashing, their standards flaunting, 
 
 And their morioned lords all strutting and vaunting 
 
 How, with the fierce bold men that ringed 'em, 
 
 They could shatter a throne or set up a kingdom. 
 
 But Fecamp's changed and it's quiet and old, 
 
 And the blood in its veins runs thin and cold j 
 
 And very sedate and grey it's there 
 
 That I met my friend is the old Place Thiers.
 
 42 LA BNDICTINE. 
 
 A fine old fellow he was and stout, 
 
 Amply bellied and rounded out ; 
 
 French in the hands (it's the sort of a trick you'll hate 
 
 If you're British and bluff) that he used to gesticulate ; 
 
 French in his eyes and their twinkling shrewdness, 
 
 French in his bow and his lack of rudeness ; 
 
 French in his hair, in his smiling lips, 
 
 French, in fact, to his finger tips. 
 
 Not a limb of the fellow was frail or slender, 
 
 And, oh, but his eye was brown and tender, 
 
 Clear as a lake undisturbed by a tiny wave, 
 
 And his skin had been browned by the sun and the briny 
 
 wave. 
 
 And, lo, on his waistcoat, jingling-jangling 
 With its bundle of seals, a chain hung dangling ; 
 And one of them bore, cut deep in the gem on it, 
 The mystical letters D, O and an M on it. 
 And I said to myself as he bowed, " What a privilege 
 To be bowed to and talked to by him ; 'tis a civil edge 
 I'll keep on my tongue and talk back with sobriety, 
 For I see by his air that he's used to Society." 
 Then he shook my hand, and at once he bound me 
 In meshes of silk that he threw around me, 
 Meshes spun from his mouth and eyes ; 
 And, trammelled thus, but without surprise, 
 I felt unfettered and unimpeded, 
 As though they were just the one thing needed 
 With their promise of laughter and joy and of fun for me, 
 Those meshes the cheery old Frenchman spun for me.
 
 LA BNDICTINE. 43 
 
 It didn't last long, our interview, 
 
 But he told me many things rare and true 
 
 In the old Place Thiers on a summer's day 
 
 Before with a bow he slipped away ; 
 
 It didn't last long, and that's my sorrow, 
 
 But perhaps who knows ? we may meet to-morrow, 
 
 And maybe he'll bind me, that stout French spinner, 
 
 As he bound me before, at lunch or at dinner.
 
 44 
 
 A CHRISTMAS BOWL. 
 
 OH, London's streets are a dismal sight 
 If you wander about on a Christmas night ; 
 The doors are barred and the blinds made trim, 
 And the fronts of the houses are black and grim. 
 I warrant there's plenty of laughter there, 
 Jollity, jokes, and warmth to spare, 
 With food in abundance and wine, no doubt, 
 But it's all within while you stand without, 
 And shiver and gaze and stamp and dream, 
 And watch your breath as it goes in steam, 
 Curling, lingering, floating, wreathing, 
 And you wonder idly what keeps you breathing, 
 And sending these ghosts of yourself to follow 
 The vanishing ghosts that the dim mists swallow. 
 So there I walked, and my thoughts were sinister 
 As those of a what shall I say ? a Minister 
 Who is chased by a loud-voiced Opposition 
 From his pride of place and his high condition, 
 While nobody marks him or heeds his wishes, 
 And his foes fall-to on the loaves and fishes ; 
 Or a Bishop, it may be, of this place or that place- 
 No opulent See, and by no means a fat place
 
 A CHRISTMAS BOWL. 45 
 
 Who, while he has trimmed and toiled and waited, 
 
 Has seen no end of the rest translated, 
 
 And himself grows lean in despair of a fatter See 
 
 So I walked till at last I came to Battersea. 
 
 And there on the bridge I stood set high, 
 
 And the river below went sliding by : 
 
 Dark and gloomy and deep and old, 
 
 With spears of light on its ebb a-shiver 
 
 That broke its eddies with glints of gold, 
 
 Solemnly slid the ancient river 
 
 Between dark banks where the mist clung damp 
 
 To the glittering serpent of lamp on lamp 
 
 That trailed to the east where the moon hung low 
 
 Never was seen a larger or rougher ring 
 
 With her face all scarred and a brick-dust glow 
 
 That served to set off her expression of suffering. 
 
 Then after a minute I turned, and back 
 
 I trudged and trudged with my thoughts still black ; 
 
 And there, as I stolidly trudged, I knew 
 
 That somebody else was trudging too. 
 
 Faster I went, but I never outpaced him, 
 
 So I set my teeth and I turned and faced him. 
 
 I never saw a jollier sight 
 
 Than my fellow-trudger that Christmas night : 
 
 A pilot-jacket the man was wrapped in, 
 
 And his eyes were gleaming with fun, and glancing 
 
 Like a couple of fairies dancing, dancing ; 
 
 And he looked like a storm-tossed old sea captain, 
 
 With a face so battered by every weather 
 
 That a man might meet from Penang to Porlock, 
 
 That it made you just pull yourself together
 
 46 A CHRISTMAS BOWL. 
 
 And hitch your trousers and touch your forelock, 
 
 As if, while still for the shore you hanker, 
 
 You had got rowed out to a ship at anchor, 
 
 You being at that time rated A.B., 
 
 With a roll in your walk like a two-year baby, 
 
 And had climbed the ladder and stepped aboard her, 
 
 With your ear cocked sharp for the Captain's order. 
 
 Now where had I met the man ? I knew 
 
 He had never commanded a ship or crew ; 
 
 His face and his figure, I knew them well, 
 
 But what was his name I couldn't tell. 
 
 Stay, there was " Tush " to myself I said, 
 
 " It can't be he, for he's long been dead, 
 
 Dead and buried this many a year, 
 
 And Westminster Abbey had his bier, 
 
 And Westminster Abbey's storied stones 
 
 Are the vault that covers the great man's bones. 
 
 But still there's a look in his face, a quip 
 
 Of roguish spirits that haunt his lip, 
 
 A tilt of his head with its bold, strong high brow, 
 
 And a quick sharp trick of his lifted eyebrow 
 
 If it's not but I know it's not, because 
 
 Charles Dickens is dead " but, by Zeus, it was J 
 
 And, oh, what a joy to take his hand 
 
 There in the street where he came and found me, 
 
 Back, straight back from the shadow-land, 
 
 And his glorious capturing smile thrown round me. 
 
 Dickens, hurrah ! he was back again 
 
 Back with his store of jovial laughter ! 
 
 Off went he ; in his rushing train, 
 
 I, all wonder, went rushing after.
 
 A CHRISTMAS BOWL. 47 
 
 He stopped at a house, made up his mind, 
 
 Passed right into it, I behind ; 
 
 I don't know whose and I can't say where, 
 
 But well I know that a house stood there. 
 
 And then like a flash we seemed to enter 
 
 A great room fixed in the house's centre, 
 
 Where, to judge by the table spread and lighted, 
 
 An army of guests had been invited. 
 
 But, when we were in and the big door thrust-to, 
 
 I couldn't see any one else save us two. 
 
 At the end of the table stood a bowl, 
 
 A bowl built in like a landlord's fixture, 
 
 And into it swift he poured his soul, 
 
 And he filled it full, and he stirred the mixture 
 
 With a business air till there came an aroma 
 
 Better than rum, lemon, water and cinnamon, 
 
 That had roused old Rip from his state of coma 
 
 With a leap like an eel's from the board that you skin 
 
 him on. 
 
 And oh, but the magical air was humming 
 With the cheeriest songs I used to know ; 
 And in through the door old friends kept coming, 
 Dear companions of long ago. 
 Dear old gardens I used to roam in, 
 Dear old voices I thought were lost, 
 Dear old scenes that I had my home in, 
 Jolly old days of sun or frost, 
 Where every day had a bright to-morrow, 
 And nobody dreamt of pain or sorrow ; 
 Childhood's merriment, childhood's noise, 
 Boyhood's frolic and jokes and joys ;
 
 48 A CHRISTMAS BOWL. 
 
 And full in the midst a Christmas tree, 
 Loaded and lit as they used to be, 
 These sights I saw and these sounds I heard 
 While the bubbling mixture was stirred and stirred. 
 Till lo, with a flash that leaves you darkling, 
 Out went the vision gay and sparkling, 
 And the bright hall turned to a gloomy, dead room 
 And I was alone in my own dull bedroom.
 
 49 
 
 THE HAPPY HILLS OF LEA. 
 
 OH, there's sunshine on the happy hills, the happy hills 
 
 of Lea, 
 And there's freshness in the valleys where they part to meet 
 
 the sea ; 
 And there's laughter in the waving trees and laughter in 
 
 the air, 
 And there's rest for men and women who may chance to 
 
 wander there, 
 And I hear a voice that whispers, " Oh, it's there that you 
 
 would be ; 
 Turn your steps, you weary toiler, to the happy hills 
 
 of Lea." 
 
 Many friends I loved have gone there; I shall see them 
 
 once again, 
 When the hills rise bright before me as I trudge across 
 
 the plain, 
 And my feet will spring to meet them and my weary 
 
 heart will leap, 
 As I hear, awake, their voices that have cheered me in 
 
 my sleep. x 
 
 D
 
 5O THE HAPPY HILLS OF LEA. 
 
 They will come to bid me welcome and they'll stretch 
 
 their hands to me, 
 When I touch the shining borders of the happy hills of Lea. 
 
 Oh, I often thought of starting when the clouds were 
 
 hanging low, 
 When my hands were worn with working and my feet 
 
 were dragging slow, 
 When the light of life was sinking that had flashed so 
 
 bright and gay. 
 Then, I thought, I'll stay no longer, but I'll start at break 
 
 of day ; 
 I will drop my load and leave it, and I'll wander fair and 
 
 free 
 To a peaceful, sunny haven in the happy hills of Lea. 
 
 But there's something always holds me, something presses 
 
 on my heart, 
 
 When the distant voices call me, and I never can depart ; 
 Something toilsome, something weary, but I know it must 
 
 be done 
 
 Ere I start, my labour ended, for the haven in the sun. 
 Yet some day, without my thinking, I shall leave it all 
 
 and see 
 Far away, but growing nearer, all the happy hills of Lea.
 
 INTER AMICOS. 
 
 YE happy sunny days that were, 
 And oh ye comrades blithe and fair, 
 With laughter frank and debonair 
 
 And hair so crisp and curly ; 
 And thou, beloved and ancient town, 
 Where once I wore a cap and gown, 
 And saw the friends I loved go down 
 
 Degree'd, but ah too early ! 
 
 Myself I lingered ; yet for me 
 The hour of parting had to be : 
 I took thy gifts, and gracelessly 
 
 Forgot to thank the giver, 
 And went at length ; and now a glow 
 Lies round each well-known scene, and so 
 My fancy makes e'en Camus flow 
 
 A broad and shining river ! 
 
 And all thy Courts and narrow streets 
 Seem fashioned into grave retreats, 
 And all thy Houses turned to seats 
 Of piety and quiet ;
 
 52 INTER AMICOS. 
 
 Yet, mixed with these sedater joys 
 Still, in my mind, I hear the noise 
 And share the sports of eager boys, 
 And all their cheerful riot. 
 
 Thou too, her sister, set apart 
 
 For high-souled deeds and dreams of art, 
 
 Thou, Oxford, dost possess my heart 
 
 Scarce less than she, who brought me 
 Safe from the barren tracts of earth 
 To fields aflame with sun and mirth, 
 And gave me eyes to see thy worth, 
 
 And thy great worship taught me. 
 
 Cambridge and Oxford ! and ye friends, 
 Brothers whose love can make amends 
 For loss of love, whose presence lends 
 
 A blessing to dejection ! 
 And ye, whose cherished memory still 
 With living warmth outlasts the chill 
 Of chance and change, whose faces fill 
 
 My thoughts with pure affection, 
 
 Grant me your spirit ; let me find 
 Deep-stored within my faithful mind 
 The gifts ye showered, unresigned 
 
 To Time who fain would grasp them. 
 He turns his glass and speeds the sands 
 Where ambushed at our side he stands, 
 He cannot fetter your kind hands, 
 
 Oh friends, and I can clasp them.
 
 INTER AMICOS. 53 
 
 And each dear spirit-shape whose face 
 
 Bears ever the enchanted grace 
 
 Of youth, ye friends whose earthly race 
 
 Long long ago was finished, 
 Ye will not think I do you wrong 
 If here and there with jest and song 
 I chase an hour or two along, 
 
 Nor deem my love diminished. 
 
 Dear Ben, how often stretched at ease 
 We lay beneath our Thames's trees, 
 Or, tired of lazy ways like these, 
 
 Set out and rowed together ! 
 How oft at evening have we sat 
 And talked of this and dreamed of that 
 Of books or boats, of gun or bat, 
 
 Green fields or purple heather ! 
 
 I used to think of you, and grieve 
 To think no thinking could reprieve 
 The doom that bade you take your leave 
 
 Where low I saw you lying ; 
 But now I think of you, and while 
 I still must grieve, I can beguile 
 My sorrow with a wistful smile 
 
 That lightens all my sighing. 
 
 So let us toast the coming year 
 With all its hope of happy cheer, 
 And pledge the friends our hearts hold dear 
 May no ill chance distress them !
 
 54 INTER AMICOS. 
 
 The present friends, and those who stray 
 Afar, not less beloved than they, 
 May Heaven be with them on their way 
 Our absent friends, God bless them ! 
 
 Nor may it be by death denied 
 
 That from the bourne where they abide 
 
 Once more we summon to our side 
 
 The lost familiar faces ; 
 And cheat our senses with the sight 
 Of friends restored to life and light, 
 As though the silence and the night 
 
 Had spared them to their places.
 
 55 
 
 THE FANCY-DRESS DINNER. 
 To G. D. R. 
 
 DEAR GEORGE, we saw the New Year in, 
 
 A fancy-costumed party. 
 We made a fairly cheerful din, 
 
 And all were very hearty. 
 Our number totalled up to ten : 
 
 Five couples paired and flirted ; 
 For half (by day) were trousered men, 
 
 And half of us were skirted. 
 
 Columbia, with her red stripes on, 
 
 Renewed our ancient quarrel 
 With hints at tea and Lexington, 
 
 And Bunker's deathless laurel. 
 No threats of ours availed to still 
 
 That spangled lady's rattle : 
 She mentioned how she kept the hill, 
 
 Although we won the battle. 
 
 She tossed aloft her starry head, 
 
 And all her jeers enlisted 
 To show how eagles should be spread, 
 
 And lions' tails be twisted.
 
 56 THE FANCY-DRESS DINNER. 
 
 All round she stinted us of praise, 
 And, when the stars were paling, 
 
 Her stars and stripes still full ablaze, 
 We left Columbia hailing. 
 
 The Prince came in a four-wheeled fly 
 
 His Cinderella brought him. 
 Judged by the homage of her eye, 
 
 A perfect Prince she thought him. 
 To each so deep they were in love 
 
 The other seemed a ripper : 
 It was a case of hand and glove 
 
 As well as foot and slipper. 
 
 Archie became a turbaned Sheik 
 
 While Claude put on a laced coat : 
 His wig was white, and pink his cheek, 
 
 And pink his satin waistcoat. 
 At Versailles in the old regime 
 
 His curls he might have nodded : 
 He was, in fact, a Dresden dream 
 
 Delightfully embodied. 
 
 Di Vernon brought a hunting-crop, 
 
 And, oh, she looked entrancing ; 
 A County Sheriff led the hop 
 
 When couples took to dancing. 
 Miss D. went off I cursed my stars 
 
 To find the girl refuse me 
 And tripped it with a son of Mars, 
 
 Herself a pretty mousmt.
 
 THE FANCY-DRESS DINNER. 57 
 
 Our feet had scarce a moment's ease ; 
 
 We couldn't keep our hands still, 
 Until Miss D., the Japanese, 
 
 Ping-ponged us to a standstill. 
 Then Sheila traced our palms, and so 
 
 Fulfilled her role as gipsy ; 
 And all of us were cheerful, though 
 
 The cake alone was tipsy. 
 
 And thus we saw the Old Year fade 
 
 I wish you had been here, George : 
 A year begun without your aid 
 
 Seems only half a year, George. 
 P'raps, when the months have had their spin, 
 
 A doubled lot may guide you 
 To come and see a New Year in 
 
 With Mrs George beside you ?
 
 INSTANS SENECTA. 
 
 DEAR JACK, what's this ? My word upon it, 
 
 A bee is buzzing in your bonnet. 
 
 These solemn words, precise and slow, 
 
 Are not the little lad I know, 
 
 So young, so cheerfully addressed 
 
 To frolic fun and laughing jest ; 
 
 So careless what the days may bring, 
 
 If but himself may have his fling ; 
 
 So apt to pour his scorn on those 
 
 Who ponderously prate and prose 
 
 Of age that weighs and care that clings, 
 
 And all the other hateful things 
 
 That mar the brow and bend the back 
 
 Of some but never come to Jack. 
 
 How is it, Jack, that you resent 
 
 My little birthday compliment ? 
 
 " At twenty-five," you write, " a man 
 
 Forgets his birthdays if he can. 
 
 With twice twelve years all stowed behind him, 
 
 It's hardly tactful to remind him 
 
 That, lo ! a twenty-fifth is gone, 
 
 And still old Time keeps pegging on.
 
 INSTANS SENECTA. 59 
 
 Once, long ago, I looked on birthdays 
 As unalloyed delightful mirth-days. 
 The candles on the cake, that mark 
 One's score of years, seemed just a lark. 
 Would that they had remained the same 
 But every year another came ; 
 And still, while swift my youth was going, 
 The hateful number kept a-growing, 
 Until I heard the cook declare it 
 No merely mortal cake would bear it. 
 That stamped me old ; so spare me, pray, 
 Allusions to my natal day." 
 
 Poor Jack ! But, ah, I can remember 
 When life to me seemed all December. 
 There shone no sun to make me warm, 
 But all was cloud and gathering storm, 
 A bleak grey sky, a prospect drear, 
 And over all a voice rang clear 
 Through wind and rain and sleet and snow : 
 " Gone is your youth, gone long ago ! " 
 It was, as I recall, the time 
 When life was flushing in its prime. 
 Cambridge had done with me, no doubt, 
 But then she had not flung me out : 
 Degree'd I left her 'tis no rare case ; 
 Another's name was on my staircase ; 
 And in my comfortable room 
 Another dwelt, and heard the broom 
 And all the matutinal stir 
 Of Mrs J., the bedmaker.
 
 60 INSTANS SENECTA. 
 
 To him henceforth she would devote 
 Her widow's cruse of anecdote, 
 And use for him, but not for me, 
 A tongue that wagged incessantly. 
 In short, I was a fresh B.A., 
 And should have been, but wasn't, gay. 
 Plunged into London's flooded stream 
 I felt that I had dreamed my dream. 
 To gloom and fancied age I clung 
 And yet I was superbly young. 
 
 And now, good lack, it makes me smile 
 To hear you use my ancient style. 
 Heaven help you, Jack, your clear blue eye 
 Gives all such fancy-talk the lie. 
 Go to, 'tis but a waking pain ; 
 You'll fall asleep and dream again, 
 And (in your dreams) you'll wander free 
 Through life and all its pageantry, 
 And follow still the fleeting glory 
 Until but that's another story. 
 And now, if you'll withhold your stricture, 
 I'll dip my brush and paint a picture ; 
 So, Jack, attend, and try to suit your 
 Imagination to the future. 
 Double your years, that makes 'em fifty : 
 Behold a housewife neat and thrifty 
 She knows his tempers through and through- 
 Stands by her portly man that's you. 
 Your little girls, two dainty trippers, 
 Bring you their gifts of socks and slippers.
 
 INSTANS SENECTA. 6l 
 
 Your boy he stroked his College boat 
 
 And hopes to wear your old blue coat 
 
 Forbears awhile your education, 
 
 And offers his congratulation, 
 
 And hints, at ease, the cool young sinner, 
 
 At birthday fare and fizz for dinner ! 
 
 And you, I fancy, seem to find 
 
 A birthday fairly to your mind. 
 
 You chaff the lad, and lightly touch 
 
 On boys' who seem to know too much. 
 
 " A youth to-day," you'll laugh, " is rather 
 
 More aged than his ancient father. 
 
 And, oh, forgive me, but ahem ! 
 
 Those Cambridge bills, Sir what of them ? " 
 
 So, Jack, repent : why, man alive, 
 You've just begun at twenty-five !
 
 62 
 
 AT ANCHOR. 
 
 WE had cleft the salt sea bravely, but the wind went out 
 
 and died ; 
 And I heard the sails a-flapping as we drifted with the 
 
 tide; 
 With the swaying masts above us drawing curves across 
 
 the blue, 
 And the long smooth swell to swing us and it's then I 
 
 thought of you ! 
 
 For the wind it died at evening, and it left us rolling free, 
 Rolling free and loose and lazy in the hollows of the sea ; 
 And the sea-birds came to mock us : " Who are these 
 
 that lie at rest 
 In the ocean's easy cradle while we hurry on our quest ? " 
 
 Then they gathered, half a hundred, while we heard their 
 
 password ring, 
 And without a splash or flutter they were off upon the 
 
 wing: 
 
 Fifty cormorants a-scudding in a swift and level flight 
 Scarce a foot above the surface, till they settled out of 
 
 sight
 
 AT ANCHOR. 63 
 
 But the wise old gull kept with us, and his flight was never 
 
 fast, 
 But sedate and poised and sober, as he circled round the 
 
 mast, 
 
 As he circled close and closer, and anon went soaring high 
 With a flash of snowy glory on the azure of the sky. 
 
 " Look alive, my men, be ready ! " 'twas the captain sing- 
 ing clear 
 
 " We might drift and get no further if we tried for half a 
 year; 
 
 Though the harbour's close and handy, it might just as 
 well be far, 
 
 For we draw twelve feet of water, and it's ten above the 
 bar." 
 
 Then we folded in our pinions, and the masts were stark 
 
 and plain, 
 
 And away we swung our anchor with a rattle of the chain ; 
 And the night spread out her kirtle, and the stars came 
 
 peeping through, 
 And the shoreward lights were gleaming and it's then I 
 
 thought of you ! 
 
 For I saw you by the river it was just a waking dream 
 On the grassy banks that fledge it, and we walked beside 
 
 the stream ; 
 Oh, it's then I thought and wondered if you spared a 
 
 thought for me, 
 You on land for me at anchor in the hollows of the sea.
 
 6 4 
 
 BACK TO "THE BACKS." 
 
 THE Avenue of Trinity ! How sweet it were to pace 
 Beneath a May day sky once more that dear "familiar 
 
 place ; 
 Or hang upon the Bridge again, and watch with friendly 
 
 eye 
 The gay canoes and pleasure-boats that merrily go by. 
 
 Or, stretched upon the river's bank, that sunny slope of 
 
 grass, 
 
 To let the flying minutes go, nor heed them as they pass ; 
 An easy book for company, and, though the dons may fret, 
 To puff, while porters prowl afar, the lawless cigarette. 
 
 To hear the voice of friends who pass, and hail you as 
 
 they go 
 " Get up, get up, you lazy loon ! It's time to come and 
 
 row." 
 Oh, early, unforgotten friends, I cannot praise can 
 
 you? 
 The fate that plucked our hands apart and tore our lives 
 
 in two.
 
 BACK TO "THE BACKS." 6$ 
 
 And then the fleet of racing ships to Grassy and the locks, 
 The eight men toiling heartily, the eager little cox ; 
 The bodies moved in unison, the murmur of the slides, 
 The "Five, you're late," or "Four, you're short," from 
 somebody who rides. 
 
 The silent, dogged earnestness of all the panting crew, 
 The strong beginning swiftly gripped, the finish driven 
 
 through, 
 The rattle of the oars and, ah, sometimes the sound 
 
 sublime 
 Of one who cheered, "Swing out, my lads, you're doing 
 
 record time ! " 
 
 How fresh and cool the evenings were like those who 
 
 spent them then 
 
 In frank and boyish cheerfulness, our self-created men. 
 Ah, would that I were back with those who keep in 
 
 Cambridge town 
 The old tradition ever young of life in cap and gown ! 
 
 But we must walk in Fleet Street now, or perch upon a 
 
 'bus; 
 
 No avenue of rustling trees makes melody for us 
 Yet memories of grassy slopes and sunny hours relax 
 The minds of men in London pent who never see the 
 
 Backs.
 
 66 
 
 HAPPY SHADES IN COLLEGE. 
 
 To the Master of Trinity. 
 
 IN from the narrow winding street 
 
 We pass as we were wont to pass, 
 Avoiding still with timorous feet 
 
 The level lawns of sacred grass. 
 And, even as happy shades might sport 
 
 Through a bright space of storied tombs, 
 We saunter through the grey old Court, 
 
 And mark, each one his ancient rooms. 
 
 The gates are there on either hand, 
 
 Their niches crowned with founder-kings ; 
 Still with a pensive murmur bland 
 
 The ripple of the fountain sings. 
 Yes ! peopled by another race 
 
 And alien to our hopes and fears, 
 It is, it is, the dear old place, 
 
 Unchanged through all the changing years. 
 
 Lo ! shadows of our buried prime, 
 
 Not as we were but as we are, 
 With all our heavy load of time, 
 
 Master, we come to you from far.
 
 HAPPY SHADES IN COLLEGE. 67 
 
 A gathered troop of wandering ghosts 
 Caught up and newly called from sleep, 
 
 To you and your array of hosts 
 
 Back from the vanished past we creep. 
 
 If, as we throng into the Hall, 
 
 Our steps, that erst were light as air, 
 With labouring gait sedately fall ; 
 
 And if you note our grizzling hair ; 
 And if the word we fain would speak 
 
 Dies on our lips and we are dumb ; 
 And if the tear is on our cheek, 
 
 Master, forgive, since we are come. 
 
 We, who were once imagined men 
 
 Too gay to guard our fleeting joy, 
 At your behest we come again, 
 
 Our minds reversed, to play the boy. 
 And while we still prolong the night 
 
 Intent to make the hours creep slow, 
 Jealous and in our own despite 
 
 We feel the treasured moments go. 
 
 But one who from a window leant, 
 
 (May Heaven forgive the graceless youth : 
 No harm that fresh-faced fellow meant, 
 
 But, ah, he spoke a bitter truth.) 
 He smiled, he opened wondering eyes 
 
 And called a friend " This sight is queer ! 
 What brings," he said with some surprise, 
 
 " This crowd of fogeys trooping here ? "
 
 68 HAPPY SHADES IN COLLEGE. 
 
 He could not chill our glowing hearts : 
 
 When, each his boyhood's friends among, 
 Our shades replayed their ancient parts, 
 
 We felt, we knew that we were young. 
 And, ere we pass, our meed of thanks 
 
 Shall to our hosts be duly paid : 
 We lived a day the Stygian banks 
 
 Reclaim their own, and we must fade.
 
 AD GRANTANOS. 1 
 
 You ask a word or two in verse 
 
 I cannot much commend you ; 
 Yet take, for better or for worse, 
 
 The humble lines I send you. 
 From Granta's groves of Academe 
 
 I draw my inspiration ; 
 And she herself shall be my theme, 
 
 Her smiles my exculpation. 
 
 I wonder if they still possess, 
 
 Those groves serene and hoary, 
 Their fresh but ancient loveliness, 
 
 ' Their visionary glory. 
 What dream-shapes dance before your eyes 
 
 Full well of old I knew them 
 Removing still the golden prize 
 
 The faster you pursue them ? 
 
 Of late I spent an evening there ; 
 
 When shadows fell I feared less : 
 In sunlight I should hardly dare 
 
 To face a throng so beardless, 
 
 i Written for the "Old Contributors' Number" of 'The Granta,' 
 the Cambridge undergraduates' journal.
 
 7O AD GRANTANOS. 
 
 So planned, each one, to play the King, 
 And, since I must be truthful, 
 
 So very sure of everything, 
 And so sublimely youthful. 
 
 They say you still row steadily ; 
 
 Men talk of Grylls and Taylor : 
 They seem by all accounts to be 
 
 A sturdy type of sailor. 
 For days long past my thoughts grow warm, 
 
 When, by ambition spurred on, 
 I found the mould of rowing form 
 
 In Hockin and in Gurdon. 
 
 And, though the Cam be dull and slow, 
 
 I am not of its scorners ; 
 Fain would I still swing out and row 
 
 Round those unending corners. 
 Too old for such aquatic feats, 
 
 I envy while I smile at 
 E'en those who pad their painful seats 
 
 With squares of " Pontius Pilate." 
 
 While we to all authorities 
 
 Were merely humble suitors, 
 You deal, I hear, in lordly ease 
 
 With Masters, Deans, and Tutors. 
 And, if in some permitted row 
 
 A man should grow too sprightly, 
 Your Proctor makes a lower bow, 
 
 And fines him more politely.
 
 AD GRANTANOS. 71 
 
 Idyllic bliss ! it makes me proud 
 
 To think of men combining 
 In peace with Dons who cast a cloud 
 
 Made up of silver lining. 
 On us, I fear, the life might pall, 
 
 So pleased were we with factions : 
 And yet our days of gate and haul 
 
 Were not without attractions. 
 
 What joy to think that you should come 
 
 To look on Dons as brothers 
 A tidy lot I've known, and some 
 
 Were pleasanter than others. 
 Remembering these I would not fan 
 
 Resentment's dying embers 
 I, who have been a Cambridge man 
 
 For twenty-eight Novembers. 
 
 No doubt you urge your friendly strife 
 
 On higher planes than we did. 
 We tried to live the perfect life, 
 
 But few of us succeeded. 
 What pleased us then might anger you ; 
 
 You'd vote our jests a bore now. 
 We thought we knew a thing or two ; 
 
 Of course, you know a score now. 
 
 But still the end is much the same, 
 
 Howe'er you may defy it ; 
 Three years or four you have for fame, 
 
 And then you must good-bye it.
 
 72 AD GRANTANOS. 
 
 No prayers avail to stay the shears 
 The Fury wields, and straightway 
 
 Her band of victims disappears 
 
 From Bridge, and Court, and Gateway. 
 
 So from your higher ampler spheres 
 
 Look down, and, oh ! be gracious 
 To us who wore our gowns in years 
 
 Less adequately spacious. 
 Your turn must come to be afraid 
 
 Of that abhorred Fury 
 Who dogged our steps in King's Parade, 
 
 The Lane, and Petty Cury.
 
 73 
 
 TO PHYLLIS IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 From her Uncle at Home, 
 
 DEAR PHYLLIS, as you go the round 
 
 From youth to youth in Hall and College, 
 Hear their unworldly laughter sound, 
 
 And marvel at their worldly knowledge ; 
 Your Uncle's hortatory pen 
 
 (While you do all a May-maid may do) 
 Reminds you there are other men 
 
 Who once looked just as fresh as they do. 
 
 That envied youth, e.g., whose hair 
 
 Curls round a head like that of Hermes, 
 Who steps it proudly with an air 
 
 Of graceful strength combined with firm ease, 
 Whose chest is full, whose back is flat, 
 
 Whose lip is like the bow of Cupid 
 Your Uncle was a man like that, 
 
 Though now he's old and bent and stupid. 
 
 And when the hero takes his seat 
 
 Queer seats our modern oarsmen sit on ! 
 
 And in his light ship heads the fleet 
 That races round the bend at Ditton,
 
 74 TO PHYLLIS IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 "There" while his efforts prove the nerve 
 That suits his reckless sink-or-swim age 
 
 " There rows," my Phyllis will observe, 
 " My Uncle or, at least, his image." 
 
 When 'mid the music of the dance, 
 
 Moved by the ecstasy that wakes it, 
 The fiery youth perceives his chance, 
 
 Perceives it well, and swiftly takes it, 
 Believe it, Phyllis, if you can, 
 
 While half-rebuked your hand he presses 
 I, too, was just as keen a man 
 
 Long, long ago for dark recesses. 
 
 But now I sit sedate at home, 
 
 And sigh for all my vanished ardour ; 
 I let my pretty Phyllis roam, 
 
 And send her watchful Aunt to guard her. 
 She, too, will like her " May " in June, 
 
 But mildly, since her years are riper ; 
 She'll let our Phyllis call the tune, 
 
 And she (or I) will pay the piper.
 
 75 
 
 THE PERFECT OAR. 
 
 ONCE on a dim and dream-like shore, 
 
 Half seen, half recollected, 
 I thought I met a human oar 
 
 Ideally perfected. 
 To me at least he seemed a man 
 
 Like any of our neighbours, 
 Formed on the self-same sort of plan 
 
 For high aquatic labours. 
 
 His simple raiment took my eyes : 
 
 No fancy duds he sported 
 He had his rather lengthy thighs 
 
 Exiguously " shorted." 
 A scarf about his neck he threw ; 
 
 A zephyr hid his torso ; 
 He looked as much a man as you 
 
 Perhaps a trifle more so. 
 
 And yet I fancy you'll agree, 
 When his description's ended, 
 
 No merely mortal thing could be 
 So faultlessly commended.
 
 76 A PERFECT OAR. 
 
 I noted down with eager hand 
 The points that mark his glory ; 
 
 So grant me your attention, and 
 I'll set them out before ye. 
 
 His hands are ever light to catch ; 
 
 Their swiftness is astounding : 
 No billiard-ball could pass or match 
 
 The pace of their rebounding. 
 Then, joyfully released and gay, 
 
 And springy as Apollo's, 
 With what a fine columnar sway 
 
 His balanced body follows ! 
 
 He keeps his sturdy legs applied 
 
 Just where he has been taught to, 
 And always moves his happy slide 
 
 Precisely as he ought to. 
 He owns a wealth of symmetry 
 
 Which nothing can diminish, 
 And strong men shout for joy to see 
 
 His wonder-working finish. 
 
 He never rows his stroke in dabs 
 
 A fatal form of sinning 
 And never either catches crabs 
 
 Or misses the beginning. 
 Against his ship the storm-winds blow, 
 
 And every lipper frets her : 
 He hears the cox cry, " Let her go ! " 
 
 And swings and drives and lets her.
 
 A PERFECT OAR. 77 
 
 Besides, he has about his knees, 
 
 His feet, his wrists, his shoulders, 
 Some points which make him work with ease 
 
 And fascinate beholders. 
 He is, in short, impeccable, 
 
 And this perhaps is oddest 
 In one who rows and looks so well 
 
 He is supremely modest. 
 
 He always keeps his language cool, 
 
 Nor stimulates its vigour 
 In face of some restrictive rule 
 
 Of dietary rigour. 
 And when the other men annoy 
 
 With trivial reproaches, 
 He is his Captain's constant joy, 
 
 The comfort of his coaches. 
 
 When grumblers call the rowing vile, 
 
 Or growl about the weather, 
 Our Phoenix smiles a cheerful smile 
 
 And keeps the crew together. 
 No " hump " is his when everything 
 
 Looks black his zeal grows stronger, 
 And makes his temper, like his swing, 
 
 Proportionately longer. 
 
 One aim is his through weeks of stress : 
 
 By each stroke rowed to aid work. 
 No facile sugared prettiness 
 
 Impairs his swirling blade-work.
 
 78 A PERFECT OAR. 
 
 And, oh, it makes the pulses go 
 A thousand to the minute 
 
 To see the man sit down and row 
 A ding-dong race and win it ! 
 
 Such was, and is, the perfect oar, 
 
 A sort of river Prince, Sirs ; 
 I never met the man before, 
 
 And never saw him since, Sirs. 
 Yet still, I think, he moves his blade, 
 
 As grand in style, or grander, 
 As Captain of some Happy-Shade 
 
 Elysian Leander.
 
 79 
 
 STYLE AND THE OAR. 
 
 To sit upon a seat 
 
 With the straps about your feet, 
 And to grasp an oar and use it, to recover and to slide, 
 
 And to keep your body swinging, 
 
 And to get the finish ringing, 
 
 And to send the light ship leaping as she whizzes on the 
 tide; 
 
 To make the rhythm right 
 
 And your feather clean and bright, 
 
 And to slash as if you loved it, though your muscles seem 
 
 to crack ; 
 
 And, although your brain is spinning, 
 To be sharp with your beginning, 
 
 And to heave your solid body indefatigably back ; 
 
 Not to be a fraction late 
 When the rate is thirty-eight ; 
 To be quick when stroke demands it, to be steady when 
 
 he's slow ; 
 
 And to keep a mind unheeding 
 When the other lot are leading, 
 
 And to set your teeth and brace your back and just to make 
 her go.
 
 8O STYLE AND THE OAR. 
 
 And when she gives a roll 
 
 To swing out with heart and soul, 
 And to balance her and rally her and get her trim and true ; 
 
 And while the ship goes flying 
 
 To hear the coxswain crying, 
 
 " Reach out, my boys, you'll do it ! " and, by Jupiter, 
 you do ! 
 
 To seek your bed at ten, 
 
 And to tumble out again 
 
 When the clocks are striking seven and the winds of March 
 are chill; 
 
 To be resolute and steady, 
 
 Cheerful, regular, and ready 
 For a run upon the Common or a tramp up Putney Hill ; 
 
 To sink yourself and be 
 
 Just a unit, and to see 
 How the individual withers and the crew is more and more ; 
 
 And to guard without omission 
 
 Every glorious tradition 
 
 That the ancient heroes founded when they first took up 
 an oar; 
 
 In short, to play the game 
 
 Not so much for name or fame 
 As to win a common honour for your colours light or dark 
 
 Oh ! it's this has made your crew-man 
 
 Such a chivalrous and true man 
 Since the day that Father Noah went a-floating in the Ark.
 
 8i 
 
 LAUS REMIGII. 
 
 THE Springtime, what a mercy 'tis to both our Universities : 
 They realise the curse it is to read for Trip or Greats. 
 
 They both forget their ologies, lay down their load of 
 
 knowledges, 
 And, lo, the giddy colleges divide themselves by Eights. 
 
 The Proctor takes it vernally, and, though he fines noctur- 
 
 nally, 
 
 Grows kindlier diurnally, and acts like me or you. 
 If men will get their hands away and swing, he understands 
 
 a way 
 Of putting airs and bands away and cheering on his crew. 
 
 Your Don may sometimes sham an ursine manner (like 
 
 examiners), 
 
 He may declare " I am tners, and find my fellows bores " ; 
 But now each college resident, Dean, Master, Provost, 
 
 President, 
 By every word he says identifies himself with oars. 
 
 The wrangler hasn't got an use for tangent or hypotenuse : 
 He doesn't deem it rotten news to hear about the rows ; 
 
 And gentlemen, whose bliss a row of sentences from Cicero 
 Is found in, wouldn't miss a row for reams of Latin prose. 
 
 F
 
 82 LAUS REMIGII. 
 
 Now coaches on their star equestrian mounts they're heard 
 
 afar request 
 Their pupils not to mar a quest for bumps by playing 
 
 pranks. 
 And mites who do not fear a natatorial risk can steer an 
 
 eight, 
 And try to find how near an eight can travel to the banks. 
 
 So here's the praise of boats in May, of many-coloured coats 
 
 in May, 
 
 Of One my mem'ry notes in maiden meditation free, 
 But, since she left me high and dry, her charms I now defy 
 
 and rhy- 
 
 -me a stave or two to try and dry the tears she weeps 
 for me.
 
 THE CORK REGATTA. 
 1902. 
 
 THERE was Lord O'Brien, 
 
 That Four Courts lion, 
 Says he, " You must enter, you must," he says. 
 
 He's the boy to coax, 
 
 Wid his stories and jokes, 
 Ould Pether, the Lord Chief Justice, is. 
 
 And, upon me soul, 
 
 He's bought 'em a bowl 
 Subscribed by a mighty fine gentry list ; 
 
 And he wheedled the crews 
 
 Till they couldn't refuse, 
 And packed them into the entry list 
 
 Leander came 
 
 Wid their roll of fame, 
 But Henley had made 'em look crazy now. 
 
 Wid their caps of pink 
 
 They could make you blink, 
 And their cox sayin', " Arrah, be aisy now."
 
 84 THE CORK REGATTA. 
 
 They were cheerful and gay 
 
 In their English way, 
 And they never looked to be troubling boys, 
 
 Till they caught a sight 
 
 Of the black and white 
 Of the Trinity College Dublin boys. 
 
 The Ruderverein 
 
 Looked mighty fine, 
 And, oh, but it's confident still I am 
 
 That they'll make us blow 
 
 When they start to row, 
 These lads of the Emperor William. 
 
 They smoked no pipes, 
 
 But they drank their swipes, 
 And they ate their mutton and chicken up ; 
 
 And Donner und Blitz, 
 
 But they gave us fits, 
 Wid their German moustaches stickin' up. 
 
 Emmanuel too 
 
 Looked neat and new : 
 From the banks of the Cam, where the willows are, 
 
 They had travelled to see 
 
 The river Lee, 
 Where the currents and tides and the billows are. 
 
 There were Oxford Blues 
 
 In their College crews, 
 And they didn't mean to be dawdlin' there 
 
 In the head of the Is- 
 
 -is dressed up nice, 
 And the Scarlet College of Magdalen there.
 
 THE CORK REGATTA. 85 
 
 From the South and the North 
 
 Of the isle came forth 
 The Irishmen full of devilry : 
 
 They were broths of boys 
 
 For the fun and noise, 
 And good at rowing and revelry. 
 
 And when they had done 
 
 There was one crew won, 
 And eight of the rowers were frisky there ; 
 
 But none of the rest 
 
 Looked much depressed, 
 For they knew there was plenty of whisky there.
 
 86 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 
 
 I MET some good fellows a short time ago ; 
 
 With the fire of true friendship their hearts were aglow ; 
 
 And it's oh but they took of good whisky no end, 
 
 With a fist for^ foe and a hand for a friend. 
 
 And my soul says, " Here's luck, wheresoever they be, 
 
 To the great men I met on the banks of the Lee." 
 
 Oh their songs on the Lee (and it's sweetly they sang), 
 How they went with a swing, how they closed with 
 
 bang! 
 
 They toasted old Erin, the brave and the gay, 
 Till the night faded out, and, behold, it was day. 
 And at last oh, a louder I shall not hear soon 
 Came a forty-voice chorus with twenty in tune. 
 
 If 'twas laughter you longed for or friendship you sought, 
 They were both to be had, but they couldn't be bought. 
 You were called on to pay it was only in part 
 With a laugh of your own and a show of your heart. 
 Oh this and we gave it is always the fee 
 That they ask for their love on the banks of the Lee.
 
 THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 87 
 
 There was one, a Chief Justice he didn't live there, 
 But he came mighty grand from the County of Clare. 
 " Brother Andrews," says he, as he sat in his Court, 
 " I think," says old Peter, " we'll cut the thing short. 
 If we leave the Court now we can all of us see 
 The races they row on the tide of the Lee." 
 
 Another and soon may I see him again ! 
 
 He was always on hand with a glass of champagne ; 
 
 And all the blue devils that make you repine 
 
 He could drown, and he did, in a bumper of wine. 
 
 If you stopped for a moment, " I'm Sheriff," says he, 
 
 " And I'll make yez drink fair on the banks of the Lee." 
 
 There was fun and divarsion from morning to night, 
 And the smile of the girls 'twas a sunbeam for light. 
 Their eyes were like sapphires, their teeth were like pearls, 
 And it's Cork on the Lee that's the city for girls, 
 Oh, they spoke us and joked us so frank and so free, 
 That we pined to stay on by the banks of the Lee. 
 
 There was work for the glass, for the knife and the fork, 
 There was work for dry throats in the City of Cork ; 
 And whatever they did at the end of their meals 
 There was one thing they didn't they never tapped heels. 
 So here's love and good luck with a thirty times three' 
 From the banks of the Thames to the men of the Lee.
 
 88 
 
 THE SEASON. 
 
 Lo, it's the season ! The talk is of marriages, 
 Maidens and bachelors made into one ; 
 
 Dowagers driving in all sorts of carriages, 
 Resolute Benedicks watching the fun. 
 
 Band-boxy, up-to-date, deucedly pretty girls, 
 Breezy old bucks who date back to the Ark ; 
 
 Guardsmen who chaff and are chaffed by the witty girls- 
 Guardsmen are always in place in the Park. 
 
 Dinners and dances we take them all dashingly 
 
 Staircases happily crowded with girls. 
 Snowy-white shoulders, and golden hair flashingly 
 
 Gleaming and glancing with diamonds and pearls. 
 Music that swings you and makes you feel supple, too, 
 
 Bliss for your partner and rapture for you ; 
 Fans made for one that can cover a couple, too ; 
 
 Nooks for the lucky, ones sitting it through. 
 
 Now we can eye with an air supercilious 
 Countrified cousins at function and show ; 
 
 Smile while their vigorous bands Piccadilly us 
 In to the pictures or out to the Row.
 
 THE SEASON. 89 
 
 Catalogued, ardent, they throng the Academy, 
 Prattle with pleasure or shudder with shocks, 
 
 Startled by nudities Evy or Adamy, 
 
 Thrilled by the portraits of children in frocks. 
 
 Ladies with curls (and a patent for curling 'em), 
 
 Men with moustaches and looking their best, 
 See how they vanish in hansoms to Hurlingham, 
 
 All irreproachably booted and dressed. 
 Sweet tetes-a-t&tes that mean much without saying it, 
 
 Lawns of cool grass that invite you to stroll ; 
 Ponies and polo and prodigies playing it, 
 
 Turning and charging and striking for goal. 
 
 Then we go whirling that's always the way we go- 
 Off after dinner to Hawtrey or Maude ; 
 
 Starched, patent-leathered and black to the play we go ; 
 Some of us laugh while the others applaud. 
 
 Some of us think that our plays are too clever now, 
 Some of us hold that the drama is dead. 
 
 Some swear by Roberts, who's better than ever now ; 
 So to our supper, and then to our bed. 
 
 Yes, it's the season ! our time for frivolity ! 
 
 Off with our troubles for once in a while ! 
 See with a ripple of jesting and jollity 
 
 Smoky old London breaks out in a smile ! 
 Racketings, jauntings, and innocent devilry, 
 
 Hearts beating madly, but always in tune, 
 Playtime and pleasure and rushes of revelry 
 
 That is the way of the season in June !
 
 THE QUEEN'S LOOK. 
 
 LUMMY, Billy, I seed 'er ! Yuss, 
 
 That wos the Queen ! You seed 'er too. 
 
 Crikey, but aint it lucky for us 
 
 We wos nippers, Billy, and got squeezed through. 
 
 Father 'e 'adn't a chance, not 'e. 
 
 'E was stuck at the back of all them rows 
 With three gals bustin' theirselves to see 
 
 Right in 'is front and over 'is toes. 
 
 'Ark to 'im cussin' ! Yer'll always tell 
 
 When they've bested father 'e just lets fly. 
 
 But you and me, why we seed her well ; 
 And aint she beautiful oh my eye ! 
 
 We wos 'ip-'urrayin' she seed us plain, 
 For she give us a look like a cup o' tea 
 
 When you're shiverin' cold with the wind and rain : 
 That's just 'ow 'er look went into me. 
 
 And I feel that 'appy I'll take my 'ook, 
 I don't want to see no more o' their fuss ; 
 
 But I'm goin' 'ome to think o' the look 
 
 Wich the Queen, God bless 'er, she give to us.
 
 HAPPY CHANCE. 
 
 OH happy and delightful Chance ! 
 
 By all men ardently pursued, 
 Swift through a tangled maze you dance 
 
 Your trailing skirts their grasp elude ; 
 And none your airy flight may stem, 
 Or catch your gauzy garment's hem. 
 
 Now from a mine the maiden smiles, 
 And now the mart her quips control. 
 
 Her lures outmatch the merchant's wiles ; 
 Her glamour cheats the poet's soul ; 
 
 And kings and outcasts, at her glance, 
 
 Meet in the race for Happy Chance. 
 
 Myself have followed, followed far, 
 
 O'er barren wastes and blustering seas ; 
 
 Have swum the flood and leaped the bar, 
 Nor sought nor gained a moment's ease. 
 
 No toil, no daring could advance 
 
 My vain pursuit of Happy Chance.
 
 92 HAPPY CHANCE. 
 
 And still throughout this waning year 
 I thought to seize her at the last, 
 
 For, lo, sometimes she drew me near 
 Then with a laugh the vision passed ; 
 
 And I, whom she could so entrance, 
 
 Still failed to clutch my Happy Chance. 
 
 New Year ! attend, and hear me swear 
 I would not hold her if I might ! 
 
 So let her still be far and fair, 
 
 And unpossessed, and still a sprite. 
 
 Pursuit and failure but enhance 
 
 The high delights of Happy Chance.
 
 LIVES OF GREAT MEN
 
 THE BISHOP OF PECKHAM GREEN. 
 
 PlZARRO POLO CORTEZ JONES 
 
 Was in his youth a bag of bones, 
 
 A skinny, sallow, grubby child, 
 
 Whose sandy, touzled hair grew wild, 
 
 Who wore (to see with, I suppose) 
 
 A pair of gig-lamps on his nose. 
 
 " Knobs " he was called his joints were knotty 
 
 His other playful name was " Spotty," 
 
 From which, I fear, we must conclude 
 
 That he was plain, his fellows rude. 
 
 He never had a tie tied straight ; 
 
 He always came to lessons late. 
 
 His shirt displeased his friends because 
 
 It should be washed, but never was. 
 
 His exercises, verse or prose 
 
 (And how he did them goodness knows), 
 
 Were always what they should not be, 
 
 And so got marked with "pessime"
 
 96 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 He did not know, and could not tell, 
 Who were the Kings of Israel, 
 And always showed he had imbued a 
 Pronounced distaste for those of Judah, 
 Refusing, though the cane impended, 
 To start their list or even end it. 
 In sober truth you could not want 
 To meet a boy more ignorant. 
 Kindness to boys like that ? Oh, stow it ! 
 You must be firm with them and show it. 
 The place below his ragged jacket 
 Simply invited one to whack it. 
 His ears projecting seemed to say, 
 "Come, box me, box me every day." 
 And so his ears were boxed, and he 
 Was caned all over properly. 
 
 " I do not flog," his master said, 
 
 " To occupy my leisure. 
 Pizarro, if I smack your head 
 
 It does not give me pleasure. 
 Flogging and smacking are to me 
 
 No things of joy or beauty : 
 I do them sadly, not with glee, 
 
 And from a sense of duty." 
 
 Pizarro deemed it idle chatter ; 
 
 To him it didn't seem to matter. 
 
 " A whack's a whack, howe'er you strike it," 
 
 He said, and didn't seem to like it,
 
 THE BISHOP OF PECKHAM GREEN. 97 
 
 Showing a painful exhibition 
 
 A hardened, sullen disposition, 
 
 Which doomed him (here I quote his master) 
 
 To future failure and disaster. 
 
 Such was Pizarro's life at school, 
 Not formed or planned on any rule, 
 Save this : if at a given minute 
 There comes a scrape, be sure you're in it. 
 If Justice chanced to want a victim, 
 She never paused, but promptly picked him : 
 Not that his crimes were great or many 
 He rarely perpetrated any 
 But rather that his looks bewrayed him ; 
 He blushed with ease, a fact that made him, 
 When red beyond all recognition, 
 Obnoxious to extreme suspicion. 
 The booby-trap that spilt its water 
 On Dr Cufflad's matron's daughter ; 
 That worthy matron's bed oh, fie ! 
 Converted to an apple-pie ; 
 The broken pane, the tattered syntax, 
 The master's highlows filled with tintacks ; 
 The dart impelled by secret force 
 Upon its swift and peccant course 
 These crimes, and more as fine and large, 
 Were always laid to Jones's charge. 
 Not his the deeds, but his the rueing : 
 To blush when charged is worse than doing. 
 G
 
 98 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Well, well, the years passed on, and he 
 
 Passed his matriculation : 
 In ancient days it used to be 
 
 No hard examination. 
 His Greek and his arithmetic 
 
 He was not very pat in ; 
 He knew no French ; he used to stick 
 
 In Euclid and in Latin. 
 Yet he became the feat was great 
 An Oxford undergraduate ! 
 
 I shall not follow his career 
 
 From week to week, from year to year ; 
 
 The task would bore you. 
 I can describe Pizarro's acts 
 By laying certain salient facts 
 
 Coldly before you : 
 He did not run, he would not row, 
 His private reading was no go ; 
 
 He knew no cricket. 
 He did not seem to be aware 
 That when a pig-skin's full of air, 
 
 You catch or kick it. 
 In this dead list of negatives 
 One positive stands out and lives : 
 Upon his face he wore a fur-suit 
 His cheeks and chin were very hirsute. 
 In short, although his comrades jeered, 
 He was a smug and grew a beard ! 
 The years went on, and finally 
 Our hero took a pass degree,
 
 THE BISHOP OF PECKHAM GREEN. 99 
 
 Fading from Oxford life away 
 As P. P. Cortez Jones, B.A. 
 
 I pass the intervening years, 
 With all their hopes and joys and fears. 
 Let this poor fact suffice for fame, 
 That Jones took Orders and became, 
 His life progressing at a due rate, 
 A Church of England country curate. 
 Would that my humble pen were equal 
 To telling all the glorious sequel ; 
 Would that my skill could paint the glory 
 Of our Pizarro's splendid story ! 
 Enough. I'll take one blazing scene 
 To show my readers what I mean : 
 That fate unkindly tests and searches 
 Our early lives with canes and birches ; 
 Or takes and dooms us to perdition 
 With keepings-in or imposition ; 
 Makes us uncouth and void of sense, 
 And far too apt to give offence, 
 Merely in order to devote us 
 To later splendour, and promote us 
 On our dead selves, as stepping-stones, 
 To higher things 'twas thus with Jones. 
 
 Some twenty years went by. The school 
 Where Jones was deemed a graceless fool 
 
 Whom nothing was excused to, 
 Still stood upon a hill-top high,
 
 100 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Its turrets pointing to the sky 
 
 Precisely as they used to. 
 The shouts, the tramp of boyish feet, 
 The masters' houses in the street, 
 
 Rented at quite a stiff rent ; 
 The games, the tasks, the furtive Bohn 
 All were the same ; the boys alone 
 
 Were, though they seemed not, different. 
 
 Oh, day of days, oh, joy that I 
 
 Should be this day's recorder ! 
 The sun came out, the hours went by 
 
 In their appointed order. 
 The Prefects looked like little kings, 
 
 And every impish urchin 
 Wore all the tasteful Sunday things 
 
 He mostly went to Church in. 
 The masters, if some fault was done, 
 
 Showed a benignant blindness : 
 They smiled as though their life was one 
 
 Unbroken round of kindness. 
 The fathers came, an eager crowd, 
 
 And with them came the mothers ; 
 Sisters were bashfully allowed 
 
 To walk and talk with brothers. 
 This was, in short permit the phrase 
 
 No day of blame, no teach-day, 
 But just our day for prize and praise 
 
 In fact it was our Speech-Day. 
 A boy came on the dai's dressed 
 
 (A tall and comely fellow)
 
 THE BISHOP OF PECKHAM GREEN. IOI 
 
 In swallow-tails and low-cut vest 
 
 To represent Othello. 
 Another, garbed the same as he, 
 
 Whose pride it was to own a 
 Bass voice, expired in agony 
 
 As Lady Desdemona. 
 Tell, Harpagon, and CEdipus, 
 
 We lumped them all together : 
 In evening clothes they spoke to us, 
 
 And pumps of patent leather. 
 And though (in Greek) they feigned despair, 
 
 And then (in French) grew skittish, 
 The accents that they talked in were 
 
 Imperially British. 
 
 The speeches ended, the Headmaster rose ; 
 
 He hemmed, he hawed, and then he blew his nose, 
 
 Spoke of his pride at being there and greeting 
 
 So many friends at this their annual meeting. 
 
 Glanced, as he spoke, at Harrow and at Eton, 
 
 But held that Rodwell's record was unbeaten : 
 
 In every point, in scholarship, in tone, 
 
 In sports, in numbers Rodwell held its own. 
 
 Its grounds were large, its buildings were extensive, 
 
 Its air was good, its fees were inexpensive : 
 
 All things, in fact, combined as all things should 
 
 To make it better while they kept it good. 
 
 " Amongst our old Rodwellians one," he said, 
 
 " Is here to-day whose fame is widely spread ; 
 
 A man of genius, tempered by sobriety, 
 
 Of learning made sublimely great by piety.
 
 IO2 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 I was his friend at school ; I knew him well ; 
 
 No words of mine are adequate to tell 
 
 The story of his boyish deeds I mean 
 
 The Bishop " here he glowed " of Peckham Green. 
 
 He, as each one of you, of course, surmises, 
 
 You know his goodness, will present the prizes." 
 
 Of Bishops many have I seen, 
 
 But none so nobly meek or 
 So mildly large as Peckham Green, 
 
 Whose signature was " Pecor." 
 Fate had not done the thing by halves, 
 
 Nor had she meanly catered 
 For one with such a pair of calves 
 
 So admirably gaitered. 
 On all the best of boiled and roast 
 
 His being he had grounded : 
 What came beneath his chest was most 
 
 Episcopally rounded. 
 He rose, a gorgeous presence, and 
 
 He laid his views before us ; 
 His voice was dignified but bland, 
 
 His attitude decorous. 
 " In all you do, in all you try, 
 
 Strive for the perfect tense, boys ; 
 If," he went on, "your aim is high, 
 
 You won't hit low : that's sense, boys. 
 When I was but a little boy 
 
 I tried to guide each action 
 To give my worthy parents joy, 
 
 My masters satisfaction.
 
 THE BISHOP OF PECKHAM GREEN. 103 
 
 And now " he paused ; we gave a shout ; 
 
 We understood his thesis ; 
 Our wild applausive yells filled out 
 
 The aposiopesis. 
 But while the cheers still rent the sky, 
 
 And while the air was humming, 
 Dim memories of days gone by 
 
 Kept obstinately coming. 
 Somehow, I felt, I knew those tones 
 
 Great Zeus ! how shall I tell it ? 
 I recognised Pizarro Jones 
 
 In Peckham's portly prelate !
 
 104 
 
 II. 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. 
 
 THE fifteenth Duke of Donnybrook and Bow 
 
 It is a splendid and an ancient title 
 Felt that life's lamp was sinking very low, 
 
 Leaving but little of the spark called vital. 
 His sins nay, let us speak of them as errors 
 Were few ; for such a Duke death has no terrors. 
 
 He was a good old man ; not overwise, 
 
 But Dukes require no ample store of wisdom ; 
 
 Dulness had no disfavour in his eyes, 
 
 And dull men loved him, for he never quizzed 'em. 
 
 He was no wit in fact, I don't know whether 
 
 It's right to mention Dukes and wit together. 
 
 Yet he was great : he won the Derby race 
 
 First with a chestnut, next time with a bay gee. 
 
 In every Cabinet he had a place, 
 
 And so they made him G.C.B. and K.G. 
 
 In every English county he had got land ; 
 
 He owned a river and a moor in Scotland.
 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. 105 
 
 All other things he had his rank to suit : 
 
 Cedars and oaks his spacious gardens grew in ; 
 
 Much glass he owned for orchids and for fruit 
 Possessed five castles and a hoary ruin. 
 
 Pictures and prints I scarce know how to tell 'em 
 
 And busts and arms and folios bound in vellum. 
 
 That death should take this man appears to me 
 A most un-English and pro-Boer proceeding. 
 
 To cut the flowers and let the coarse stuff be 
 Is, you'll agree with me, unskilful weeding. 
 
 It needs a lot of pretty hard forgiving 
 
 To take a Duke and leave a pauper living. 
 
 Such pleas availed not, as the hour drew nigh, 
 To check the purpose of the grizzly spectre. 
 
 The Duke, good soul, resigned himself to die, 
 Sustained, consoled, encouraged by the Rector, 
 
 Who held a Ducal living, and was trying 
 
 To do his best to help the Ducal dying. 
 
 So the Duke died, and all men praised him well 
 
 (Some praised too much, but nobody rebuked 'em) ; 
 
 But, which was strange, no man of them could tell 
 Who should succeed the dead Duke in the Dukedom. 
 
 Much to the British public's consternation, 
 
 The Duke, it seemed, had left no male relation. 
 
 Three brothers he had had, but one 
 
 In infancy departed. 
 His breath was short, his race was run 
 
 Almost before he started.
 
 106 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 The second might have travelled far, 
 
 And might have died in bed, Sir. 
 One day he bought a motor-car ; 
 
 The next day he was dead, Sir. 
 The third one (of a City man 
 
 He seemed to have the makings) 
 In manhood's prime set out to plan 
 
 Commercial undertakings. 
 The City was his hunting-ground : 
 
 In many a bright prospectus 
 On which his Lordship's name was found 
 
 He offered to direct us. 
 Withal, the man was never rash, 
 
 For, ere the wise foreboded 
 Or even hinted at a crash, 
 
 He skilfully unloaded. 
 He floated out his companies, 
 
 But when there came a gale, or 
 When clouds were black, finance's seas 
 
 Knew no more careful sailor. 
 If storms arose he judged it best, 
 
 Unless they could be weathered, 
 To make for home ; he had a nest 
 
 Most comfortably feathered. 
 But how shall man foretell his end ? 
 
 His companies outgrew him, 
 And one declared a dividend 
 
 The shock was such it slew him. 
 The Duke, I should have said before, 
 
 Although he liked the fair much, 
 Lived all his life a bachelor, 
 
 And didn't seem to care much.
 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. 
 
 Though often tenderly inclined, 
 
 And twice within an ace of 
 Engagement rings, he failed to find 
 
 A girl to make Her Grace of. 
 He owed immunity from strife 
 
 (And that was all he did owe) 
 To this : he lived without a wife, 
 
 And died without a widow. 
 So, when the old man sank to sleep, 
 
 We mourned for him the rather 
 That not a son was left to weep 
 
 The loss of such a father. 
 Male relatives of all degrees 
 
 He once had had by dozens, 
 They all were doomed to predecease 
 
 His uncles, nephews, cousins. 
 Throughout his life the Duke had been 
 
 In almost ceaseless mourning : 
 His cousins vanished from the scene 
 
 Without a word of warning. 
 Just as the Duke regained his smile 
 
 And ceased to be condolent, 
 One cousin met a lion, while 
 
 Another plumbed the Solent. 
 A third up Monte Rosa went 
 
 It took him hours to win it. 
 He made an unforeseen descent 
 
 In less than half a minute. 
 A fourth would chase the fox, and Fate, 
 
 While he was chasing, chased him. 
 She had a longish time to wait 
 
 Before the jade outpaced him.
 
 IO8 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 She caught him girt with hunting folk, 
 
 And, though he fain had missed her, 
 A neck or nothing man, he broke 
 
 The former with the Bicester. 
 But why the fatal list pursue ? 
 
 I've given you a sample. 
 To prove that what I say is true 
 
 These instances are ample. 
 All men who heard the story deemed 
 
 The Duke unduly careless : 
 In such a well-known Duke it seemed 
 
 Unjust to be so heirless. 
 At Court the news gave great surprise, 
 
 But, though no doubt the King wished 
 That facts had shaped it otherwise, 
 
 The Dukedom seemed extinguished. 
 
 Now mark the sequel ; lay it well to heart. 
 
 Note how the fortunes of great families 
 
 And ancient houses hang upon a hair ; 
 
 How a mere chance may shatter them, and how 
 
 A humble hand may 'stablish them again. 
 
 The dead Duke's family solicitors 
 
 Were Messrs Deedswell, Ginnyfee, and Ritter, 
 
 A well-known firm. They carried on their work 
 
 Within the classic Fields of Lincoln's Inn. 
 
 Much had they grieved when their old client died, 
 
 Not idly, as a common man might grieve, 
 
 But deeply with a poignant business-grief 
 
 As of three men who see a stream of wealth 
 
 Dry at its source, and know not where to turn
 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. 
 
 To find another half so bountiful. 
 
 Never again would it be theirs to send 
 
 Those stout half-yearly bills so promptly paid : 
 
 So much " for writing you," so much again 
 
 "For two attendances re Broseley Farm"; 
 
 " For taking your instructions " so much more ; 
 
 " For drawing deed " you know the way it runs, 
 
 With all its folios ; " for engrossing same " 
 
 In short the items all set down that make 
 
 Grist for the comfortable lawyer's mill. 
 
 Never again ! the thought made Deedswell sad, 
 
 And Ginnyfee was sad, and Ritter too. 
 
 To them thus grieving came their Clerk, a man 
 
 Bred to the law and by the law made keen. 
 
 He, since the Duke had died, had made the case 
 
 His own : full many a wakeful night he passed 
 
 With all the dull and dusty documents 
 
 Wherein was writ the story of the house. 
 
 Much had he pored o'er ancient muniments, 
 
 Had mastered all the records of the race, 
 
 Their origin, their genealogy, 
 
 Duly worked out in complicated trees. 
 
 Thus fortified and crammed and brimming o'er, 
 He came before his gloomy principals, 
 And at a nod from Ginnyfee he spoke : 
 " Sirs, I assume that you are seized of all 
 The salient points that mark this tragedy, 
 For tragedy it is as all men know. 
 I spare you their recital and proceed 
 Straight to my point, the very point of points, 
 Though noted by no mortal man before.
 
 IIO LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 It is recorded that the thirteenth Duke 
 
 Was born in 1752; he died 
 
 In 1820, having had two sons. 
 
 One, who was born in 1785, 
 
 Succeeded him as fourteenth Duke ; with him 
 
 We are not now concerned, but with his brother 
 
 Born three years later, 1788. 
 
 What of that Ducal scion, Gentlemen ? 
 
 How fared it with him ? What became of him ? " 
 
 Hereat the heavy cloud on Deedswell's face 
 
 Lifted, and Ginnyfee was seen to smile. 
 
 And Ritter said, " Proceed, young man, proceed ! " 
 
 " Lord Arthur Battlemore," the Clerk went on, 
 
 " (That was the young man's name) was very wild ; 
 
 A harum-scarum temper marked his acts. 
 
 What then ? Here comes the point : they shipped him off, 
 
 When he was twenty-two, to Africa, 
 
 And he was never heard of after that. 
 
 Whether he lived or died, or if he married 
 
 And reared a family, no man can say 
 
 For certain but I think we should inquire. 
 
 For it may chance that in that torrid land 
 
 Some grandson or great-grandson yet may live. 
 
 Should we not seek him ? Must we not exhaust 
 
 All means to find an heir to him we mourn ? " 
 
 He ceased, but his three principals broke out 
 
 In exultation : never was there heard 
 
 So great a noise from three solicitors. 
 
 " Eureka ! " Deedswell cried ; it was not true, 
 
 But Ritter echoed him, and Ginnyfee, 
 
 Swept beyond prudence, cried "Eureka!" too.
 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. Ill 
 
 They appointed a Commission to report with proper care, 
 
 On the possible survival of an unsuspected heir. 
 
 The instructions that they gave them were exhaustive and 
 
 concise, 
 " If he lives," they wrote, "just find him, and you needn't 
 
 mind the price. 
 
 Through the Continent of Africa your duty you'll discharge : 
 It's a biggish stretch of country, so the order's rather large. 
 Still, the task you're undertaking is ineffably sublime, 
 And we don't intend to hamper you or limit you in time. 
 Fare you well ; do all you can, Sirs ; and, wherever you 
 
 may go, 
 Think of England, think of duty, think of Donnybrook 
 
 and Bow." 
 
 I may spare you the recital of a lot of deeds they did ; 
 And some painful things they suffered in oblivion may be 
 
 hid. 
 But I can't forbear to mention that they learnt to speak 
 
 with ease 
 
 Many queer and tricky lingoes and the dialects of these. 
 When upset upon the Pungwe they were saved for fame 
 
 and us 
 
 By the opportune arrival of a hippopotamus, 
 Who took in the situation and conveyed them from the 
 
 wreck, 
 
 Clinging tightly to salvation by his rather massive neck. 
 Then they wandered through Sahara, traced the Congo to 
 
 its source ; 
 Took the Niger in a steam-launch, and were wrecked again, 
 
 of course ;
 
 112 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Did a trip or two from Cairo, where they lingered for a 
 
 while, 
 And conversed with all the fellahs whom they found about 
 
 the Nile. 
 
 They discovered that an eight-oar isn't equal for a bump 
 To that desert-ship, the camel, with a saddle on his hump, 
 And that missionary fillet or explorer barbecue 
 Isn't always used for dinner in the wilds of Timbuctoo. 
 Their adventures in the forests make a formidable list : 
 They were shot at by the Pigmies, but were fortunately 
 
 missed ; 
 
 And they learnt by having suffered how your courtesy it tries 
 To be entertained by Bushmen or be feasted on by flies. 
 Kaffirs, Hottentots and Zulus, Matabeles, Portuguese, 
 Fuzzy- Wuzzies, men of Benin and the savage Ashantees, 
 Every tribe they plied with questions as to whether they 
 
 had met 
 
 Any man whose brow seemed fitted for a ducal coronet. 
 Failure, failure, always failure ! And the months went 
 
 slipping by, 
 
 And no clue appeared to gladden their investigating eye 
 Till one day on Lake Nyanza, as they paddled their canoe, 
 They were greeted by a negro with a cheery " how-de-do ? " 
 When they heard these words in English oh, the magic 
 
 of that tongue ! 
 All this middle-aged Commission felt at once supremely 
 
 young. 
 They approach him, and their Chairman with a joyful eye 
 
 perceives 
 On his chest the ducal birthmark of a strawberry with 
 
 leaves !
 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. 113 
 
 In his hut he kept his records : all the amulets were there, 
 
 All the marriage-lines and tokens that can make a man an 
 heir; 
 
 And they found that, though a black man, he could trace 
 and did with glee 
 
 To a line of Dukes in England quite a flawless pedigree. 
 
 So they cabled home to London, "We have found the 
 heir alive ; 
 
 He's great-grandson to Lord Arthur, and his age is twenty- 
 five. 
 
 We have packed the proofs securely, and shall start with 
 him to-night. 
 
 He has very pleasant manners, but he isn't very white." 
 
 The sixteenth Duke of Donnybrook and Bow, 
 George Alured Augustus Battlemore, 
 Marquis of Goldstone, Earl of Ballyhinch 
 In Ireland's peerage, Baron Struachan 
 In Scotland, and I know not what beside, 
 Dwells in the Castle that his ancestor, 
 The Great Red Duke, built centuries ago. 
 Oh, what a scene that was when he returned 
 To claim his own and be an English peer. 
 Rumour preceded him and spread the news, 
 And all the country-side was set agog. 
 The tenants all were there, a goodly crowd, 
 Stout, comfortable farmers and their wives, 
 Peasants in smocks, and stablemen, and grooms, 
 And footmen with their well-developed calves ; 
 The Parish Council with its Chairman too, 
 And all the children from the village school, 
 H
 
 114 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 The Rector at their head ; he had prepared 
 
 A long congratulatory address, 
 
 And meant to read it to the coming Duke. 
 
 At last there rose a shout, " He comes, he comes ! " 
 
 And lo ! the County Yeomanry appeared 
 
 A-clatter up the ducal avenue. 
 
 Dragoons they were, a set of burly men 
 
 On burly horses a terrific sight. 
 
 Behind them whirled the family barouche, 
 
 Drawn by four spanking greys, and in it sat 
 
 The Duke, the object of all men's desires. 
 
 " He's black," said farmer Hobbs, " as black as black. 
 
 I never seed a Duke like that afore." 
 
 But Mrs Hobbs opined you couldn't look 
 
 For everything to please you : there must be 
 
 A sort of give and take : and thus to carp 
 
 At colour was a flying in the face 
 
 Of Providence that had restored the Duke. 
 
 Then the whole multitude broke out in cheers ; 
 
 The carriage stopped, and so the Rector spoke : 
 
 "Your Grace," he said hereat the black Duke smiled 
 
 " We have assembled here to welcome you. 
 
 Before the ancient mansion of your race 
 
 We greet you, for we know that you will show 
 
 The virtues that have marked your loyal house 
 
 In Church and State, and on the tented field. 
 
 From that far country, where you had your home, 
 
 You bring the " here the Rector paused and coughed, 
 
 And grew embarrassed ; he had meant to say 
 " The white flower of a blameless life," but now, 
 Noting the ducal ebony, he thought
 
 THE DUKE OF DONNYBROOK AND BOW. 115 
 
 The words were tactless, so he slurred them o'er, 
 
 And passed to other things, and made an end. 
 
 The Duke replied he had been coached with skill 
 
 Leapt from his carriage, shook a thousand hands, 
 
 And all men said, " How affable ! " and all 
 
 Their wives and daughters, as they saw him pass, 
 
 Observed his smile and much admired his teeth. 
 
 And now, beloved of all, he holds his rule. 
 
 Society acclaims him ; he is seen 
 
 At every meeting of the Primrose League ; 
 
 Opens bazaars, and rides to hounds, and shoots. 
 
 And though he sometimes shocks the staider folk 
 
 With intempestive laughter, or with songs 
 
 And dances of a savage character, 
 
 These faults are venial, and his neighbours own 
 
 They are such eccentricities as Dukes 
 
 May use at will, and none the less be Dukes. 
 
 P.S. The ' Morning Post ' announces this : 
 "We are informed a marriage is arranged 
 Between the Duke of Donnybrook and Bow 
 And Lady Angelina, only child 
 Of Geoffrey, Marquis of FitzAltamont."
 
 n6 
 
 III. 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ADOLPHUS 
 BUFFERTOP, M.P. 
 
 ADOLPHUS, when I knew him first, was stout, 
 
 Rotund and apple-cheeked, a cheerful boy, 
 
 Within whose trouser-pocket there reposed 
 
 Much treasure garnered from the deuce knows where, 
 
 And stored with undiscriminating zeal. 
 
 Item, a watch-key, not designed to fit 
 
 His watch, or any watch that mortal knew ; 
 
 Item, three yards of string, a tangled maze ; 
 
 Two chestnuts pierced with holes, and so prepared 
 
 To break or conquer in the mimic fray 
 
 " Conkers " we called them ere they met the doom 
 
 That falls to every chestnut soon or late. 
 
 Item, a pencil guiltless of a point ; 
 
 Two lengths of stout elastic formed to be 
 
 The missile power of his catapult ; 
 
 The catapult was absent : it had been 
 
 Confiscate to an usher weeks before. 
 
 An indiarubber ball ; three drawing-pins ; 
 
 Two little slabs of polished cocoa-nut, 
 
 Soon to be fashioned by his cunning hand
 
 THE RIGHT HON. ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP. 117 
 
 To anchors, crosses, hearts, and things that were 
 
 His sister's pleasure and his mother's pride. 
 
 Item, a piece of steel it had a spring, 
 
 And some day it was meant to take its place 
 
 Upon a pocket pistol, and discharge 
 
 Shots at his comrades' calves you know the kind. 
 
 Item, an apple what, at least, had been 
 
 An apple once, but now reduced to core, 
 
 Fluffy and brown with age, it had become 
 
 The mouldy relic of a ribstone pippin. 
 
 One halfpenny and one farthing, and a knife 
 
 Broken in blade ; a crumpled paper bag, 
 
 Empty, but redolent of peppermint. 
 
 And last, within the inmost corner lurked 
 
 A lollipop not utterly devoid 
 
 Of stickiness : reluctantly it left 
 
 Clinging to life and lining to the last 
 
 Its warm retreat, to be transferred at once 
 
 Into its owner's much-desiring mouth. 
 
 From these contents, so faithfully set down, 
 
 You may infer Adolphus : he was much 
 
 What many boys are at the age of twelve. 
 
 Take him at fourteen, see him in his class 
 
 With thirty other boys, the Lower Fourth. 
 
 It is the hour for ' Caesar ' ; BufFertop 
 
 Cared not for ' Caesar ' ; little did he reck 
 
 Of Gaul and its divisions, little cared 
 
 For marches, camps, attacks, and winter quarters. 
 
 He saw no use in Latin, and his mind, 
 
 Which should have followed Caesar to the wars, 
 
 Strayed to the tuck-shop or the playing field.
 
 Il8 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 On him thus gathering wool an eagle eye 
 
 Pounced, and the master's sudden voice broke out 
 
 Sternly, " Stand up and construe, Buffertop." 
 
 Oh, luckless Buffertop ! He stood indeed, 
 
 But that was all ; his book was in his hand ; 
 
 His fevered eye went up and down the page, 
 
 Finding nor stay nor comfort as it went. 
 
 Rudge minor prompted him, but all in vain, 
 
 And took an imposition for his pains. 
 
 Then spoke the master, " 'Tis the fifteenth time 
 
 That Buffertop's attention is at fault. 
 
 Such infamies must cease one hundred lines ! " 
 
 " Oh, Sir ! " " Two hundred," was the swift retort. 
 
 " Please, Sir, I didn't " " Do four hundred then." 
 
 " But, Sir, I " " Write eight hundred ; and to show 
 
 That I will not be trifled with, stay in 
 
 For two half-holidays at least, and learn 
 
 That inattention brings you misery." 
 
 He paused indignant, but the culprit's soul 
 
 Was wrung with woe ; down on the form he sank, 
 
 And sobbed as though his heart would break, and wiped 
 
 With inky fingers both his brimming eyes, 
 
 And both his streaming cheeks, a hideous sight. 
 
 And even as he sobbed a vision mocked 
 
 His aching senses, and he saw the field 
 
 Next Saturday, and all the merry rout 
 
 Of happy boys, their cricket bats in hand, 
 
 Pitching the stumps ; and some one seemed to say 
 
 " Where's Buffertop, our champion junior bat ? " 
 
 And some one answered him, " Kept in," whereat 
 
 His heartless fellows laughed, and he the while,
 
 THE RIGHT HON. ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP. 
 
 Pent in the hateful class-room, laboured on. 
 Ah well, he was assured that keepings in 
 And lines were very dangerous to health. 
 It might be he would fade away and die, 
 And then too late his virtues would be known, 
 And the harsh master who had kept him in, 
 Racked by remorse, would pour upon his grave 
 The tardy tribute of repentant tears. 
 Too late, too late ! for Buffertop would lie 
 Cold in his coffin underneath the earth. 
 His piteous mother would bewail her son, 
 Crying, " Give back, oh, give me back my boy ! " 
 And it might chance his father would be wroth, 
 And send policemen to arrest his foe, 
 And doom him to the scaffold and the rope. 
 With this consoled he ceased to weep, and raised 
 His heavy head, and, lastly, stowed away 
 His handkerchief, and came to life again. 
 
 Sing, Muse, of wool and all that comes of wool ! 
 Take a swift flight to Coleman Street, E.C., 
 Where the wool-brokers mostly congregate. 
 These are no common men : their minds are full 
 Of ships and bales and fleeces shorn to be, 
 
 Not merely to the State, 
 
 But to themselves a gain. 
 Attempt not to deceive them : 'tis in vain ! 
 Textures they know and values ; they have been 
 Down to the Docks, and passed in keen review 
 
 The cargoes new. 
 The heaped-up bales their careful eyes have seen ;
 
 120 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 With eager fingers plucking here and there, 
 
 The samples they compare, 
 And, though the work is scarcely over nice, 
 Force them to yield the secret of their price. 
 Alas ! for wool which to the fancy seems 
 
 A thing of dreams, 
 
 Fleecy and soft and, above all things, clean ! 
 Behold it as it is upon the Docks, 
 Reeking, exuding oil from all its flocks. 
 Vainly its votary seeks the silvery sheen 
 Pictured in visions ; and, behold, he wears 
 Old clothes which he may soil, 
 
 But cannot spoil, 
 
 Since they were spoilt long, years ago ; and Pears, 
 Cleaver, Vinolia, or the ancient brown 
 Renowned in Windsor's battlemented town 
 One of these famed detergents is the soap 
 
 To meet and cope 
 
 With wool-reek when his daily work is done, 
 Somewhere about the setting of the sun. 
 Of these was Buffertop : in that old hall 
 Where wool is sold his father had a seat. 
 
 Thither with agile feet 
 
 And heart that in the hope of gain beat high, 
 Close to the auctioneer's revolving eye, 
 Blithely he strayed and loudly did he bawL 
 In the fierce babel of competing tongues 
 He held his own and stretched his leathern lungs. 
 And none, I ween, knew better how to take 
 Occasion by the hand and through the maze 
 Of prices win to profit, with a mind 
 Intent to make
 
 THE RIGHT HON. ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP. 121 
 
 His earnings overbalance his expense, 
 
 And so to find 
 He had his meed of unremitting praise 
 
 Wherever he might roam, 
 In Coleman Street, E.G., or in his home, 
 While all men said, " This is a man of sense." 
 
 Our hero's father went the way 
 
 That all wool-brokers must go. 
 They have, like us, their little day, 
 
 And then, like us, to dust go. 
 He, when he passed the Stygian bounds 
 
 And went to join the blest dead, 
 Left some two hundred thousand pounds 
 
 Judiciously invested. 
 His father's joy Adolphus was : 
 
 He never had a brother. 
 He was an only child because 
 
 There wasn't any other. 
 And so his father left him land ; 
 
 He left him all he could will : 
 His stocks, his shares, his cash in hand, 
 
 His business with its goodwill. 
 Adolphus mourned his father gone, 
 
 But, like a man of grit, he 
 Resolved at once to carry on 
 
 The business in the City. 
 To Coleman Street he seemed to grow 
 
 A sort of mould-of-form man ; 
 He was wrapped up in wool, and so 
 
 Was quoted as a warm man.
 
 122 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 When things were slack, when things were firm, 
 
 In dull times as in full trade, 
 He was, if I may use the term, 
 
 Bell-wether to the wool trade. 
 This man of fleeces earned his wealth : 
 
 He never stooped to fleece us ; 
 In open ways, and not by stealth, 
 
 He grew as rich as Croesus. 
 And all men thought and spoke him fair, 
 
 Especially the poor folk. 
 He had a house in Belgrave Square, 
 
 And owned a place in Norfolk. 
 And though he rarely took the life 
 
 Of partridge or of pheasant, 
 His own he had a charming wife 
 
 Was moderately pleasant. 
 
 At last there came a day when politics 
 Grew mixed, and a majority that seemed 
 Firm as a rocky cliff came crashing down. 
 Thereafter there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And rumour followed rumour till suspense 
 Could bear no further burden, and at last 
 The King dissolved his Parliament, and, lo ! 
 The writs went flying forth through all the land. 
 Then Councils and Associations met ; 
 Three Hundreds in their customary halls, 
 With their array of usual Presidents, 
 Passed party resolutions, and at once 
 Adopted candidates and faced the foe. 
 To his surprise he mentioned that surprise
 
 THE RIGHT HON. ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP. 123 
 
 In his address Adolphus Buffertop, 
 
 A pillar of our staple industry, 
 
 Was made a candidate. He had not hoped, 
 
 He said, for so much honour ; yet he felt 
 
 At such a crisis every man must give 
 
 All that he could of energy and time 
 
 To save the State, himself among the rest. 
 
 Wherefore, he said (it is the common form), 
 
 He was prepared to leave no stone unturned, 
 
 Lest haply there might lurk beneath that stone 
 
 A chance of triumph ; he had placed his hand 
 
 Firm to the plough, and would not cast a look 
 
 Behind him ; if his friends would only march 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, casting feuds aside, 
 
 Nothing could stop them : they were bound to win. 
 
 Thereon he took his cheque-book and subscribed 
 
 To fifteen cricket clubs, to twenty-three 
 
 Dissenting chapels, sixteen Church bazaars, 
 
 Twelve football clubs, and presently became 
 
 Oddfellow, Buffalo, and Heart of Oak, 
 
 Free Gardener, Loyal Shepherd, Forester, 
 
 And Ancient Druid and much else beside ; 
 
 And having platformed here and platformed there, 
 
 And spoken neither wisely nor too well, 
 
 Was in the end triumphantly returned 
 
 Head of the poll, and so the land had peace. 
 
 A genial man was Buffertop : 
 
 He never put a side on. 
 In Parliament he did not drop 
 
 The friends he first relied on.
 
 124 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 He worked upon a simple plan 
 
 Of modest self-effacement. 
 He did not seem to be a man 
 
 For office or for place meant. 
 He did not shine in brilliant deeds, 
 
 But, like a man of sense, he 
 Became devoted to the needs 
 
 Of his Constituency. 
 He knew his borough through and through 
 
 He was amongst the rare men 
 Who knew the Aldermen, and knew 
 
 His Presidents and Chairmen. 
 And so this vale of tears became 
 
 To him a Vale of Tempe, 
 A place of joy that loved the name 
 
 Of " Buffertop, our M.P." 
 His understanding, I confess, 
 
 Was what the world calls tacit 
 But, though his talk was valueless, 
 
 His smile was quite an asset. 
 With smiles the man was seen to glow 
 
 When other men looked sadly, 
 Whenever things appeared to go 
 
 Immoderately badly. 
 Whate'er he felt when most depressed 
 
 By gloominess, he hid it. 
 He always tried to smile his best, 
 
 And generally did it. 
 
 Such men are always loved in Parliament ; 
 Their merits far outshine the fitful gleams
 
 THE RIGHT HON. ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP. 125 
 
 Of the uneasy spirits who arise 
 
 Time after time to catch the Speaker's eye, 
 
 And rail at Governments, and hurl their shafts 
 
 Of satire full in an opponent's face, 
 
 Saying, " What men are these who thus conspire 
 
 Against the safety of our well-loved land ; 
 
 These indolent and miserable men, 
 
 Lapped in the ease of great emoluments, 
 
 Who see the country totter to its fall, 
 
 And never raise a hand to draw it back ; 
 
 Nay, rather, with a treacherous intent, 
 
 Impel it to destruction ; wretched slaves 
 
 Who proudly clank their fetters, and prepare 
 
 Chains for the limbs of freedom-loving men ? " 
 
 And some men cheer, and others, in despair, 
 
 Cry, " 'Vide, Vide, 'vide ! " or rise and shake their fists, 
 
 Implying that the frothy orator 
 
 Is no whit better than the men he scorns. 
 
 And some there are, sharp fighters high in place, 
 
 Who, having to expound a policy, 
 
 Are not contented to explain at ease 
 
 Their scheme, but turn upon the other side, 
 
 And taunt it, crying, " Lo ! these men, who now 
 
 Oppose my policy, were once themselves 
 
 Keen workers for the end I have in view. 
 
 They failed, and now maliciously they strive 
 
 Against my policy I should say ours, 
 
 For it is our united policy. 
 
 And we are those that flinch not, but pursue 
 
 Our nobler purpose with an energy 
 
 Higher than theirs, and with a pure design,
 
 126 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Which, by its contrast, makes their paltry schemes 
 
 Muddy and foul ; the true-souled patriot 
 
 Is here upon these benches ; he who speaks 
 
 Knows what he speaks of." Then, with dauntless mien, 
 
 Raking the Hansard dust-heaps, they contrive 
 
 To prove the Opposition but a mass 
 
 Of suicidal inconsistencies ; 
 
 And, on the other hand, themselves appear 
 
 Firm and unwavering, patriotic, true, 
 
 Devoted to their King and fatherland. 
 
 But Buffertop held on his way : 
 
 He was born for the humdrum and stock work ; 
 He came to the House every day, 
 
 And applauded and voted by clock-work. 
 
 The record of voting he burst : 
 
 When the lists had been faithfully reckoned, 
 It was found that Adolphus was first, 
 
 With a very inferior second. 
 
 The knowledge and talents that were 
 
 The pride of his friends in the City, 
 He joyfully brought them to bear 
 
 On the business that's done in Committee. 
 
 And at length, as the years went along, 
 
 Men said, when they met and discussed him, 
 
 " We don't say he's brilliant or strong, 
 
 But he's safe, and we like him and trust him.
 
 THE RIGHT HON. ADOLPHUS BUFFERTOP. 127 
 
 "He is never sarcastic or coarse, 
 
 And he never attemps to be funny ; 
 But he works every day like a horse, 
 
 And, in fact, he's the man for our money." 
 
 Every detail or ruling he knew, 
 
 No man was so clearly a dab in it. 
 Till at last which was felt as his due 
 
 He was given a seat in the Cabinet. 
 
 And then in quick succession he became 
 
 He who was once the wool trade's ornament 
 
 War Minister, Colonial Minister, 
 
 And lastly Chancellor of the Exchequer 
 
 And leader of the House ; and men declared 
 
 No man had ever led it with a hand 
 
 So firm and yet so pleasantly applied. 
 
 And some wrote letters to the newspapers 
 
 And said, " We knew this man in early life, 
 
 And even as a lad he showed the signs 
 
 Of greatness, and his brow was born to bear 
 
 The wreath reserved for those who guard the State." 
 
 Such then was Buffertop, nay is, for still, 
 
 As all men know, he lives and works and smiles. 
 
 And some day, when his toil is done, the King 
 
 Will make him peer, and send him to the Lords.
 
 128 
 
 IV. 
 HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER. 
 
 SOME time ago, with nothing much to do, 
 
 It chanced that I was wandering through the City. 
 
 Something there was I wanted to put through, 
 But could not think of it, the more's the pity. 
 
 These great resolves which have no base to stand on 
 
 Are hard to act on, easy to abandon. 
 
 What hope inspired me ? Whither was I bound ? 
 
 Why had I left my West-End fellow-mortals ? 
 What brought me to the consecrated ground, 
 
 Close to the Mansion House's massive portals ? 
 I could not say I might have been a dumb thing 
 But well I knew that there had once been something. 
 
 Ranged in a line, the buses seemed to fret 
 The City constable, their kind instructor ; 
 
 While each one's pole so closely were they set 
 All but impaled the previous one's conductor. 
 
 And all the busmen looked most unseraphic, 
 
 Thus blocked and hindered in the seething traffic.
 
 HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER. 1 29 
 
 I saw the brokers hurrying on their way, 
 
 Swift past the corners where the cunning touts hide ; 
 I saw promoters pouncing on their prey ; 
 
 I saw the Stock Exchange at least its outside. 
 I heard the jobbers coax and curse and wheedle ; 
 I saw the Bank, and, ah ! I saw its beadle. 
 
 Clerks with their downy faces too were there, 
 Sharp as the razors that they had no use for ; 
 
 And well-fed men I knew not who they were : 
 Such ignorance there's really no excuse for. 
 
 At any rate, the rather stout and balder men 
 
 I marked as Common Councillors or Aldermen. 
 
 My lingering gait, where most men seemed to race, 
 Struck me at last as something almost shameless ; 
 
 Amid this eager crowd there was no place, 
 It seemed, for one so indolently aimless. 
 
 Jostled by all this swift financial flurry, 
 
 I too, I thought, must rouse myself and hurry. 
 
 And so I scooted on like anything, 
 
 An air of resolution on my visage 
 Fashioned to make me like some merchant king 
 
 Intent to stamp himself at least on his age. 
 And in a step or two a change came o'er me, 
 And golden visions seemed to float before me. 
 
 And many other men, a motley crew, 
 
 Drawn, I suppose, by these ecstatic visions, 
 
 Along the City street were hurrying too, 
 
 Heedless of hindrance, reckless of collisions, 
 i
 
 130 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 A quest they had and a resolve to win it : 
 
 " There's something on," I thought, " and I'll be in it." 
 
 I followed one who seemed to promise pelf: 
 It came from every pore in all his fat form ; 
 
 And then, I know not how, I found myself 
 Seated upon a bench before a platform ; 
 
 And there I found what I had long been seeking, 
 
 For Herbert Wellesley Rossiter was speaking. 
 
 Who knows not Herbert ? He is of the men 
 Who made the Empire not as Romans made it, 
 
 Or Genghis Khan or Alexander, when 
 
 With fire and sword they harried and invaded. 
 
 He worked we have it in his own confessions 
 
 By giving cheques and getting fat concessions. 
 
 His mind was most inadequately stored : 
 
 At school and college he was dull and stupid. 
 
 Men he despised ; by women he was bored : 
 He did not once, in fact, give way to Cupid. 
 
 He did no work, he did not seem for play made, 
 
 This hulking lout of very common clay made. 
 
 His wit was small ; his wisdom seemed to lie 
 
 Mainly in jests that stung and jeers that hurt you. 
 
 For daily life his standard was not high : 
 
 Honour he scorned, and much derided virtue : 
 
 " Its own reward ? " he sneered, " Too low the price is ; 
 
 I much prefer the market rate for vices."
 
 HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER. 131 
 
 " Why strive, since strife makes heat ? " he said : it seemed 
 
 That money down was easier and cooler, 
 And so he drew his cheques, and paid, and dreamed 
 
 A world of dupes with Rossiter as ruler. 
 Those who outwitted him he liked, nor pitied 
 But only laughed at those whom he outwitted. 
 
 Oft had I wanted to behold this man, 
 
 Hero of countless anecdotes and stories, 
 Hear him expound some new financial plan, 
 
 Or tell the tale of all his ancient glories. 
 Till now from print I merely had inferred him, 
 And lo ! by chance I sat and saw and heard him. 
 
 Men who make Empire should not speak : the rule 
 
 Bears no exception at the present day. 
 
 Those massive thoughts which, if transformed to deeds, 
 
 Flutter the dovecotes of diplomacy, 
 
 Make nations tremble, and can carve their way 
 
 To fame and fortune on a stricken field 
 
 These thoughts, so great, so true, so numerous, 
 
 Brook not the trammels of our native tongue. 
 
 A man may think, " I'll plant the Union Jack 
 
 Triumphant on the ramparts of the foe ; 
 
 Civilisation shall attend my steps ; 
 
 Progress shall be my handmaid ; I will bring 
 
 Plenty and peace where chaos was before." 
 
 All this a man may think, but if he strives 
 
 To utter what he thinks it's ten to one 
 
 (It may be more, I am not skilled in odds) 
 
 His tongue will trip him and his words will prove
 
 132 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Traitors, and wheresoever gapes a hole, 
 
 Seen by all men, avoidable and large, 
 
 Into its depths his woful foot must plunge, 
 
 Though all the world should warn and call him back. 
 
 Of these was Rossiter, the man of cheques. 
 
 I saw him standing on the platform, flanked 
 
 By listening peers : a Duke was on his right ; 
 
 Upon his left a monied Marquis shone ; 
 
 Two Earls, three Viscounts gilded the array, 
 
 Barons and younger scions, Hons., were there, 
 
 Strewed o'er the platform thick as autumn leaves. 
 
 Rulers of Banks and princes of finance, 
 
 Men at whose nod the giddy millions flew, 
 
 Were ranged about him, and the hall was packed 
 
 From door to dais, seats and gangways, too, 
 
 Were crammed with sympathetic City men. 
 
 And in his front, before a table, sat 
 
 The keen reporters in a serried row, 
 
 Their ears intent to hear his eloquence, 
 
 Their pencils sharpened swift to write it down. 
 
 They did not seem unkind ; their look was bland, 
 
 Much like the look of ordinary men. 
 
 Their homes in Camberwell or Islington, 
 
 Clapham or Balham, Battersea or Bow, 
 
 Were cheerful homes ; they lived industrious lives, 
 
 Respected by their neighbours, went to church, 
 
 And paid their rent, and brought their children up, 
 
 And gave their wives the wherewithal to keep 
 
 Wolves from the door and victuals on the board. 
 
 Who could have thought they were so terrible 
 
 That Rossiter should fear them ? Yet they turned
 
 HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER. 133 
 
 His blood to water as they sat and wrote 
 
 There in their devilish shorthand what he spoke. 
 
 Words, words ! Where were they ? All the careful words 
 
 That he had trimmed and polished for his use ? 
 
 Forgotten like a dream, and in their stead 
 
 Danced in his brain a troop of flighty words, 
 
 Wrong, but alluring, words that beckoned him, 
 
 Saying, " Come, use me ; I am what you seek." 
 
 And this, or something like it, was his speech : 
 
 "Ahem I never thought at least, I did 
 
 But there, you know me you have heard my name 
 
 Ahem " (a voice, " Speak up I ") " It's jolly fine 
 
 To say, ' speak up,' but let the gentleman, 
 
 That is, if truly he's a gentleman, 
 
 Which " (interruption, mingled with applause) 
 
 " Well, if he wants to speak himself he can, 
 
 Not now, but later " (voices : " What about 
 
 The Blacklock Syndicate ? ") " The Syndicate 
 
 Was never better : ten per cent it paid 
 
 Last year but, let me see, I meant to say 
 
 Something what was it ? ah, I recollect, 
 
 Something about our mines in Turkestan." 
 
 ( Wild cheers, the audience shouting as one man.) 
 
 "They're pretty good eh? what? there's nothing much 
 
 The matter with the mines." (Applause.} " I say 
 
 Those who foretold their ruin are but curs, 
 
 Mean, whisky-soaking curs. I never mince 
 
 My words." (" You don't.") " I know what's what " 
 
 ("You do") 
 
 " And mean to have it all the time." (" Bravo I ") 
 " I don't think much of statesmen." (" Nor do we")
 
 134 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 " They seem to wish to stamp our commerce out 
 
 With silly theories of right and wrong. 
 
 There's not a patriot amongst them all. 
 
 I'm for the Union Jack" (" You are ! you are /") 
 
 "The good old interest-bearing Union Jack, 
 
 The flag of freedom and the badge of trade." 
 
 (Immense applause, the audience rising up 
 
 And singing "Rule Britannia?} " I'm the man 
 
 To show ahem (he drank some water here) 
 
 What was I saying ? ah I beg to move 
 
 That we adopt the Board's report, and pass 
 
 The balance-sheet which is attached thereto." 
 
 With this he ended, and sat down and wiped 
 
 His humid brow, and all the gathering 
 
 Broke in a storm of loud applause, and men 
 
 Yelled their approval, and the meeting seemed 
 
 One mad confusion of concordant cheers. 
 
 And the stout Duke who sat by Rossiter 
 
 Whispered, "Well done"; the Marquis and the Earls 
 
 And all the Barons on the platform, too, 
 
 Beamed their delight : "You didn't tell them much," 
 
 Opined the Duke, " but what you said was more, 
 
 Far more, than ample to confirm their faith." 
 
 And I too went direct and bought a bull 
 
 Of the Consolidated Turkestans, 
 
 Thus proving that though eloquence is much, 
 
 Money is more and Rossiter is great. 
 
 In many most alluring things 
 
 At which a mild man winces 
 He shone, this intimate of kings, 
 
 This bosom-friend of princes.
 
 HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER. 135 
 
 In fact, of those who played with Fate, 
 
 And boldly sought to boss it e'er, 
 No man was ever half so great 
 
 As Herbert Wellesley Rossiter. 
 He owned a private troupe of Peers, 
 
 And many a trick he taught them ; 
 He always thought in hemispheres, 
 
 And very often bought them. 
 He took a massive size in hats, 
 
 His head was so Titanic ; 
 He drank his beer and wine from vats ; 
 
 His feasts were Aldermanic. 
 He travelled fast in special trains 
 
 Wherever he was able : 
 While other men wore Albert chains, 
 
 He much preferred a cable. 
 Time had a value in his eyes, 
 
 And so its course he reckon'd 
 By watches of a soup-plate size 
 
 That struck each separate second. 
 Some simple thing like " dash " or " zounds " 
 
 He said he found it noted : 
 He would have paid a million pounds 
 
 To be less widely quoted. 
 If ever he should chance to chaff, 
 
 Or if his looks seemed solemn, 
 In paragraph on paragraph 
 
 And column after column 
 He found it down as " Painful News," 
 
 Or " Smiles that may console us," 
 Or thus " The Banner interviews 
 
 The Owner of Pactolus."
 
 136 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 His team of minor poets hymned 
 
 His praise in rather puny verse : 
 If anything, their efforts dimmed 
 
 A man who ran the universe. 
 If asked to read their stuff himself, 
 
 He muttered fiercely, " Stow it ! " 
 As great men do, he paid the pelf, 
 
 But much despised the poet. 
 Though other folk he far surpassed, 
 
 He did not ask to do so : 
 He had no wish to grow so vast ; 
 
 He simply went and grew so. 
 He never knew a single need ; 
 
 Some men whose day is over 
 Must go to grass or run to seed : 
 
 He always lived in clover. 
 At last, while all men owned him great, 
 
 His very greatness bored him ; 
 Of fame and wealth this overweight 
 
 No pleasure could afford him. 
 " My millions I must spend," said he ; 
 
 " No more I'll try to pile 'em." 
 He went and built a gallery, 
 
 And founded an asylum. 
 He made a little private war, 
 
 And very ill he made it ; 
 His army was a large one, for 
 
 He punctually paid it. 
 He advertised himself as one 
 
 Who answered begging letters ; 
 He gave a cheque to every dun 
 
 Who troubled needy debtors.
 
 HERBERT WELLESLEY ROSSITER. 137 
 
 He took a trip to Monaco, 
 
 And, though he had no mascot, 
 He couldn't waste enough, and so 
 
 He tried his luck at Ascot. 
 And yet he failed to tire his star, 
 
 Although the man was clever, 
 And, as I write, is richer far 
 
 And wretcheder than ever.
 
 138 
 
 V. 
 HOMER THEOPHILUS RENTON. 
 
 GREATNESS ! What is it ? To be born a Prince, 
 
 To pule in purple swaddling clothes and chew 
 
 With toothless gums a natal silver spoon, 
 
 Is nothing : any self-respecting babe, 
 
 If but his fate shook out the glittering chance, 
 
 Could do it, so to speak, upon his head. 
 
 How oft, unless our novelists have erred, 
 
 The babes of humble ploughmen have been changed 
 
 At birth for babes of lordly parents born. 
 
 The little changelings looked so much the same, 
 
 The high-born and the lowly : both had heads, 
 
 Legs, arms, and all that may pertain thereto. 
 
 Both had been dipped, it would appear, in port, 
 
 And had retained the colour of the wine. 
 
 Both closed their fists and in their leisure time 
 
 Sparred a brisk round or two with unseen foes. 
 
 Both yelled, and took their nourishment with zest, 
 
 Had blobs for noses, little beads for eyes, 
 
 Bats' wings for ears, and both were formed to be 
 
 The fond delight of grandmammas and aunts.
 
 HOMER THEOPHILUS KENTON. 139 
 
 In fact there was no difference, and they grew 
 Without a murmur to their changed estates. 
 Giles was a Viscount, but he scared the birds, 
 Herded the sheep, or drove a team a-field. 
 The Viscount Montgelas, his true name Giles, 
 Was swished at Eton, went to Trin. Coll. Cam., 
 And, later, drove his team to Hurlingham. 
 He took his swishings like the lord he wasn't, 
 Became a blood at Cambridge, and was famed 
 As polo-player, hunting man, and shot. 
 His talents in the House of Lords were such 
 That he was made an under secretary ; 
 And men remembered his great-grandfather, 
 And hailed him very chip o' the ancient block, 
 What time poor Giles, the true-born chip of chips, 
 Within whose veins the blood of many peers 
 Blended and ran, was ploughing steadily, 
 And sowing seed, and bringing up a brood 
 Of lusty children in his cottage home. 
 Then came the crash a foster-mother spoke, 
 Pricked by her conscience, and revealed the fraud. 
 And then but, bah ! I'm straying from my task : 
 I only meant to show that men may be, 
 If a rash foster-mother should misguide 
 Their destinies, far greater than themselves 
 Without so much as lifting up a hand. 
 These rouse no admiration in my mind, 
 Although I envy them their wealth and rank, 
 The gold-topped fittings of their dressing-bags, 
 Their rent-rolls and their horses and their lands, 
 And all their store of studs and links and pins,
 
 140 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Their valets and their footmen and their coats, 
 
 Their fancy-patterned waistcoats and their ties, 
 
 And the meek deference of men they meet ; 
 
 And, above all, the gay, the reckless ease 
 
 With which they put a penny in each slot 
 
 At railway stations on bank-holidays. 
 
 Oft have I seen them, caring not a whit 
 
 Though the false dial should declare their weight 
 
 As eighteen stone and then should make it ten, 
 
 Or even if the coin that should have drawn 
 
 A pure fruit tablet from its coy recess 
 
 Produced a box of matches to their grasp. 
 
 Yet I admire them not, but I admire 
 
 Men who achieve their greatness for themselves : 
 
 Of these was Renton, Homer T., the bard. 
 
 Poets are made : their wildly rolling eye, 
 
 Their hair, the poses which they use to bore us, 
 
 Are art's, not nature's, and they give the lie 
 To what was idly said by ancient Florus. 
 
 If metric fame from early youth they're bent on, 
 
 They make themselves : this was the case with Renton. 
 
 A Rector I have seen in early days : 
 
 He wished for things, but, having sent his wish up, 
 He worked with might and main to win such praise 
 
 As might entitle him to be a Bishop, 
 Until he realised his youthful dreaming, 
 And blossomed out, lawn -sleeved and bland and 
 beaming.
 
 HOMER THEOPHILUS RENTON. 141 
 
 Jobbers who haunt the Stock Exchange are prone 
 To raise their voice they do not often spare it. 
 
 From some exalted perch they shout alone ; 
 This is the way in which they millionaire it 
 
 They end, although their manners are not courtly, 
 
 Park-Laned and shooting-boxed and very portly. 
 
 And I have watched a barrister apply, 
 
 His subtle mind to many a complex problem. 
 
 The fees were great and his ambitions high ; 
 He knew solicitors and how to nobble 'em. 
 
 And while his arguments the Court were shaking, 
 
 I felt I saw a Law Lord in the making. 
 
 All these I knew ; but never till I met 
 Homer T. Renton had I watched a poet, 
 
 Or seen him keep his plant of metre wet 
 
 With studious water that might help to grow it. 
 
 He was, in fact, a most industrious climber 
 
 Up fame's high hill, this manufactured rhymer. 
 
 A dining club there was of men 
 
 Prepared to puff their fellows ; 
 Whoever wielded brush or pen, 
 
 The rest applied the bellows. 
 Young Renton needed wind to fan 
 
 His dull poetic embers ; 
 He much approved the purring plan, 
 
 And so he joined the members.
 
 142 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 His early efforts were not high 
 
 A Triolet, or Sonnet, 
 An Ode to Araminta's Eye, 
 
 A Ballade on her Bonnet. 
 These little tricks of sentiment 
 
 Were voted fine, but finer 
 His "Stanzas to our President 
 
 Considered as a Diner." 
 He exercised his intellect 
 
 On " Celia going Shrimping," 
 In thirty lines of poor effect, 
 
 As limp as they were limping. 
 He hymned her pink and tender toes 
 
 Divested of their stocking 
 (Of course the beggar called it " hose," 
 
 And seemed to think it shocking). 
 He praised her ankle trim and neat, 
 
 And said, about her tootsies, 
 How sweet a sight a pair of feet 
 
 Without a pair of boots is. 
 Next he composed a Villanelle 
 
 (He knew that if you rub men 
 The right way down you please them well) 
 
 On all his fellow club-men. 
 His fellow club-men cheered the lad, 
 
 His praise with praises matching ; 
 They scratched his back, for each one had 
 
 A back that wanted scratching. 
 And so in time he came to be, 
 
 Although he did his work ill, 
 The poet of a coterie, 
 
 The singer of a circle.
 
 HOMER THEOPHILUS RENTON. 143 
 
 But soon he felt ambition stir ; 
 
 Such private praise seemed stinted ; 
 He found a kindly publisher, 
 
 And got his poems printed. 
 Some poets, men of heart and soul, 
 
 The sort that fame is bright with, 
 Have private stacks of native coal 
 
 To keep their fire alight with. 
 They count no cost, but feed the flame, 
 
 However small their earning, 
 And give no heed to praise or blame 
 
 If but the fire keeps burning. 
 Our hero worked in other ways 
 
 To eke his bardic fate out : 
 Where others heaped with coal the blaze 
 
 He went and raked the grate out 
 Then, sifting through his metric sieves 
 
 These literary cinders, 
 He took some good infinitives 
 
 And split them into flinders. 
 (You see I drop the metaphor, 
 
 But metaphors are vexing ; 
 To keep them up grows more and more 
 
 Unspeakably perplexing.) 
 Of random rhymes he had a pack 
 
 By which he was outwitted 
 And dragged he couldn't call them back 
 
 Beyond what sense permitted. 
 Nay, sometimes he was cockneyfied, 
 
 And when the day was " dawning," 
 The poet all the rules defied, 
 
 And made it rhyme with " morning."
 
 144 LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 Some ravening critics left their cage 
 
 They bared their teeth for tearing 
 And took each palpitating page 
 
 And rent it past repairing. 
 They plied their most sarcastic pens 
 
 To make the poet rue it ; 
 Romeike sent the specimens, 
 
 And so the author knew it. 
 Nothing availed this first defeat 
 
 To keep the man from fighting : 
 He owned a bullet-proof conceit, 
 
 And simply went on writing. 
 Let Culture, when she hears his name, 
 
 Deny his reputation, 
 A sort of poet he became 
 
 By force of iteration. 
 And, quoted in no causerie, 
 
 Nor talked about in leaders, 
 By some strange chance he seems to be 
 
 A man of many readers.
 
 145 
 
 VI. 
 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 
 
 Transcribed freely from the Chronicles of Neh-Seh-Foo, 
 the Tartar historian. 
 
 IN Tartary a thousand years ago 
 
 There was no Cham (pronounced as in champagne). 
 
 It is an ancient honourable post, 
 
 Not equal to the chiefship, but a man 
 
 May be a Cham and then become the chief. 
 
 Wherefore desired by many men it was, 
 
 But none was reckoned fitting. Factions came, 
 
 And strove and claimed, and counterclaimed and strove 
 
 And one of them was mighty in the land, 
 
 And all but gained it. Let me here relate 
 
 What men they were, and how a clever coup 
 
 Which these had purposed passed away in smoke. 
 
 And, first, though each revolving day 
 
 Brought out a new aspirant, 
 Not one of them seemed fit to play 
 
 The leading part of tyrant.
 
 146 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 
 
 A. looked a man of strength compact, 
 
 Progressive, sound, enlightened, 
 A statesman who might sternly act 
 
 When other folk were frightened. 
 His eloquence had earned him praise 
 
 Where'er his words resounded ; 
 He had a trick of solemn phrase 
 
 Rhetorically rounded. 
 But all his warmth he hid from sight : 
 
 I question if he felt it, 
 An ice-block that reflected light, 
 
 But somehow never melted. 
 
 Poor A. ! he didn't fill the public eye 
 Of Tartary, and so they put him by. 
 The intervening letters I shall skip, 
 And, next, for F. my glowing pen I'll dip. 
 
 F. from the moment of his birth 
 
 Seemed destined to inherit 
 Good business brains and solid worth, 
 
 And every minor merit. 
 In Latin grammar days he bore 
 
 A character so pious, 
 That building Balbus pleased him more 
 
 Than wall-destroying Caius. 
 Poor Balbus by the common herd 
 
 Of boys a painful matter 
 Is usually not preferred ; 
 
 They much applaud the latter.
 
 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 147 
 
 Men said of F., when he displayed 
 
 A steadiness so sober, 
 " He will not fade as leaves do fade, 
 
 Nor die in chill October. 
 " And while he lives we guarantee 
 
 No act of his will hurt you, 
 This fashion-plate of probity, 
 
 And pattern-book of virtue." 
 And, even when his eloquence 
 
 Grew warm and eulogistic, 
 Plain platitudinous good sense 
 
 Was its characteristic. 
 His views he never quite defined : 
 
 He liked a combination. 
 You could not say he had a mind 
 
 Averse from vacillation. 
 To black he would not take his oath ; 
 
 He was by white offended, 
 Preferring grey, a tint where both 
 
 Inextricably blended. 
 In short, he was a man to trust 
 
 As always sui compos : 
 There never was a man so just 
 
 Or so superbly pompous. 
 
 Alas ! the world to solid claims is deaf : 
 It simply smiled, and wouldn't hear of F. 
 And next in order let us try to see 
 What was the view that most men held of G.
 
 148 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 
 
 G. was in truth a thing of joy, 
 
 Smooth cheek and well-set shoulder 
 He always seemed to stay a boy, 
 
 While other men grew older. 
 Delight of battle with his peers 
 
 He formerly had tasted ; 
 And now he grieved to see his years 
 
 So miserably wasted. 
 Whene'er this blossom tried to blow, 
 
 A chill wind came and shut him : 
 He seemed to be a stick, although 
 
 Not one of us had cut him. 
 Yet soon he found his chance decline, 
 
 And all his friends grow cooler : 
 They said they had to draw the line 
 
 At such a wooden ruler. 
 
 So G. remained, his blighted prospects round him 
 They left him wanting, as, in fact, they found him. 
 And, still proceeding by the alphabet 
 In order due, to H. at last we get. 
 
 H. was a man removed from strife : 
 
 With heat you could not tax him. 
 He had for every turn of life 
 
 A philosophic maxim. 
 To things that tickled you or me 
 
 His attitude was passive. 
 His mind was universally 
 
 Acknowledged to be massive.
 
 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 149 
 
 While other men of half his weight 
 
 Grew ardent or sarcastic, 
 He never failed to be sedate 
 
 And unenthusiastic. 
 When some flushed red he kept so pale 
 
 And calm that, as for me, I've 
 Oft thought of him as of a snail 
 
 Astray within a beehive. 
 And, though he took a heap of pains, 
 
 While we were dilettanti, 
 The red corpuscles in his veins 
 
 Were judged to be too scanty. 
 And so the Fates decreed his fall, 
 
 And forced us to reject him ; 
 But still we felt that we could all 
 
 Continue to respect him. 
 
 In truth, no man alive appeared to fit : 
 Either the hole was round and men were square, 
 Or, on the other hand, the hole was square, 
 The men perversely formed and wholly round, 
 I know not which, but this full well I know, 
 There was no Cham, and Tartary was sad. 
 But suddenly a wondrous rumour grew, 
 No man knew whence it came, but oh, it spread 
 Throughout the land, that Tartary at last, 
 Travailing long, had now brought forth a Cham. 
 The ' Tartar Times ' the files are there to show 
 I speak the truth announced that this was so. 
 All the rejected ones declared it true, 
 A., F., and G., and philosophic H.
 
 150 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 
 
 In fact, a Tartar chieftain seemed to be 
 
 As fairly caught as ever Tartar was. 
 
 " Who is he ? " asked the crowd. " He is," they said, 
 
 His friends, I mean, who tried to run the show, 
 
 " The most magnetic of magnetic men. 
 
 Think of the famous chiefs who in our land 
 
 Were ever great and eloquent and wise, 
 
 Witty and able, statesmanlike and just, 
 
 Noble, unselfish, patriotic, true, 
 
 Add them together, treble the result, 
 
 And you will have, approximately summed, 
 
 Him you have heard of whom you swift shall know." 
 
 "When may we meet him?" was the next request. 
 
 " Soon, soon," they said, and smiled, and went and bought 
 
 Much store of limelight, and prepared a stage ; 
 
 And paragraph on paragraph went round 
 
 Saying, " On such and such a day a man 
 
 Speaks to his fellow-men let all men come, 
 
 All who indeed are men, to hear his voice." 
 
 And on the predetermined day they came 
 
 From north, from south, from east and west in crowds, 
 
 " At last," they said, " at last ! " and, lo, they saw 
 
 High on a platform raised above their heads 
 
 The man whom most of all they yearned to see 
 
 (The lines describing the greater part of the 
 proceedings are unfortunately lost)) 
 
 " Be great, be earnest, let your hearts be turned 
 
 To wisdom, be not " What he would have said 
 
 To perorate with never will be known ; 
 For at this moment, as he waved his arms
 
 THE CHAM OF TARTARY. 151 
 
 And all men listened, came a swift collapse. 
 
 His figure shrank, there was a grating whirr, 
 
 As of machinery that finds an end 
 
 By running down two gasping clicks he gave, 
 
 Essaying still to speak, and so sank down 
 
 Prone on the platform, and the crowded hall 
 
 Swayed with emotion ; women screamed, and four, 
 
 The wives of mayors or county councillors, 
 
 Fell in a faint, and so were carried out. 
 
 It was a dreadful scene ; but when they came, 
 
 Solemn and sad, to pick the speaker up, 
 
 Lo, they discovered not a man at all, 
 
 But just a clock-work figure framed and set 
 
 By some artificer's surpassing skill 
 
 Wheels, rods, and springs all cunningly devised 
 
 And clothed that it might seem to be a man. 
 
 (A few lines, no doubt describing the resentment 
 of the multitude, are missing.) 
 
 Hence came the proverb into Tartary 
 
 " A clock-work man who wants to be sublime 
 
 Must be well wound, or else he'll waste his time. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
 
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