'Not,' I almost shrieked, 'my favourite poet, the author of "Lord 'a Muzzy don't you fret. Missed we De Wet. Missed we De Wet"?'

Theodormon became very grave. 'We do not know any of their names,' he said. 'I will show you, presently, the Morgue. Perhaps you will be able to identify some of your friends. The Coroner has refused to open an inquest until Mr. John Lane can attend to give his evidence.'

I saw the Poet Laureate trying very hard to swim on his back. Another poet was sitting down on the marble floor so that the water might at least come up to his neck. Gazing disconsolately into the pellucid shallows I saw the revered and much-loved figures of Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr.

Austin Dobson, and Mr. Edmund Gosse. 'Going for a dip?' said Theodormon.

'Thanks, we don't care about paddling,' Mr. Lang retorted.

'I hope it is not _always_ so shallow,' I said to my guide.

'Oh, no; we have a new water-supply, but as the spring is in the nature of a public place, we won't turn on the fresh water until people have learnt to appreciate what is good. That handsome little marble structure which you see at the end of the garden is really the _new_ Castalian Spring. At all events, that is where all the miracles take place. The old bath is terribly out of repair, in spite of plumbing.'

We then inspected a very neat little apartment mosaiced in gold. Round the walls were attractive drinking-fountains, and on each was written the name of the new water--I mean the new poet. Some of them I recognised: Laurence Binyon, A. E. Housman, Sturge Moore, Santayana, Arthur Symons, Herbert Trench, Henry Simpson, Laurence Housman, F. W. Tancred, Arthur Lyon Raile, William Watson, Hugh Austin.

'You see we have the very latest,' said Theodormon, 'provided it is always the best. I am sorry to say that some of the taps don't give a constant supply, but that is because the machinery wants oiling. Try some Binyon,' said my guide, filling a gold cup on which was wrought by some cunning craftsman the death of Adam and the martyrdom of the Blessed Christina. I found it excellent and refreshing, and observed that it was cheering to come across the excellence of sincerity and strength at a comparatively new source . . .

Mr. Swinburne was seated in an arbour of roses, clothed in a gold dalmatic, a birthday gift from his British Peers. Their names were embroidered in pearls on the border. I asked permission to read my address:--

There beats no heart by Cam or Isis (Where tides of poets ebb and flow), But guards Dolores as a crisis Of long ago.

A crisis bringing fire and wonder, A gift of some dim Eastern Mage, A firework still smouldering under The feet of middle age.

For you could love and hate and tell us Of almost everything, You made our older poets jealous, For you alone could sing.

In truth it was your splendid praises Which made us wake To glories hidden in the phrases Of William Blake.

No boy who sows his metric salads His tamer oats, But always steals from Swinburne's ballads The stronger notes.

'Do you play golf?' said Mr. Swinburne, handing me two little spheres such as are used in the royal game. And I heard no more; for I received a blow--whether delivered by Mr. Swinburne or the ungrateful Theodormon I do not know, but I found myself falling down the gulf of oblivion, and suddenly, with a dull thud, I landed on the remains of Howlgla.s.s. The softness of his head had really preserved me from what might have been a severe shock, because the distance from Parna.s.sus to Fleet Street, as you know, is considerable, and the escalade might have been more serious. I reached my rooms in Half Moon Street, however, having seen only one star, with just a faint nostalgia for the realms into which for one brief day I was privileged to peep.

(1906.)

A MISLAID POET.

In the closing years of my favourite last century, when poetry was more discussed than it is now (at all events as a marketable commodity), few verse-writers were overlooked. Bosola's observation about 'the neglected poets of your time' could not be quoted with any propriety. Mr. John Lane would make long and laborious journeys on the District Railway, armed _bag-a-pied_, in order to discover the new and unpublished. Now he has shot over all the remaining preserves; laurels and bays, so necessary for the breed 'of men and women over-wrought,' have withered in the London soot. There was one bright creature, however, who escaped his rifle; she was brought down by another sportsman, and thus missed some of the fame which might have attached to her had she been trussed and hung in the Bodley Head. Poaching in the library at Thelema, I came across her by accident. Her song is not without significance.

In 1878 Georgiana Farrer mentioned on page 190 of her _Miscellaneous Poems_, 'I am old by sin entangled;' but this was probably a pious exaggeration. Only some one young and intellectually very vigorous could have penned her startling numbers. I suggest that she retained more of her youth than, from religious motives, she thought it proper to admit.

In the 'eighties, when incense was burned in drawing-rooms, and people were talking about 'The Blessed Damozel,' she could write of Paradise:--

A home where Jesus Christ is King, A home where e'en Archangels sing, Where common wealth is shared by all, And G.o.d Himself lights up the Hall.

She was philosemite, and from the reference to Lord Beaconsfield we can easily date the following:--

You who doubt the truth of Scripture, Pray tell me, then, who are the Jews?

Scattered in all lands and nations, Pray why their evidence refuse?

It seems to me you must be blind; Are they not daily gaining ground?

We find them now in every land, And well-nigh ruling all around.

Their music is most sweet to hear; Jews were Rossini and Mozart, Mendelssohn, too, and Meyerbeer; Grisi in song could charm the heart.

The funds their princes hold in hand; Their merchants trade both near and far; Ill-used and robbed they long have been, Yet wealthy now they surely are.

In Germany who has great sway?

Prince Bismarck, most will answer me; Our own Prime Minister retains A name that shows his pedigree.

Who after this will dare to say They nought in these strange people see; Do they not prove the Scripture true, And throw a light on history?

The twenty-five years that have elapsed since the poem was written must have convinced those innocent persons who 'saw nought' in our Israelitish compatriots. I never heard before that Prince Bismarck or Mozart was of Jewish extraction!

Mrs. Farrer was, of course, an evangelical, somewhat old-fashioned for so late a date; and fairly early in her volume she warns us of what we may expect. She is anxious to damp any undue optimism as to the lightness of her muse. When worldly, foolish people like Whistler and Pater were talking 'art for art's sake,' she could strike a decisive didactic blow:--

My voice like thunder may appear, Yet oft-times I have shed a tear Behind the peal, like rain in storm, To moisten those I would reform.

Then pardon if my stormy mood, Instead of blighting, does some good.

Sooner a thunder-clap, think me, Than sunstroke sent in wrath on thee.

With a splendid Calvinism, too rare at that time, she would not argue beyond a _certain_ limit; there was an edge, she realised, to every platform; an ounce of a.s.sertion is worth pounds of proof. Religious discussion after a time becomes barren:--

Then hundredfolds to sinners Must be repaid in h.e.l.l.

If you think such men winners, We disagree. Farewell.

But to the person who _is_ right (and Mrs. Farrer was never in a moment's doubt, though her prosody is influenced sometimes by the sceptical Matthew Arnold) there is no mean reward:--

I sparkle resplendent, A star in His crown, And glitter for ever, A gem of renown.

From internal evidence we can gauge her social position, while her views of caste appear in these radical days a trifle _demode_. Her metaphors of sin are all derived from the life of paupers:--

Paupers through their sinful folly Are workers of iniquity, Living on Jehovah's bounty, Wasting in abject poverty.

A pauper's funeral their end, No angels waft their souls on high; Rich they were thought on earth, perhaps, Yet far from wealth accursed they lie.

Who are the rich? G.o.d's Word declares, The men whose treasure is above-- Those humble working _gentlefolk_ Whose life flows on in deeds of love.

Despised in life I may remain, Misunderstood by rich and poor; An entrance yet I hope to gain To wealthy plains on endless sh.o.r.e.

No paupers in that heavenly land, The sons of G.o.d are rich indeed; His daughters all His treasures share; It will their highest hopes exceed.

Those paupers who are 'saved' are rewarded by material comforts such as graced the earthly home of Georgiana herself, one of the 'humble working _gentlefolk_.' She enjoys her own fireside with an almost Pecksniffian relish, and she profoundly observes, as she sits beside her hearth:--

Like forest trees men rise and grow: Good timber some will prove, Others decayed as fuel piled, Prepared are for that stove

That burns for ever, Tophet called, Heated by jealous heat, Adapted to destroy all chaff, And leaves unscorched the wheat.

Excellent Georgiana! She could not stand very much chaff of any kind, I suspect.