Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South!

This granite covers him whose golden mouth Made wiser ev'n the Word of Wisdom's King: Blow softly over Omar's Western herald Till roses rich of Omar's dust shall spring From richer dust of Suffolk's rare FitzGerald.

I must now quote another of Mr. Watts-Dunton's East Anglian poems, partly because it depicts the weird charm of the Norfolk coast, and partly because it ill.u.s.trates that sympathy between the poet and the lower animals which I have already noted. I have another reason: not long ago, that good East Anglian, Mr. Rider Haggard interested us all by telling how telepathy seemed to have the power of operating between a dog and its beloved master in certain rare and extraordinary cases. When the poem appeared in the 'Sat.u.r.day Review' (December 20, 1902), it was described as 'part of a forthcoming romance.' It records a case of telepathy between man and dog quite as wonderful as that narrated by Mr. Rider Haggard:-

CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDE

The mightiest t.i.tan's stroke could not withstand An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote How wind and tide conspire. I can but float To the open sea and strike no more for land.

Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand Her feet have pressed-farewell, dear little boat Where Gelert, {82} calmly sitting on my coat, Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!

All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear: Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide- These death-mirages o'er the heaving tide- Showing two lovers in an alcove clear, Will break my heart. I see them and I hear As there they sit at morning, side by side.

THE FIRST VISION

_With Raxton elms behind-in front the sea_, _Sitting in rosy light in that alcove_, _They hear the first lark rise o'er Raxton Grove_; '_What should I do with fame_, _dear heart_?' _says he_.

'_You talk of fame_, _poetic fame_, _to me_ _Whose crown is not of laurel but of love_- _To me who would not give this little glove_ _On this dear hand for Shakspeare's dower in fee_.

_While_, _rising red and kindling every billow_, _The sun's shield shines_ '_neath many a golden spear_, _To lean with you against this leafy pillow_, _To murmur words of love in this loved ear_- _To feel you bending like a bending willow_, _This is to be a poet_-_this_, _my dear_!'

O G.o.d, to die and leave her-die and leave The heaven so lately won!-And then, to know What misery will be hers-what lonely woe!- To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave To life though Destiny has bid me go.

How shall I bear the pictures that will glow Above the glowing billows as they heave?

One picture fades, and now above the spray Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers Where that sweet woman stands-the woodland flowers, In that bright wreath of gra.s.s and new-mown hay- That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours Wore angel-wings,-till portents brought dismay?

THE SECOND VISION

_Proud of her wreath as laureate of his laurel_, _She smiles on him_-_on him_, _the prouder giver_, _As there they stand beside the sunlit river_ _Where petals flush with rose the gra.s.s and sorrel_: _The chirping reed-birds_, _in their play or quarrel_, _Make musical the stream where lilies quiver_- _Ah_! _suddenly he feels her slim waist shiver_: _She speaks_: _her lips grow grey_-_her lips of coral_!

'_From out my wreath two heart-shaped seeds are swaying_, _The seeds of which that gypsy girl has spoken_- '_Tis fairy gra.s.s_, _alas_! _the lover's token_.'

_She lifts her fingers to her forehead_, _saying_, '_Touch the twin hearts_.' _Says he_, "_Tis idle playing_': _He touches them_; _they fall_-_fall bruised and broken_.

Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea, And quail like him of old who bowed the knee- Faithless-to billows of Genesereth?

Did I turn coward when my very breath Froze on my lips that Alpine night when he Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me, While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath?

Each billow bears me nearer to the verge Of realms where she is not-where love must wait.- If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate, To come and help me, or to share my fate.

Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge.

[The dog, plunging into the tide and striking towards him with immense strength, reaches him and swims round him.]

Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of paw Here gazing like your namesake, 'Snowdon's Hound,'

When great Llewelyn's child could not be found, And all the warriors stood in speechless awe- Mute as your namesake when his master saw The cradle tossed-the rushes red around- With never a word, but only a whimpering sound To tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw.

In such a strait, to aid this gaze so fond, Should I, brave friend, have needed other speech Than this dear whimper? Is there not a bond Stronger than words that binds us each to each?- But Death has caught us both. 'Tis far beyond The strength of man or dog to win the beach.

Through tangle-weed-through coils of slippery kelp Decking your s.h.a.ggy forehead, those brave eyes Shine true-shine deep of love's divine surmise As hers who gave you-then a t.i.tan whelp!

I think you know my danger and would help!

See how I point to yonder smack that lies At anchor-Go! His countenance replies.

Hope's music rings in Gelert's eager yelp!

[The dog swims swiftly away down the tide.

Now, life and love and death swim out with him!

If he should reach the smack, the men will guess The dog has left his master in distress.

You taught him in these very waves to swim- 'The prince of pups,' you said, 'for wind and limb'- And now those lessons, darling, come to bless.

ENVOY

(The day after the rescue: Gelert and I walking along the sand.)

'Twas in no glittering tourney's mimic strife,- 'Twas in that b.l.o.o.d.y fight in Raxton Grove, While hungry ravens croaked from boughs above, And frightened blackbirds shrilled the warning fife- 'Twas there, in days when Friendship still was rife, Mine ancestor who threw the challenge-glove Conquered and found his foe a soul to love, Found friendship-Life's great second crown of life.

So I this morning love our North Sea more Because he fought me well, because these waves Now weaving sunbows for us by the sh.o.r.e Strove with me, tossed me in those emerald caves That yawned above my head like conscious graves- I love him as I never loved before.

In these days when so much is written about the intelligence of the lower animals, when 'Hans,' the 'thinking horse,' is 'interviewed' by eminent scientists, the exploit of the Second Gelert is not without interest. I may, perhaps, mention a strange experience of my own. The late Betts Bey, a well-known figure in St. Peter's Port, Guernsey, had a fine black retriever, named Caro. During a long summer holiday which we spent in Guernsey, Caro became greatly attached to a friend, and Betts Bey presented him to her. He was a magnificent fellow, valiant as a lion, and a splendid diver and swimmer. He often plunged off the parapet of the bridge which spans the Serpentine. Indeed, he would have dived from any height. His intelligence was surprising. If we wished to make him understand that he was not to accompany us, we had only to say, 'Caro, we are going to church!' As soon as he heard the word 'church' his barks would cease, his tail would drop, and he would look mournfully resigned.

One evening, as I was writing in my room, Caro began to scratch outside the door, uttering those strange 'woof-woofs' which were his canine language. I let him in, but he would not rest. He stood gazing at me with an intense expression, and, turning towards the door, waited impatiently. For some time I took no notice of his dumb appeal, but his excitement increased, and suddenly a vague sense of ill seemed to pa.s.s from him into my mind. Drawn half-consciously I rose, and at once with a strange half-human whine Caro dashed upstairs. I followed him. He ran into a bedroom, and there in the dark I found my friend lying unconscious. It is well-nigh certain that Caro thus saved my friend's life.

Chapter VIII LONDON

BETWEEN Mr. Watts-Dunton and the brother who came next to him, before mentioned, there was a very great affection, although the difference between them, mentally and physically, was quite noticeable. They were articled to their father on the same day and admitted solicitors on the same day, a very unusual thing with solicitors and their sons. Mr.

Watts-Dunton afterwards pa.s.sed a short term in one of the great conveyancing offices in London in order to become proficient in conveyancing. His brother did the same in another office in Bedford Row; but he afterwards practised for himself. Mr. A. E. Watts soon had a considerable practice as family solicitor and conveyancer. Mr. Hake identifies him with Cyril Aylwin, but before I quote Mr. Hake's interesting account of him, I will give the vivid description of Cyril in 'Aylwin':-

"Juvenile curls cl.u.s.tered thick and short beneath his wideawake. He had at first struck me as being not much more than a lad, till, as he gave me that rapid, searching glance in pa.s.sing, I perceived the little crow's feet round his eyes, and he then struck me immediately as being probably on the verge of thirty-five. His figure was slim and thin, his waist almost girlish in its fall. I should have considered him small, had not the unusually deep, loud, manly, and sonorous voice with which he had accosted Sinfi conveyed an impression of size and weight such as even big men do not often produce. This deep voice, coupled with that gaunt kind of cheek which we a.s.sociate with the most demure people, produced an effect of sedateness ... but in the one glance I had got from those watchful, sagacious, twinkling eyes, there was an expression quite peculiar to them, quite inscrutable, quite indescribable."

Cyril Aylwin was at first thought to be a portrait of Whistler, which is not quite so outrageously absurd as the wild conjecture that William Morris was the original of Wilderspin. Mr. Hake says:-

"I am especially able to speak of this character, who has been inquired about more than any other in the book. I knew him, I think, even before I knew Rossetti and Morris, or any of that group. He was a brother of Mr. Watts-Dunton's-Mr. Alfred Eugene Watts. He lived at Sydenham, and died suddenly, either in 1870 or 1871, very shortly after I had met him at a wedding party. Among the set in which I moved at that time he had a great reputation as a wit and humorist.

His style of humour always struck me as being more American than English. While bringing out humorous things that would set a dinner table in a roar, he would himself maintain a perfectly unmoved countenance. And it was said of him, as 'Wilderspin' says of 'Cyril Aylwin,' that he was never known to laugh." {88}

After a time Mr. Watts-Dunton joined his brother, and the two practised together in London. They also lived together at Sydenham. Some time after this, however, Mr. Watts-Dunton determined to abandon the law for literature. The brothers migrated to Sydenham, because at that time Mr.

Watts-Dunton pursued music with an avidity and interest which threatened for a time to interfere with those literary energies which it was now his intention to exercise. At that time the orchestral concerts at the Crystal Palace under Manns, given every morning and every afternoon, were a great attraction to music lovers, and Mr. Watts-Dunton, who lived close by, rarely missed either the morning or the afternoon concert. It was in this way that he became steeped in German music; and afterwards, when he became intimate with Dr. F. Hueffer, the musical critic of the 'Times,'

and the exponent of Wagner in Great Britain, he became a thorough Wagnerian.

It was during this time, and through the extraordinary social attractions of his brother, that Mr. Watts-Dunton began to move very much in London life, and saw a great deal of what is called London society. After his brother's death he took chambers in Great James Street, close to Mr.

Swinburne, with whom he had already become intimate. And according to Mr. Hake, in his paper in 'T. P.'s Weekly' above quoted from, it was here that he wrote 'Aylwin.' I have already alluded to his record of this most interesting event:-

"I have just read," he says, "with the greatest interest the article in your number of Sept. 18, 1903, called 'How Authors Work Best.'

But the following sentence in it set me reflecting: 'Flaubert took ten years to write and repolish "Madame Bovary," Watts-Dunton twenty years to write, recast, and conclude "Aylwin."' The statement about 'Aylwin' has often been made, and in these days of hasty production it may well be taken by the author as a compliment; but it is as entirely apocryphal as that about Scott's brother having written the Waverley Novels, and as that about Bramwell Bronte having written 'Wuthering Heights.' As to 'Aylwin,' I happen to be in a peculiarly authoritative position to speak upon the genesis of this very popular book. If any one were to peruse the original ma.n.u.script of the story he would find it in four different handwritings-my late father's, and two of my brothers', but princ.i.p.ally in mine.

Yet I can aver that it was not written by us, and also that its composition did not take twenty years to achieve. It was dictated to us."

Dr. Gordon Hake is mainly known as the 'parable poet,' but as a fact he was a physician of extraordinary talent, who had practised first at Bury St. Edmunds and afterwards at Spring Gardens, until he partly retired to be private physician to the late Lady Ripon. After her death he left practice altogether in order to devote himself to literature, for which he had very great equipments. As 'Aylwin' touched upon certain subtle nervous phases it must have been a great advantage to the author to dictate these portions of the story to so skilled and experienced a friend. The rare kind of cerebral exaltation into which Henry Aylwin pa.s.sed after his appalling experience in the Cove, in which the entire nervous system was disturbed, was not what is known as brain fever. The record of it in 'Aylwin' is, I understand, a literal account of a rare and wonderful case brought under the professional notice of Dr. Hake.

As physician to Rossetti, a few years after the death of his beloved wife, Dr. Hake's services must have been priceless to the poet-painter; for, as is only too well known, Rossetti's grief for the death of his wife had for some time a devastating effect upon his mind. It was one of the causes of that terrible insomnia to relieve himself from which he resorted to chloral, though later on the attacks upon him by certain foes intensified the distressing ailment. The insomnia produced fits of melancholia, an ailment, according to the skilled opinion of Dr. Hake, more difficult than all others to deal with; for when the nervous system has sunk to a certain state of depression, the mind roams over the universe, as it were, in quest of imaginary causes for the depression.

This accounts for the 'c.o.c.k and bull' stories that were somewhat rife immediately after Rossetti's death about his having expressed remorse on account of his ill-treatment of his wife. No one of his intimates took the least notice of these wild and whirling words. For he would express remorse on account of the most fantastic things when the fits of melancholia were upon him; and when these fits were past he would smile at the foolish things he had said. I get this knowledge from a very high authority, Dr. Hake's son-Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake, before mentioned-who knew Rossetti intimately from 1871 until his death, having lived under the same roof with him at Cheyne Walk, Bognor and Kelmscott. After Rossetti's most serious attack of melancholia, his relations and friends persuaded him to stay with Dr. Hake at Roehampton, and it was there that the terrible crisis of his illness was pa.s.sed.