Chapter II: New or Kodak Style (2)

"And now, gentlemen," he continued, "I must not keep you too long. Procrastination is the thief of time, eh? and besides, your boat leaves Southampton to-morrow. All expenses on the journey refunded by the Timbuctoo Bursar, on application. Are your boxes unpacked? No? Then all you have to do is to alter the labels."

"About the 'Encyclopaedia,'" said the spruce youth. "It is in three packing cases--a bit 'eavy. Will carriage be paid?"

"Oh certainly, certainly," replied the Tutor. "Of course, I _might_ relax our regulation about bonfires in the quadrangle--but no, no, I am sure you will find it most useful, even up-to-date--in Timbuctoo. _Good_ morning!"

* * * * *

The Tutor, with a sigh of relief, renewed his perusal of the "Itinerarium" of Nemesianus. Nemesianus, honest man! did not know where Timbuctoo was. Nor, for the matter of that, did the Tutor.

THE END AND OBJECT--

"It is always interesting," said my friend, Feedingspoon, "to consider the various stages of the process by which knowledge is disseminated. An inscription (we will say) or an important textual variation is discovered: it is then misinterpreted to fit a preconceived theory; then it is introduced into a cheap German edition, for the School-Use explained. Subsequently, an English school-book is copied from the German: the English commentary is imparted (by me) to undergraduates, in the form of lectures; and the undergraduates' notes are presently submitted to an examiner in the Schools, who marks them _a_--?, and says they show evidence of some original research. By how many degrees, do you suppose, is the examiner removed from the truth?"

"It depends," I said, "whether he be a D.D., an M.A., or a D.Litt. But I do not understand the necessity of the lecturer. Cannot your undergraduate read the English book for himself?"

"No," he replied, "he cannot. There are, of course, exceptional persons. But the ordinary man's mind is so constructed that he is incapable of comprehending that which is seen by the eyes unless it be also heard by the ears. Moreover, when he is not safely shut up in a lecture-room, he is almost always compelled to be either eating, or playing football, or meeting his maternal uncle at the station. Lastly, if the student could read for himself, there would be no need of a lecturer: which is absurd.

"Such being the admitted theory of education," continued Feedingspoon, "I feel that I am necessary to the machinery of the Universe. The position which I occupy is at the same time one of some labour. This morning, for instance, I rose late (having been occupied till past midnight in reading to my pupils selections from the _Poetics_ of Aristotle, in order that they might sleep soundly and wake refreshed): hence, I was unable to follow my usual practice, which is, to call my alumni at 6.30, to accompany them in a walk before breakfast, and map out the scheme of reading which they are to follow until luncheon. I only trust that this isolated omission of a plain duty may not wreck their futures! As a result of my somnolence, I had but ten minutes in which to prepare two lectures on subjects of which I had previously been ignorant; but, thanks to Mr. Gow's _Handbook to School Classics_--a work with which my pupils are unfamiliar because I have not yet told them to read it--I succeeded in displaying an erudition which, in the circumstances, was creditable. Since the conclusion of my lectures, I have been employed in visiting the candidates whom I am preparing for examination, and encouraging them to continue their studies. Personal attention is indispensable to the true educator. But I must confess that I am somewhat dashed and embarrassed by the receipt of a request from Tomkins, a scholar of this College, that I should discontinue my daily inspection of his reading, as he wishes to have time to do some work: coupled with a letter from the Senior Tutor, who wishes to know if I do not think that a little more individual attention is advisable in the case of Tomkins. . . .

"I must now," he said, "ask you to excuse me. The representatives of my College are about to play a football match in the Parks: and although the game is one with the rules of which I have never been able to familiarize myself, and in which, between ourselves, I take no interest whatever, I conceive that my absence from the crowd of spectators might well loosen that sympathy between myself and the junior members of the College, without which they must infallibly meet the fate of the man who reads his books for himself and neglects the dictation of his Tutor. Moreover, I have to spend the later part of the afternoon in reading the Cr--, I should say, the admirable and scholarly version of Professor Jebb--to three Commoners who are taking up Sophocles for Honour Moderations."

"Your day," I said, "seems indeed to be somewhat occupied. Let me at least hope that the work which you are doing will win you the applause of the learned, and a place among the Educationists of the century."

* * * * *

On leaving Feedingspoon, it happened that the first man whom I met was Fadmonger, _the_ Fadmonger, the one with a Continental reputation. He had been ordered to play golf in the morning, and was returning from the links. As we walked together towards the North of Oxford, I was about to repeat to him the substance of my conversation with Feedingspoon. But on my mentioning the latter's name, Fadmonger interposed, and said that he really could not trust himself to speak on that subject. He then discoursed upon it at great length, using the most violent language about Obscurantism, Packed Boards, the Tutorial Profession, Sacrifice of Research to Examination, Frivolous Aims and Obsolete Methods, and the like.

"What," he cried indignantly, "are we to think of a curriculum--so called--which includes the _Republic_ of Plato and excludes the _Onomasticon_ of Julius Pollux?"

"Assuredly," I replied, "there can be only one opinion about it."

"Exactly," he said; "you are one of the few sensible men I know. Our methods, I can tell you, are getting us into serious discredit abroad. I should just like you to hear the things which are said about Literae Humaniores by Professor Jahaleel Q. Potsherds of Johns Hopkins, and Doctor Grabenrauber of Weissnichtwo. They think very little of this University at Johns Hopkins."

"Indeed," I said; "I am pained to hear it."

"Yes," replied Fadmonger; "it worries me a good deal. I have almost resolved to give up the rest of my lectures for the Term, and go to the Riviera for a complete change. . . .

"No," he continued, after a pause, "there is nothing to be hoped from the College Tutor. Obscurantist he is, and obscurantist he will remain: he is our great impediment to serious study--study, that is, of anything except so-called classical texts. It is to the young student that we must look for salvation. Do you know young Frawde of my College? I have had most interesting talks with him--a really able man, but of course quite misunderstood by his tutors: able men always are."

"He is, I suppose," said I, "reading for a Final Honour School."

"Of course he is doing nothing of the kind," Fadmonger replied with some warmth. "In the present degraded condition of Honour Greats it is quite unworthy of a serious student. He is at present preparing to take a pass degree: and after that he thinks of going abroad to devote himself seriously to a course of Tymborychology. A most interesting young man, with admirably sound ideas on the present state of the Schools. . . ."

* * * * *

It happens that I know Frawde: and when I next met him I commented with some surprise on his new departure. Frawde was quite candid, and said it had been necessary to do something in order to patch up his much-ploughed character before Collections. He had been plausible, and Fadmonger credulous.

"And really, you know, the Fadder wasn't half a bad chap"--he had given Frawde a recommendation to read in the Bodder--"and I am going there too," said the serious student, "as soon as I can find out where it is: but nobody seems to know. After all, lots of chaps go abroad after their degraggers: why shouldn't I have a spade and dig in Egypt or Mesopotamia or somewhere, same as anybody else? Eh?"

And, upon my word, I really don't see why he shouldn't.

THE TORTURED TUTOR: A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD

"The question is," said Pluto to the deceased Tutor, "which of our penalties we can assign to you. Something you must have, you know: it's the rule of the place."

"Sorry to hear you say so," replied the Tutor. "I _had_ hoped that perhaps I might be allowed a little quiet to enjoy the pleasant warmth--my doctor really sent me here as an alternative to Algiers--and possibly throw in a little journalistic work which would advertise you in the evening papers. You're not known enough up there."

"Not known? Why, surely you yourself must often have been recommended to--"

"Of course, of course," the Tutor hastily interrupted,--"but not by any one whose opinion or advice I at all respected. Whereas if I might just have leisure to look round and jot things down, now that I am here, I could put you in touch with specialists who--"

"Now, look here," said the Monarch, "if you're going to stay here at all, you must please to remember that this isn't a University. I simply won't have idlers loafing round wasting their own time and demoralizing society with their lazy habits. Pardon my abruptness" (he continued, more mildly), "but with all the exclusiveness in the world I can't prevent our getting a little mixed now and then, and if people come here with academic ideas I really couldn't be responsible for order and morality. We should be as Anglo-Indian as Olympus in no time."

"Very true! very true!" said the Shade. "I quite see. Satan finds some mischief still--eh? as I used to say when I was a Dean. Since you really insist on it, I suppose there _had_ better be some trifling torture by way of occupation. Only look here--it mustn't be any of the things I used to do up above. Quite absurd, you know, to go on reading the same books you did at school--no, I mean, to be made to continue on the same old lines I followed before I came up--down, I should say. It's so monotonous, and it isn't improving."

"Well," said Pluto, "we'll see what can be done, on that assumption. It does rather limit possibilities, though, doesn't it? You see I have to confess that, considering it's the nineteenth century, we are a little behind the times--no great variety in the matter of punishments."

"Why don't you bring them up to date?" asked the visitor.

"Practically," he replied, "it's a question of expense. With funds, I could do much more. Roasting over a slow fire, for instance, is good: they have that in another place: but just think of the coal bill! Then viva-voceing and vivisecting without anaesthetics are of course admirable; but the cost of expert labour involved would be ruinous. Result is, that nearly all my penalties are self-acting and consequently simple in design; and, on the whole, except in the case of _blases_ people who come here with a too varied experience, they answer tolerably well."

"All right," said the Tutor, "suggest an occupation."

"Let me see," said the Ruler of the Shades, and he pondered a few moments. "How would it be, now, if you were to take a turn with our friend Sisyphus? He rolls a big stone up a hill, and just as he thinks it's going to get to the top, down it comes again--most disappointing. Quite inexpensive, and very healthy, _I_ should say, and really, as an object-lesson in the force of gravity, not uninstructive."

"Won't do at all," replied the Tutor. "In the Vacations I was always walking up hills and having to come down before I got to the top. Then in the Term I used to teach Logic to passmen; and really, if you think--"

"Yes, yes," Pluto agreed; "the occupations would be practically identical. Of course, that won't suit you. Well, then, there's Ixion, who goes round on a wheel."

"I'm a bicyclist myself," objected the Tutor.

"Are you? Pity, too, because Ixion says his wheel's old-fashioned; he wants a new one with pneumatic tyres warranted puncturable, which shows that he is really entering into the spirit of the thing. You might have had his old one for a song, I'm sure. However, what do you say to calling on those Danaid girls, and getting them to teach you their little industry? There, again, you have simplicity itself. Take a can with a hole in the bottom, go on pouring water into it--"

"I thought I told you," murmured the deceased, wearily, "that I have followed the profession of teaching."

"Very true; I had forgotten. Don't know what we can do to suit you, really! Perhaps you'd like to imitate Theseus--_sedet aeternumque sedebit_, as Virgil said. Astonishing how Virgil picked these details up! There's old Theseus, sitting like a hen. They say he's as tired of sitting as if he were a rowing-man."

"As an ex-member of the Board of the Faculty of Arts--" began the Tutor.

"Ah, dear me!" replied Pluto. "Then that won't do either? Those Boards must be excellent from my point of view. I have often wished I had one or two down here. But I'm really afraid we're getting to the end of the list. And, you know, if we can't provide you with anything, back you'll have to go. _I_ won't keep you, eating your head off. But, talk of eating! shall I put you up beside Prometheus, and ask his eagle to do a little overtime work by taking a turn at your liver? I am afraid we could hardly stand you a private eagle all to yourself. It is said to be quite painful; I really don't think you can have gone through that, with all your experience."

"Oh yes I have," returned the Tutor; "a long course of Hall dinners has familiarized me with every possibility in the way of liver trouble. The eagle business would be the merest _crambe repetita_."

"Bless the man!" cried Pluto, justly provoked. "Very well; then you can't stay here, that's all. I've given you all the alternatives Hades has at its disposal, and you tell us you have been through them all in your University! All I can say is, you had better go back to it, and stay there."

"The Bursar," said the Tutor, "will not be best pleased to see me again. He thinks he has got my Fellowship, and is going to use it for the benefit of the College farms. I can tell you he won't like it one bit when I reappear at the College Meeting."

"The Bursar and I shall have plenty of time for an explanation--later," said Pluto.

THE DIFFICULTIES OF MR. BULL {77}

I have been a good deal distressed lately by the reverses of my friend John Bull, who is one of the leading tradesmen in this town. Everybody knows his establishment. It does a very large business indeed: you can get practically everything there--coals, Lee-Metford rifles, chocolate, biscuits, steam-engines, Australian mutton, home and colonial produce of every kind, in short. My old friend is tremendously proud of his shop, which, as he says, he has made what it is by strict honesty (and really for an enterprising tradesman he is fairly honest) and attention to business principles. He has put a deal of capital into it, and spares no expense in advertising; in fact, he keeps a regular department for poetry, which is written on the premises and circulated among customers and others, and explains in the most beautiful language that the house in Britannia Road is the place to go to for everything. John, who prides himself on his literary taste, considers this to be the finest poetry ever written; and Mrs. Bull reads it out to him in the evening before he has his regular snooze after supper.

Everything was going on swimmingly until this unfortunate Hooligan trouble began. I must explain to you that Mr. Bull owns a great deal more property than the actual premises where he transacts business. Somehow or other, in course of time he has become the proprietor of bits and scraps all over the town and suburbs--tenements, waste lands, eligible building sites, warehouses, and what not--the whole making up what, if it was put together, would be a very considerable estate. How it all came into John Bull's hands nobody knows properly; indeed, I don't think he does himself. Some of it was bought, and bought pretty dear too. Some of it was left to him. A good deal of it he--one doesn't like using the word, but still--well, in fact, took; but, mind you, he always took everything for its good, and for the ultimate benefit of society, not for any selfish reasons; so that to call Mr. Bull a pirate, as Dubois does who keeps the toy-shop over the way, is manifestly absurd. Anyhow, it is a very fine property, and would be bigger still if Jonathan C., a cousin of the family, hadn't taken off a good slice which used to belong to John.

As I was saying, this property is a very large straggling affair, most of it a long way off from the shop. Its owner finds it very hard to look after every part; all the more so, because this town has no regular police, and is therefore continually troubled by gangs of roughs, who go about breaking windows and even heads, and doing damage generally. They are always giving a great deal of trouble to the Bull people; and what makes it worse is that very often they are actually tenants on the property, who ought to know better. One of these Hooligan crowds lately made a dead set against poor John; it was all the harder because to my personal knowledge he had shown himself most kind and forgiving to various members of this particular gang; and once before, when they came and broke his windows, he refused to prosecute, and simply gave them five shillings to drink Mrs. Bull's health and not do it again. That is the kind of man he is, sometimes. In spite of this indulgent and charitable treatment, they came the other day and made a raid into an outlying corner of his property and did all sorts of damage; and not content with this, they actually squatted there on land which was no more theirs than it is mine (I am thankful to say), where they insulted and even assaulted innocent passers-by, and levied blackmail on John Bull's adjacent tenants, and, in short, became the terror of the neighbourhood and a disgrace to civilization. And when Mr. Bull's watchman (I told you there is no regular police force, and everybody has to look after himself), when Thomas Atkins, I say, came with orders to turn them out, they told him to go--I hardly like to say where--and absolutely refused to stir; quite the contrary; they hid themselves behind rubbish-heaps and hoardings and such like, and threw things at Thomas; and when he tried to catch them, they ran away and hid behind more hoardings, so that when you thought they were in one place they were always somewhere else, and the poor watchman got so knocked about with stones and brickbats that the next morning, when he came round to the shop to report progress, he had a black eye, and a cut head, and a torn coat, and a nasty bruise on one of his legs. Mrs. Bull had to patch up his coat and give him some arnica and vaseline.

Poor Mr. Atkins! He is a most respectable man, and an excellent watchman, as was his father before him. It is a tradition of the Atkins family that they are as brave as lions, and do not know what fear is; but unfortunately they are not always very clever, and Thomas is a little slow at learning, and does not pick up new tricks readily. His father had a tremendous hammer-and-tongs battle with the Dubois' watchman once, right in the middle of the public street--thirty-six rounds or so they had of it--and licked him, as John Bull says, in true British style; and that is always Thomas's way, and the only thing that he understands properly; none of your underhand dodges like hiding behind places and throwing brickbats when one isn't looking. So that the Hooligan ways of fighting were quite too much for him at first. And although Mr. Bull spent a lot of money in buying him a new watchman's rattle and a very expensive second-hand truncheon, nearly as good as the best kind, still it was all no good, and Thomas couldn't turn the invaders out.

All this time you must not suppose that Mr. Bull's neighbours had nothing to say about the matter. On the contrary, they were very much interested and, I am sorry to say, pleased. Dubois the Frenchman, and Muller, the man who keeps the World's Cheap Emporium, and Alexis Ivanovitch, the big cornfactor in the next street who is always maltreating his workmen, were never tired of saying nasty things about Mr. Bull and crowing over the mishaps of Mr. Atkins. Everybody knows what a terrible quarrel there was some years ago between Muller and Dubois, and how Muller went into the toyshop and thrashed the Frenchman then and there, so that poor Dubois had to go to bed for a week, and for a long time afterwards used to go about vowing vengeance. But this didn't in the least prevent the two from fraternizing on the common ground of enmity to John Bull. They would meet--by accident, of course--just under his windows, and then Muller would say, very loud, to Dubois, "Is it not ridiculous, my friend, that this once apparently so mighty Herr Bull and his watchman should again by the Hooliganish crowd have been defeated?" Or perhaps, "This is what comes of your big businesses and your straggling premises with no one to protect them. How much better to have a small compact business (though it's not so small either, mind you) like my Emporium, by a large number of properly trained watchmen defended!" And Dubois would say,--so that it annoyed the Bull household very much indeed,--"Behold the fruits of being a pirate and a robber. Conspuez M. Atkins! Justice for ever! A bas les Juifs!" (he always says that now when he is angry--goodness only knows why). Indeed Dubois got so excited that he actually thought of breaking John's windows, though on reflection he decided that he wouldn't do it just yet. And John was very cross with Atkins and the shopboy, and even with Mrs. Bull and his son J. Wellington Bull, and caused it to be generally known that he would knock Dubois's head off for sixpence if he got the chance. Then Paddy Gilhooly, who is a tenant of the Bulls', in Hibernia Road--and a shocking bad tenant, too, who never pays any rent when he can help it, and keeps his premises in a disgraceful condition, with a lot of pigs and poultry running about in the front parlour--this Paddy must needs put his finger in the pie and turn against his own landlord, so that whenever Mr. Atkins came along Hibernia Road Paddy would put his head out of window and shout, "Hooligans for iver! More power to th' inimy! Crunchy aboo!" and other similar observations, of which no one took the least notice, because it was the way with the Gilhooly family. Still, it was very ungrateful of Paddy, after all John's kindness to him; besides being painful to Mr. Atkins, who is a near cousin of the Gilhoolys and would not wish to be disgraced by the conduct of his relations. I don't know why it is, but somehow or other Mr. Bull has not the gift of making himself generally popular. Time after time he has lent Paddy money; and as for Muller and Dubois, if they want good advice on the proper conduct of their business, they know where to come for it: but they don't seem to appreciate the privilege. In short, if it wasn't for that little bankrupt wine merchant Themistocles Papageorgios, whom John saved some time ago from the consequences of litigation with a Turkish firm, I doubt if my poor friend has one sincere wellwisher among all the townsmen.

However, I am glad to say that most of them have begun to change their tune lately, thanks to Mr. Bull's luck being on the mend. Thomas Atkins did not make a very good start, certainly; but as time went on he learnt a number of new tricks, and the violent exercise which he had to take put him into excellent training. Moreover, some cousins of the Bulls showed a very proper family spirit, and sent the eldest son, Larry, to help Mr. Atkins. So, what with Thomas being, so to speak, a new man, and Larry being very strong and active, and the shopboy coming out to lend a hand when required, the three between them began to turn the tables. They caught two or three of the marauders at last, and had them locked up; and I sincerely hope and trust that they will do the same with all the rest very soon. This seems to have produced a great change in the sentiments of Mr. Bull's fellow-citizens. Muller is not nearly so contemptuous as he used to be about Atkins; and Dubois, I suppose, has remembered that he is going to have a big summer sale this year, and that it would be very embarrassing, under the circumstances, to be embroiled with an influential person like this brave M. Bull, as he calls him now. Only Ivanovitch is still very sulky and goes on using violent expressions. I am afraid there will be trouble yet between my poor friend and the cornfactor--though goodness knows the town ought to be big enough to hold both of them. But the fact is they have both got mortgages on a china shop in the suburbs which is in a bad way financially, and it makes them as jealous of each other as possible.

Evidently this Hooligan affair is not going to last for ever; and, on the whole, if things don't get worse, Bull may congratulate himself on having done pretty well so far. But it has hit him rather hard. What with buying things for Mr. Atkins and paying him for working overtime, and having had to put up new fire-proof shutters, and sending out the shopboy away from his duties to help Atkins and Larry, he has lost a deal of money, one way and another; and besides, as he is very much afraid of this kind of thing happening again, it looks as if the whole business of the shop were going to be put on a different footing. For here is J. Wellington Bull, who was to have helped behind the counter, going out now to do watchman's duty with the others; and as likely as not the old man himself will have to take to patrolling his property instead of looking after his customers; so that, in all probability, there will be no one but Mrs. B. to see after the shop. And, as John said to me the other day, these are no times for leaving a business to be managed by old women.

He says he has seen enough of that kind of thing.

THE NATION IN ARMS

This is the tale that is told of an almost universally respected
Minister,
Who, being fully aware of the views of Continental Potentates, and
their plans ambitious and sinister,
For the better defence of his native land, and to free her from
continual warlike alarms,
Determined that he would popularize the conception (and a very good
one too) of a Nation in Arms!
Now this is the way he proceeded to fan the flame of patriot ardour--
(This metre looks at first as easy to write as blank verse, or Walt
Whitman, but is in reality considerably harder),--
He assured his crowded audience that, while everyone must deprecate a
horrid, militant, Jingoist attitude,
Not to serve one's country--at least on Saturday afternoons--was the
very blackest ingratitude:
Death on the battlefield,--or at least the expense of buying a
uniform,--was the patriots' chiefest glory;
Dulce et decorum est (said the statesman, amid thunderous cheers) pro
patria mori!
Everyone should be ready to defend his hearth and home, be it humble
cot or family mansion,
Provided always that he discouraged a tendency to Militarism and
Imperial Expansion:
That was the habit of mind which a Briton's primary duty to stifle
was,
Seeing that the country's salvation lay rather with the intelligent,
spontaneous, disinterested volunteer who didn't care how obsolete the
pattern of his rifle was:
Too much skill in shooting or drill was a perilous thing, and he did
not mean to acquire it,
For fear of alarming peace-loving Emperors and such-like by display of
a combative spirit;
Regular armies tended to that: and in view of the state of
international conditions he
Meant to cut down our own to the minimum consistent with Guaranteed
Efficiency,--
Being convinced as he was that an army recruited and trained on a
properly peaceful principle
Would be wholly (and here comes a rhyme that won't please the mere
purist, but I'm sorry to say it's the only available one) wholly, I
say, and completely invincible!
This being so, he did not propose to devise any scheme or with
cut-and-dried details to fetter a
Patriot Public which quite understood of itself that England
Expects--et cetera.
After this oratorical burst, as the country next day was informed by
about two hundred reporters,
The Right Honourable Gentleman resumed his seat amid loud and
continuous applause, having spoken for two hours and three quarters.
The Public at once declared with unanimity so remarkable that nothing
would well surpass it
That patriotic self-sacrifice was a Priceless National Asset:
No rational person, they said, could fail to be deeply impressed by
the charms
Of that truly august conception, a Nation in Arms:
To become expert in the use of strictly defensive weapons, spear or
sword, Lee-Metford, torpedo, or sabre,
Was a duty--if not for oneself, yet incumbent without any shadow of
doubt on one's neighbour;
Still there were some who might possibly urge that the world was at
peace, and the time was not ripe yet for it,--
Besides the undoubted fact that a patriot who was asked to sacrifice
his Saturday half-holiday might legitimately inquire what he was
likely to get for it;
So on the whole while they recognized quite (what a metre this is, to
be sure!) that the Minister's scheme was replete with attraction,
They decided to wait for a while (what with the danger of encouraging
a spirit of Militarism and a number of other excellent reasons) before
putting his plan into action.
Then the Continental Potentates--and if I venture at all to allude to
them, it is
Only to show how all this Nation-in-Arms business may lead to the most
regrettable extremities:
This part of my poem in short most painful and sad to a lover of peace
is,
And in fact I believe I can deal with it best by a delicate use of the
figure Aposiopesis--
However--the net result was that a time arrived when Consols went down
to nothing at all, caddies in thousands were thrown out of work and
professional footballers docked of their salary,
And several League matches had to be played at a lamentable financial
loss in the absence of the usual gallery!
Then, some time after that (it's really impossible to say what
happened in between) when business at last had resumed its usual
working,
And the nation in general was no longer engaged in painfully realistic
manoeuvres, on the Downs, between Guildford and Dorking,--
Then the public met and resolved like the person whose case is
recorded in fable
That now that the steed had been stolen (or at least suffered from
exposure to the air) it was high time to close the door of the stable;
And that never again no more should their cricket-fields, football
grounds, croquet lawns, bunkers,
Be profaned by the feet of Cossacks, Chasseurs, Bashi-Bazouks, or
Junkers;
And I don't think they talked very big about Nations in Arms, or
inscribed on their banners any particularly inspiring motto,
But they learnt to shoot and to drill, not more or less but quite
well--in spite of the dangers of Militarism--for the plain and simple
reason that they'd got to!

THE INCUBUS

Essence of boredom! stupefying Theme!
Whereon with eloquence less deep than full,
Still maundering on in slow continuous stream,
All can expatiate, and all be dull:
Bane of the mind and topic of debate
That drugs the reader to a restless doze,
Thou that with soul-annihilating weight
Crushest the Bard, and hypnotisest those
Who plod the placid path of plain pedestrian Prose:

Lo! when each morn I carefully peruse
(Seeking some subject for my painful pen)
The _Times_, the _Standard_, and the _Daily News_,
No other topic floats into my ken
Save this alone: or Dr. Clifford slates
Dogmas in general: or the dreadful ban
Of furious Bishops excommunicates
Such simple creeds as Birrell, hopeful man!
Thinks may perhaps appease th' unwilling Anglican.

Lo! at Society's convivial board
(Whereat I do occasionally sit,
In hope to bear within my memory stored
Some echo thence of someone else's wit),
Or e'er the soup hath yielded to the fish,
A heavy dulness doth the banquet freeze:
Lucullus' self would shun th' untasted dish
When lovely woman whispers, "Tell me, please,
What _are_ Denominational Facilities?"

From scenes like these my Muse would fain withdraw:
To Taff's still Valley be my footsteps led,
Where happy Unions 'neath the shield of Law
Heave bricks bisected at the Blackleg's head:
In those calm shades my desultory oat
Of Taxed Land Values shall contented trill,
Of Man ennobled by a Single Vote,--
In short, I'll sing of anything you will,
Except of thee alone, O Education Bill!

THE WORKING MAN (After seeing his Picture in the Press)

Working Man! whose psychic beauty
(Unattainable by me)
Still it is my pleasing duty
Painted by your friends to see,--
You, whose virtues ne'er can bore us,
Daily through their list we scan,
Let me swell th' admiring chorus,
Let me hymn the Working Man!

You whose Leaders, highly moral,
Always shocked by war's alarms,
Could not in their country's quarrel
Contemplate the use of arms,
Yet, should strikes provide occasion,
Then by higher promptings led
Do with more than moral suasion
Break the erring Blackleg's head:--

You, whose intellectual state is
Such that you are aiming at
Getting all your culture gratis
(Not that you're alone in that),--
Always with the strict injunction
That whate'er be false or true
Every teacher's simple function
Is to teach what pleases you:--

Not to gain by learned labour
Any sordid _quid pro quo_:
Not to rise above your neighbour
(Comrades ne'er are treated so):
Not to change your lowly station,
Not for rank and not for pelf,
Academic education
Only, only for itself,--

Yet in whose commercial dealings
Vainly we attempt to find
Those disinterested feelings
Which adorn the Student's mind,--
Seeing that, O my high-souled brothers!
There your dream of happiness
Is (like mine, and several others')
Earning more for working less!

'Tis not that I blame your getting
Anything you think you can:
'Tisn't that which I'm regretting,
Noble British Working Man!
No--although the facts I mention
Sometimes wake a mild surprise--
Still--the truth's beyond contention--
You are good, and great, and wise:

Swell my taxes: stint my fuel:
Last, to close the painful scene,
Send me, rather just than cruel,
Send me to the guillotine:
Ere the knife bisects my spinal
Cord, and ends my vital span,
This shall be my utterance final,
_Bless_ the British Working Man!

CONCERNING A MILLENNIUM

They tell me the Millennium's come
(And I should be extremely glad
Could I but feel assured, like some,
It had):
They tell me of a bright To Be
When, freed from chains that tyrants forge
By the Right Honourable D.
Lloyd George,
We shall by penalties persuade
The idle unrepentant Great
To serve (inadequately paid)
The State,--
All working for the general good,
While painful guillotines confront
The individual who could
And won't:
But horny-handed sons of toil,
Who now purvey our meats and drinks,
Our gardens devastate, and spoil
Our sinks,
Shall seldom condescend to take
That inconsiderable sum
For which they daily butch, and bake,
And plumb;
Such humble votaries of trade
No more shall follow arts like these;
Since most of them will then be made
M.P.s!

* * * * *

And can I then (with some surprise
You ask) possess my tranquil soul,
And view with calm indifferent eyes
The Poll,
While partisans, in raucous tones,
With doleful wail or joyful shout
Proclaim that Brown is in, or Jones
Is out?
I can: I do: the reason's plain:
That blissful day which prophets paint
Perhaps may come: perhaps again
It mayn't:
And ere these ages blest begin
(For Rome, I've heard historians say,
Was only partly finished in
A day)
In men of sentiments sublime
'Tis possible we yet may trace
The influence of mellowing Time
And PLACE:--
O who can tell? Ere Labour rouse
Its ever-multiplying hordes
To mend or end th' obstructive House
Of Lords,
And bid aristocrats begone,
And their hereditary pelf
Bestow with generous hand upon
Itself--
Why, Mr. George,--his threats forgot
Which Earls and Viscounts cowering hear,--
Himself may be, as like as not,
A Peer!

FORECAST

Tomkins! when revolving lustres
Thin those shining locks that now
Wreathe their hyacinthine clusters
Round your intellectual brow,--
You who in your nobler station
Still are kind enough to seek
Our political salvation
Rather more than once a week,--

Think you, will your rightful value
Still be duly understood?
Will the British Public hail you
Always great and always good?
When the Peoples fight for Freedom
And the tyrant's rage confront,
Will they call for you to lead 'em?
--No, my friend: I fear they won't.

Soon or late are Truth's apostles
Laid upon their destined shelf;
You, who talk of Ancient Fossils,
Tomkins! will be one yourself:
Dons and Men with gibe and sneer your
Ancient crusted ways will view,
Wondering oft with smile superior
What's the use of Things like you!

All the schemes that win you glory,
Meant to mend our mortal mess--
These will simply brand you Tory,
Nothing more and nothing less:
You who waked the world from slumber,
You, who shone in Progress' van,
You'll be then a mere Back Number,
Obsolete as good Queen Anne!

You I see with zeal excessive
Dying then for causes, which
Now (forsooth) you call Progressive,
In reaction's Final Ditch:
By Conservatives in caucus
(Ardent youth, reflect on that!)
Sent to stem the horrid raucous
Clamours of the Democrat . . .

No: I do not wish to quarrel
With your high exalted sense;
No: there isn't any moral--
Not of any consequence:
Only, 'neath your exhortations
Passive while we're doomed to sit,
Themes like these conduce to patience,--
And I thought I'd mention it.

PAGEANTS

My Tityrus! and is't a fact
(As wondrous facts there are)
That History's scenes thou wouldst enact
Beside the banks of Cher?
Wilt thou for pomps like these desert
Thy calm and cloistered lair,
Not quite so young as once thou wert,
Nor (pardon me) so fair?

We saw thee stalk in youthful prime
With high Proctorial mien:
We saw the majesty sublime
Which marked the Junior Dean;
O pundit grave! O sage M.A.!
Say in what happy part
Thou wilt before the crowd display
Thy histrionic art!

With cranium bald, which ne'er again
Will need the barber's shear,
Wilt thou present in Charles his train
Some long-locked Cavalier?
A sober Don for all to see
Who once didst walk abroad,
Wilt now an Ancient Briton be
And painted blue with woad?

Me from such scenes afar remove,
And hide my shuddering head
Where Nature doth in field and grove
Her fairer pageant spread:
There will I meditating lie
'Mid summer's calm delights,--
But thou wilt walk adown the High
My Tityrus,--in Tights. . . .

RULES FOR FICTION

A Novelist, whose magic art,
Had plumbed ('twas said) the human heart,
Whom for the penetrative ken
Wherewith he probed the souls of men
The Public and the Public's wife
Declared synonymous with Life,--
Sat idle, being much perplexed
What Attitude to study next,
Because he would not wholly tell
Which Pose was likeliest to sell.
To him the Muse: "Why seek afar
For things that on the threshold are?
Why thus evolve with care and pain
From your imaginative brain?
Put Artifice upon the shelf,--
Take pen and ink, and draw--Yourself!"
The author heard: he took the hint:
He photographed himself in print.
His very inmost self he drew. . . .
The critics said, "_This_ Will Not Do.
No more we recognize the art
Which used to plumb the human heart,--
This suffers from the patent vice
Of being not Art but Artifice.
'Tis deeply with the fault imbued
Of Inverisimilitude:
He's written out; his skill's forgot:
He only writes to Boil the Pot!
It is not true; it will not wash;
'Tis mere imaginative Bosh;
And if he can't" (they told him flat)
"Get nearer to the Life than that,
He will not earn the Public's pelf!"

This happens when you draw Yourself.
Or--I should say--it happens when
Such portraits are essayed by Men:
For presently a Lady came
And did substantially the same.
(Let everyone peruse this sequel
Who dreams that Man is Woman's equal),--
She with a hand divinely free
Drew what she thought herself to be:
It did not much resemble Her
In moral strength or mental stature--
Yet did the critics all aver
It simply teemed with Human Nature!

ART AND LETTERS

In that dim and distant aeon
Known as Ante-Mycenaean,
When the proud Pelasgian still
Bounded on his native hill,
And the shy Iberian dwelt
Undisturbed by conquering Celt,
Ere from out their Aryan home
Came the Lords of Greece and Rome,
Somewhere in those ancient spots
Lived a man who painted Pots--
Painted with an art defective,
Quite devoid of all perspective,
Very crude, and causing doubt
When you tried to make them out,
Men (at least they looked like that),
Beasts that might be dog or cat,
Pictures blue and pictures red,
All that came into his head:
Not that any tale he meant
On the Pots to represent:
Simply 'twas to make them smart,
Simply Decorative Art.
So the seasons onward hied,
And the Painter-person died--
But the Pot whereon he drew
Still survived as good as new:
Painters come and painters go,
Art remains _in statu quo_.

When a thousand years (perhaps)
Had proceeded to elapse,
Out of Time's primeval mist
Came an AEtiologist;
He by shrewd and subtle guess
Wrote Descriptive Letterpress,
Setting forth the various causes
For the drawings on the vases,
All the motives, all the plots
Of the painter of the pots,
Entertained the nations with
Fable, Saga, Solar Myth,
Based upon ingenious shots
At the Purpose of the Pots,
Showing ages subsequent
What the painter really meant
(Which, of course, the painter hadn't;
He'd have been extremely saddened
Had he seen his meanings missed
By the AEtiologist).

Next arrives the Prone to Err
Very ancient Chronicler,
All that mythologic lore
Swallowing whole and wanting more,
Crediting what wholly lacked
All similitude of Fact,
Building on this wondrous basis
All we know of early races;
So the Past as seen by him
Furnished from its chambers dim
Hypothetical foundations
Whence succeeding generations
Built, as on a basis sure,
Branches three of Literature,
Social Systems four (or five),
Two Religions Primitive;
So that one may truly say
(Speaking in a general way)
All the facts and all the knowledge
Taught in School and taught in College,
All the books the printer prints--
Everything that's happened since--
Feels the influence of what
Once was drawn upon that Pot,
Plus the curious mental twist
Of that AEtiologist!

But the Pot that caused the trouble
Lay entombed in earth and rubble,
Left about in various places,
In the way that early races--
Hittites, Greeks, or Hottentots--
Used to leave important Pots;
Till at length, to close the list,
Came an Archaeologist,
Came and dug with care and pain,
Came and found the Pot again:
Dug and delved with spade and shovel,
Made a version wholly novel
Of the Potman's old design
(Others none were genuine).
Pots were in a special sense
_Echt-Historisch_ Documents:
All who Error hope to stem
Must begin by studying them;
So the Public (which, he said,
Had been grievously misled)
Must in all things freshly start
From his views of Ancient Art.
All (the learned man proceeded)
Otherwise who thought than he did,
Showed a stupid, base, untrue,
Obscurantist point of view;
Men like these (the sage would say)
Should be wholly swept away;
They, and eke the faults prodigious
Which beset their creeds religious,
Render totally impure
All their so-called Literature,
Lastly, sap to its foundation
All their boasted education,--
Just because they've quite forgot
What was meant, and what was not,
By the Painter of the Pot!

* * * * *

Pots are long and life is fleeting;
Artists, when their subjects treating,
Should be very, very far
Carefuller than now they are.

THE NOVEL

When by efforts literary you might scale the summits airy
Which the eminent in fiction are ascending every day,
Why obscurely crawl and grovel?--I will write (I said) a Novel!
So I started and I planned it in the ordinary way.

I'd a Heroine--a creature of resplendent form and feature,
With a spell in every motion and a charm in every look:
I'd a Villain--worse than Nero,--I'd a most superior Hero:
And the host of minor persons which is needed in a book:

Each was drawn from observation: yet was each a pure creation
Which revealed at once the genius of originating mind:
Not a man and not a woman but combined the Broadly Human
With a something quite peculiar of an interesting kind:

What a wealth of meaning inner in the things they said at dinner!
How their conversation sparkled (like the ripples on the deep),
Half disclosing, half concealing a Profundity of Feeling
Which would move the gay to laughter and incite the grave to weep!

There they stood in grace and vigour, each imaginary figure,
Each a masterpiece of drawing for the world to wonder at:
There was really nothing more I had to find but just the story,
Nothing more, but just the story--but I couldn't think of that.

Yet (I cried), in other writers, how the lovers and the fighters
Are conducted through the mazes of a complicated plan,--
How the incidents are planted just precisely where they're wanted--
How the man invites the moment, and the moment finds the man!

How a Barrie or a Kipling guides the maiden and the stripling
Till they're ultimately landed in the matrimonial state,--
And they die, or else they marry (in a Kipling or a Barrie)
Just as if the thing was ordered by unalterable Fate,--

While with me, alas! to balance my innumerable talents,
There's a fatal imperfection and a melancholy blot:
All the forms of my creating stand continually waiting
For a charitable person to provide them with a Plot!

Still I put the endless query why I wander lone and dreary
(Barred from Eden like the Peri) minus fame and minus fee,
Why the idols of the masses have an entree to Parnassus,
While a want of mere invention is an obstacle to me!

FRAGMENT OF A JARGONIAD

Arise, my _Muse_, and ply th' extended Wing!
It is of Language that I mean to sing.
Thou mighty Medium, potent to convey
The clearest Notions in the darkest Way,
Diffus'd by thee, what Depth of verbal Mist
Veils now the Realist, now th' Idealist!
Our mental Processes more complex grow
Than those our Sires were privileged to know.
In Ages old, ere Time Instruction brought,
A Thought or Thing was but a Thing or Thought:
Such simple Names are now forever gone--
A Concept this, that a Noumenon:
As _Cambria's_ Sons their Pride of Race increase
By joining _Ap_ to _Evan_, _Jones_, or _Rees_,
A prouder Halo decks the Sage's Brow,
Perceptive once, he's Apperceptive now!
Here sits Mentality (that erst was Mind),
By correlated Entities defin'd:
Here Monads lone Duality express
In bright Immediacy of Consciousness:
O who shall say what Obstacles deter
The Youth who'd fain commence Philosopher!
The painful Public with bewilder'd Brain
For Metaphysic pants, but pants in vain:
Too hard the Names, too weighty far the Load:
Language forbids, and _Br-dl-y_ blocks the Road.
From Themes like these I willingly depart,
And pass (discursive) to the Realms of Art.
Ye _Muses_ nine! what Phrases ye employ,
What wondrous Terms t' express aesthetic Joy!
As once in Years ere _Babel's_ Turrets rose
Contented Nations talk'd the self-same Prose:
As early _Christians_ in the Days of Yore
Took what they wanted from a common Store:
So different Arts th' astonished Reader sees
Pool all their Terms, then choose whate'er they please.
'Mid critick Crews (where Intellect abounds)
Sound sings in Colours, Colours shine in Sounds:
When mimick Groves _Apelles_ decks with green,
Or _Zeuxis_ limns the vespertinal Scene,
_Staccato Tints_ delight th' auscultant Eye
And soft _Andantes_ paint the conscious Sky:
Nor less, when Musick holds the list'ning Throng,
How crisply lucent glows th' entrancing Song!
Each loud _Sonata_ boasts its lively Hue,
And _Fugues_ are red, and _Symphonies_ are blue.
Not mine to deem your Epithets misplac'd,
Ye learned Arbiters of publick Taste!
Yet such th' Effect on merely human Wit,
That _Esperanto_ is a Joke to it.

Hail, Terminology! celestial Maid!
Portress of Science, Guide to Art and Trade!
I see Democracy--an ardent Band
Who fain would read yet wish to understand--
Compell'd that Goal in alien Tongues to seek,
Fly for Relief to _Necessary Greek_,
Claim as their Right (advised by _Mr. Snow_)
The sweet Simplicity of [Greek text],--
While Dons con English till they're pale and lean,
And Candidates in _Mods_ do English for Unseen!

THE PUPILS' POINT OF VIEW

Relate, my Muse, the fame of him
Whose calling and peculiar mission
It was to wage with courage grim
A battle 'gainst effete Tradition!
When Movements moved, with holy zest
He scaled the breach and led the stormers,--
And was among the first and best
Of Educational Reformers.

He saw the Boy at Public Schools
Regard his books with fear and loathing,
From Latin's arbitrary rules
Deriving practically nothing:--
He said,--"O bounding human Boys,
Of all the fare whereon you batten,
What chiefly mars your simple joys?"
With one accord they answered "Latin!"

"Exactly so," th' Inquirer cried,
"This is the lore which cramps and stunts us;
O how can pedagogues abide
A course that makes their pupils dunces?
Since with the rules of Latin Prose
They can't be brought to yield compliance,
This Fact conclusively it shows--
They've all a natural bent for Science!"

They sought for Scientific Truth,
And pedagogues with books and birches
Guided the faltering steps of Youth
In biological researches:
The infant in his nurse's care
In Science' terms was taught to stammer:
They practised vivisection where
They used to cut their Latin grammar;

'Twas all in vain--the Human Boy
Remained unalterably chilly:
Still less than Virgil's tale of Troy
He liked compulsory bacilli!
Much grieved the Zealot was thereat:--
"We'll try," he said, "a course of Spelling" . . .
But O, the way they hated that
Quite overcomes my power of telling!

"There must be ways," the good man said,
"(Though hitherto perhaps we've missed 'em)
Of putting things within the head:
We've something wrong about the System:"
And musing on the sacred flame
Of Genius, and the cause that hid it,
He unto this conclusion came--
COMPULSION was the thing that did it.

"Within the Boy's aspiring brain
For Study still there lies a craving,
And what is won against the grain
Is never really worth the having;
This boasted Categorical
Imperative is clearly vicious,--
Pastors and masters, one and all,
Must ascertain their pupils' wishes!"

And now those simple human Boys,--
All, to a boy, for Culture yearning,--
No pedagogues with idle noise
Impede upon the path of Learning:--
Released from books and teachers both,
No intellectual pastures feed 'em;
And, if they lose in mental growth,
Think how they gain in moral freedom!

HINTS FOR THE TRANSACTION OF PUBLIC BUSINESS

_Of a Cheerful Hope_.

Whene'er you do to Meetings go, as many such there be
(And few and far those persons are who home return to tea),
Then take with you this principle, to cheer you on your way--
The less there is to talk about, the more there is to say.

_Of an Exordium_.