Chapter VII: Part 7

"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his life
To flourish on the sacred shores of Fife!
Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the train
Whom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain;
Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' Scot
In double portion swell thy glorious lot!
As long as Albion's silly sons submit
To Scottish censorship on English wit,
So long shall last thy unmolested rule,
And authors, under thee, shall go to school;
Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy plan
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan.
KIPLING shall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimes
Wilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes,
And HAGGARD, too, thy eulogies shall seek,
And for his book another 'boom' bespeak;
And various magazines their aid will lend
To damn thy foe or deify thy friend.
Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career,
Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer,
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway,
And may all editors increase thy 'pay'--
Yet mark one caution ere thy next review
Falls heavy on a female who is 'blue.'
Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire'
Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hair
And stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skin
With nothing more important than a pin--
A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit';
Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit!

"What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose?
A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose,
Writ by a MISTRESS SCHREINER, who elects
A Universal Nothing as her text;
Whereat the _Athenæum_, doddering soul!
Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,'
And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise,
How such a work all nations should amaze:
'Nothing has ever been or e'er will be
Like Dreams'--produced by the blasphemous She;
So writes the _Athenæum_ to the few
Who still pay threepence for a bad review,
And watch the hatching of the little plots
Conceived and carried out by Mr. Watts.
CHARLES DILKE! Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban,
And show thyself to be the 'leading' man,
With one strong effort snap thy social fetter
And get thy prosy journal managed better!

"Great Oscar! Glorious Oscar! Oscar Wilde!
Fat and smooth-faced as any sucking child!
Bland in self-worship, crowned with self-plucked bays,
Sole object of thine own unceasing praise,
None can in 'brag' thy spreading fame surpass,
And thou dost shine supreme in native brass.
Thou hast o'erwhelmed and conquered dead Molière
With all the _mots_ of _Lady Windermere_;
Thou hast swept other novelists away
With the lascivious life of 'Dorian Gray.'
Thine enemies must fly before thy face,
Thou bulky glory of the Irish race!
Desert us not, O Wilde, desert us not,
Because the Censor's 'snub' 'Salome' got,
Still let thy presence cheer this foggy isle,
Still let us bask in thy 'æsthetic' smile,
Still let thy dwelling in our centre be;
England would lose all splendour, losing thee!
Spare us, great Oscar, from this dire mischance!
We'll perish ere we yield thee up to France!

"Wise HARDY! Thou dost gauge the modern taste:
Hence on man's Lust thy latest book is based--
A story of Seduction wins success,
Thus hast thou well deserved thy cash for 'Tess.'
Pure morals are old-fashioned--Virtue's name
Is a mere butt for 'chaff' or vulgar blame,
But novels that defy all codes and laws
Of honest cleanness, win the world's applause,
And so thy venture sails with favouring winds,
Blest with approval from all prurient minds.

"See where at HORSHAM, Shelley's muse is crown'd!
Two Parsons and a Justice on the ground!
What glorious homage doth 'Prometheus' win!--
Yet sure if ever parted ghosts can grin,
Wild laughter from the Styxian shores must wake
At such tame honours for the dead bard's sake;
An EDMUND GOSSE doth make the day's oration,
Oh, what a petty mouthpiece for a Nation!
And WILLIAM SHARP, face-buried in his beard,
Thinks his own works should be as much rever'd
As Shelley's, if the world were only wise
And viewed him with his own admiring eyes;
And LITTLE (Stanley) doth with GOSSE combine
To judge the perish'd Poet line by line,
Granting his 'lyrics' admirably done,
(Though they could match him easily, each one,)
But, on the whole, he filled his 'mission' well;
'Agreed!' says CHAIRMAN HURST, J.P., D.L.!

"O Shelley! my companion and my friend,
Brother in golden song, is this the end?
Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought,
Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught?
No larger honours from the world's chief city,
Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'?
Where Names appear upon the muster-roll
But only Names that lack all visible soul;
Conspicuous by his absence, TENNYSON,
The HORSHAM 'In Memoriam' doth shun;
Next, HENRY IRVING'S name doth much attract
(That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act)
But even he, the Mime, keeps clear away
From personal share in such a 'got-up' day,--
And not one 'notable' the eye perceives,
Save the Methusaleh of song, SIMS REEVES;
Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low?
And must thy Genius such dishonour know?
Is this the way thy Centenary's kept?
Better go unremembered and unwept
Than be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry,
And get 'recited' by an ALMA MURRAY!

"Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tell
The public what they all should know full well;
Zeal for true worth has bid me here engage
The host of idiots that infest the age
And spin their meagre prose and verse for hire,
Libelling genius if it dare aspire.
Let harmless BARRIE scrawl a Scottish tale
And English ears with 'dialect' assail,
Let WILLIAM ARCHER judge, and bearded SHARP
Condemn his betters, enviously carp
At living bards (if any), one and all,
Such is the way of versifiers small;
Let MORRIS whine and steal from Tennyson,
The poet King, whose race is nearly run,
Let ARNOLD drivel on, and SWINBURNE rave,
And godly PATMORE chant a stupid stave,
Let KIPLING, CAINE, and HARDY, and the rest,
And all the women-writers unrepressed,
Scrawl on till death release us from the strain,
Or Art assume her highest rights again;
Let HENLEY, to assert his tawdry muse,
Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews,
Feeding with rancour his congenial mind,
Himself the most cantankerous of his kind;
Let ANDREW LANG undaunted, take his stand
Beside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand;
Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs,
Let careful STANNARD sell her 'Winter' wares,
Let WATTS 'puff' SWINBURNE, SWINBURNE bow to WATTS,
And Shakespeare be disproved by MRS. POTTS;
Let all the brawling folly of the time
Find vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme;
Let scribblers rush into the common mart
With all their mutilated blocks of art,
And take their share of this ephemeral day
With COLLINS and her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay';
And what their end shall be, let others tell;
My time is up and I must say farewell,
Content at least that I have once agen
Poured scorn upon the puny writing men
That chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,
And think their trash deserves a lasting name.
Immortal, I behold the passing show
Of little witlings ruling things below,
And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er,
The literary tricks I lash'd before,
And lash again, with satisfaction deep;
And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keep
For those who on my memory slanders fling,
Envying the songs they have no power to sing!

"Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought,
Where is the fire that once Prometheus brought
To light the world? It warmed _my_ ardent veins,
And still the nations echo forth my strains;
Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dear
And decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier--
ENGLAND forgets--but England is no more
The England that our fathers loved of yore--
A huckster's stall--a swarming noisy den
Of bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men--
England, historic England! She is dead,
And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread,
Crowning with shameful glory on her grave,
Some greasy Jew or speculating knave;
While blundering GLADSTONE, double-tongued and sly,
Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'[2] who will never die!

"Thus far I've held my undisturbed career
Prepared for rancour--spirits know not fear!
Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way?
Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay;
Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll--
I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul--
Careless of LANG'S resentment, GOSSE'S spite,
SWINBURNE'S small envy, ARNOLD'S judgment trite,
HENLEY'S weak scratch, or _Pall Mall_ petty rage,
Or the dull _Saturday's_ unlessoned page--
Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,'
And by stern Compensation's law shall be
Racked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me!

"Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sail
That wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale,
And many a starry coast and glistening height
And fairy paradise will greet my sight,
And I shall stray through many a golden clime
Where angels wander, crowned with light sublime;
When I am gone away into that land
Publish at once this ghostly reprimand,
And tell the puling scribblers of the town
I yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down!
Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss,
Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss,
And though I vanish into finer air
The spirit of my Muse is everywhere;
Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces know
BYRON still lives--their dauntless, stubborn Foe!"

Enunciating the last two lines with tremendous emphasis, the noble Ghost folded up his scroll. I noticed that in the course of his reading he frequently repeated his former self, and borrowed largely from an already published world-famous Satire; and I ventured to say as much in a mild _sotto voce_.

"What does that matter?" he demanded angrily. "Do not the names of the New school of literary goslings fit into my lines as well as the Old?"

I made haste to admit that they did, with really startling accuracy of rhythm.

"Well, then, don't criticise," he continued; "any ass can do that! Write down what I have read and publish it--or----"

What fearful alternative he had in store for me I never knew, for just then he began to dissolve. Slowly, like a melting mist, he grew more and more transparent, till he completely disappeared into nothingness, though for some minutes I fancied I still saw the reflection of his glittering laurel wreath playing in a lambent circle on the floor. Awed and much troubled in mind, I went to bed and tried to forget my spectral visitor. In vain! I could not sleep. The lines recited by the disembodied Poet burned themselves into my memory as he had said they would, and I had to get up again and write them down. Then, and not till then, did I feel relieved; and though I thought I heard a muttered "Swear!" from some a "fellow in the cellarage," I knew I had done my duty too thoroughly to yield to coward fear. And I can only say that if any of the highly distinguished celebrities mentioned by the ghost in his wrathful outburst feel sore concerning his expressed opinion of them, they had better at once look up a good "medium," call forth the noble lord, and have it out with him themselves. I am not to blame. I cannot possibly hold myself responsible for "spiritual" manifestations. No one can. When "spooks" clutch your hand and make you write things, what are you to do? You must yield. It is no good fighting the air. Ask people who are qualified to know about "influences" and "astral bodies" and other uncanny bits of supernatural business, and they will tell you that when the spirits seize you you must resign yourself. Even so I have resigned myself. Only I do not consider I am answerable for a ghost's estimate of the various literary lustres of the age:--

"Byron's opinions these, in every line;
For God's sake, reader, take them not for mine!"

FOOTNOTE:

[2] The "Struldbrugs" were a race of beings who inhabited the "Island of Laputa," and were born with a spot on the forehead, a sign which indicated their total exemption from death. (See Dean Swift's "Gulliver's Travels.")

XX.

MAKETH EXIT.

The hour grows late, dear friends, and I am getting bored. So are you, no doubt. But though, as I said in the beginning, I take delight in boring you because I think the majority of you deserve it, I have an objection to boring myself. Besides, I notice that some of you have begun to hate me; I can see a few biliously-rolling eyes, angry frowns, and threatening hands directed towards my masked figure, as I leisurely begin to make my way out of your noisy, tumultuous, malodorous social throng. Spare yourselves, good people! Keep cool! I am going. I have had enough of you, just as you have had enough of me. I told you, when I first started these "remarks aside," that I did not wish to offend any of you; but it is quite probable that, considering the overweening opinion you have of your own virtues and excellencies, you are somewhat thin-skinned, and apt to take merely general observations as personal ones. Do not err in this respect, I beseech you! If any fool finds a fool's cap that fits him, I do not ask him to put it on. I assure you that for Persons I have neither liking nor disliking, and one of you is no more and no less than t'other. Loathe me an' you choose, I shall care little; love me, I shall care less. Both your loathing and your love are sentiments that can only be awakened by questions of self-interest; and you will gain nothing and lose nothing by me, as I am the very last person in the world to be "of use" to anybody. I do not intend to be of use. A useful person is one who is willing to lie down in the mud for others to walk dryshod over him, or who will amiably carry a great hulking sluggard across a difficulty pick-a-back. Now, I object to being "walked over," and if any one wanted to try "pick-a-back" with me, he would find himself flung in the nearest gutter. Wherefore, you observe, I am not "Christianly" disposed, and should not be an advantageous acquaintance. Though, if I were to tell you all the full extent of my income, I dare say you would offer me many delicate testimonies of affectionate esteem. Sweet women's eyes might smile upon me, and manly hands might grip mine in that warm grasp of true friendship which is the result of a fat balance at the banker's. But, all the same, these attentions would not affect me. I am not one to be relied upon for "dinner invitations" or "good introductions," and I never "lend out" my horses. I keep my opera-box to myself too, with an absolutely heartless disregard of other people's desires. I learned the gospel of "looking after Number One" when I was poor; rich folks taught it me. They never did anything for me or for anybody else without a leading personal motive, and I now follow their wise example. I live my life as I choose, thinking the thoughts that come naturally to me, my mind not being the humble reflex of any one morning or evening newspaper; so I am not surprised that some of you, whose opinions are the mere mirror of journalism, hang back and look askance at me, the while I pass by and take amused observation of your cautious attitudes through the eye-holes of my domino. Certes, by all the codes of social "sets" you ought to respect me. I am the member of a House, the adherent of a Party, and the promoter of a Cause, and your biggest men, both in politics and literature, know me well enough. I might even claim to have a "mission," if I were only properly "boomed"--that is, of course, if the Grand Old _Struldbrug_, as the irreverent ghost of Lord Byron calls him, Gladdy, were to rub his noddle against that of Knowles, and emit intellectual sparks about me in the _Nineteenth Century_. But I don't suppose I could ever live "up" to such a dazzling height of fame as this. It would be a wild jump to the topmost peak of Parnassus, such as few mortals would have strength to endure. So on the whole I think I am better and safer where I am, as an "unboomed" nobody. And where am I? Dear literary brothers and sisters, dear "society" friends, I am just now in your very midst; but I am retiring from among you because--well, because I do not feel at home in a human menagerie. The noise is as great, the ferocity is as general, the greed is as unsatisfied, and the odour is as bad as in any den of the lower animals. I want air and freedom. I would like to see a few real men and women just by way of a change--men who are manly, women who are womanly. Such ideal beings may be found in Mars perhaps. Some scientists assure us there are great discoveries pending there. Let us hope so. We really require a new planet, for we have almost exhausted this.

And now adieu! Who is this that clutches me and says, will I unmask? What, Labby? Now, Labby, you know very well I would do anything to please you; but on this occasion I must, for the first time in my life, refuse a request of yours. Presently, my dear fellow, presently! The domino I wear shall be flung off in your pleasant study in Old Palace Yard on the earliest possible occasion. Believe it! It would be worse than useless to try to hide myself from your eagle ken. The "lady with the lamp" on the cover of _Truth_ shall flash her glittering searchlight into my eyes, and discover there a friendly smile enough. Meanwhile, permit me to pass. That's kind of you! A thousand thanks! And now, with a few steps more, I leave the crowd behind me, and, loitering on its outskirts, look back and pause. I note its wild confusion with a smile; I hear its frantic uproar with a sigh. And with the smile still on my lips, and the sigh still in my heart, I slowly glide away from the social and literary treadmill where the prisoners curse each other and groan--away and back to whence I came, out into the wide open spaces of unfettered thought, the "glorious liberty of the free." I wave my hand to you, dear friends and enemies, in valediction. I have often laughed at you, but upon my soul, when I come to think of the lives you lead, full of small effronteries and shams, I cannot choose but pity you all the same. I would not change my estate with yours for millions of money. Many of you have secured what in these trifling days is called fame; many others rejoice in what are pleasantly termed "world-wide" reputations; but I doubt if there is any one among you who is as thoroughly happy, as careless, as independent, and as indifferent to opinion, fate, and fortune, as the idle masquerader who has strolled casually through your midst, seeking no favours at your hands, and making no apologies for existence, and who now leaves you without regret, bidding you a civil "Farewell!"

Remaining in unabashed candour and good faith, one who is neither your friend nor enemy,

THE SILVER DOMINO.

The Gresham Press,

UNWIN BROTHERS,

CHILWORTH AND LONDON.