Ancestry.

John William Watson.

Born in Burley in Wharfedale. August 2nd. in the year 1858.

In the Dales, of the largest County in England - Yorkshire - nurtured in their mysterious ruggedness and breadth - born amidst a people, who in past times, gave allegiance to no Overlord, yet have produced men and women so Outstanding in the history of England, that to add the name WILLIAM WATSON to them, is a prideful thing.

A people who have, beyond all other folk of our Shires, retained an aloofness of mind, peculiar to this County alone.

He was the third son born to John and Dorothy Watson, after an interval of eight years. His mother, Dorothy Watson, born at Askrigg in Wensleydale, was the grand-daughter, on her mother's side, of Ralph Orton who was born at Richmond Swaledale. He lived at Ingleby Lodge, on the road to Bainbridge, and afterwards in another hamlet called Woodhall, Aysgarth way. A well known poet in his day, and Latin scholar. He was a farmer, - his tombstone can be seen in the churchyard at Askrigg, and his age is given as 87. - His daughter, Margaret, married Stephen Robinson. Stephen had been educated for the Wesleyan Ministry, but his early marriage cancelled this, and his impractibility did the rest. He seems to have found it very difficult to settle into any niche suitable in the neighbourhood, so he removed his family to Sedburgh; - But he is not many years in Sedburgh before he finds himself in fresh difficulties, and debts accumulate. In such straits, indeed, are the family later that there is nothing for it but to ask permission for his children (of which there are seven) to enter the workhouse, and a little

RICHARD ROBINSON ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH.
AND HIS DESCENDANT'S IN SEDBURGH WORKHOUSE.

later he and his wife are forced to join them.

One day, while catechising the children, the visiting
Clergyman, The Rev. *Carey Wilson* sought out Stephen Robinson and
reproved him, saying 'You must confide in me. I see you
are a young man of education: - we have *never* had such
children in here before, and we must get them out.'

The whole woeful tale was told, and with it the
confession, that Stephen preferred the shelter of the
'workhouse' for the time being, rather than ask help from
relations.

The Rev. *Carey* did indeed help them, for through his
influence, Stephen Robinson became Overseer at the Mills,
of Forster and Fison. At *last* he is in a secure position!
The family counting as friend, W.E. Forster - (afterwards
Chief Secretary in Ireland, in the troublesome times) and
his family.

At the wedding of Margaret Orton, eighteen years old,
to Stephen Robinson, nineteen years old, - the Bride rode
to the Church, followed by twelve bridesmaids! - all on
horseback. A description of "Margaret" at that date is
interesting. (1812) 'As brant as a brier' (pronounced breer).

The workhouse incident evidently sunk deep into the mind
of Stephen's eldest child - Katherine, - for her sister
Dorothy relates in a letter to a friend, 'If we younger
ones became too wild in our play, Katherine would always
reprove us with "there's no room for mirth or trifling
here!"' (Katherine married a man named Waterhouse, and
emigrated to Lake Kagawan, Canada.)

These Robinsons were descendants of Richard Robinson,
Archbishop of Armagh, and *Primate of all Ireland* (Sat in
the House of Peers as Baron Rokeby) 1709 - 1794.

(He gave a library to Ireland of 18,000 volumes.)

CONSTABLE OF BURLEY.

John Watson, W.W's father, was born at Guiseley, Yorkshire, in 1826. - In the same maternal home-part as Longfellow. ---Longfellow's Mother was a Wadsworth-in the 17th Century, and John Watson was cousin to Wadsworth's. He married, in 1849, Dorothy Robinson. - His Father was a Yeoman Farmer, and possessed of the wherewithal to have his children thoroughly educated.

The newcomer, called 'John William' after his Father, and his Mother's brother, William Robinson; - was, as he grew older, tolerated, teased and played with, by his elder brothers, James and Robinson, who, it was now apparent were too big for the village school, and their Father decided a boarding school would be best for them.

John Watson, during his early married days had tried various ways of earning enough for the needs of his growing family, and was very dissatisfied with the outlook. After much consideration, and consultation with his Wife's brother, William Robinson, the two decided to move to Liverpool and set up as "Watson & Robinson" Jute Merchants.

William Robinson was unmarried, free to roam at will; - so that the risk he was running was practically nil. But it was a very grave matter for the head of the Watson household, a thing which went against the grain with him, lest he should not make good. For some time before John Watson moved his family to Liverpool, he had sat on the Local Board with W.E. Forster and was elected the only Constable in Burley (at the time preceding Peel's Bill, bringing in our now, Police Force). So there was no question whatever about backing, and ability to raise enough money, for the Great Adventure to Liverpool in 1860.

DOTHEBOYS HALL.

4

Before removing from Yorkshire he opened a Store, -- Just
as headway was being made - a Co-operative Stores opened
opposite.

Shortly after arriving in Liverpool, he took his elder
boys to School in Yorkshire. To the small boy, Willie,
the two elder brothers appeared giants setting out, and
the holidays were great events; all they recounted of
work and play being stored up by him with vivid indelibility.
If they recited any passages, learnt in term time, to shew
proudly their progress, the little brother committed those
same passages to memory. - James came home one summer,
able to play many tunes on the accordion, - before the
holidays were over Willie had mastered it, - and in a
generous burst, - James acknowledges that 'Willie already
knows more tunes than I do'.

At that same school, a soldierly bearing must be aimed
at, and for that reason a retired Scottish Sergeant was
engaged to drill the boys.

"Divilup yer chist", he yelled to them on parade,
meaning of course, develop your chest.

This school in Yorkshire, (later turned into a Hydro)
was said to be the original of Dicken's Dotheboys Hall.
The Watson boys were to stay there until school-days ended.
The ~~Parent~~ were well satisfied, - their sons came home
glowing with health and spirits, and well advanced in their
studies.

The "Watson & Robinson" firm prospered from the first,
and within a very few years, all debts had been repaid to
Yorkshire, and the outlook was decidedly hopeful.

With the years spent together by the Partners, only
one real difference of opinion occurred between them, - and
that was invariably the 'price' - for a fraction of a

HONEST JOHN.

5

farthing per sack in a huge deal certainly made a great difference to the Credit side at the end of the year.¹

William Robinson would (insist) - John Watson would (resist). The former would not lose these chances to get rich quick! And the latter invariably chose the slower and surer way: Gaining for himself among business men in Liverpool the name of 'Honest John'.

The Partners eventually separated, Each for himself now. John Watson slowly, but surely, making headway, - removes his home, which up to this time had been in Liverpool, to Aigburth, a healthy suburb, where in a house with a nice garden and paddock, the Watsons were destined to remain for some years.

John Watson delighted in "the move". Indeed, his son, William, always recounted with glee, that his Father "did the job thoroughly" - taking a holiday, - having everything in the Liverpool home auctioned off, - and purchasing everything new.² - Even the Dining room chairs must be "made" to his design for "wear". Chairs that would swing the occupant round to the table, or vice-versa. And indeed, in after years, whenever they removed to a new house, the very same thing occurred.³ "New everything" including the horse and poultry, and adding a new dog or two to those they already possessed.

Generally the largest Plymouth Rocks procurable stalked that paddock,⁴ Indeed, Willie, as a child, always described the hens at home as being 'As high as a table'.⁵ After their removal, one dark night a man knocked at the door asking to see the 'Mistress'. "I'm Michael Cavanagh", he explained, "I've done messages in me day for the Master, - so I just called to know, did ye require a dacent little girl, to nurse the wee one, - if ye do, I can tell ye Kate

SETTING YORKSHIRE RHYMES TO MUSIC.

Flynn, is about the best ye'll ever hear of. But it's little
she knows about the ways of a house: Shall I bring her
along?". "Do," said Mrs. Watson, - So Kate Flynn,
straight from Galway, quite unused to an English house,
became one of their most faithful servants; remaining
with the family until the 'Wee One' grew too old for her
services, spoiling him, as the Irish Peasant is sure to
spoil 'the childer; and sowing in his young heart a love
of the Irish, which *nothing could kill*. It was always a
sore point in after years, with the whole household, that
Kate's soldier-husband beat her!

To his Father and Mother, Willie, coming later in
their maturity, was at first soberly welcome. It was
the child's quick ear for music that seemed to draw the
Father towards him, for he would take his little five-year
old son with him to the Churches, where the best music
could be heard - one of the foremost Catholic Churches
had a large Orchestra to play every Sunday, and very often
a world-famous singer would sing the solo.

The family never attended a church 'just to go to
church'. The preacher must be worth listening to, and
the Liverpool of that day had *many* such, - and encouraged
them. These early impressions had their result upon the
child's mind for he composed a hymn and the words before
he was seven, and set many of the old rhymes of the Dales
he sprang from, to music - Rhymes his Father remembered
from *his* childhood.

(The boy-Poet fashioned his own form).

THE AMERICAN ORGAN AND THE GOLD WATCH.

7

His Mother would repeat to him long passages from the Bible, and the *Two*, would confide in each other, which they thought the most splendid! These early discussions, undoubtedly became imprinted on his mind, for he carried through life a devotion to the Miles Coverdale Translation. Its brevity and classic beauty held him secure; That consummate grandeur never faded - "And Agag walked delicately before Ahab". "Think of that picture and its brevity" he was heard to say!

Though John Watson was certainly prospering, yet there were many debts due to him - outstanding, one in particular, worried him, for it was for a fairly large amount; - he knew his Client would pay if he could, but it was not in John Watson "to push an honest man" and the debtor was well aware of this. One evening, on arriving home, he was told Mr. S. was calling later about "that debt he owes you". After the interview he tells his wife that Mr. S. had confessed he did not see any chance of discharging it, unless he would agree to take in lieu thereof an old watch and an American Organ.

"And what will we do with an Organ here Dorothy?" he said, -
"Give it to me, give it to me," said Willie, in an excited voice.

"Nay, my lad, you can't play it", said the Father -

Persuasion won, - and the American Organ found a home in the top attic, well segregated from all "Humans" - and the old watch nearly as large as a turnip, became Willie's property. Certainly, a pocket large enough to hold it, had to be made on the small jacket. [Photo]

That same watch, which was gold, had been made very many years before, by a celebrated Jeweller, named Roscoe, and never left its proud owner for many many years. It was the envy of his school-fellows, and it was only cleaned once, when it was found to have the same "Spring" as when made. (It was sold

NAPOLEONE DI MEZZA CALZETTA - FA L'AMORE A GIACOMETTA
Napoleon with stockings half down
Makes love to Giacometta.

8

Later in London for Seven pounds, to pay a debt to a Landlady
in Hampstead.)

And the Organ, once mastered, what bliss to the shy boy,
what trying of melodies in that attic; - no one about to
criticise, but "One" his playmate, who revelled in its sonorous
sounds almost as much as the youthful player himself. Kitty
Kelly, - a beautiful child, with long black curls, about a year
than Willie, who danced to his music; her soft curls
flying out and brushing across his face, as she whirled round
and round, surely fixing herself more deeply in the youthful
musician's susceptible heart, than the music and organ combined.

The Kellys, (Irish) - the father a Commercial Traveller,
easy-going, jovial, and bibulous, the mother always complaining,
never happy unless miserable, - are neighbours for some years
of the Watsons, and William's devotion to Kitty was an open
secret, - even the austere Father could be heard singing, as he
gardened in the evening, the old Yorkshire song -

"Kitty she was a charming maid
And carried the milking pail"

Kitty, later became a governess in a Russian Nobleman's
family and so passed from her old playmate's ken.

## Callow Love.

"When I was twelve and she eleven
I thought her a dark-eyed Bit of Heaven:
And still, to me, she was Beauty's Queen
When she was twelve and I thirteen.

O, many a Floweret soon I knew,
And many a Bud was fair, but few
Were as sweet as the dark-eyed Bit of Heaven
Who must have been six when I was seven."

At this time Dickens was lecturing in Liverpool - the
family must hear him, - and urge William to go with them. But
he was immersed in a volume of Edgar Allen Poe and refused.
This to his everlasting regret.

The verdict on Dickens was that "He was very good, but
certainly much too theatrical - really spoiling the effect
desired."

THE PROUD LIAR.

hie me to the Fitzwilliam Museum. Disclosing my identity
to it's Head - I state my desire to sell, - but with the
greatest suavity imaginable, he assures me (Poor) Cruckshank
is a 'back number': - {So are my hopes}. But, because I
belong to W.W. I am shown manuscripts of that most Famous
Poet - Thomas Hardy.

I take my leave and am become a scoffer and a Bigot too -
concerning Poetry.

Clement Shorter, has at this time staying with him at
Knockmaroon A.S.W.Rosenbach. I write to him about two
books, and by arrangement we meet in the Writing Room of
the Paddington Hotel. The books are to be carried under
my arm, so that he can recognise - 'Mrs. William Watson'.

We meet, and after examining them carefully, he said,
"I cannot be sure that they are 'First Editions', but (eagerly)
have you any Kiplings?" - And because I am Wife to an English
Poet, I look in his face and Lie without shame. "No, - none!"

He does not ask for a First Edition of 'William Watson'.
I take my leave, and as I pass by the books where many Humans
'Register' I also 'Register' in my mind a vow that One day,
There will go up a shout for William Watson.

Hannah helps me to gather up again, and we settle
ourselves close by, where William dwells inumpresshure-near
the shades of Burns.

A smile crosses my Man's face one day, while we walk
together in Bluebell time, and brings 'Hope' the Enchanter.
Another day, his child toddled up with a Dandelion, and
solemnly handing it to him said, "Dad." Gathering her up in
his arms, he said "Thank God, you are safe." So all is well
when a little child can 'touch' him.

I take a veritable Cot - just three rooms in it, on a
hillside within sight of mountains and sea - very snug it is -
There we bide our time.

THE INTRIGUE.

The Great Doctor in London owns a mansion near by, and in kindness urges me to enter - but I refuse - and await his coming. When he does come, there are consultations, and I am summoned to appear.

Dr. __________ "Your husband is much improved - another month should etc. etc."

M.W. "May he come to me now...?"

Dr. "No, not yet."

Suddenly One day things are 'clear' - Carefully writing a letter of six lines, I carry it in triumph to W.W. (surreptitiously) and placing all needful before him, say, "Copy it." - He does - but assures me that though he longs to be with us, the Doctors will never agree to it - yet. I caution, "Silence" - and give the letter to Doctor __________ of the sympathetic heart.

"If Mr. Watson wrote this he must be quite recovered now - and I never considered him really ill - you know," he says, accompanying me back to W.W.

Dr. "This is splendid, just a little longer till we get some flesh on your bones."

W.W. "No, - no longer Doctor, thanks."

Dr. "Well, - just when would you like to go?"

M.W. "Now, please Doctor - there is a carriage waiting." And within fifteen minutes we depart, and my happy-faced man is Home.

No lark sings nearer Heaven than I do that day!

My Mother, who had vowed to leave if I set all at defiance, drives by our carriage with faceaverted! --- I am banned --- But Hannah - pink of face-beams a welcome.

"BECAUSE THEY ARE FAITHFUL.

118

The neighbours, rich and poor, vie with each other
in making us happy, and Hannah bakes on a griddle from
receipes poured in upon her, (for she is prime favourite)

Best of all - William starts work again, and writes
'Nature's Way'. But in a few months War descends, and
with its plunge - Hannah must leave us. I plunge too -
my pillow for many nights is wet with tears, for I love
Hannah.

We return South! Just before leaving, we become
friends with a young man from Sussex who says, "I am
taking Dr. ______'s place. - He has gone to the
Front."

M.W. "Let him go."

Dr. -- "I have heard about you."

M.W. "Oh, yes!"

Dr. --- "I have made up my mind when I marry, it will be
to an Irish girl - "(with a pleasant smile.)

M.W. "Why?"

Dr. --- "Because they are faithful."

I thank him for Ireland's sake - and my own.

"AN ANT OF ITS TALENTS SUPERNALLY VAIN
WAS TROTTING WITH CONSEQUENCE OVER THE PLAIN!"

We set up in Cambridge, to be near the centre of
things.

Professor Houseman comes regularly every Sunday, and
invariably, before he goes, stands back to the fire,
flipping his coat-tails in a nervous manner, and solemnly
reciting for the children

"I once had a beautiful doll, dear"

W.W. goes just once to see him. - He apologises
because his bed is not made, and appears quite upset
about it. "If he hadn't mentioned it, I shouldn't have
known." says W.W.

We heard a good deal of Rupert Brooke from him, -
Brooke was too dirty and untidy to suit his fastidiousness
and prim-old-maidism. - Arthur Benson upheld his views,
and supported them with much more detail. - R.B. was no
romantic hero there - evidently!

~~Cambridge - As a Seat of Learning - may be said to
have left William Watson - Severely Alone - It was not
because of the War - judging by later knowledge (1930) - It
was due to the Judgment passed upon his Poetry by Professor
Houseman.~~

Extract from a letter - "Watson's work does not now
stand high in general esteem among literary people."
Signed. A.E.H. 1930.

THE BIG GAME HUNTER AND THE POET.

We are sitting on a seat near the river. On the same seat sits an old lady, at the other end. W.W. rises, taking his eldest child by the hand, walks along the river edge.

The old lady starts to chat about Cambridge, then turns the conversation to W.W.

"I was much struck by his splendid head."

M.W. "Yes, most people are"

L. "Is he a Lawyer?"

M.W. "No, but he would have made a good one - he can weigh evidence as few can."

L. "Is he an Actor?"

M.W. "No, he is the Poet, - William Watson."

L. "How glad I am I spoke to you - though I hardly dared not being able to guess what relationship you were to him. His work has always been placed 'first' in our household - My brother is Selous - the Big Game Hunter."

M.W. "Big Game and Poetry hardly seem to agree together!"

Lady. "Yet he never went on an expedition without his 'William Watson' - You see, the Great Grief of his life was that his Wife would never accompany him, and after all, there are very lonely times for men like him! I suppose Mr. Watson's portrait has been painted?"

M.W. "No. G.F.Watts wanted to - but it fell through, and Rothenstein wanted to do a Sketch of him, but somehow it never got done."

O.L. "I beg of you to see about it - he is so strikingly Noble in appearance."

M.W. "I will. But it is hopeless when there is no money to pay for it."

O.L. "No money should be needed."

M.W. "I agree. England should see to it, her Men of Genius have their lineaments preserved for future generations."

O.L. "Yes, The National Portrait Gallery might bring it within their scope."

TO AMERICA CONCERNING ENGLAND.

It is at Cambridge W.W. writes 'THE MAN WHO SAW', and is
much scoffed at by the inhabitants, who have set up their own
fleeting Gods - but my soothsayer looks neither to right nor
left, and if you come with me, you may take a peep at him where
he stands by a gate, one hand resting upon it. - A very erect
figure, clad in navy blue, - the splendid head partly hidden by
a soft-brimmed hat! One small hand cups his chin (with a
clasp) and his lips move - His thoughts are far away -
they are on 'America Concerning England', and how best he can
serve that same England.

The Poem he is writing has cost him dearly - six weeks
toil, and not finished yet.

"Give them time" he says, "and they will come in. They
are a people with a conscience, and can be stung" (But I,
remembering my own, keep quiet.)

He has walked further on down a leafy dell - See, a
squirrel is threading its way along the branches till it
arrives above him; then it drops, almost on his hand. But
he heeds not at all. And our cat, calling loudly - dragging
a rabbit home, she has captured - passes him by. All the
household have learned their lesson - wonderful indeed, is
the instinct animals possess.

The merry children at last drop asleep, and our frugal
meal awaits - I wait too - Up and down he paces now, with
one arm held behind him, - his movements quite visible by the
light of the moon. Then I also, drop asleep. The old
familiar whistle wakes me. Catching up a cloak I go out
and join him.

"Walk with me and you shall hear it - I am satisfied now."

"At last!" - (I breathe.)

TIS YOU AGAINST WHOM THE DEAD MEN CRY.

122

"Yes, at last!" - he repeats with a happy sigh.

And there, at cock-crow I hear it.

M.W. "They'll come. - Its a Clarion call."

W.W. "Are you certain?".

M.W. "Sartin sure."

Photo of poem.

"Tis you Against whom the Dead Men Cry
The Dead who were Dice in your murderous Gambles."

Extract from letter of Robert Ross.

October 29th. 1916

Dated from.

The Wharf.
Sutton Courtney.
Berks.

The party here is a very delightful one -- but I feel
very much out of it by not playing Bridge. The Asquiths
are so kind that they never mind anything, though one feels
as you may suppose, <u>rather a drag.</u>

To my old-fashioned Victorian taste, when there is so
much to discuss, hear and learn, from life, art and literature
it is Murdering Time to play cards. Just when the Prime
Minister is telling us something of astounding interest, or
commenting on some European Event in his own inimitable way,
there is a general move to the Bridge Table. If I were a
Bishop or Puritan Minister of some denomination I should
preach against what - I regard as a social Disease."

## Ireland's Agony.

W.W.'s heart and soul has been one with Ireland, and its
struggle. 'An Foblacht' tells us much that is 'suppressed'.
Unbiased friends tell us much more.

The Black Flag unfurls again - Kilmainham is the centre
of death and despair. Just lately comes word of imprisoned
youths, who when the death warrant is read to them by the
Governor, will not believe in its truth - cannot believe it.
In despair the humane Governor brings the Priest to convince
them, - and he too fails. When the 'Summons' comes - the
condemned are sitting their Country's songs, and are shot almost
before the echoes of their voices have died away.

"Oh, England!" says William Watson.

"Oh, Ireland!" says his Wife.

BLONDIN-WILSON.

Because of happenings, which annoy, we prepare to quit,
and go North leaving our small possessions labelled, to
amble behind us as they please.

BLONDIN-WILSON.

"Oh! what a spectacle here for the age!
Blondin-Wilson, philosopher, sage,
Moralist, casuist, dialectician,
Poised on a tightrope in perfect position -
Balanced aloft upon logical toe,
With Super-Niagara rushing below. !"

Up to the mountains we go, and find a Nest on one, so
built to the desires of our hearts that we seek out the
owner, named Clegg, and ask for 'High Close Cottage' Holbeck.

"You are the very people I wish to have there", he beams,
and we - beaming too, are given the key.

To: R.J.Clegg, Esq.
Holbeck,
Windermere.

Dated 5th May, 1917.

I, the undersigned, William Watson, hereby agree to take and
occupy as Tenant the premises called High Close Cottage (lately
rented by Mr. Joseph Kirby) on your Holbeck Estate for a
tenancy from 12th May 1917 to be determined by either party
giving to the other of them three month's notice at any time
at a rent of Fifteen pounds per annum you paying the rates and
taxes And I undertake to keep and leave the premises in the
same condition as they are now in (fair wear and tear allowed)

(Signed) William Watson.

Here, peace is ours - yes, even in time of War. In our
perch above woods and craggs, with our two little children,
we get on with our Life.

"This is a grand place to work in," says W.W.

While I bake, and wash the clothes, he comes in and out
of the sunshine to give me a line, or perhaps a stanza or two.
When the children's voices are hushed in sleep we two lock the
door of our cot (no fear of intruders here) and with a staff
a piece stroll along the winding road to Troutbeck - and drop

A REPLICA OF HER NAME.

down there into the little churchyard, to wander about in
the golden twilight.

Before one tomb he stops, and reads out
"Daisy, the beloved Wife...."

"That was a most lovely young creature - I knew her
in my early days up here," he tells me. And close by I
find a very pink edged replica of her name, and carry it
home for the children.

MR LLOYD GEORGE.

125

When I write down this NAME - I know you will wish me to write on,--
I is a most glorious day in mid May - Up the field beyond our little
garden, you may see two children leaning over a Cattle Trough - they are
catching Pinkeens (thats their name in Ireland) a jam jar stands near by
containing "Three"- after many hours at the job,--I have been up many
times to see that all is well-and that WW. keeps GUARD' -- as I draw
near I hear a voice call out "Mind there or you'll be drowned"--
A dripping little form propels itself back to earth, "I"m not drowned
Father" -- Then another emerges, -- in worse condition than the first-

"Me likes Down" says Miss Youngest Defiance -- But I catch no more
for someone is coming up the lane - and it looks like the Post Girl--
(Yes Girls and Women Delivered our letters and Telegrams in those
days
and did the job splendidly - Yes it is a telegram --

"2/- to pay - forwarded from GI. The Albany . W. (The Bodley Head
Vigo St)

I read it - and then read it again- the better to digest it-

"Go in and rest - and I will find out what the reply is to be" (I did
there are drinkables on the table - just help yourself" I say as
I hurry up the field again, following the family -"whistle" --
with the telegram in my hand -- The children are still drowning -but
William leaves them to it as he catches sight of me and my SCRAP OF
PINK PAPER--

Then I read it out to him - and here is the very *Message* his eyes
looked at that day, for you yourselves to read from the *GREATEST PRIME
MINISTER THAT ENGLAND EVER HAD* -"THE MAN WHO SAW" (I put it in
*Telegram here*

We TWO, who mean so much to each other confide together,
MW. Will you accept it?

WW. "I will, indeed- with gratitude from Him"

And by undignified leaps and bounds, the wife of the "Knight" descends
through the flower laden field singing the Men of Harlech, and hears
the Poet singing it to - as he resumes Guard over his Two Villains,
who are oblivious both of HONOURS AND RENOUN.

w

And so to London,- where William Watson kneels before his Leige
Lord - The King, Outside the Palace waits his
wife, with

The "Dubbing" Ceremony is over,-- On through the surging
traffic goes the Car - Bang Bang - Bang'- ' ' Zepplin's --DEATH IS
VERY CLOSE --Where? -- Ah,-the driver senses whence it comes --
He turns up Chancery Lane in a trice -- "Stop " shouts William-'
Safety at last.- In the Vaults of the Deposit Co;--where most
of the wealth of London is hidden;--Yes, Ladies are there-peeping
into their Safes containing their Jewels, and men with perplexed
faces are looking at papers,- which represent GREAT POSSESSIONS-
AND DEATH IS JUST ABOVE'.

THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE DICTAPHONE.

One splendid Autumn morning - from a vantage point, we see white sails glide up and down past Wray Castle. The passenger steamer is transformed into a Royal Craft, except for the vibration of the paddle, proclaiming it's lower Rank! - and the Mountains have collected to themselves many more, the Lake is 'filled' with the reflection of their image. Helvellyn - pride of all - has a fantastic Goffered Cap, set jauntily on one side - indicating a gaiety incongruous with dignity - which has been swept away by the wind, days before, and forgotten!

"Can we reach Ambleside through yon woods?" says a voice.

It comes from a man on the other side of the wall, - we can only see the top of a bowler hat, and a pair of eyes.

"You can," says W.W. "if you wait a moment, I will direct you the short way."

We all go together to the stile, - In the road are three men - who look just as though they quitted office stools half an hour before, - they certainly do not 'loop up' with mountains. Their faces appear mournful, and one of them Never Lifts his Head once, while we talk.

William is spokesman - and the one who first accosted us - jots down directions in a little note book. When this is finished, the other two - hitherto quite mute - say, "Good-day", and pass on down the lane. But the Spokesman keeps pace with us until we reach our cottage.

"We have come up from 'Low Wood Hotel', he says.

ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES

128

"Good place, that" says W.W.

"Yes, and we generally come in Autumn, and always strike lucky with weather," says the stranger, "Those are my brothers, the one next the gate indicating the retreating figures) takes his holidays when I do. We always give our brother a month's holiday."

W.W. "Oh, then you are the lucky ones!" politely, expecting a bit of brag.

"Lucky - yes - I suppose so. But you see, that brother (pointing to him, who never lifted his eyes to look at us) Invented the Dictaphone, and has been in asylum for years. - Any amount of money from it - so we feel it's our duty to take him for a month's holiday every year."

The Watsons stand dumb.

"Yes, and he's always inventing. - Always at it."

We bid him goodbye, and watch the brothers with 'Him' between them, as they vanish near the beck.

We never heard his name, and never inquired. By the time 'Dictaphone' was remembered.

(William Watson had stayed at practically every hotel and inn in England.)

Ernest Hartley Coleridge.

W.W. "Give me some very hot water, and we will promise a shave."

M.W. "Splendid - about time though'."

W.W. "I am penitent - but the work had to be done."

M.W. "So had the shave. - Here you are."

The shaving glass hangs upon the window, which looks over
a World of Mountains. Ten minutes or so pass - there is a
great shout - the window is rattled, and then thrown open.

"Hi, Coleridge, Coleridge, hey!"

Rushing to my lower window, I look out. - There is a man
of tall straight figure, holding a cap in his hand, and waving
it up to William! He stands in our little garden talking to
the 'one' supposed to be 'emmersed' in a shave!

"Go on in," says my husband's voice," and talk to my Wife -
I won't be five minutes."

I open the door and bid him welcome.

"Just off to the Kirkstone Pass," he says. "I have been
staying in Grasmere - and was astonished to see William Watson's
head appear at that window!" Of course, I knew you were in the
neighbourhood, and intended hunting him up."

William appears, and persuades him into 'giving us' this
day. He agrees. Then such talk starts between them that I
sit enthralled, and begrudge the time spent on the 'Inner Man'

"There's not much to lay before him," I say to the Mother
who is 'over'.

"Lay before who?" says she.

"Mr. Coleridge," I say, bustling around.,

"That Tramp! I hope you won't expect me to sit with him."

"Tramp! That's only his garb for the mountains. His
talk is superb - glorious"

"Yes, I know -- You and William set <u>exaggerated</u> value on
Talk. But I'm not coming in, anyway. I'm surprised at you

A MOUNTAIN MENU.

130

though".

"Call him a Casual", I say, sarcastic like - filling up
my tray with the best that can be 'mustered' among the ~~up~~ those
mountains. -

Cold ham - (Belfast)
Salad - (Garden)
Griddle Bread (M.W.)
Butter - (Tyrone)
Honey - (Idaho - superb, from a woman who admires William's poetry - Bless her.)
Drinkables - Milk or Dublin Tea.

But the talkers need no stimulant - not they. Remember,
he came about Ten, he is still here at Six - going hammer and
tongs! The hours have fled in delight.

He takes his leave - that fellow with the fine head and
ruddy cheeks - that Tramp with the lithe figure - and I watch
W.W. accompany him down the Holbeck lane, on his way to catch
the Grasmere coach, and so on.

ALL DICKERED WI' FLYS.

131

The Hon. Stephen Coleridge.

We are notified that on his way through from Scotland
S.C. will be so on the given date, a large car draws up
at the end of the lane. - Mrs. Coleridge comes along - alone -
looks round with interest.

Mr. C. "Stephen wants to take you all to Coniston, will you
come? He is waiting in the car."
(Family consultation. Gathering up of outdoor gear - off to
Coniston.)

S.C. to M.W. "And you yourself do the whole household work?"
M.W. "Yes."

S.C. "Do you hear that?

Mrs. C. "Yes - but all the cottage women do, Stephen'."

We are home, and with us the Coleridges - very out of
place in the cottage, (for they have many possessions)
S.C. - gasping - points to a well-decked fly-paper suspended
directly and dangerously over his head. - "What a frightful
sight, - what dreadful cruelty."

M.W. "Maybe, It's either 'them' or the 'children'."

We are in disgrace.

PREMATURE PEACE AND A VISIT BY ISRAEL ZANGWELL.

Mr. & Mrs. Israel Zangwell came along from the Mortal Man Inn at Troutbeck, where they were staying on holiday. This really clever man interested us both immensely. The real, undisguised Jew! We had both read most of the books he had written, placing 'Children of The Getto' first.

Before leaving, he brought out of his pocket-book a large document with many signatures on it. Placing it in William's hands he said, "Now I Want You to Sign This before we go."

I left my seat, and leaning over W.W's shoulder glanced rapidly through it. Noting the names, - though, remember, he did not hand it to me at all, but was powerless to stop me from reading it as I did.

It's purport was 'For a Premature Peace' -- I pinched William's arm to show him that I was well aware of its meaning. - Then W.W. stopped - "Well, Mr. Zangwell", said he, "I Will Never Sign This - that you should even dream I would do such a thing shows me how little all I have stood for in this Country Is Known."

Zangwell did his very best to persuade him, and went on to tell us that he had been instrumental in raising the money for Trotsky to Leave Spain. Where He then was, when War Broke Out, and get Back to Russia, - ending with "If Peace is Not soon signed, we shall all be beggared in this country."

"Better Far to be Beggared than Dishonoured." said W.W.

Then the Zangwell's took their leave, looking very crestfallen.

I saw them down the Skelgill Lane on their way back. Zangwell said," What has happened, that you appear so very poor?" "Poor, - Rich, - I consider, with death and destruction everywhere."

So they departed, pitying the Poor Poet. I fled back to express my satisfaction with the Fine Blasting Temper shown on a Porridge Diet."

ROYAL CLEMENCY.

Sir Roger Casement.

In a letter from Clement Shorter. You may read it.

... You say you and your wife are very anxious as to what will happen to Roger Casement -- My dear fellow, I and those working with me can do no more -- His Diary has blasted everything with its references to 'O.W.' -- (if its true - and not just trumped up) As you say --- its a pitiful situation to be in -- Not one Soul can save him... but Royal Clemency. -- You are absolutely right - that if the Authorities only had some 'Inward Eyesight' to Pardon Him -- would bring Many Friends from Ireland.

I like the glimpse of his home in Ballycastle -- Poor Fool, the Pawn of VILLIANS --"

Roger Casement suffered the extreme penalty in the Tower.

Come over here to this neat clean little town in Ulster,

"In a crease in the forehead of Antrim
Where time has written on stone."

and take a peep at Roger Casement's home - lovely in its serenity, completely hidden in roses - red and white English roses. What a time that boy must have had in this wild spot, - and in Maturity he is Lover and Loved. Never-more will his eyes gaze on the rocky Headland - or watch the Pewits wheel and dip, - or tread again the Glens.

The village people Remember the 'Time', and when we mention him, there are lips that move in a blessing - never a curse.
He was, - and is still - 'their boy'.

"He was the nicest young man you could meet in a day's march" says one old woman with tears in her eyes, "and now---!"

(Ballycastle.Co.Antrim.)

THE TWO LANDLORDS.

Our Landlord, (glad to have us) rich in possessions when we arrive - has his Greatest, snatched from him by Cruel War - (His only Son). He intends selling his estate.

Our cottage is *quite* outside the private grounds of the mansion - right up above it, in Skelgill Lane.

I appear before him, and ask, "Are we safe with the new Owner?"

"Have no apprehension on that score whatever," he says, "you are quite safe, - Surely there is enough room for him and his servants."

But we are uneasy, - After some time, it is sold.

The new Owner takes possession, and within two days a letter is delivered by hand, demanding that W.W. vacate the cottage - giving him a Quarter's notice, - it is wanted for his (the Landlord's) Chauffeur.

Consternation seizes us. There are no houses whatever vacant - (We cannot take to the woods). This he is informed, but shows no Mercy. His Agent is then instructed to 'Get us out', though he is *well aware* of the new Protecting Law in force. The rent is raised to the highest capacity he can really put it, and he surges on in his spleen, - for when the Agent fails to move us, (after repeated efforts - though we tell him 'just as soon as we can obtain a home we will leave') He lifts the eviction of an English Poet out of his hands - into that of his Lawyer's, who write "Our Client considers you are doing him an injury by retaining possession of High Close Cottage, of which he is the owner...." (Extract.)

Not content with this bullying, he rides up the lane past the Poet, on his fine horse, looking black as thunder. His handsome cars dash up and down Holbeck Hill. The very sight of his Yacht on the lake, spoils its beauty for us. He has turned happiness into wretchedness.

It is the custom up here if a person is obviously very rich to say from whence came his riches.

'CLOSE SEASONS FOR LANDLORDS'

From a carriage at our Lane end comes a tall, girt figure. As he comes nearer, you will see Henry C. Montgomery of Ballyhackamore, County Down. He, of the fine appreciative mind - every three months or so he comes thus, laden with all the good things he can carry across the Sea - "to keep the Poet alive", he says. The children race to meet him - for is he not their "Great bearded playfellow, whom they love?"

In the gloaming, while the children sleep, he, my fellow-country-man and I, go down the Lane together, into Low-Wood fields, and there, in view of the 'Tyrant's' abode, we confide in each other various things, known only to 'Our People', and you, my friends, shall hear just one of the subjects discussed, "Close Seasons for Landlords....".

Winter. Deep under snowy mantles are our mountains - they appear of surpassing beauty. We are prisoners. It has snowed practically a week.

There comes a knock on the door, - Our Landlord's Manservant with a message, "There's a telephone call at the 'all for you, from Hadmiral of the Fleet, Lord Fisher. Please come down and answer it."

"If I called me on that telephone, I should refuse to answer" - I confide to W.W. He upholds me.

A puzzled servant takes back our refusal.

That night off goes a letter to the Beloved Admiral (for such is our name for him). I tramp through the snow to Troutbeck to post it - The road is all my own, I sing most of the way in the crisp air, and my voice echoes along the valley, - naught matters, there are none to hear. 'Ploughing' down Skelgill Lane as I reach the bend - on my return - I start 'Excelsior' at my loudest, and hear William's fine voice catch up the refrain with great gusto. Night is falling, he has been anxious for my safety.

There he stands, almost a snow man, at the gate.

"You are safe my Wife?"

"I am safe."

HIDDEN RICHES.

136

Much wealth is hidden away in these mountainy nooks -
yes, and much ignorance too.

Often we would like to bring 'the Mill Hands' say from
Leet and Bestoft and Manchester to Lodge Gates - which
shut in from prying eyes the Overlords, (and their species)
wallowing in their gains!

A peep from this One gate will show you this a glorious
avenue, bordered in white heather, backed with superb trees
of every kind imaginable, which grow in prolific magnificence.
Walk a little further - do. Here are shady nooks and dells
galore, with tiny cascades singing musically to their
capture from the Mountain Beck, - Telling too, a romantic
story of how this glorious garden has grown out of a rugged
baldness: - How their first master was kind, and Irish, and
very, very poor, when he landed at Kendal - to work as a spinner;
how, little by little, at first - a great fortune in the end, with
fine mills to his credit. When 'The Accounts' are handed in,
this beautiful place of his dreams, descends to his son, who
has no need to work - Alas, to be denied by Wealth, the one
salvation of man!

Have another peep. - It is War. There are women
wandering in this earthly paradise - decked in silks and
priceless pearls, - one moves towards a grassy mound with a
depressed air - she kneels down, and places choice flowers
there - But we will leave her to this unusual grief - remember,
the War is on - and her dog has just lately died!

Come on inside - Libertys furnished this sumptious home,
even to the Library, - Englands Pride (should be) gleam in
perfect bindings behind glass doors - but these doors are
never unlocked - never have been! Never once, have the
bored pampered children, peeped inside, to join in a world

IRELAND CAPTIVE, OR IRELAND FREE. ?

138

William Watson once again Rises in undaunted
Rebellion against 'Black and Tan Rule in Ireland, and to
his Everlasting Honour Wrote 'Ireland Unfreed' - possibly
unknown to Your Land -

'England's Choice'. Given out in Dublin as a message
to the People, Printed on Placards, some of which are posted
on Kilmainham Jail, and on the lampposts in Old Kilmainham,
to be torn down by the English Soldiers, after Mass one
memorable Sunday.

"Yonder where shakes with antic Laughter
In elfin moonlight the spoilful sea
What shall the Stars behold hereafter
Ireland Captive, or Ireland Free."

A LAST CONVERSATION WITH LORD FISHER.

W.W. "I have had letters and photographs from Scarpa Flow - it's a sorry sight - those monster Ships."

*Fisher. "A sorry sight. Is that your point of view? All Monster Ships should be scrapped - Submarines _alone_ will be wanted in future."

W.W. "Nothing but Hate can come of it."

Fisher. "You're right, - Nothing but Hate. But it's War. - Did you know, I was not invited to Scarpa Flow to see their Ships handed over?"

W.W. {incredulous.} "Not invited to witness your own triumph?"
Fisher {sadly} "No, - I give them ten years to come back, and
then - _No Declaration of War_ - they will just Come."

W.W. "So soon, Admiral?"

Fisher. "Do you imagine - we can keep a Great People on their Knees?"

W.W. "Never. They are not on their knees. I am not under any illusion about it, and never have been, where a People of their intelligence are concerned."

Fisher. "No. Neither am I."

'I MET WITH A RETAIL ROBBER'

There is much profiteering in every commodity in
England, at this time.

When a fresh egg reaches the price of 9d. and only
the Miners can afford them for their Whippets.

THE IMPENITENT THIEVES.

I MET WITH A RETAIL ROBBER,
WHO ROBBED AT HIS COUNTER AND TILL.

I MET WITH A WHOLESALE ROBBER ---
A GREATER MISCREANT STILL.

FOR BOTH I WOULD BUILD A GIBBET,
AS HIGH AS THEIR SOULS ARE LOW,
AND SWING THEM ALOFT TO THEIR KINSFOLK
THE VULTURE AND CARRION CROW.

W.W.

One MS of 'The Impenitent Thieves' was given to H.C.Montgomery
on condition that it would hang on the wall of his Office in
Rosemary Street, Belfast.

H.C.M. was given many M.S. by M.W.

W.W. giving him that addressed 'To H.C.Montgomery'.

Ballyhackamore.

THE MURDERER'S KITBAG.

The Wife of our neighbour fell ill - the long expected child had not arrived, we knew, though the Doctor had come that evening to see if all was well. About ten o'clock I express anxiety about her to William, who agrees that I shall go over and offer help. I do, and find her alone, crying bitterly before the fire, with her apron thrown over her head. ---

For some little time I can get no clear response to my questioning. I realise it is not FEAR which has taken possession of her, so I wait. Then she stands up, and taking my hand in hers, leads me into the parlour, - there, on the table is an old black leather bag, - and with tears gushing forth again, she points to me to open it. I do so, and spring back aghast. - I take another peep -- Then I realise. It was Fear.

Fear of the DOCTOR'S BAG. A Murderer's Bag, surely! It's once white lining, saturated in fresh blood. There lie all the Doctor's Instruments, Thick With Rust. I have never fainted in my life, or felt even dizzy, but I confess I let a scream escape me.

The Doctor had intimated his intention of returning in two hours, - so reassuring the frightened little creature, that he will NEVER be allowed to use them where she is concerned, I take up the Black Bag, and racing through the wood which separated the Lodge from our cottage, I wake William up - tell him all - preparing him for the shock of a peep.

"My God!", he gasps, "what a blessing you went."

Then, I run back with it. - The husband is home now - very worried. So I stay with his Wife, while he goes down to his Master's telephone and 'phones this, "My Wife is very ill, please bring another Doctor with you and come at once."

THE OTHER DOCTOR.

They came together, the *Other* Doctor being the poor creature's salvation.

Next morning, we are happy to hear a little child, quite perfect, is theirs.

*(The Doctor in this story had a large practice. Later W.W. expresses himself shocked to see the number of *New* graves in the Churchyard!)*

THE CONDEMNED.

We are here in Ambleside - and are quit of our Landlord at last.
His Chauffeur never lived in the Cottage - he was "Called Up".
Our new little home is nice enough -- The Duchess of Hamilton
gave the money to pay for it - but in after years William Watson admitted that he "bitterly regretted being forced to accept this money", though it spelt "Escape from the Landlord" at the time when the rents of all houses were at a very high premium: and food alone - was very little over.

William often has heart attacks now - the Doctor's say "It's not to be wondered at - leaving the fine clear air of Wansfell"

Nor is it to be wondered at that we are driven to ask assistance from "Funds" - supposed to be doled out in all "Privacy" - yet are so "Very Public" - that friends in various parts are able to write to WW. and say "Sorry to hear you are driven to accept help from "THE Poet" - FUND" - NOTHING IS EVER PRIVATE'

Poetry is not a plant that can be forced - neither can we live by its sale - and my man has been born a POET - just that - and nothing else - BUT I SAY IT WITH PRIDE - NOT WITH REGRET.

Cash received from various Editor's for a Weekly Article - invariably goes into the Doctor's pocket or most of it - Even a short Lyric costs him a very great deal of strength - and I beg him not to encourage work-

"If you want to live, Sir William, you must give all this writing up" say the Doctor's - and to me (privately) they say "His heart is so bad - dont be surprised if he drops dead at your feet". A Ghastly secret to be hidden from the "Condemned One".

A friend at this time writes to Lord Curzon as the one most likely to be active in the matter of help; and as WW. is on easy terms with him, - Lord Curzon's answer is "Indeed I will write at once to the Prime Minister - and urge upon him the necessity of increasing the Civil List Pension - I feel sure he will agree, especially if it will mean ease and comfort in his last years - and a continuance of his own splendid work in Poetry."

Lord Curzon received the following letter from IO. Downing ST.--

THE GOLD MINE.

About this time, a Mrs. Andrews called at The Bodley Head, and asked to see John Lane. He forwards the following message --

"I have a portrait of William Watson in Black and White, which I did in 1892 - and I would very much like his Wife to possess it. I will send it to you to be packed, if you promise to send it to her. My husband did one a little later in Black and White, but I do not know what became of it, for it was bought by the Macmillan Company. We happened to be staying in the same house at Southend, where he was staying with his Mother - and to see him was to want to paint him!"

M.W. "William, I am so glad to possess it."

W.W. "I am glad you have it. - That was a kind woman, that Mrs. Andrews, I remember."

M.W. "Is there any chance that Macmillan's still have that portrait which hung in their office?"

W.W. "Probably went on a dust heap long ago, or burnt. - I am not Kipling the Goldmine, remember."

M.W. "I will write to them, and find out "

W.W. "Hopeless, quite hopeless - just waste of time."

Off goes a letter in W.W's name. A reply comes in a few days "Nothing is known of it, but Mrs. Lillie Craik (their Partner's Widow) may know something" (her address is given). Mrs. Lillie Craik replies that she has never seen it, but Macmillan's old clerk - now retired - may know.

He is written to. - Here is his reply.
York House, Tooting, Graveney.

"I understand you have approached Messrs. Macmillan in the matter, and have been inadvertently informed about the picture. Mrs. Craik also knew nothing about it. As a former Secretary of the Company, when I was asked about it a few days ago I was able to indicate where it was, and indeed saw it the day before yesterday.

TWO PORTRAITS.

Mrs. Craik has asked me to negotiate with you in the matter, and I suggest Twenty pounds for the picture. It is well framed and in excellent condition, and if you agree to the price will draw a cheque in favour of Mrs. A.R.Craik, and send it to me, I will obtain her receipt for it, and send the picture to you.

Signed. James Foster.

W.W. "Don't reply. It is a letter composed by sharks - put it in the fire immediately."

(But no, - not in the fire, - among the 'interesting things' it goes.)

The scene shifts to 'The Times' (Obituary List about a year later, "James Foster" (Late Secretary of Messrs. Macmillan & Co. etc. etc.))

Immediately, a letter goes to Mrs. Craik, - I am fearful of losing sight of the picture - I tell her 'It would have been purchased had I had the Twenty pounds...'

Porchester Terrace, W.

"I was no party to any charge being made for the portrait.
The Secretary - Mr. Foster - having died, I have asked the
Directors of Macmillans to send you the Picture, which I hope
will reach you safely.

A.R.Craik."

There is an unbelievable difference in these two portraits.

Photos.

See for yourselves and remember their dates 1892 - 3

WILLIAM WATSON'S ALABASTER BOX OF OINTMENT.
"THERE THERE - Sweep It Out Of Your Mind As You
Would Sweep Out Of A Room Black Beetles."

147

But the Fiat has gone forth - and the future is dark.

Never-more to climb the hills - never more to tread the
valleys - no more work."

W.W. "I work till I die!"

M.W. "Yes, go on."

W.W. "I wish I had been born a Greengrocer, - then I could have
provided for you."

M.W. "Selling cabbages wouldn't suit me."

W.W. "Don't joke about it - My life has not been easy. The
Doctors say no work - How can I, at will, stop working -
Sometimes, I would like to - but it is as though I were seized
by an Old Man of the Sea and must go on - or perish: - Illness
and age - are just a Clogging of the Wheels."

M.W. "Clogs can be removed."

W.W. "Yes, for a time."

M.W. "Be brave, and Cæsar's Wife must be above reproach -
And will."

The Winter - finds the Watsons at Flushing.

"There's three bold men in Flushing
Though they're all a little bit odd
There's Beer the Baker, and Spear the Butcher,
And Ford the Man of God."

But there are other oddities elsewhere than Flushing.

This year there appeared in the 'Nation and Atheneum'
a review of "Poems Brief And New"

So filled with Venom is it, that I hide it from W.W. -
while he is ill - but I challenge it's Author on it's
spitefulness, and here you may see his reply.

Photo.

GORDON WORDSWORTH.

"Perhaps I will be better at Hawkshead", says W.W.

So, in the small village on Esthwaite - you will find
the Watsons next - under the shadow of the old white Church -
in a little house beside Wordsworth's lodgings. In the old
deeds - the name Joseph Varty is given, as Writing Master in
the School Accounts, of the Wordsworth boys - It was known
by the name of 'The Crown and Mitre' and the earliest date given
is 1756

Strange to say, the name Bainbridge (Semmerwater) comes
into the deeds - and every year, a fee of ninepence must be
paid to the Duke of Buccleuch (Lord of the Manor). Presumably,
the tenant or owner would be called upon for service to his
Lord!

Gordon Wordsworth, Grandson of the Poet, comes for the
first time to see us. I had passed him up the Holbeck Lane
in former years, - he is tall like his Grandfather - wears a
beard, and peers at you out of very small eyes through glasses.
A fine looking man though, - He is rarely seen in the country
roads without his bicycle, and he comes along on it now.

After this first visit, he often brings some relic of his
Grandfather's, - such as a letter, or a piece of interesting
manuscript to show W.W. When the Spring comes, he insists
that we shall go over to the 'Stepping Stones' for lunch to
see his garden - he arranges a day - and we go by car.

Though it is nearly the end of May - just after we start,
there is a great storm of sleet and snow, so there can be no
garden walks, - Our lunch is served in a room with no fire, - As
I rise from the table to fetch my husband's overcoat, and place
it round his shoulders - G.W. says, "Surely, you're not cold?"
But we are cold, and let him see it too: - We never go again.

Gordon Wordsworth has been very anxious to obtain possession
of his Grandfather's false teeth - and 'Dump them into the lake' -

AND HIS GRANDFATHER'S FALSE TEETH.

149

he says, "they are always cropping up - someone hears about them, and then I am told 'Why don't you buy them' - I have tried to buy them, times without number, but the wretched people hang on to them as relics. I have offered them five pounds for them, but no!

W.W. "It would be well worth your while to give them something like Twenty pounds. - Teeth floating about belonging to a Great Poet - you know..."

G.W. "That would only make them wait a while longer, so that I might offer a little more."

M.W. "Thank God, my Poet's won't 'Float' He has every tooth but one!"

G.W. "Lucky man - I wish I could say the same. I may as well confess - The 'Teeth' have worried me for years;-- The descendants of His old manservant have them. The Arnolds did their best to obtain possession of them, and give them to me to destroy, - and now Dear Old Miss Arnold says, "In my Will I am leaving you that large silver bowl - how I wish I could get those teeth and put them in it'."

Although, Gordon Wordsworth left £55,000 - in his Will, - he never obtained possession of his Grandfather's Teeth.

Wordsworth's Prelude interests us - in that it might be taken as a travesty of Truth.

The Living, who dwell here in Hawkshead - with the exception of just a very few - care not one whit for all its Sacred Past, - except in as much as it brings them Filthy Lucre from 'Pilgrims to the Shrine'. - And the same may be said with Truth about the whole neighbourhood, - Grasmere included.
The Poets who dwelt there - and their repute in the world beyond the mountains, have been, and are, a veritable Goldmine to the inhabitants, which they assiduously work, though the shafts have to be sunk a bit deeper now.'

Gordon Wordsworth writes to say, "I will call on Thursday."

150

" I HAVE WON THE YACHT RACE "

He comes to tell us with great joy - "I have won the Yacht
Race - Fancy, I have beaten Hacking by ten lengths!!!"

W.W. "Hacking! - Our Landlord at Holbeck?"

G.W. "Yes, I was glad I beat him."

W.W. "I suppose you heard about our Eviction?"

G.W. "Oh, yes, I thought of writing to Protest to him -
Many people did."

W.W. "Why didn't you?"

G.W. "Oh, Well - I didn't think it was exactly my place to
interfere."

I turn my back upon him, that I may not look at his face:-
William Watson wrote 'Wordsworth's Grave' and helped to
keep his Grandfather's name alive. - "Oh, Gordon Wordsworth!!"

He comes fairly often, and expresses himself as most
anxious to have William's little picture of 'Wordsworth's Grave'
for X Dove Cottage. But I look at him calmly and say, "It will
never hang in Dove Cottage."

The picture shows two graves - that of Wordsworth, and
his daughter Dorothy's. In the background is the 'Old Rude
Church' - and a glimpse of Rotha near by. (Just a hint of
other graves - but very few.)

The inscription on the back runs thus:-
"This drawing of 'Wordsworth's Grave' was done by my Great
Aunt, Henrietta Crofts, (Sometime in the Fifties) It used
to hang in my Father's dressing room (Archbishop Benson). It
is now given to William Watson by the desire of my Mother.

Eton College. 1902.

Arthur Benson.

THE COMING OF DOROTHY UNA.

It is Christmas time. The lamps are lit - not half early enough though to please two impatient children, in the centre of the tea table you may see a very Handsome Cake - very large too -- It is Jamesx Bromley's "Usual" for his God-daughter, and the Rydal Mount cups look handsome in the glow of light. --Mother is being laughed at, because in the manner of Ireland she has laid out the whole Set of China (supposed to "bring plenty" to the household during the year) "And only two guest's besides ourselves" says a merry voice-but it looks nice". The guests come - they are companionable too.-

Nearly Cake Time.---A very loud knock on the door. When it is opened,-- a clear young voice from the outer darkness says-- "Does Sir William Watson live here?" MW. "Yes - who is it, please?" "I'm DOROTHY UNA RATCLIFFE"- MW. "Come inside, - "William a girl would like to see you-" WW. "Bring her in-of course -"

In she comes, and her escort too,- who has not been visible till now, - In the darkness, only the girl's form was distinct. With unerring instinct - passing our male guest - she thanks him for his offer of a chair with a smile, and blurts out - "Thanks, but I didn't come all this way to sit beside anyone but William Watson -- and in a trice - she is holding the poets hand in hers - We just sit there, speechless onlookers'&-

How to tea, -perhaps a word will drop our way, as to who this stranger is, - no-one Ordinary - anyway: But till the Cake has descended in scale considerably, we at our end of the table are quite forgotten;- then we glean from the happy guest that she hails from Yorkshire:- and many a fine story she can tell too of William Watson's Dales-which bring such a light into his eyes-that I feel like barring the door and saying- "Stay,"-for she is pretty and witty,- and though we never saw her again you will hear more of her,- for I count her my friend-in that she let my Poet see that he and his work came into her life.'

(Mrs Mcériger Phillips)
Author and Poetess.

'WIDNES WAS A MEDICINE'.

On William's Birthday, 2nd August, comes remembrance from some part of England in one shape or another, - books - kitbags - a bundle of letters; - left behind after a stay in village, town, or beside the sea. - Here is one letter from an old maid of the Watson family, which came during the last years:-

Dear Sir,

I read in the paper it was your Birthday, so I thought I would try and send your Blacklead as I have had it Fifty years when I lived with your Mother, you remember, you was not well and you dropped the niblead and I picked it up and you said you can keep that so I have had it Fifty years, and I thought it would be very nice to return it to you to keep in your family. Your daughters might keep it as I have kept it all these years.

I hope you are feeling better. If you receive this letter you might let me know that you received it as I don't know your address.

Mrs. Yates.

1 Farm Towerhouse Lane Widnes.

W.W. remembered this servant because she said that 'The air of Widnes was a medicine to her. - And a very funny thing, - I have heard the very same remark from quite a number of people since.'

Another interesting letter (1931) came from Australia, from two brothers - "Our Mother was Nurse to Sir William Nelson when he was a baby in Yorkshire."

It has been raining nearly a month - W.W. "Another Winter coming along - the third I am kept prisoner I suppose." (looking very sad.)

M.W. "Perhaps you will have an urge for work later - then Winter or Summer will all be one to you."

W.W. "Perhaps - but not very likely - Maureen, do you realise, my work is nearly finished, very rarely does the impulse come now."

M.W. 'Who knows when she is addressed by her name, to expect more.'

"What is Sussex like? Would you like us to pack up and go there. Doctor - says you would have a new lease of life."

W.W. "Oh, splendidly healthy, - glorious sunshine - have you never been?"

M.W. "Oh yes, in my Youth, on the way to Paris, with a red ribbon round my arm so that the D - would recognize me, at the Gare San

Dijon

NOTHING IN COMMON WITH THE WATSONS

153

Lazare."

W.W. "What impression did you get as you neared the Sussex Coast?"

M.W. "That the inhabitants were mighty lazy - with not a potato to be seen on their bald ground. No wonder William The Conquerer landed there!"

W.W. laughs at what he calls a 'new point of view' but he has quite forgotten the idea of 'Spending another Winter in the house.'

It is decided there and then...

W.W. "I must go to Childwall to see my Grave before we start - can it be managed?"

It can.

We take the journey -Childwall!

W.W. "That is my Grave."

M.W. "How clear the lettering looks, and how green the sward."

W.W. (sadly) "Yes, it might be yesterday - I said 'Goodbye'."

M.W. "Look, William, the Brocklebanks are actually next to it, - the very people who said 'We won't call on the Watsons, we have nothing in common with them' - Yet their Kinsfolk are in the very next vault to your's!"

W.W. "Strange, what pranks Fate plays! - Well, now you've seen it, you won't mind the idea of coming here one day, will you?"

M.W. "We'll think about it - the Irish Sea between you and I know!"

We leave in silence - W.W. standing at the gate, looking at the picturesque Hotel opposite - "A favourite Nurse of the Derby's ran the Hotel when I was young, and on the walls hung many Nelson relicts, given her by the family. All the

many Nelson relicts, given her by the family. All the Great Actors and Actresses who 'played' in Liverpool stayed there to be quiet. I have met Tree there, and have gone for a walk with him, round the neighbourhood. I have seen Ellen Terry looking very tired, I can tell you."

Ellen Terry is looking very tired, I can tell you."

We pause to take in the splendid view over the Wirral to

" ENGLAND NO LONGER A GREAT COUNTRY. "

154

## Mersey's Flashing Mouth!

W.W. "The land lies so high here, that after a hundred and fifty years exhumed bodies are found to be in a state of perfect preservation, - and yonder at -- they have vanished in ten, - on account of damp."

— (He is leaning on the gate, seemingly lost in thought - then I catch a whisper - 'Perfect Freedom is for All who Serve.')

**Bold Street, Liverpool - now**

M.W. "Do you remember the Poem you wrote for that Centenary here, when Sixty thousand people sang it - mostly children - William?"

W.W. "Yes, - It's the one the Unitarians have in their Hymn Book in America - and have been singing for the last Twenty years, - Why?"

M.W. "Just repeat it for me - I believe I have an air in my head it might just go with."

W.W. "I have tried you know, often, but have never been satisfied with it - and the Americans sing it to one of the very old tunes. They say they cannot improve on it --

> 'Great and Fair is she our Land,
> High of heart and strong of hand-
> In her Roadsteads Navies Ride,
> Hath she need of Ought beside?' "

M.W. "William, it is just what is wanted now. The English - Your People - want a recall to the things 'That are more Excellent' - Shall I write to Elgar, he would do it with dignity befitting the words. Shall I?"

W.W. "Yes, if you like. But these are a strange people, who find out no Poem which suits their very Own Country - until a Poet has been in his grave a hundred years."

— (Elgar is written to later - (not by M.W.) about it, and his reply is "I cannot do it. England is no longer a Great Country!")

Stopping at Kendal for a few hours, I hear so much of

AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUEBELL.

155

its history, that the place is turned into a story. Never
can I pass it lightly again.

Along Stricklandgate we walk and talk - William seems
so well. Can the Doctor's all be wrong? Is it possible,
this companion of mine, who carries a whole Town's history in
memory, may be snatched from me any moment.

Now we are in the Stramongate -
W.W." Here's something you'll like, I think - When I was
twenty two, my People on their annual trip to Grasmere, generally
stayed there a night, - pointing to a large old house. It
called itself an Hotel - but it was just a Glorified Inn.
I remember, there was a huge meat pie put on the table for
supper, in front of my Father. He seemed to be struggling
with it and then gave it up, rang the bell loudly, and told
the waitress to bring a hatchet, as nothing else would cut
into it! - And indeed, the whole crust - or roof - of that pie
had to be lifted off before anyone could be served."

Then he relates how he saw a group of Mill Girls coming
down Stricklandgate, arm in arm, and on the other side were a group
of young men - evidently Mill hands too. The men started
singing, "Oh! where and oh! where, does your Highland laddie
dwell?'" Quick as a flash in the uptake - the girls are
singing the answer "He dwells in Bonnie Scotland, at the
Sign of the Blue Bell." So delightfully unexpected was it,
that even the road traffic was suspended - pedestrians joining
in - W.W. included!

(Hearing Evelyn Scotney sing "Whistle, and I'll come tae
ye me lad" - That's the one and only way" - W.W.)

1955.

156

"EVER HALF SCALING THE HARD HILL OF FAME",
AND EVER BY SOME IMPISH FATE FLUNG BACK." WILLIAM WATSON.

How true it is.

M.W. "You really feel no interest now whether it comes
your way?"

W.W. "Not now. - It is far too late in the day to be of
any benefit - except, perhaps, that the emolument would
be useful - and in the event of my death the powers that
be- would have to take into consideration your position
as my Widow."

M.W. "I would like to think that our Girls could say in
the future - 'My Father was the Laureate of England.'"

W.W. "They will never say it - No Prime Minister, since
Lloyd George, has ever cared one farthing what I have
done."

M.W. "And he & Welshman!"

W.W. "Yes. But remember, the Welsh set value on their
Poets."

M.W. "The Irish too."

The Laureateship continues to be 'guesswork'. - - - Then
comes a letter from Hall Caine, saying - among other things -
"I have just written to Ramsay Macdonald to say, 'If you give
the Laureateship to anyone - give it to William Watson - who
has been passed over twice since Tennyson."

W.W. "He may be a friend of the Prime Minister - - But I
wish he would leave my affairs alone. - If Macdonald refused
to increase my Civil List Pension, then he will certainly
not give the Laureateship to me. | And remember, there are
men all over the Country doing very fine work - who are
members of no coteries - and who pull no strings - yet are
well fitted for the Bays."

THE CROWN OF THORNS.

M.W. "Your Dantesque head would just suit them --"

W.W. "In your eyes."

M.W. "Yes, and they see things."

There comes another letter from Hall Caine. You may peep at the extract, for it may interest you - who are interested in W.W.

It is a copy of a letter to the Prime Minister.

"I will not for one moment attempt to influence you to reconsider your decision, and in order not to embarrass you, I will at once decline the proposal that I should write an article in an important place to move public opinion in Watson's favour, in a way which perhaps nobody else now living could. But I think it is such a pity that he is out of the question, that I trust you will allow me to say what prompted me to write to you."

I think it was Gladstone who gave Watson the Civil List Pension, and my recollection is that he told me he did so because he could not give him the Laureateship. You will understand what he meant, when I remind you of the unhappy Incident in Windsor shortly after the death of Tennyson, when Watson was partly beside himself, and had to be removed to a 'mental institution'.

W.W. (With a very stricken face, turns to me after reading it and says) "From henceforth - read my letters - answer any - say what you like, or throw them into the fire - I want to read no more - nor even sign any either."

And rarely, very rarely, does he read a letter again, or write one.

["A WOMAN OF THE STREET.", "158", "Time is my enemy now - His features must be preserved\nif possible, before the Eternal Shades snatch them. - I\nwrite to Augustus John, Orpen and others, and enclose a copy\nof the photograph you see on page but receive no reply!", "In late Autumn we arrive in Sunny Sussex. - One thing\nupsets three of the family, anyway. We have left our\nbeautiful trees behind, and it takes us some time to get\nused to our loss. Much dearer is rent, I tell William,\nthan in the Lakes. Distinct\nW.W. \"As long as we are all better in health for the move -\nany shanty will do.\"", "And it does do - until Dow thy lina Walzlije senses\nour low estate - and persuades her Uncle to buy a little\nhouse overlooking the Channel.", "Here, for a time, W.W's health improves, and in spite\nof Doctors, he is working; - back to his own legitimate\ncalling, - back to the work this England sets no value upon\nnow. - The Proud Day is gone when she did.", "Ill health again holds sway, and it is to the various Editors\nwho have held the Fort through the years - that M.W. turns\nwhen all seems lost - when her Man with the splendid brain,\ncan no longer earn money by journalism or a penny from his\nLife's work. Yes, to the men who feed the mass mind - and\nhold the pulse of this changing surging world. In a pigeon\nhole, close by the Editorial Chair, you may see one marked\nW.W. (In America I was shown it too.) It is the 'Life' of\nthat W.W. - written up to date - by that same Editor's\nforerunners, - therefore, that name Cannot be Ignored. It\nwill not be Ignored - It is a Trust.", "I am glad when the appeal goes forth for your Poet and\nMine that it is not the Financier, or the Rich Men who help\nto keep him alive, but it is the real Lovers of Literature\nwho send their aid in our day of need. - Yes, and dearest\nof all was a shilling from 'A Woman Of The Street'\nwho remembered just *One* line of his Poetry.", Procedure\n('One came and opened Michael's Gate,\nAnd Magdalen went in.')"]

NATURE WITH THE HEART OF MAN ALLIED
IS HARD TO OVERTHROW.

Bath has publicly welcomed William Watson, - and his family are very sensible of the nice feeling of its Inhabitants towards them - and even above these considerations, is the fact that in its more genial climate- the Poet is once more gaining back the health he has lost for so long; - but is still confined to his room. In little more than a month, Spring will be in - and then happy days in store- and perhaps we may make our home in this delectable City-who knows'--

It is about 10 o'clock in the morning, such a sunny bird-singing morning - WW. is actually up and whistling in his room.

WW. "Shall we engineer a shave?- - contemplating himself in the glass-MW. "We certainly need it".

WW. "We do and shall--For all we be and are"-just you produce the needful - and you won't know me".

I give him the hot water, glad indeed to hear a burst of flippancy.
A loud ringing is heard below stairs.

WW. "Dont answer it, stay with me- I can do with your company. -I stay-but the ringing persists, - and then loud knocking starts - and continues; so I go down at last and open the door. Two young men stand before me, who very politely request a few words with me-, Yes, I say - Come inside please, in here - indicating the sitting room: "Yes" - I commence-- as they seem to hesitate somewhat to get to business.

First Spokesman "Well - there is a suggestion in certain quarters that Sir William Watson is not staying here with you - and that he has not been in this house-or in fact in Bath at all'--and we have been asked to come and make enquiries, - and to ascertain the facts etc etc--

They are both tall men who look down upon me - their inquisitorial eyes seem to bore through my very soul.- I, of the ready speech am bereft of it now - for a space, - but with a supreme effort I recover, and say "How Vile" 'Sir William not here-- then where is he?".

At that lo 2. pulls out some newspapers from a case and hands them to me to read the very large headlines. There is a mystery of the whereabouts of Sir William Watson etc. etc. Is the staying at Bivie Park OR?

I hand them back - and then leave the "TWO" who could come and

face me with so wicked a thing in their hands-- Me- the MANS' wife -
and as I mount the stairs repeat to myself "Dispicable Hounds! --"
MW. "William - I just want you to trust me absolutely -- Will you?"
WW. "Of course,- But what is the matter -- You look quite ill?"
MW. "No I'm not ill, - but I wonder if you could come down for just five
minutes - and see two young men who have called about a very Important
Matter - I will help you down - but do come and show yourself -do"
WW. "It is a most extraordinary request to a still sick man, but if you
really want me to come down - then I will come-- You go down and I will
follow you more slowly".

I go down, and await his coming in the hall.

When we enter the room, I turn to the two men and say--
"Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes" they say,-- and retire with many expressions of politeness--

Then William turns to me for an explanation -- but I am swept with a
tempest of tears-- and for a time am unable to speak. - Then I tell him all
He totters into a chair, and remains quite still-- then turning to me-
whose tears are still falling - says "AN ENEMY HAS DONE THIS INIQUITOUS
THING UPON US-- We must quit this place at once and forever ".

MW. "I am willing - but I am heartbroken that you should be stabbed again".

WW. "Not for long now - A very short time - shorter because of this last-
But you are stabbed too - that is the cruellest part of all".

AN ENEMY HAS DONE THIS,
a friend Rn GreenARMAGEDDON's
resident of Ballyposh, posing as a BO

Notes

## The County of Hampshire—

"That region which cradled the earliest known of English poets, Caedmon, and which long afterwards gave birth to Miles Coverdale, the first English translator in whose hands the Bible began to have the beauty of cadence and nobility of style on which some of us have been reared and bred, may seem to have taken less than its natural share in the subsequent development of this country's literature; but certain parts of the great shire have been the nursery of a most unusual number of minds destined to eminence in various collateral paths; the county, as represented collectively by her children, has been eminently versatile."

William Watson.

### Notes:

Example of the wind up of a sermon in 1878 by Canon Alcock (related by W.W.) "For Five and forty years have I wrestled and laboured among wicked Sinners"

The Rev. William Carus Wilson, who rescued the Robinsons from Sedburgh Workhouse, figures in Charlotte Bronte's novel.

### The New Testimony

Miles Coverdale's version of the Bible we owe to Blue Beard' (Henry VIII)

For many years his (W.W's father's) office and one of his warehouses were in Brunswick Street, opposite the Corn Exchange, but at a later date he removed to premises at the corner of James's Street and Goree - the site of which is now occupied by the Palatial Offices of one of the Great Steamship Companies.

Messrs. Robinson & Watson, of Liverpool, Jute Merchants, traded with Dundee and Calcutta.

Dr. George Robinson of Richmond, was Uncle to Dorothy Robinson (W.W's Mother). Dr. G. Robinson left £60,000 to his Only Son who afterwards lived at Reith - ten miles from Richmond.

## Notes.

### ISAAC A TRIMATRAM

Isaac A Trimatram was a good Waterman
He knew how to water his hens
Some laid eggs, and some laid none
So Isaac A Trimatram sent them all home.

### NANCY PANCY

Nancy Pancy lived in a well,
She brewed good ale for Gentle-men.
Gentle-men came every day
So Nancy Pancy ran away.

### ROBIN RIBBLE RABBLE

As I went down into Willerty Walltery Wain
I peeped over into Spilterty Spalterty Spain
Whom should I spy - but Old Robin Ribble Rabble
Standing by his rammle pipe
"Oh!" said I, "if I had my dibble dabble
I'd soon make an end of old Robin Ribble Rabble."

### Napoleon's Parents in Corsica made the following rhyme...

Napoleone di mezza Galzetta
Fa L'amore a Giacometta...

## Notes

Professor Corson while staying with the Watsons in Liverpool told them his son was (supposed) to be dying of consumption, but they were advised as a last resource to try the effect of the leaves of the Erithraxilon Coca Tree and that he was recovering, and later they heard he was completely cured.

It was to Edmund Clarence Stedman that he, when twenty two, sent his poem 'Shadow and Substance'. It appeared in Scribner's Magazine (later the Century Magazine).

Letter from Messrs. Macmillan & Co.
dated 1883 - to William Watson.

Dear Sir,

We beg to acknowledge receipt of your letter together with the MS of 'Epigrams of Aft Life and Nature.'

The verses show signs of cleverness, but in our opinion, it would not possibly be a popular volume.

MS returned herewith.

(Signed) F. Macmillan.

Bromley had six complete sets of the Argus in his Library.

Henry Harland, Author of 'The Cardinal's Snuff-box' - wrote 'David Blake' - a satire on Hall Caine.

'The Prince's Quest' attracted the attention and admiration of D.G.Rossetti, who wrote of it, "He goes right back to Keats with a little modification".

Notes:

Robert Fowler, artist, signed his pictures under his monogram R.F. he did a Black and White portrait of William Watson at Magull, and another at Aigburth - they were both considered good.

These were evidently included in the sale (by Branch and Leete of Liverpool) of the contents of the Watson home, at Aigburth in 1889 after his Father's death

## Notes.

The family Fault is at Childwall (a Norse name) just outside Liverpool.

Photos of John and Dorothy Watson by William Clark. Photographer: Earthport.

On James Shield's advice (Lawyer) in 1907, W.W. offered a certain sum of money to Robinson, and to pay the fares of the whole family to a foreign land - After much trouble Robinson agreed - and peace reigned.

When the 'Coronation Ode' appeared, thousands of letters poured in from the Colonies and from America. America says, 'Watson's Ode shows a Magnanimity as Great as his Craftsmanship, - which is Superb.'

'The Wye and The Severn'. - Borrow mentions this fact, but does not give their ultimate history.

©www.Rickiexd.com/taughtxtheXPostx

## Notes.

On the occasion of one visit to Grasmere W.W. was standing on the bridge over the Brathy by Loughrigg, idly watching the river, - a very old clergyman approached and joined him in conversation - "You will be surprised", said he, "when I tell you that I lived with my family at Rydal Mount, before Wordsworth". (It seemed incredible, but nevertheless it was quite true.) "My name is North. I am Vicar of St. Catherine's, Abercromby Square, Liverpool."

Dorothy Wordsworth mentions the Norths in a letter:-

> 'They are asking too much for the blinds they left on the windows, - and William refuses to pay.'

> 'The Prince's Quest' - which Kegan Paul issued at the beginning of 1880 - its author then being 20 - was published at his father's cost.

## Notes.

Henry Norman's son of a Boot Manufacturer, then co-Editor with H.W.Massingham of the Daily Chronicle to which William Watson is a valued contributor. (10h, like a Queen. 'dedicated to Mrs. H.M.')

A Rare Copy. Lacrimae Musarum. (October 18. 1892) by William Watson, Author of 'Wordsworth's Grave'. London. Printed for Private Distribution. 1892.
(No Printer's name appears on it)

On flyleaf - One hundred copies only have been printed.

With an etching of the Nine Muses - by Fouston, and contains a print of a bust of Alfred, Lord Tennyson (after the late T. Wodner. R.I.)

While actually engaged upon 'Lacrimae Musarum' following his usual rule when working, he made for the open country, to leave his mind untrammelled by noise. In all probability he would be so absorbed that he would be quite unconscious of his surroundings - for he writes to his North friend, saying, 'On turning into a deserted bridle path I lay down on the bank 'conning' aloud my work - when suddenly, with a tremendous roar, an express train thundered passed. The shock for a few moments was so deadening - so terrific, that my mind was a complete blank. - However, after a little, I recovered my memory, and all was well'

Gosse was hated even in those days, and some critics would start a review of a book of his with a list of inaccuracies. He was furious when his friend, Professor Dowden, of Dublin, sent him a list of Sixty, which he had found in his latest book. This fatal fault stuck to him through life. He was Heinemann's Reader, and could make or mar a book.

Dowden's list was from 'Critical Essays on 17th Century Poets.'

## Notes

Lane always declared himself out of pocket by this arrangement and often in letters reminded W.W. of the many 'Benefactions' he was receiving from him. It was supposed to be 'private' but their mutual friends were all informed how matters stood, It was most galling to W.W.

Years afterwards W.W. found out that the "money advanced" was really out of Coutt's pocket, and not out of Lane's at all.

Henry Norman's first wife, formerly Menie Muriel Dowie, author of "A Girl in the Carpathians."

8 'Oh! like a Queen' - Dedicated to Mrs. H. N.

At Roehampton he was told Ruskin was frequently in Asylums, and very violent at times.

Edmund Gosse had married Miss Epps, (very rich,) another sister married Alma Tadema. The sisters were nicknamed Grateful and Comforting.

A Professor at Padua translated ten of 'The Purple East Sonnets' - And to this day Armenians Remember that an English Poet Dared to risk his country's displeasure to bring aid for their Oppressed People.

W.W.'s supporters in America were Legion - 'The Purple East' had a large sale there.

M.W. to W.W. 1933.

"What did you _feel most_ from Outsiders, other than _Windor_ episode during your whole life"?

"I felt _most_ deeply Mrs. St. Loe Strachey saying, 'No, you may not kiss her' after bringing her little girl into the drawing room at their home, to see me, - and I _never_ entered that house again!!"

## Notes.

"Shorter sent me Ten guineas, but later, when pressure was brought to bear upon him, he managed to get Twenty five pounds out of the Proprietors!"

Hutton said, "They ought to be proud, Watson, to give a Hundred for it!"

Mrs. Watson had paid a visit to Matthew Arnold's grave previously, and told William she had seen a tall Lady, heavily veiled, crying there. A grave digger told her "That Mrs. Arnold, poor thing, often comes here."

Miss Bumpus put many Watson lyrics to music, though no other gained such success as 'The Lute Player'. Urged by Miss B. J. L. often tried to 'arrange' a meeting between the 'two', but they never met.

In 1913, when Miss B. died, she left the copyrights back to W.W.

Joseph Pennel designed the Title Page in the First Edition of 'Wordsworth's Grave'. (Fisher Unwin Cameo Series)

Dr. Ridding (Bishop of Southwell) translated a great portion of 'Wordsworth's Grave' into Latin and Greek for an Oxford Anthology.

The Poem, 'Domine Quo Vadis', was commenced while staying with the Grant Allens, and was completed while staying at Lathom, Lancashire. It appeared in 'The Spectator' in May 1894, some two year's or more before the novel under the same title was published. The legend was drawn to his notice by G.A.

## Notes.

Mrs. Lane, described by W.W. as "A bland handsome woman - assured in all her movements, and very capable".

The Welsh Fraternity in London might place 37, Southwick Street. W. in *their* Book of Remembrance.

Mrs. Eichberg was a really beautiful old woman - very rich. Her husband had been a noted musician, Dusseldorf, from which the family emigrated to America, making Boston their centre. He amassed a fortune before he died. She was very outspoken in her contempt for Lane's ignorance, and *hated him*, as he hated her - right royally!.

Many very great artists in London painted Mrs. Eichberg's portrait.

W.W. was a favourite of hers. He would call for her sometimes and take her for a walk or a drive.

Francis Money Coutts. Nephew of the Baroness Burdett Coutts
*afterwards Lord Latymer.*

It was known that Meredith Townsend, himself had written it, considering W.W. had received *wicked* handling at Windsor.

H.D.Traill, whose knowledge of the history of the English Stage was profound.

When W.W.'s voice was tested at the B.B.C. for a broadcast in 1929 it was pronounced "quite unsuitable". The Why and Wherefore not being explained, - for he possessed a splendidly powerful voice to the last.

*'English Lyric's'. Compiled by A. Austin.*

W.W. wrote the preface to it, *commissioned by Macmillans*, giving A.A. far too much praise. "At first I wrote a justly critical note, - but three times Macmillans wrote asking me to alter it, and drop out *any criticism*. As they were my Pay Masters, and I wanted the money badly, I could only acquiesce in these, behind the scenes tricks."

Hardy's inscription in 'Wessex Poems' Christmas 1898,
was, of course, very generous.

"To:-

William Watson: With warm congratulations
after reading the reprint of his deathless
verse.

From Thomas Hardy."

I have purposely left this out of the main part of
the book because I feel deeply that Hardy for many years
made rude incursions into a province to which others were
<u>Native</u> - though he had a Right to enter if he so pleased -
Yet he was <u>The Novelist And Not The Poet</u> (I except to a
'degree' "The Dynasts".)

"There is not a Chance of any success being achieved
in English Poetry, except by one Cradled in the Traditions
of the English Tongue - and Born with those Traditions in
his Blood." W.W.

### Notes.

It is most singular to relate that not another City, except Aberdeen, paid him any honour during his long Life. (or course, he was absolutely indifferent.)

There are many letters from James Bryce, - one of the gallant band, - and from Miss Emily Hobhouse from South Africa, written during her great struggle for the Women and Children, breathing a comradeship with the Poet in the cause of Right against Might.

M.S. 'To the Invincible Republic' given in 1909 to our Ambassador at Washington. - James Bryce

As W.W. was walking up the main street in Knaresborough, he heard a voice saying - "God Almighty! W.W.". On looking round, found it to be Joseph Pennel, who designed the Title Page in the First Edition of 'Wordsworth's Grave' - Cameo Series. Fisher Unwin.

Picture of 'Wordsworth's Grave', presented by A.C.Benson 1903.

Dr. Ronald Campbell Macfie - Author and Poet - wrote an Ode 'On The Titanic' - very much thought of, and highly praised by W.W.

From that very Great Artist, G.F.Watts, comes a letter from 'Limnerslease'. "It will give me very great pleasure to try how far I can make a resemblance worthy of the Poet, but I am obliged to confess myself as uncertain. If you are generous enough to submit to the infliction - I will in return do my best. Can you come here at the end of February? The days will be longer for the Sittings, and you can have some long walks in the lovely country around here" - Compton. Guildford.

## Notes:

Although, there are many letters from G.F.Watts, about the proposed portrait, nothing eventuated - for the Poet disliked 'Sitting'

An Exhibition of Phil May's work always 'fetched' Londoners.

A little before Oscar Wilde had announced his intention to quit England and become a naturalised Frenchman

'And you're made French as easily
As you might change the clothes you're wearing,
Fancy, and 'tis so hard to be
A man of sense and modest bearing.

W.W.

2. Vol.
Collected Edition. Edited by J.A. Spender.

After receiving a legacy of £15,000. Coventry Patmore left the British Museum - for health reasons!!!

The Number of letters from people Important in England in these days has been kept. They are not included because, though important in their day, their names have faded in England during the years.

LIST OF VOLUMES - BY WILLIAM WATSON.

1880 - 1936.

Prince's Quest
Epigrams
Wordsworth's Grave
Poems
Lacrimæ Musarum
Lyric Love
Eloping Angels
Excursions in Criticism
Odes
Father of the Forest
The Purple East
The Year of Shame
The Hope of the World
Collected Poems
Coronation Ode
For England
Collected Poems 2. Vol.
New Poems
Sable and Purple
Heralds of the Dawn
Muse in Exile
Pencraft
Retrogression
The Man Who Saw
Superhuman Antagonists
Ireland Unfreed
A Hundred Poems
Poems. Brief and New.
Selected Poems

Kegan Paul
Walmsley
Unwin
Macmillan
"
"
Mathews & Lane
Lane
Lane
"
"
"
Lane
Lane
"
Nash
"
Jenkins
Lane
"
Murray
Hodder & Stoughton
Lane
Hodder & Stoughton
Cape
Thornton Butterworth
Harrap

(There are nearly 100 framed Manuscripts, and numerous unframed.)

Extracts from a lecture prepared for Harvard University and
John Hopkins University, U.S.A. (undelivered.)

How to appreciate (Poetry
The Poets
Our Poets

1. Do not "study them." Throw yourself into enjoyment of them.

2. Use your own judgment. But be sure it is your own judgment. - Native independent opinion - not an unconscious reflection of the opinions current at a particular epoch, or among a certain school.

3. Pay rather small attention, on the whole, to critics. Turn yourself loose among the Poets themselves and find out what, if anything, it is that attracts you in them.
The prevalent critics of any epoch usually make a fetish of some special quality, or set of qualities in Poets. If you let them influence you, you will grow up with a warped idea of what _are_ the qualities you should look for and admire, in a Poet.

4. The fallacy that "we must study him" (some given writer) "in relation to his age." - Quite the wrong way to "study" him. Study him - if we are to "study" at all - in himself.
At a flower show we don't say, "this rose is a poor specimen of rose, but you must consider the lean soil, and harsh climate it was grown in." That was the rose's _misfortune_, for which it has had to pay the penalty. But we are to judge the Rose in _itself_, making _no_ allowance for its unhappy circumstances.
Of course, the study of a writer's environment may be very interesting historically, - but the _appreciation_ of that writer's qualities is largely independent, of such external facts. If he was a very great writer indeed he would burst through all mischance of environment.

5. I advise young readers generally to eschew extreme developments in literature. I call (e.g.) Rossetti an extreme development - A writer who seems blasé with respect to the sound classical qualities in Style and diction, and always on the hunt for out-of-the way and outre distinction of manner and phrases. Such a writer's influence is corrupting to the taste, just as the excessive recourse to condiments and strong flavours is corrupting to the physical appetite. It is like being fed on curry and red pepper.

6. When reading a long poem do not plough steadily and doggedly through it, giving attention equally to all its parts, but when you come to a fine passage or noble line, let yourself dwell upon it, let it Soak into your Mind. There are long and laboured productions by great Poets in which the general scheme, conception, and structure are really of very little concern to us, and a fine passage here and there the only important things; while, on the other hand, there are short masterpieces - which if we neglected to admire the structure and coherent design we should miss some of the writer's special and costly excellence."

Inclusion-Probabilistic

Extract from Review by William Watson in 'The Spectator'
1892 - of Thomas Hardy's "Tess of The D'Urbervilles."

....

But one of the problems of the book, for the reader, is
involved in the question How far Mr. Hardy's own moral
sympathies go with Clare in the supreme crisis of his
and Tess's fate? Her seducer, the spurious D'Urberville,
is entirely detestable, but it often happens that one's
fiercest indignation demands a nobler object than such a
sorry animal as that; and there are probably many readers
who, after Tess's marriage with Clare, her spontaneous
disclosure to him of her soiled, though guiltless past, and
his consequent alienation and cruelty will be conscious of
a worse anger against this intellectual, virtuous and
unfortunate man than they could spare for the heartless and
worthless libertine who had wrecked these two lives. It
is at this very point, however, that the masterliness of
the conception and its imaginative validity are most
conclusively manifest, for it is here that we perceive Clare's
nature to be consistently inconsistent throughout. As his
delineator himself says of him: "With all his attempted
independence of judgement, this advanced man was yet the
slave to custom and conventionality, when surprised back
into his early teachings. He had carefully schooled
himself into a democratic aversion from everything connected
with the pride of aristocratic lineage, but when he is

suddenly made aware that Tess is the daughter of five
centuries of knightly D'Urbervilles, he unfeignedly
exults in her splendid ancestry. He had become a
rationalist in morals no less than an agnostic in
religion. Yet no sooner does this emancipated man
learn from his Wife's own most loving lips the story
of her sinless fall, than his affection appears to
wither at the roots. "But for the World's opinion,"
says Mr. Hardy, somewhat boldly, "her experiences would
have been simply a liberal education." Yet it is these
experiences which place her for a time outside the human
sympathy of her husband, with all his fancied superiority
to conventionalisms and independence of tradition. The
reader pities Clare profoundly, yet cannot but feel a
certain contempt for the shallowness of his casuistry,
and a keen resentment of his harsh judgement upon the
helpless woman - all the more so since it is her own
meek and uncomplaining submission that aids him in his
cruel punishment of her. "Her mood of long suffering
made his way easy for him and she herself was his best
advocate." Considering the proud ancestry whose blood
was in her veins, and the high spirit and even fierce
temper she exhibits on occasion, one almost wonders at
her absolute passivity under such treatment as he subjects
her to; but the explanation obviously lies in her own
unquestioning conviction of the justice of his procedure.
One of Mr. Hardy's especially poetic traits is his manner
of sometimes using external nature not simply as a background
or a setting but as a sort of spectator and chorus, that
makes strangely unconcerned comments from the vantage ground

of a sublime aloofness upon the ludicrous tragedy of the
human lot; and, in the scene of Tess's confession, a
singularly imaginative effect is produced by kindred means,
where Mr. Hardy makes the very furniture and appurtenances
of the room undergo a subtle change of aspect and expression
as the bride unfolds her past and brings Present and Future
ruining about her head.

## Notes.

Orchard - telling a tale of early English occupation

Alas, tall weeds grow over their graves (1935)

In later years, on hearing this 'story' W.W. insists on
buying a dress of 'Mary's blue' for 'his Mary'

Lord Clanricarde was the Landlord.

(Geography.) To know the lay of the land is 'convenient' should one ever be 'On the run'.

Dundalk. At the School, taught by the Christian Brothers.
At the beginning of each term a silver Watch was hung in the
Class Room - It went to the boy who achieved most.

At Tallinstown Co Louth. 1599—the Great Earl of Essex
saw the 'Washer at the Ford' when the bundle of clothes
as she raised them from the water made 'a figure of his
head' - An omen of the fate that awaited him on his return
to England.

Lane, as best man at our wedding -- kept our Marriage
Certificate ten months -- said "It is lost". However,
after much pressure he delivered it up - covered in stains,
which looked very like Blood.

Sir Henry Wallop, Elizabeth's Treasurer at War, and Sir
Richard Gardiner, Chief Justice, went to Dundalk to confer
with O'Neill. They summoned him to attend by his English
Title of Earl of Tyrowen, when he made his famous answer -
"For be it known to thee O Wallop, that the Prince of Ulster
on his own soil does homage to no foreign Monarch, and as for
your Earls of Tyrowen - Earl me no Earls, I am the O'Neill."

M.W.'s Parrot is now in the possession of Mr. F. & Mr. G.
Fielding, Enys Road, Eastbourne.

notes

As a Vice-President of the Anti-Vivisection Society, W.W. refused to sign a resolution - "That Dating from the day of S.Coleridge's death his Widow shall be paid £350. per annum, from the Society's funds." (1935).

Owen Pritchard taught the Poet's two little girls ('His Playmates', as he called them) to recite this poem in 1919.

Phillips was a descendent of poor Charles Lloyd, the friend of Wordsworth, and devoted admirer of Coleridge. (who escaped from the Asylum in Yorkshire)

In Colonel House's Memoirs - he states that during President Wilson's visit to Grasmere - 'He was found sitting on a bank reading William Watson's 'Wordsworth's Grave'.

In the library of the Rawnsley's house on Loughrigg - Ambleside, is the Manuscript of 'Crossing The Bar'.

The Rawnsleys (who are related to the Tennyson's) told us that "After the ten year's engagement, pressure had to be brought to bear on Alfred to fulfil it!"

The Robinson Watson Letters - to James Shield, Lawyer, Liverpool.
the Robinson Watson Letters - to James Bromley, Lathom, Lancs.
and the Robinson Watson Letters - to his Brother, William Watson
are all extant and in safe keeping.

Our friend, Herkomer, the Artist, wants to paint the Poet's Wife, - he says. The Poet's wife does not want to be painted, she, however, begs him to paint her husband. After a good deal of arguing he gives in. "Very well, I will paint you both - I am not going to give up what I am interested in, and I shall like doing it." (This fell through;)

Publications: The Prince's Quest, 1890; Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature, 1884; Wordsworth's Grave, 1890; Lacrimae Musarum, 1892; Lyric Love, 1892; The Eloping Angels, 1893; Excursions in Criticism, 1893; Odes, and other Poems, 1894; The Father of the Forest, 1895; The Purple East, 1896; The Year of Shame, 1896; The Hope of the World, 1897; Collected Poems, 1898; Ode on the Coronation of King Edward VII, 1902; For England, 1903; Collected Poems, 2 vols., 1906; New Poems, 1909; Sable and Purple, 1910; The Heralds of the Dawn, 1912; The Muse in Exile, 1913; Pencraft: a Plea for the Older Ways, 1916; Retrogression, 1916; The Man Who Saw, 1917; The Sunman Antagonists, 1919.

His Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature (1884) was his first book to attract attention. During the following year he published in the National Review a series of sonnets entitled Ver Tenebrosum, in which he attacked the British policy in Egypt. In 1895, after the death of his son, he thought by many that Watson would be appointed poet laureate; instead Robert Bridges received the title. His sonnets in the Purple East contain some of his best work. He was knighted in 1901. Among his later books are: Lyric Love (1892); The Eloping Angels (1893); Excursions in Criticism (1895); Odes and Other Poems (1894); The Father of the Forest (1895); The Purple East (1896); The Hope of the World (1897); Sable and Purple (1910); The Heralds of the Dawn (1912); The Muse in Exile (1913); Retrogression (1916); Ireland Unfreed (1922); Poems Brief and New (1925).

Ireland Unfreed

A penetrating observer of nature, his descriptive verse is always fresh and compelling in its truthfulness, his mastery of the sonnet form is complete, and he has written odes of grave beauty and serene simplicity--witness Sable and Purple--which should have marked him out as one who might have restored the poet laureate's office to the dignity it has lacked since Tennyson's day: but an unfortunate tendency to leap hot-blooded into the political arena and throw off some ephemeral lines full of the passion of the moment may explain why a safe but uninspired practitioner was selected for the bays. Sir William Watson--in certainly one of our chief poets of these later times: he was, in a sense, the poetic herald of that very remarkable literary revival which we now identify with the 'nineties of last century; and he has not failed of the high promise of Wordsworth's Grave with which his career began in 1890; for it might be said of him as he has so well said of an American poet, that he still sings

with note sincere
And English pure as English air hath heard.
And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language-tricking out with
beads
This noble vesture that no frippery needs-
Help still to save, while Time around him strews
Old shards of empire, and much dust of creeds,
The honour and the glory of the Muse."

Selected Poems, 1934. (Sir William Watson died 1935)
Harrap and Son. Holborn. London, brought out a collected edition

1936 - which the Poet himself had chosen for posterity. 'His life' written by his wife awaits PEACE -for publication'

Published: The Prince's Quest, 1880; Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature, 1884; Wordsworth's Grave, 1890; Lacrimae Musarum, 1892; Lyric Love, 1892; The Eloping Angels, 1893; Excursions in Criticism, 1893; Odes, and other Poems, 1894; The Father of the Forest, 1895; The Purple East, 1896; The Year of Shame, 1896; The Hope of the World, 1897; Collected Poems, 1898; Ode on the Coronation of King Edward VII, 1902; For England, 1903; Collected Poems, 2 vols., 1906; New Poems, 1909; Sable and Purple, 1910; The Heralds of the Dawn, 1912; The Muse in Exile, 1913; Peneraft: a Plea for the Older Ways, 1916; Retrogression, 1916;

Ireland Unfreed - Ireland Arisen

The Man Who Saw, 1917: The Superhuman Antagonists, 1919.

His Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature (1884) was his first book to attract attention. During the following year he published in the National Review a series of sonnets entitled Ver Tenebrosum, in which he attacked the British policy in Egypt. His sonnets in the Purple East contain some of his best work. Among his

A penetrating observer of nature, his descriptive verse is always fresh and compelling in its truthfulness, his mastery of the sonnet form is complete, and he has written Odes of Grave beauty and serene simplicity -- witness Sable and Purple -- which should have marked him out as one who might have restored the poet laureate's office to the dignity it has lacked since Tennyson's day; but an unfortunate tendency to leap hot-blooded into the political arena and throw off some ephemeral lines full of the passion of the moment may explain why a safe but uninspired

practitioner was selected for the bays. Sir William Watson -
is certainly one of our chief poets of these later times: he was,
in a sense, the poetic herald of that very remarkable literary
revival which we now identify with the 'nineties of last century;
and he has not failed of the high promise of Wordsworth's Grave
with which his career began in 1890; for it might be said of him
as he has so well said of an American poet, that he still sings

with note sincere
And English pure as English air hath heard.
And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language-tricking out with
beads
This noble venture that no frippery needs-
Help still to save, while Time around him strews
Old shards of empire, and much dust of creeds,
The honour and the glory of the Muse".

Selected Poems, 1934; (Sir William Watson died 1935)

Harrap and Son. Holborn, London, brought out a collected edition
1936 - which the Poet himself had chosen for posterity.

'His life' written by his wife awaits PEACE - for
publication'

... with note sincere
And English pure as English air hath heard.
And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language-tricking out with
beads
This noble venture that no frippery needs-
Help still to save, while Time around him strews
Old shards of empire, and much dust of creeds,
The honour and the glory of the Muse".

This is the latest copy -

Published: The Prince's Quest, 1880; Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature, 1884; Wordsworth's Grave, 1890; Lear's Macsarum, 1893; Lyric Love, 1892; The Eloping Angels, 1893; Excursions in Criticism, 1895; Odes, and other Poems, 1894; The Father of the Forest, 1895; The Purple East, 1896; The Year of Shame, 1896; The Hope of the World, 1897; Collected Poems, 1898; Ode on the Coronation of King Edward VII, 1902; For England, 1905; Collected Poems, 2 vols., 1906; New Poems, 1909; Sable and Purple, 1910; The Heralds of the Dawn, 1912; The Muse in Exile, 1913; Penora: a Tale for the Older Days, 1916; Retrogression, 1916; Ireland Unfreed - Ireland Arisen

The Man Who Saw, 1917: The Superhuman Antagonists, 1919. His Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature (1884) was his first book to attract attention. During the following year he published in the National Review a series of sonnets entitled Ver Tenebrosum, in which he attacked the British policy in Egypt. His sonnets in the Purple East contain some of his best work. Among his other books are: Lyric Love (1893); The Eloping Angels (1893); Excursions in Criticism (1895); Odes and Other Poems (1894); The Father of the Forest (1895); The Purple East (1896); The Hope of the World (1897); Sable and Purple (1910); The Heralds of the Dawn (1912); The Muse in Exile (1913); Retrogression (1916); Ireland Unfreed (1922); Poems Brief and New (1925); Ireland Arisen.

practitioner was selected for the boys. Sir William Watson -
is certainly one of our chief poets of these later times: he was,
in a sense, the poetic herald of that very remarkable literary
revival which we now identify with the 'nineties of last century;
and he has not failed of the high promise of Wordsworth's Grave
with which his career began in 1890; for it might be said of him
as he has so well said of an American poet, that he still sings

with note sincere
And English pure as English air he hath heard.
And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language-tricking out with
bends
This noble gesture that no frippery needs-
Help still to save, while Time around him strews
Old shards of empire, and much dust of creeds,
The honour and the glory of the Muse".

Harrap and Son. Holborn, London, brought out a collected edition
1936 - which the poet himself had chosen for posterity.

'His life' written by his wife awaits PEEAGE - for
publication'

Published: The Prince's Quest, 1880; Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature, 1884; Wordsworth's Grave, 1890; Lacrimae Musarum, 1892; Lyric Love, 1892; The Eloping Angels, 1893; Excursions in Criticism, 1893; Odes, and other Poems, 1894; The Father of the Forest, 1895; The Purple East, 1896; The Year of Shame, 1896; The Hope of the World, 1897; Collected Poems, 1898; Ode on the Coronation of King Edward VII, 1902; For England, 1903; Collected Poems, 2 vols., 1906; New Poems, 1909; Sable and Purple, 1910; The Heralds of the Dawn, 1912; The Muse in Exile, 1913; Feneraft: a Plea for the Older Ways, 1916; Retrogression, 1916; Ireland Unfreed - Ireland Arisen

The Man Who Saw, 1917; The Superhuman Antagonists, 1919. His Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature (1884) was his first book to attract attention. During the following year he published in the National Review a series of sonnets entitled Ver Tenebrosum, in which he attacked the British policy in Egypt. His sonnets in the Purple East contain some of his best work. Among his later books are: Lyric Love (1892); The Eloping Angels (1893); Excursions in Criticism (1893); Odes and Other Poems (1894); The Father of the Forest (1895); The Purple East (1896); The Hope of the World (1897); Sable and Purple (1910); The Heralds of the Dawn (1912); The Muse in Exile (1913); Retrogression (1916); Ireland Unfreed (1922); Poems Brief and New (1925); Ireland Arisen,

with note sincere
And English pure as English air hath heard.
And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language-tricking out with beads
This noble vesture that no frippery needs-
Help still to save, while Time around him strews
Old shards of empire, and much dust of creeds,
The honour and the glory of the Muse".

Published: The Prince's Quest, 1880; Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature, 1884; Wordsworth's Grave, 1890; Lacrimae Musarum, 1892; Lyric Love, 1892; The Eloping Angels, 1893; Excursions in Criticism, 1895; Odes, and other Poems, 1894; The Father of the Forest, 1895; The Purple East, 1896; The Year of Shame, 1896; The Hope of the World, 1897; Collected Poems, 1898; Ode on the Coronation of King Edward VII, 1903; For England, 1903; Collected Poems, 2 vols., 1906; New Poems, 1909; Sable and Purple, 1910; The Heralds of the Dawn, 1912; The Muse in Exile, 1913;

The Man Who Saw, 1917; The Superhuman Antagonists, 1919.
His Epigrams of Art, Life, and Nature (1884) was his first book to attract attention. During the following year he published in the National Review a series of sonnets entitled Ver Tenebrosum, in which he attacked the British policy in Egypt. His sonnets in the Purple East contain some of his best work. Among his later books are: Lyric Love (1892); The Eloping Angels (1893); Excursions in Criticism (1895); Odes and Other Poems (1894); The Father of the Forest (1895); The Purple East (1896); The Hope of the World (1897); Sable and Purple (1910); The Heralds of the Dawn (1912); The Muse in Exile (1913); Retrogression (1916); Ireland Unfreed (1922); Poems Brief and New (1925); Ireland Arisen.

1

ANCESTRY.

John William Watson.

Born in Burley-in-Wharfedale. August 2nd. in the year 1858.

In the Dales, of the largest County in England - Yorkshire - nurtured in their mysterious ruggedness and breadth - born amidst a people, who in past times, gave allegiance to an Overlord, yet have produced men and women so Outstanding in the history of England that to add the name WILLIAM WATSON to them, is a prideful thing.

He was the third son born to John and Dorothy Watson, after an interval of eight years! His mother, Dorothy Watson, born at Askrigg in Wensleydale, was the grand-daughter, on her mother's side, of Ralph Orton who was born at Richmond Swaledale. He lived at Ingleby Lodge, on the road to Bainbridge, and afterwards in another hamlet called Woodhall, Aysgarth way. A well-known poet in his day, and Latin scholar. He was a farmer, his tombstone can be seen in the churchyard at Askrigg, and his age is given as 87. His daughter, Margaret, married Stephen Robinson. Stephen had been educated for the Wesleyan Ministry, but his early marriage cancelled this, and his impractibility did the rest. He seems to have found it very difficult to settle into any niche suitable in the neighbourhood, so he removed his family to Sedburgh.

2

RICHARD ROBINSON ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH
AND HIS DESCENDANTS IN SEDBURGH WORKHOUSE.

But he is not many years in Sedburgh before he finds himself in fresh difficulties, and debts accumulate. In such straits, indeed, are the family later that there is nothing for it but to ask permission for his children of which there are seven to enter the workhouse and a little later he and his wife are forced to join them.

One day, while catechising the children, the visiting X Clergyman, The Rev. Carus Wilson sought out Stephen Robinson, and reproved him, saying 'You must confide in me. I see you are a young man of education: we have never had such children in here before, and we must get them out.'

The Rev. Carus Wilson did indeed help them, for through his influence, Stephen Robinson became Overseer at the Mills, of Forster and Fison. At last he is in a secure position! The family counting as friend, W. E. Forster - afterwards Chief Secretary in Ireland, in the troublous times and his family.

X These Robinsons were descendants of Richard Robinson, Archbishop of Armagh, and Primate of all Ireland. Sat in the House of Peers as Baron Rokeby 1709-1794.

Photo

3

At the wedding of Margaret Orton, eighteen years old, to Stephen Robinson, nineteen years old, the Bride rode to the Church, followed by twelve bridesmaids! all on horseback.

A description of "Margaret" at that date is interesting. 1812.

'As brant as a brier' pronounced breer.

The workhouse incident evidently sunk deep into the mind of Stephen's eldest child Katherine, for her sister Dorothy relates in a letter to a friend, 'If we younger ones become too wild in our play, Katherine would always reprove us with "there's no room for mirth or trifling here!"' Katherine married a man named Waterhouse, and emigrated to Lake Kagawan, Canada.

John Watson, W.W's father, was born at Guiseley, Yorkshire, in 1826. In the same maternal home-part as Longfellow!

Longfellow's Mother was a Wadsworth, in the 17th Century, and John Watson was cousin to Wadsworth's: He married, in 1849, Dorothy Robinson. His Father was a Yeoman Farmer, and possessed of the wherewithal to have his children thoroughly educated.

The newcomer, called 'John William' after his Father, and his Mother's brother, William Robinson, was, as he grew older, tolerated, teased and played with, by his elder brothers, James and Robinson, who, it was now apparent, were too big for the village school, and their Father decided a boarding school would be best for them.

4

CONSTABLE OF BURLEY.

was very dissatisfied with the outlook. After much consideration
and consultation with his Wife's brother, William Robinson, the
two decided to move to Liverpool and set up as "Watson & Robinson"
Jute Merchants.

William Robinson was unmarried, free to roam at will; so that
the risk he was running was practically nil, but it was a very
grave matter for the head of the Watson household, a thing which
went against the grain with him, lest he should not make good.
For some time before John Watson moved his family to Liverpool,
he had sat on the Local Board with W. E. Forster and was elected
the only Constable in Burley at the time preceding Peel's Bill,
bringing in our now Police Force. So there was no question
whatever about backing, and ability to raise enough money, for
the Great Adventure to Liverpool in 1860. Before removing from
Yorkshire he opened a Store. Just as headway was being made,
a Co-operative Stores opened opposite!

Shortly after arriving in Liverpool, he took his elder boys
to School in Yorkshire. To the small boy, Willie, the two elder
brothers appeared giants setting out, and the holidays were great
events; all they recounted of work and play being stored up by
him with vivid indelibility: if they recited any passages, learnt
in term time, to shew proudly their progress, the little brother
committed those same passages to memory. James came home one
summer, able to play many tunes on the accordion, before the
holidays were over Willie had mastered it, and in a generous

5

burst, James acknowledges that 'Willie already knows more tunes
than I do.'

DOTHEBOYS HALL.

This school in Yorkshire, later turned into a Hydro, was
said to be the original of Dickens Dotheboys Hall. The Watson
boys were to stay there until school-days ended. The Parents
were well satisfied - their sons came home glowing with health
and spirits, and well advanced in their studies.

With the years spent together by the Partners, only one
real difference of opinion occurred between them - and that was
invariably the 'price' - for a fraction of a farthing per sack
in a huge deal certainly made a great difference to the Credit
side at the end of the year!

HONEST JOHN.

William Robinson would insist - John Watson would resist.
The former would not lose these chances to get rich quick! And
the latter invariably chose the slower and surer way! Gaining for

6

himself among business men in Liverpool the name of 'Honest John.'

The Partners eventually separated; each for himself now.
John Watson, slowly, but surely, making headway, removed his
home, which up to this time had been in Liverpool. to Aigburth,
a healthy suburb, where in a house with a nice garden and paddock,
the Watsons were destined to remain for some years.

John Watson delighted in "the move." Indeed, his son, William,
always recounted with glee, that his Father "did the job thoroughly
taking a holiday, having everything in the Liverpool home auctioned
off, and purchasing everything new; Even the Dining room chairs
must be "made" to his design for "wear". Chairs that would swing
the occupant round to the table, or vice-versa. And indeed, in
after years, whenever they removed to a new house, the very same
thing occurred. "New everything" including the horse and poultry,
and adding a new dog or two to those they already possessed.

Generally the largest Plymouth Rocks procurable stalked that
paddock. Indeed, Willie, as a child, always described the hens
at home as being 'As high as a table'! After their removal to
Aigburth one dark night a man knocked at the door asking to see
the 'Mistress'. "I'm Michael Cavanagh", he explained, "I've done
messages in me day for the Master, - so I just called to know,
did ye require a dacent little girl, to nurse the wee one - if
ye do, I can tell ye Kate is about the best ye'll ever hear tell
of. But it's little she knows about the ways of a house: Shall

7

I bring her along?" "Do", said Mrs. Watson. So Kate Flynn,
siraight from Galway, quite unused to an English house, became
one of their most faithful servants, remaining with the family
until the 'Wee One' grew too old for her services, spoiling him,
as the Irish Peasant is sure to spoil 'the childer', and sowing
in his young heart a love of the Irish, which nothing could kill.
It was always a sore point in after years, with the whole house-
hold, that Kate's soldier-husband beat her!

## SETTING YORKSHIRE RHYMES TO MUSIC.

To his Father and Mother, Willie, coming later in their
maturity, was at first soberly welcome. It was the child's
quick ear for music that seemed to draw the Father towards him,
for he would take his little five-year old son with him to the
Churches, where the best music could be heard, one of the fore-
most Catholic Churches had a large Orchestra to play every
Sunday, and very often a world-famous singer would sing the
solo.

The family never attended a church 'just to go to church'.
The preacher must be worth listening to, and the Liverpool of
that day had many such, and encouraged them. These early
impressions had their result upon the child's mind for he
composed a hymn and the words before he was seven, and set many
of the old rhymes of the Dales he sprang from, to music - Rhymes
his Father remembered from his childhood.

x The boy-poet fashioned his own form.

8

His Mother would repeat to him long passages from the Bible, and the two would confide in each other, which they thought the most splendid: These early discussions undoubtedly became imprinted on his mind, for he carried through life a devotion to the Miles Coverdale Translation; its brevity and classic beauty held him secure. That consummate grandeur never faded - "And Agag walked delicately before Ahab". "Think of that picture and its brevity" he was heard to say.

Though John Watson was certainly prospering, yet there were many debts due to him outstanding, one in particular worried him, for it was for a fairly large amount; he knew his Client would pay if he could, but it was not in John Watson "to push an honest man", and the debtor was well aware of this. One evening, on arriving home, he was told Mr. S. was calling later about "that debt he owes you". After the interview he tells his wife that Mr.S. had confessed he did not see any chance of discharging it, unless he would agree to take in lieu thereof an old watch and an American Organ.

"And what will we do with an Organ here, Dorothy?" he said.

"Give it to me, give it to me," cried Willie, in an excited voice.

"Nay, my lad, you can't play it", said the Father.

Persuasion won, and the American Organ found a home in the top attic, well segregated from all "Humans", and the old watch

NAPOLEON DI MEZZA CALZETTA - FE L'AMORE & GIACOMETTA

9

Napoleon with stockings half down
Makes love to Giacomette.

That same watch, which was gold, had been made very many years before, by a celebrated Jeweller, named Roscoe, and never left its proud owner for many many years. It was the envy of his school-fellows, and it was only cleaned once, when it was found to have the same "Spring" as when made. It was sold years later in London for Seven pounds, to pay a debt to a landlady in Hampstead.

And the Organ, once mastered, what bliss to the shy boy, what trying of melodies in that attico! No one about to criticise, but "One" his playmate, who revelled in its sonorous sounds almost as much as the youthful player himself. Kitty Kelly - a beautiful little girl, with long black hair, about a year younger than Willie, who danced to his music; her soft curls flying out and brushing across his face, as she whirled round and round; surely fixing herself more deeply in the youthful musician's susceptible heart, than the music and organ combined!

The Kellys, Irish - the father a Commercial Traveller, easy-going, jovial, and bibulous, the mother always complaining, never happy unless miserable, are neighbours for some years, of the Watsons, and William's devotion to Kitty was an open secret -

10

"Kitty she was a charming maid
And carried the milking pail."

Kitty, later became a governess in a Russian nobleman's
family, and so passed from her old playmate's ken.

Callow Love.

O, many a Floweret soon I knew,
And many a Bud was fair, but few
Were as sweet as the dark-eyed Bit of Heaven
Who must have been sit when I was seven".

At this time Dickens was lecturing in Liverpool, the family
must hear him, and urged William to go with them. But he was
immersed in a volume of Edgar Allen Poe, and refused. This
to his everlasting regret.

The verdict on Dickens was that "He was very good, but
certainly much too theatrical - really spoiling the effect
desired". When William had read him, he was keenly dis-
appointed at not seeing him in the flesh.

About this time he persuaded his Mother to buy him volumes
of Keats and Shelley - these were First Editions, and could
be bought cheap at that time - a fairly rare Shakespeare
he already had, and this had been studied no doubt wisely in
one way, but unwisely in another, for the print was bad, and

11

INTO THE HIGHLANDS OF THE MIND LET ME GO.

his manner of reading worse - as he walked in the surrounding
country, or among the sand dunes on the Southport shore. For
at this time his eyes began to trouble him, and a well-known
Liverpool Ophthalmic Surgeon ordered black glasses "Or you
will be blind in six months". The glasses were worn three
months, the small print Shakespeare put aside - eyes right!

Now, Mr. & Mrs. Watson were well aware their youngest son
was very different from either of his elder brothers; he was
not strong enough to join the other two at boarding school, but
attended a day one, not far from home. School was a pleasure,
and lessons came easy; an Algebra problem, no matter how difficult,
could be solved at once. But the chief pleasure was preparing
an essay for each Monday morning, and great was the small boy's
pride that his should be selected by the Master, to be read out
before the whole school.

Definitely, now, it became apparent that Literature must
come first. "Paradise Lost" he had committed to memory at nine
years old, and his parents were told by the Master that their
son had the best French pronunciation in the School.

He at one time attended the school kept by Edward Hall, M.A.
who had been private tutor in Lord Hereford's family. Edward
Hall belonged to Preston - he used to brag he could walk a mile
in ten minutes. He urged W.W. to read "Tom Jones" and give
his opinion on it.

12

THREE BROTHERS.

"It's good but coarse", said W.W.

"Yes", said the Master, "but it's a healthy coarseness".

W.W. was counted the worst batter and bowler in his school,
but the best "fielder".

At eleven, a happy boy, he has as Master of his School at
Southport, David Wands, literary minded, cultured in all the
Arts that appeal to William Watson. A master, who, when he
asked the boys to commit to memory sixteen lines of any poem
they wished, and repeat them to him, was astonished that William
had selected the first sixteen lines of "Paradise Lost" which
is complete in itself - the boy making one slip - he said
"Mountain" instead of "Mount" as written by Milton. The
Master admitted that he thought "Watson's word improved the
rhythm".

This was encouraging, while term time lasted, but when
the holidays came, there was much scoffing from the brothers
to put up with! They, in their way, were also possessed of
talents. The Elder, James, was a very clever caricaturist,
draughtsman and musician, and Robinson had become elocutionist
in chief at his school - a gift that was destined to bring him
much before the public in later years. Yet, somehow, to come at
home for the holidays and find "William glued to books or piano"
as they styled it, upset them, and there appeared to be no real
peace for him, until James joined their Father in business, and

13

Robinson, his Uncle Robinson.

About this time it was whispered in Liverpool that William Robinson was becoming a rich man, and in a lesser measure, John Watson was certainly very prosperous. The menage was well run – three maids and a manservant were kept. Summer holidays seemed to be principally spent among the Welsh mountains or those of Westmorland – Grasmere, for preference. "Broadgate", an old house with its garden near the Rothay, would be generally booked in advance, and in their own carriage, with the Father driving, the family would set out – in a very leisurely way – but it was a sine qua non that the first glimpse of the Mountains must be seen in daylight. Often this required a halt en route, probably at Kendal, and after arrival, perhaps it would rain for a week – indeed it is recorded once it rained for two weeks! But then, how well worth the waiting it was to see the grandeur of the mountains emerge in that wonderland, and a climb to Easedale Tarn in the evening would be undertaken by Father and Sons.

William Watson is now fourteen. He has written a five-act play in which all the actors come to an untimely end, and is regularly contributing both verse and prose to the "Southport Visitor" and after some years, to the "Liverpool Argus" under the anagram on his name John Wilson Maitlaw – edited by James Ashcroft Noble – whose parents were in earlier days, friends of Watson's parents.

14

ABILITY FIRST.

James Noble was certainly a remarkable man, full of zest and enthusiasm for his paper and its contributors of ability – but ability first!

Russell of the "Liverpool Post" and other Editors of Provincial Papers would meet in Noble's house. They never resented the presence of the youthful Poet, to join in their intimate and interesting talks, indeed they might possibly think him to be much older than his years, for he certainly looked it at that time.

Noble encouraged him, and made him welcome to his home. There too, might be met many rising young literary and artistic men – Robert Fowler, an artist, belonging to the "Welsh School". His paintings of that day were very well known, signed under his monogram R.F. He did a black and white portrait of William Watson at Magull and another at Aigburth – they were both considered good. And there too, was Richard Le Gallene, a witty and brilliant young man later to be very well known among the Bodley Head Authors – he had married about this time a pretty young girl, a waitress in a Liverpool Cafe, who died soon after the birth of her daughter.

JAMES BROMLEY.

A great friend – James Bromley – had inherited the business from his Father, and though indefatigable in seeing to it, he was already rich, and could indulge his pet taste of being among the literary men of his ken and day – and buying books. Blessed

15

with a taste for the best only, his library became filled with
the pick of the Present, and the pick of the Past. Numerous
and rare books were among them - two Volumes of the Kilmarnock
Burns, with many notes in the Poet's handwriting - and much
Burns' manuscript - Wordsworth rarities, and countless others.
His collection was quite free to his friends to browse upon,
and nothing gave him more pleasure than to have young, interested,
and interesting men at his hospitable table, the evenings given
over most probably to literary discussions, for he had dug deep
and well, and was a mine of knowledge. The 'Derby' family of
that day, acknowledged indebtedness to him, for bringing obscure
facts concerning their family to light.

On young William Watson and his work, Bromley set great
store.

Nor must it go unacknowledged, that the various libraries
in Liverpool and Manchester were a boon to all and sundry, who
had not the wherewithal to purchase books they needed: For a
small sum, yearly, they could be drawn on at will, and Watson
often declared in later years, that the Librarian would allow
him to take away six or eight volumes instead of the 'stated'
two.

x

Hall Caine - at that time frequenting The Green Rooms, in
Liverpool, and free-lancing for most of the papers, but actually
earning his living as cashier, in the office of James Bromley

16

of Lathom, Architect and Builder, and dubbed by Bromley in
later years "the Best collector of rents I ever had!" -

Later H.C. takes up residence with Dante Rossetti: but
from time to time he returns to Liverpool.

A Sketch.

Methinks I see him: - garb of wondrous mode,
As though dead genius's mantle o'er him flowed;
Smorzando tricks of voice that make you stare,
And superfluity of flagrant hair;
Pronouncements strange - at second hand;
Pictorial pose - elaborately planned:
With affection so ingrained through all,
In him were naturalness unnatural.

Groveller before dead greatness late alive,
Now, on dead greatness fattened, mayest thou thrive!
Dead greatness, who permitted thee to blend
In equal parts the footman and the friend,-
And whose one blessing 'twas, this world to quit
Some hours before thou hadst his memoir writ.

The Watsons are at "The Hand Hotel" Llangollen this year,
the Landlady, a Miss Edwards, had been maid to the "Ladies at
Plas Newydd" and was able to tell many tales about them. There
too, stayed a Colonel Yorke, who had just purchased Plas Newydd,
and was filling it with old oak.

The following month finds W.W. in London. He became
acquainted with a young man named MacKay, about his own age,
who told him this, "As Mother and I walked down Bond Street one
day, I spotted Whistler coming towards us on the opposite side,
in his rather singular garb. I told Mother who it was, she

17

was an old Scotch lady. After looking hard at him she said,
'That's a young man without a hereafter'.

W.W. said to MacKay. "It's a great pity Whistler couldn't hear her. He would have been delighted with it".

## The Pilgrimage to Tennyson.

The pilgrimage to Tennyson - for such it was - had been discussed many times, and dismissed as impracticable. The Great Man was known to surround himself against strangers, but at seventeen "He fears his fate too much, or..." and "Or" Won. To Tennyson a letter was written, and a polite reply received through his son Hallam, fixing the date for the visit: And William Watson set out, giving himself plenty of time to "do" the Country en route. On reaching the Coast, he put up at an Inn at Freshwater, kept by a man named Stark: At the Inn he heard many tales of the Poet's oddities, his hatred of visitors, and the many devices for keeping the latter at "Bay". William kept silent as to his motive for staying on the Island, but the stories he heard evidently had their effect on him, for as the day approached for the interview, he wished he had not pledged himself.

At Farringford, on being shewn into the library, a young man, older than himself, came forward to greet him with out-stretched hand. It was Hallam Tennyson, and during the talk

18

that followed between the two young men, Tennyson himself joined them. He had been at work upon a play he said.

Hallam sat on the table swinging his legs too and fro - the latter act seeming to break any ice if there was any. The Poet shaggily splendid in appearance, was most affable in manner. He warned W.W. that no matter what work he did later on, he must "shed most of his earlier. My early work is always coming up against me, so I warn you now". And taking up the small collection of MS. W.W. had sent to him, he said, "You have done well here, young man, but you will do better in the future. Forge ahead, let nothing prevent you."

Tennyson advised him strongly against looking to Poetry for a livelihood. "Look at Browning", interposed Hallam, "he only makes £200 a year". The Laureate threw a reproachful look at his son, as though to say that was not a matter to be discussed. Browning, however, came in for severe chastisement from Tennyson. "What do you see in Browning's Poetry that should not be there?" he said. "His scaffolding is too visible", said W.W. "Right", said Tennyson.

But it is Swinburne who received the most deadly criticism - "The largest equipment in words, and the smallest equipment in brains, of any Poet who ever lived".

Hallam accompanied W.W. back to the Inn. In the course of the walk he was astonished to find William to be only seventeen,

19

I WAS A MAN AT SEVENTEEN.

"Why", said he, "my Father thought you much older. He will
be surprised when I tell him, but I wish you had told him your-
self". Many letters passed between Tennyson and W.W. in after
years.

Hallam told him that such a nuisance had strangers become
to his Father that he actually advertised in "The Times" saying
he would see none. "But your letters and poems made you welcome",
said he.

This talk with Tennyson made a great impression upon him.
Indeed to his life's end he was filled with a dread of anything
trivial surviving. "Any scaffolding must not be left. Destroy
it all", he would say.

"I was a man at Seventeen, and recognised myself as such -
No boy indeed!" W.W. would assert with scorn.

To this visit may be attributed his singular method of
working - a phrase or idea would flash into his mind, which
greatly pleased him, and there would be 'kept' until elaborated,
developed and polished as a pebble by the sea, before one word
would be written on paper. He, being gifted with a prodigious
memory, could hold a long poem in his mind for months, if need
be, before committing it to paper. One word, unhappily mated,
would cause him to do this. One elusive word could, and did,
often agonize him until found - and when found he would appear
radiant as a child who had been kept prisoner for some mis-
demeanour, a delighted and delightful creature freed from all

20

'COLUMBUS' AND AMBASSADOR HAY.

shackles.

It was not, of course, his invariable method of working, but only very rarely did he veer from it. Some MS. is much criss crossed - such as that of his poem on "Columbus" given to Ambassador John Hay - and presented by him to the Congressional Library, Washington. A facsimile of this poem appeared in "Harper's Magazine".

Mention must be made of "Wintersdorf Birkdale" - a school for Young Ladies, kept by the Misses Simon and their Mother. They had formerly conducted a similar school in Germany. These highly cultured ladies were interested in all that Watson was now writing. They prevailed upon him to give a weekly reading before the School. This he did Gratis - though this was the most successful school in the neighbourhood. He would accept no money for time given, and would describe his youthful listeners thus - "They were a wonderfully appreciative audience".

His friend, Harborough, was the Music Master there - his salary being £300 per year. "But he was well worth it - he was a first-class musician", W.W. would say.

It was about this time the question began to be mooted by family and friends as to "What William was to become". He must not be allowed to waste his time 'just writing' - how could he live by it, etc. etc.

The most insistent voices came from the two brothers, but

21

MR. JUSTICE HORRIDGE AND WILLIAM WATSON.

then, what business? "Certainly not mine", said Uncle William,
"he's useless where money is concerned". "Then it must be mine"
said the Father, and forthwith a season ticket for Liverpool was
taken, and for six months or so William accompanied the other
three members of the household to business every morning - spend-
ing the hours 'principally in collecting debts due from other
firms'. "I was always received very politely", he said, "and
mostly brought home all the cash, or something on account, but of
course it was rapidly seen that I should make no headway in the
business line in my Father's, or that of any other".

One little bit of comedy stands out from that date. The
railway carriages from Southport were generally crowded each
morning, and W.W. would endeavour to secure a seat to command
the window. Another young man would generally rush in at the
last moment, and as soon as the habitual bellow of the Guard
"proceed with caution" had ceased, this young man would pull
the window up. Immediately W.W. would pull it down, each glaring
at the other, but never speaking. This would continue until the
train drew into Liverpool. The other young man is now known as
Mr. Justice Horridge - then as "young Horridge"!

About this year, John Watson is called as a Juror to the
Assizes. He comes home horror-stricken by the fearful sentences
given. 'Five years for stealing a sack of potatoes'. Indeed,
he has publicly protested in Court and been reprimanded!

22

So much is he 'moved' that he 'moves' his son William, to write a letter of protest to the papers. This letter was destined to have such an effect upon Public Opinion, that the pendulum swung in a "too" opposite direction towards lenience, it was said.

After giving up business as hopeless, or rather it giving him up, life in its most congenial form moves on. He is full of work at this time, and some is ready for publication - composed mostly during walks on the Southport Shore. "A glorious place to work in" - his own remark - "with its beautiful wild flowers which grow in fragile beauty among the Sand Dunes, and which take on an unearthly loveliness in the lamplight, and the glorious sunsets of that coast, so beloved by Artists."

That the nature of W.W. can be better understood the following little story will help the Reader: Before he was twenty he fell in love with a very beautiful girl who used to visit his parents; when asked was it her beauty alone that attracted him, or her playing of the piano, "neither", he said, "but one night I found her trying to save a Moth from a ghastly death in the globe of the lamp".

He is still tripped up by family quarrels, anent his incapacity to earn a living, generally after the brothers had goaded the Father, as to his partiality to William, or his 'injustice' in allowing one son to do 'nothing'. The gentle mother steadfastly refused to take any side at the time, but when William's book is ready, then she urged her husband to

23

THE TEN POUND LIMIT

pay for its publication. Thus it was that "Epigrams" G.G.
Walmsley, Liverpool, appeared in 1884. Five or six hundred
copies were printed, costing the Father Twenty seven pounds.
It certainly had no monetary success, but its publication was
epoch making, for the critical fraternity, at that date, were
critics indeed! They themselves must go through the mill.
So the little book received its just due, and its Author's name
became known beyond the borders of Lancashire.

A Yorkshireman, no matter how successful, could never throw
money away. "Hardly come hardly go" - but John Watson would
often give his dreamer-son a Ten pound note, surreptitiously,
for a jaunt into Wales, or down to Devon, or indeed, wherever he
liked. But the Ten pounds "must do".

The holiday would be mainly on "shanks' mare", putting up
in tiny Inns; once, in Barnstable he took rooms over a Milliner's
shop - an old widow owned it, assisted by her daughter, also a
widow and her child. They charged him 14/6d. a week "and fed him
like a Prince". "But no one ever attended to my wants except the
little Grand-daughter" he would say with a laugh. Perhaps a
young male lodger was not thought too safe. Anyway, it upset
his holiday, and though "full of work" he cast the dust of
Barnstable behind him, leaving, as usual, a bag or two filled
with books.

At Barnstable, he was much struck with the inscription to

24

Grenville. "Tennyson took the whole of it for his poem 'The Revenge'," said W.W. A poem he had himself a very great admiration for.

FAITHFUL TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Up the Clyde too, at this time, and the visit to Edinburgh gave him keen delight. It was there he was first introduced to the work of Stevenson, by an enthusiastic young Schoolmaster. Never after did he swerve in loyalty. And for all R.L.S's imitators he expressed contempt.

W.W.'s Sonnet - "After reading Catriona" written on a fly-leaf of "Catriona" was given to Charles Baxter, and he intended to take it with him on his next visit to R.L.S. but found R.L.S. either already dead or dying.

W.W. would, with great glee, give as his favourite Scotch quotation

"As we cam into Glasgow Toon
We were a guidly sight to see
My luv he was clad in the black velvet
And I mesel' in cramasie".

Sometimes too, into Yorkshire, with his father, and that father among his old haunts was a glorious companion, he would call upon friends and acquaintances in Wensleydale, W.W. being much amused to witness the welcome he received - Just as though they had met last week, hospitality everywhere, generous and ungrudging".

Writing to a Yorkshire friend he says -

25

"When I was Ten I had the great treat of walking with my Father from Harrogate to the wonderful Brimham Rocks near Pateley - about ten miles, my Father unusually unbending and conversational. We found a 'guide' dodging about among the rocks, and he told us he had lately taken Charles Dickens round them: But my own experience, both then and later, was that there was not much "dialect English" of a pronounced type still in use in that district, but of the Electric way, which was Burns' way, though his patois may claim to be a language.

About forty years ago an old farmer, at Barden Tower, told me he could give me a lot of Yorkshire words I had never heard before, and he trotted out a stock of them - all new to me, though doubtless much older than Methuselah - their uncouthness was appalling. His name was Lister, he was an ungodly fellow, but of striking appearance, and he looked upon the Cavendish family, as the merest mushrooms, his own having been there long before them. His countenance was indubitably many degrees more aristocratic than theirs.

## X THE ROLE OF EVANGELIST.

William often described Robinson, his brother, as having dark flashing eyes - "a magnificent head of curly black hair of which he was inordinately proud, small hands, not like mine, one injured on the knuckles by imitating Blonden in a youthful feat at School, average height, rather round-shouldered". Anything he took

26

THE PENITENT FORM.

into his mind to do he would Do - in the most intensive, persistent way imaginable. For example, he greatly admired a young lady living in Ormskirk, and pressed his attention so vehemently upon her, that in desperation she went to his Father's office to protest. "I hate him", she said, "will you stop him from pestering me". His gift for public speaking brought him under the notice of the 'Powers that Be' of the Wesleyan Methodists - he already belongs to them by dint of family tradition, and now they claim him. He becomes one of their Evangelists, and for that leaves his Uncle's business.

His fervour was intense, his success instantaneous. All over the country, from North to South, and East to West, the biggest hall will not hold, nor quarter hold, the multitudes which collect to hear him. In many towns he is carried shoulder high to the pulpit, wherever it might be set up - sometimes in a large barn - indeed he could reach it no other way! Or, weather permitting, he gave his discourse in the open air. At the end of each meeting, young and old flocked up to the Penitent form. His name became one to conjure with. What magnetism did Robinson Watson possess 'To draw all men unto him' in such a manner? He was avowedly a huge success, an invaluable asset. At the end of each service a collection would be taken. Robinson received no settled salary, but from the collection plate would take what he considered sufficient for his expenses. These latter would not be great,

126

A VIGNETTE.

With dull, dead eye; with damp, fat hand, with smile
That covers whole abysms of greed and guile;
Not without knowledge of Art's dustier nooks,
And deeply versed in the outsides of books,
But else a fount of ignorance wildly strange
In its variety, amplitude, and range;
A man of business, half whose best hours glide
'Twixt couch at home and cure at the seaside;
A disputant so hopelessly thick-pated,
He never knows when he's annihilated;
Vulpine in cunning, yet with brain so small
You marvel how he rose from mire at all;
With moral nature less perverted than
By oversight left out from all the man:
Too crafty with felonious hand to steal:
A cross 'twixt hungry shark and slippery eel;
A sleek rogue fatted upon others' leanness;
All shifts and shuffles, wiles, and dodging meanness;
A creature whom the irony of God
Dowered with a soul would fit a gasteropod,
As if to prove how low a thing is able
To gather peer and statesman at its table:
Cares he a straw if some he honours there
Are midnight blotches on the mid-day air?
Ah no! he's tolerant both of means and ends
In those he makes his guests and thinks his friends,
And they may reek with crimes as Borgia's great
If they have title, influence, or estate.

But what of them whose nobler wits are known
To have been his ladder and his upping-stone?
God help you if you only rank with these
When comes the day of conflict, and he sees
That you at last, though in his arts unschooled,
Know yourself trapped, frustrated, tricked and fooled.
Vain to cry out or plead! You will but earn
Base insult on base insult in return,
And find, if you should struggle to be free
From the sly, slimy, smiling knave, that he
In maddening springs has you like a hare,
And feasts upon your rage and your despair.

Bitter your fortune, to have won his hate;
But far more ignominous is your fate
If once he rendered you a service, though
Repaid with lavish interest long ago.
He'll tell the town, and, claiming credit vast,
Pose as your benefactor to the last!

127

Lightly - too lightly - upon acts like these
Looks the calm world. But ev'n _its_ leniences
A limit know, nor to the wretch extend
Who, in the bland guise of the aidful friend,
On the one Morn of Morns, a trusted guest,
Beams happy wishes - with surprising zest
Plays the good genius - and ere eventide
Opens the windows of his hatred wide,
Blasts you with poison long sealed up and stored,
Now coolly with deliberate fingers poured
And, having smeared the bright and innocent day
With midnight venom, smiles and goes his way.

Yet somewhere, in what passes for his soul,
Conscience still lives, and claims a grim control;
Witness the shuddering dread with which he flees
From all that hints of Death or of Disease,
Quails at their names, and at their footfall cowers,
As if in terror of his own last hours, -
Those hours when he, adjudged too vile to dwell
More nobly housed than in the sewers of Hell,
May think it almost bliss, not to be hurled
On some foul dungheap of the infernal world.

128-

'THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.'

That very night we are bound for New York, and there at
the Gotham Hotel we stay and receive our friends.

At a reception, we have speech with many of our Fraternity.
We are led up to President Taft, who bids us welcome, and turns
to a very very old lady on his left hand saying "Here they are".
The old lady folds me in her arms, and I am kissed with the
fervour given in my Country, if you are worth it! Leaving her,
I look back, and then something in her face makes me take her
in my arms, and kiss her again. I am glad for that kiss like
a blessing: That very old lady was Julia Ward Howe, who wrote
'The Battle Hymn of the Republic'.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord".
In that beautiful old face was Peace - not War.

Photo.

Very close to the throne is the English novelist, Mrs.W.K.
Clifford, who gives me a haughty look, but with interest it
doubles back on her!

We eat and are merry, and I sit between Mr. Taft's son
and the Chief Rabbi. The latter asks the date we sail for
home, I give it.

C.R. "Have you a child there?"

M.W. "No."

C.R. "Then it is not home."

(Senator Robert Taft)

130

I am abashed, and show it - and Mr. Taft consoles me.

"You shall be the heroine in my next novel", he says. But my thoughts have flown to Dundalk. It is the first of May, and as I trudge to School, I see over the lintel of the doors heaps of Kingscups, cups of gold against the thatch, to prevent the Fairies from bringing in a Changeling. There is one Cottage with none. Child-like, stopping to ask "Why?" I am told - "Ah! sure, Glory Be To God - the poor creature has none". Am I that "poor creature" now?

R. B. Jowett, the able manager of the New York Bodley Head, who kept our address secret, tells us that Robinson actually wrote his 'letter' at the Bodley Head, but that he - Jowett - never dreamed he would publish it, and had felt quite content in mind when R.W. left New York. We beg him to accompany us with a friend, and repeat his story to a Lawyer, which he does.

R.W. does not easily give in - but he can no longer 'Openly' tread on English soil, so we are quit of him.

Aboard the Adriatic, on the mighty ocean is peace. The flowers they have decked our cabin with, go through a Port Hole - where I would gladly send Robinson!

Steady is the ship as she surges home. A gentle rain drops from heaven on -

"The Land of Hope Deferred
Where the Shamrock Grows."

(James Shield - of Liverpool, Lawyer - takes out a Judgment against Robinson for Debt.)

LIKE ROYALTY AND GOD.

131

Repercussions jolt our world in London. Fashionable doors
clang in our faces, and haughty eyes look over our heads. The
mean minded, set only on titles and lucre, keeping in favour
of those in high places from whence come their paltry strength,
cut us dead, and I, because of my love, like Royalty and God,
keep a book of Remembrance!

Gosse is an enemy, and very malignant. Others, too, for
some unfathomable reason.

A relative from Bath carefully passes on the U.S.A. papers
containing the 'Story' to Dublin, where it pleased some to
believe it. All this I learnt, and remembering the Old Woman
of Crossmaglen, Out-did her!

It is the Season, and at a party we become aware of audible
whispers, as we mingle with the crowd; indeed, two or three
women are actually standing on chairs to view us, Mrs. Shorter
among them. "She suits the chair". I laugh. Douglas Sladen
joins us.

M.W. "That's Alice Meynell."

D.S. "Where?"

M.W. "That very thin woman in black, with a diamond bracelet
on her arm "

D.A. "Really! That Mrs. Meynell."

M.W. "Yes."

Her daughter carefully draws her from our close vicinity.

132

Mrs. Holman Hunt to W.W. "How are you keeping now?" accompanied
by a very grave face and insinuating voice.

And to M.W. "How is He Keeping?"

M.W. "How are You keeping yourself?"

THE STALKER DOWN THE YEARS.

And his enemies in the literary world! Oh, there are many
jealous mean minds there, stalk their prey with stealthy steps
down the years. A hint there, an inuendo here, to the new-comer
in their ranks.

The poison sinks deep down. "Oh! Watson is of no account,
or his work. Actually in -------- Ah, my dear fellow!"

Nevertheless, we smart from all this, and find ourselves
a home in the village of Buckden, Huntingdon, drawing within
ourselves, so to speak. William plunges into work once more;
and Hannah Howard comes into our household, from Gayton Thorpe,
to be a boon and blessing. So that Life speeds on wings -
contentiousness has become a dream.

"Voice La Sabre, La Sabre de Mon Pere."

In the City of Dublin, His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland is, at this time, one, Aberdeen, who has an
exaggerated idea of His Own Importance. Indeed, so grareful
are the people of Dublin to have his Over-Lordship, that they
will feel an abiding gratitude if he tags on another 'Marquisite'

133

to his name - that of Tara the place of Kings. What a compliment
to Ireland! So appreciated, that England's Might is weakened by
it - Aye, and Ireland's Right strengthened by it!

An English Poet rescues Tara - one, William Watson.

## THE PEER'S PROGRESS.

(Verses on reading that Lord Aberdeen was about
to be made Marquess of Aberdeen and Tara.)

Tara, the place of Kings, the hill of Fate
Tara, the throne of Song, the hallowed
shrine -

Tagged as a tassel to your marquessate,
Made an appurtenance of your house and
line!

Who cares though you were marquess ten
times o'er?

Bemarquess'd or Beduk'd - who cares a
straw?

But linked with Erin's immemorial lore,
Her memories sacrosanct, her mount of awe!

Nay, why so modest, why so humble - why
Pause, in your too meek flight, on Tara Hill?

"Marquess of Aberdeen and Sinai" -
Consider! - were not this ev'n better still?

God made me English - English through and through -
But, bound to Ireland by one bond supreme,
I know her soul - something unknown to you -
Her vision and her passion and her dream.

I know, as all know who have breathed her air,
How transient, how unrooted in her heart -

A mere ephemeral thing of passage there -
Were you, that in her glories claim a part.

And this last insult before gazing men -
This ignominy the bitterest yet by far -

She will remember and forgive not, when
You in Time's volume an erasure are.

"God bless the man who made him dhrop it, and he English too",
is overheard in Dublin.

HIS 'FAR FLUNG BATTLE LINE'.

134

America can make amends, or try to, for very soon an invitation comes to write a poem for the 'Centenary of Dickens', and with much of Dickens lore to cull from, it is written and pronounced good. When that voice recites it, a fear comes over me, and I say "Their speech will bring ruin, why not take it and read it?"

So happy is he, that he succumbs, yes, and forgives. And we go, and his reading is a triumph!

Americans vie with each other in paying tribute where tribute is due. But I am watchful, remembering the Wormwood, and keep a guard around him. On the voyage out, 'The Poet's Place in the Scheme of Life' is written, and fortified with this, W.W. accepts invitations to lecture at many places. They come in their hundreds to hear him, from long distances, through sleet and snow, and avow themselves well repaid.

He lectures too, at Princetown, N.J. Quite another tale to tell here. Only about a dozen youths come to listen, I note. Sitting next to President Hibben I whisper, "Where are all your young men, aren't they coming?"

President Hibben. "I am sorry they haven't turned up in force - now if it had been Kipling?"

M.W. "Yes, I suppose in their eyes he is a Hero."

P.H. "Yes, captures boyish fancy, you know."

M.W. "His far flung battle line may capture them one day!"

Then England - home at last.

AN ACCOUNT FOR SAUSAGES.

135

A bright day brings forth the Adder. Money, or the lack of it, troubles us in earnest now. Our Bank Manager would like to see W.W. who is immersed in harmonies at the piano, composing a new song, so, as I sketch one of his hands which attract me by their smallness, and the masterful manner in which they 'take the keys', I offer to face figures and revelations in his stead.

My offer is accepted, and I appear before Stubberfield. Looking very serious he says, "Mrs. Watson, you are young, but if you don't look into matters, I am afraid you will find yourselves in the workhouse".

Workhouses always repel me, somehow, when I remember the 'Species' are separated. So I report to William, but he takes it so calmly, I become calm.

"These things are a worry, but lucre and suchlike are only lent to us", says William, remember that". I do remember, and other things too, as I look at him who on his own confession "Never envied any man anything in my life. But I have often wished, when I listened to it being played, that I had written 'Hark, Hark the Lark' - Sotto voice - "And probably an account for sausages would be on the other side".

He plays it for me, and I pretend to hunt for a book to hide me and my emotion. When it is past, I visualise in my mind the portraits daily bestowed on a discerning public, of monied and successful men, eyes lost in their Greatness, or sunk in a Palsy of fat!

136

Turning, I see a face so serene, so nobly remote from mere
possessions, that I am shamed, and cease to place value on mine,
save only the living ones, of which there are Two now!

We have lived here in much happiness with our neighbours.

"My little first-born daughter Sweet-
My child, yet half or alien race
England and Ireland surely meet,
Their feuds forgotten in thy face."

## HE FORGOT THE BANK.

I watch Father and little daughter play together under the
trees, between-whiles snatched from his work.

In that garden was a grassy ridge, dividing the upper from
the lower, which you 'Might' remember in your perambulations
around, or you 'Might' forget. One day, I leave them both
enjoying a romp, W.W. with a cord attached to the handle of the
pram, pushing and pulling it backwards and forwards. Indoors,
my Mother, just home from Ireland, myself hungrily listening to
the 'Brogue', when a scream rings out, not from the child, but
from W.W. We both run out to find the pram on end, and the
child suspended in it, but not hurt. I see the shock to
William - he had forgotten the Bank!

Herbert Jenkins, reader and factotum at the Bodley Head,
who wrote the best 'Life of George Borrow' ever written, though
J.L. complains in a letter, "I continually find him writing
his book, sitting in my office, with his feet on the mantel-
piece, and I am sick of the sight thereof, and sick of him!"

'BINDLE' AND £50,000.

137

Nevertheless, when the said H.J. writes "he would like to come down and see Mr. Watson", we say "Yes".

He comes for a letter to enable him to show Sir George Chubb, who is looking out for a partner for his son-in-law in a Publishing House he is backing. I urge the giving of it and he is grateful. It eventuated in Jenkins Limited and enabled him to have leisure to write 'Bindle' - sheer rubbish - but it made him £50,000! H.J. died of Cancer within a few years.

H.J. was the only person to be shown the MS. of 'A Vignette' and he pronounced it, 'Life like, and in fact too just'.

Later, Owen Pritchard received a copy. J.L. was never challenged about his conduct, and never saw 'A Vignette'. But by agreements, W.W. was bound to him until 1919!

Herman Scheffauer, who writes W.W. such splendidly interesting letters from Bank Point, Jackson's Lane, Highgate, would like to come and see him. The musical side of this many-sided man appeals to the musician - who is William! So he arrives, and with him his wife, and impress their personality so definitely upon us, that both 'stand out' clearly defined. He is stalwart, vital, slightly abrupt in manner. She, soft-voiced, definitely proud of him.

Scheffauer, the German, not only well versed in his own country's literature, but on easy terms with that of England, yes,

138

and Ireland's too, I find to my surprise. So interested are we,
that the hours fly, listening to this fine talker. Then they
depart, but from Berlin later comes many a letter. Here is one,
"My play, 'The New Shylock' has been staged here, and critical
audiences are really enthusiastic, but many here are enthusiastic
also where Your work is concerned, and are interested too, to
be told that your Wife is Irish, and that I listened to German
music played for me from memory by you - yourself".

Herman Scheffauer, during the Great War was referred to in
the American Press as 'Germany's Cleverest Spy'. Yes, he knew
Americans, probably they knew him better.

His death was tragic. He committee suicide by throwing
himself from the top floor of an Hotel in Berlin.

## THE SCALE OF LIFE.

John Lane reports "No Sales" except to a few Anthologists,
and as he takes half the proceeds, the remnant which is ours,
wrapped up in an incomprehensible account, is not calculated
to raise W.W's spirit, nor is the 'return' of Robinson on this
side of the Atlantic.

We reduce further in the Scale of Life, and because of
this trouble, together with all the other troubles heaped upon
him, I daily see my Man turn aside in despair to do uncongenial
labour, which brings no return but money - and that only a
pittance!

139

So we gather ourselves up and depart to my Land for a time,
where living is cheaper, but I see that William is becoming
lost in depression, and I am helpless against it.

Later, we return to London and stay with Owen Pritchard at
Southwick Street. O.P. is worried about W.W. "He must be roused"
he says, "I will consult with another". The verdict is - "Absolute
Peace". The Great Doctor writes an address where this can be
found. William is very unhappy that it spells separation, and
I confess I am more than doubtful. But O.P. comforts both, and
stands by in our hour of need. With silence between us, and
grief in our hearts we part.

The Great One is certain the cloud will lift, but he is
Stone Deaf and cannot hear my words. I feel 'impotent' in his
presence. Alone I return to Ireland, and above Rubies was
Hannah.

Many letters reach me, some hopeful, and some not. I too
write, and receiving no reply my heart leadens, and in despair
we cross the water.

After six weeks, I am told W.W. will "Eat nothing, and there
is no progress".

Then I go to see him, and await his coming in his little
garden room. The door opens, and a slender youth appears to
enter, with hair Snow White. No! Yes! It is indeed my William,
startlingly, remarkably handsome, but with never a smile for me!

140

We talk little. Lunch comes, and though I make pretence
at hunger, am nauseated by the taste of 'soft-soap' in the
food, but on this score am silent and say, "You are not eating,
won't you tell your Me why?" And at last he speaks. "It tastes
so queer", he says. In my bag I have a biscuit left from my
journey, this I give him, and watch him eat with pleasure.

A plan then forms in my mind, but I keep it there.

Many times I return. Doctor ------ is sympathetic, but
Dr. ---------- is hard of heart. When he receives a report
that I am bringing food to William, and that he is actually
eating it, and not that provided, a special messenger is
despatched for me - for I am at some distance. I appear before
him - my Judge - and in his special sanctum, refuse to desist or
pledge my word.

"Then you will not be allowed, henceforth, Mrs. Watson" he
says, "Allowed?" -------- My vocabulary is Irish!

On huge manuscript paper goes a detailed report to London,
to the Great Deaf One, and I wait. The result repays me with
interest. I am not puffed up by victory, but return home, and
talk matters over with Stubberfield, for 'He' must not go short,
and I will appeal to none, not even Dr. Pritchard.

Our capital is exceeding small now, so I sell nearly all
the best books we possess. They are few enough, for no rich
library is ours. My Poet never was dependent upon them.

141

"Yhank God" I say, as I 'lift' them; and I take our special Cruickshank's to Cambridge, where I hear there is a demand, and hie me to the Fitzwilliam Museum. Disclosing my identity to its 'Head' I state my desire to sell, but with the greatest suavity imaginable, he assures me poor Cruickshank is a 'back number'! So are my hopes. But, because I belong to W.W. therefore I am shown manuscripts of that most 'Famous Poet' - Thomas Hardy.

I take my leave, and am become a scoffer and a bigot too -
concerning poetry.

Clement Shorter has at this time staying with him at
Knockmaroon A.S.W. Rosenbach, the great American buyer of rare
books. I write to him about four special volumes, and by arrange-
ment we meet in the Writing Room of the Paddington Hotel. The
books are to be carried under my arm, so that he can recognise
'Mrs. William Watson'.

THE PROUD LIAR.

We meet, and after examining them carefully, he said, "I
cannot be sure that they are 'First Editions' but, eagerly,
"Have you any Kiplings?" And because I am Wife to an English
Poet, I look in his face and lie without shame, "No, none!"

He does not ask for a First Edition of William Watson. I
take my leave, and as I pass by the books where many humans
'Register' I also 'Register' in my mind, a vow that One day,
there will go up a shout for William Watson.

142

Hannah helps me to gather up again, and we settle ourselves
close by where William dwells in Dumfrieshire, near the Shades
of Burns.

A smile crosses my Man's face one day, while we walk together
in Bluebell time, and brings 'Hope' the Enchanter. Another day,
his child toddled up with a Dandelion, and solemnly handing it to
him, said, "Dad". Gathering her up in his arms, he said "Thank
God, you are safe". So all is well when a little child can'touch'
him.

I take a veritable Cot - just three rooms in it, on a hill-
side within sight of mountains and sea, very snug it is. There
we bide our time.

## THE INTRIGUE.

The Great Doctor in London owns a mansion near by, and in
kindness urges me to enter till he returns North, but I refuse,
and await his coming. When he does come, there are consultations,
and I am summoned to appear.

Dr. "Your husband is much improved - another month
should, etc., etc.

Dr. "No, not yet".

Suddenly one day things become 'clear' to me. Carefully
writing a letter of six lines, I carry it in triumph to W.W.

143

surreptitiously of course, and placing all needful before him,
say, "Copy it". Me does, but assures me that though he longs
to be with us, the Doctors will never agree to it yet. I
caution, "Silence" and give the letter to Doctor -------- of
the sympathetic heart.

"If Mr. Watson wrote this he must be quite recovered now,
and I never considered him really ill, you know", he says,
accompanying me back to W.W.

Dr. ---- "This is splendid, just a little longer till we get
some flesh on your bones".

W.W. "No, no longer, Doctor, thanks".

Dr. ---- "Well, - just when would you like to go?"

M.W. "Now, please Doctor, there is a carriage waiting".

And within fifteen minutes we depart, and my happy-faced man
is home.

My mother, who had vowed to leave if I set all at defiance,
drives by our carriage with face averted - I am banned - But
Hannah, pink of face, beams a welcome.

The neighbours, rich and poor, vie with each other in
making us happy, and Hannah bakes on a griddle from recipes
poured in upon her, for she is prime favourite.

Best of all, William starts work again, and writes 'Nature's
Way'. But in a few months War descends, and with its plunge,

BECAUSE THEY ARE FAITHFUL.

144

Hannah must leave us. I plunge too, my pillow for many nights
is wet with tears, for I love Hannah.

We return South. Just before leaving, we become friends
with a young man from Sussex, who says, "I am taking Dr. ______'s
place. He has gone to the Front".

M.W. "Let him go".

Dr. - "I have heard about you".

M.W. "Oh yes".

Dr. - "I have made up my mind when I marry, it will be an Irish girl" - with a pleasant smile.

M.W. "Why"?

Dr. - "Because they are faithful".

"AN ANT OF ITS TALENTS SUPERNALLY VAIN
WAS TROTTING WITH CONSEQUENCE OVER THE PLAIN".

Professor Housman comes regularly every Sunday, and
invariably, before he goes, stands back to the fire, flipping
his coat-tails in a nervous manner, and solemnly reciting for
the children

"I once had a beautiful doll, dear".

W.W. goes just once to see him. A.E.H. apologises because
his bed is not made, and appears quite upset about it! "If he

145

hadn't mentioned it, I shouldn't have known", says W.W.

We hear a good deal of Rupert Brooke from him. Brooke was
too dirty and untidy till suit his fastidiousness and prim old-
maidism. Arthur Benson upheld his views though, and supported
them with much more detail. R.B. was no romantic hero there,
evidently.

Cambridge, as a Seat of Learning, may be said to have left
William Watson severely alone. It was not because of the War,
judging by later knowledge - 1930 - It was due to the judgment
passed upon his Poetry by Professor A.E.Housman.

Extract from a letter - "Watson's work does not now
stand high in general esteem among literary people".
Signed A.E.H. 1930.

We are sitting on a seat near the river. On the same seat
sits a lady, at the other end. W.W. rises, taking his eldest
child by the hand, walks along the river edge.

"I was much struck by his splendid hear".

M.W. "Yes, most people are".

L. "Is he a Lawyer"?

M.W. "No, but he would have made a good one - he can weigh
evidence as few can".

L. "Is he an Actor"?

M.W. "No, he is the Poet - William Watson".

146

L. "How glad I am I spoke to you - though I hardly dared -
not being able to guess what relationship you were to him.
His work has always been placed 'first' in our household. My
brother is Selous - the Big Game Hunter."

Lady. "Yet he never went on an expedition without his 'William
Watson'. You see, the Great Grief of his life was that his
Wife would never accompany him, and after all, there are very
lonely times for men like him. I suppose Mr. Watson's portrait
has been painted"?

M.W. "No. G.F.Watts wanted to, but it fell through, and
Rothenstein wanted to do a Sketch of him, but somehow it never
got done".

L. "I beg of you to see about it - he is so strikingly Noble
in appearance".

M.W. "I will. But it is hopeless when there is no money to pay
for it".

L. "No money should be needed".

M.W. "I agree. England should see to it that her Men of Genius
have their lineaments preserved for future generations".

L. "Yes, The National Portrait Gallery might bring it within
their scope".

147

fleeting Gods - but my soothsayer looks neither to right nor
left, and if you come with me, you may take a peep at him where
he stands by a gate, one hand resting upon it. A very erect
figure, clad in navy blue, the splendid head partly hidden by a
soft-brimmed hat. One small hand cups his chin with a cleft in
it, and his lips move. His thoughts are far away, they are on
'America Concerning England', and how best he can serve that
England.

"Give them time" he says, "and they will come in. They are
a people with a conscience, and can be stung". But I, remembering
my own, keep quiet.

He has walked further on down a leafy dell. See, a squirrel
is threading its way along the branches till it arrives above
him; then it drops, almost on his hand. But he heeds not at all.
And our cat, calling loudly, dragging a rabbit home she has
captured, passes him by. All the household have learned their
lesson - wonderful indeed, is the instinct animals possess.

The merry children at last drop asleep, and our frugal meal
waits - I wait too. Up and down he paces now, with one arm held
behind him, his movements quite visible by the light of the moon.
Then I also drop asleep. The old familiar whistle wakes me.

'TIS YOU AGAINST WHOM THE DEAD MEN CRY.

148

"Walk with me and you shall hear it, I am satisfied now".

"At last" I breathe.

"Yes, at last" he repeats with a happy sigh.

And there, at cock crow, I hear it.

M.W. "They'll come. It's a Clarion call".

W.W. "Are you certain?"

M.W. "Sartin sure."

Photo of Poem.

'Tis you Against whom the Dead Men Cry
The Dead who were Dice in your murderous Gambles".

Extract from letter of Robert Ross
October 29th. 1916.

Dated from
The Wharf,
Sutton Courtnay, Berks.

Dear John Lane

The party here is a very delightful one -- but I
feel very much out of it by not playing Bridge. The
Asquiths are so kind that they never mind anything, though
one feels as you may suppose, rather a drag.

To my old-fashioned Victorian taste, when there
is so much to discuss, hear and learn, from life, art and
literature it is Murdering Time to play cards. Just when
the Prime Minister is telling us something of astounding
interest, or, commenting on some European Event in his
own inimitable way, there is a general move to the Bridge
Table. If I were a Bishop or Puritan Minister of some
denomination I should preach against what I regard as a
social Disease".

149

## Ireland's Agony.

W.W.'s heart and soul has been one with Ireland, and its struggle. 'An Foblacht' tells us much that is 'suppressed'. Unbiassed friends tell us much more.

The Black Flag unfurls again - Kilmainham is the centre of death and despair. Just lately comes word of imprisoned youths, who when the death warrant is read to them by the Governor, will not believe in its truth - cannot believe it. In despair the humane Governor brings the Priest to convince them, and he, too, fails. When the 'Summons' comes, the condemned are singing their Country's songs, and are shot almost before the echo of their voices have died away.

"Oh, Ireland!" says his wife.

X

Because of happenings which annoy, we prepare to quit, and go North, leaving our small possessions labelled, to amble behind us as they please.

## BLONDIN-WILSON.

"Oh! what a spectacle here for the age!
Blondin-Wilson, philosopher, sage,
Moralist, casuist, dialectician,
Poised on a tight rope in perfect position -
Balanced aloft upon logical toe,
With Super-Niagara rushing below!"

150

"You are the very people I wish to have there", he beams,
and we, beaming too, are given the key.

To: R.J.Clegg, Esq.,
Holbeck,
Windermere.

Dated 5th May, 1917.

I, the undersigned, William Watson, hereby agree to take and
occupy as Tenant the premises called High Close Cottage (lately
rented by Mr. Joseph Kirby) on your Holbeck Estate for a tenancy
from 12th May 1917 to be determined by either party giving to
the other of them three months' notice at any time at a rent of
Fifteen pounds per annum you paying the rates and taxes And I
undertake to keep and leave the premises in the same condition
as they are now in (fair wear and tear allowed).

(Signed) William Watson.

Here, peace is ours - yes, even in time of War. In our
perch above woods and crags, with our two little children, we
get on with our Life.

"This is a grand place to work in", says W.W.

While I bake, and wash the clothes, he comes in and out of
the sunshine to give me a line, or perhaps a stanza or two.
When the children's voices are hushed in sleep we two look the
door of our cot - no fear of intruders here though - and with
a staff apiece stroll along the winding road to Troutbeck, and
drop down there into the little churchyard, to wander about in
the golden twilight.

"Daisy, the beloved Wife...."

'That was a most lovely young creature - I knew her in my

151

early days up here", he tells me. And close by I find a very
pink edged replica of her name, and carry it home for the
children.

MR. LLOYD GEORGE.

When I write down this NAME - I know you will wish me to write
on. It is a most glorious day in mid May. Up the field beyond
our little garden, you may see two children leaning over a Cattle
Trough, they are catching Pinkeens, that's the name of small
fish in Ireland, a jam jar stands near by containing three -
after many hours at the job. I have been up many times to see
that all is well, and that W.W. keeps guard; as I draw near
I hear a voice call out "Mind there or you'll be drowned".
A dripping little form propels itself back to earth, "I'm not
drowned, Father". Then another emerges - in worse condition
than the first.

"Me likes Down" says Miss Youngest Defiance. But I catch
no more, for someone is coming up the lane, and it looks like
the Post Girl. Yes, Girls and Women deliver our letters and
telegrams in these days, and do the job splendidly. Yes, it's
a telegram.

I read it - and then read it again - the better to digest
it.

"Go in and rest, and I will find out what the reply is to
be, there are drinkables on the table, just help yourself", I

152

say, as I hurry up the field again, following the family "whistle"
with the telegram in my hand. The children are still drowning,
but William leaves them to it, as he catches sight of me and my
SCRAP OF PINK PAPER.

Then I read it out to him, and here is the very 'Message'
his eyes looked at that day, for you yourselves to read from the
GREATEST PRIME MINISTER THAT ENGLAND EVER HAD - "THE MAN WHO SAW".

"2/- to pay - forwarded from G1. The Albany.W. (The Bodley Head
Vigo St.)

"To William Watson, G.1. The Albany.

I propose with His Majestys approval that
you should receive honour of Knighthood in
forthcoming honours list will you accept

Lloyd George 10 Downing St."

We TWO, who mean so much to each other, confide together:

M.W. "Will you accept it?"

W.W. "I will, indeed, with gratitude from Him."

And by undignified leaps and bounds, the wife of the "Knight"
descends through the flower laden field singing the Men of
Harlech, and hears the Poet singing it too, as he resumes
guard over his Two Villains, who are oblivious both of HONOURS
AND RENOWN.

And so to London, where William Watson kneels before his
Liege Lord - the King. Outside the Palace waits his Wife.

The "Dubbing" Ceremony is over. On through the surging
traflic goes the Car - Bang Bang - Bang! Zeppelins - DEATH

153

IS VERY CLOSE - Where? Ah, the driver senses whence it comes.
He turns up Chancery Lane in a trice. "Stop" shouts William.
Safety at last. In the Vaults of the Deposit Co. where most
of the wealth of London is hidden: Yes, ladies are there, peeping
into Safes containing their Jewels, and men with perplexed faces
are looking at papers which represent GREAT POSSESSIONS -
AND DEATH IS JUST ABOVE!

One splendid Autumn morning, from a vantage point, we see
white sails glide up and down past Wray Castle. The passenger
steamer is transformed into a Royal Craft, except for the
vibration of the paddle, proclaiming its lower rank! and the
Mountains have collected to themselves many more, for the Lake
is 'filled' with the reflection of their image. Helvellyn -
pride of all - has a fantastic Goiffered Cap, set jauntily on
one side, indicating a gaiety incongruous with dignity, which
has been swept away by the wind, days before, and forgotten!

It comes from a man on the other side of the wall; we can
only see the top of a bowler hat, and a pair of eyes.

"You can" sayd W.W. "if you wait a moment, I will direct
you the short way."

We all go together to the stile. In the road are three

ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES.

154

men who look just as though they quitted office stools half an
hour before, they certainly do not 'loop up' with mountains!
Their faces appear mournful, and one of them Never Lifts his Head
once, while we talk!

William is spokesman, and the one who first accosted us
jots down directions in a little note book. When this is
finished, the other two - hitherto quite mute - say, "Good-day"
and pass on down the lane. But the Spokesman keeps pace with
us until we reach our cottage.

X

"We have come up from 'Low Wood Hotel" he says.
"Good place, that" says W.W.

"Yes, and we generally come in Autumn, and always strike
lucky with weather" says the stranger; those are my brothers,
the one next the gate, indicating the retreating figures, takes
his holidays when I do. We always give our brother a month's
holiday."

"Lucky - yes - I suppose so. But you see, that brother,
pointing to him who never lifted his eyes to look at us,
invented the Dictaphone, and has been in an asylum for years.
Any amount of money from it, so we feel it's our duty to take
him for a month's holiday every year."

X William Watson had stayed at practically every hotel and inn in England.

155

The Watsons stand dumb.

"Yes, and he's always inventing! Always at it."

We never heard his name, and never inquired. But the
'Dictaphone' prospers many.

Ernest Hartley Coleridge.

M.W. "Splendid - about time though."

M.W. "So had the shave. Here you are."

The shaving glass hangs up on the window, which looks over
a World of Mountains. Ten minutes or so pass - there is a great
shout - the window is rattled, and then thrown open.

X

Rushing to my lower window, I look out. There is a man of
tall straight figure, holding a cap in his hand, and waving it up
to William. He stands in our little garden talking to the 'one'
supposed to be 'immersed' in a shave!

"Go on in," says my husband's voice, "and talk to my Wife.
I won't be five minutes."

156

head appear at that window. Of course, I knew you were in the
neighbourhood, and intended hunting him up."

William appears, and persuades him into 'giving us' this
day. He agrees. Then such talk starts between them that I sit
enthralled and begrudge the time spent on the 'Inner Man.'

"Lay before who?" says she.

"Tramp! That's only his garb for the mountains. His talk
is superg - glorious."

"Yes, I know. You and William set exaggerated value on
Talk. But I'm not coming in, anyway. I'm surprised at you
though."

"Call him a Casual," I say, sarcastic like, filling up my
tray with the best that can be mustered up here.

Cold ham - (Belfast)
Salad - (Garden)
Griddle Bread - (M.W.)
Butter - (Tyrone)
Honey - (Idaho - superb, from a woman who
adores William's poetry - Bless
her.)
Drinkables - Milk or Dublin Tea.

157

He takes his leave - that fellow with the fine head and ruddy cheeks - that Tramp with the liths figure, and I watch W.W. accompany him down the Holbeck Lane, on his way to catch the Grasmere coach.

ALL DICKERED WI' FLYS.

The Hon. Stephen Coleridge.

We are notified that on his way through from Scotland S.C. will look us up. So on the given date, a large car draws up at the end of the lane. Mrs. Coleridge comes along - alone - looks round with interest.

Mrs.C. "Stephen wants to take you all to Coniston, will you come? He is waiting in the car."

M.W. "Yes."

S.C. "Do you hear that, Susan?"

Mrs.C. "Yes, but all the cottage women do, Stephen!"

We are home, and with us the Coleridges, very out of place in the cottage, for they have many possessions.

S.C. - gasping - points to a well-decked fly-paper suspended directly and dangerously over his head. "What a frightful sight, what dreadful cruelty."

xLater Mrs. Stephen Coleridge's very adequate pension from the Anti-vivisection Society has kept her from household chores.

158

M.W. "Maybe, it's either 'them' or the 'children'."
We are in disgrace.

PREMATURE PEACE AND A VISIT BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL.

Mr. and Mrs. Israel Zangwill came along from the Mortal Man Inn at Troutbeck, where they were staying on holiday. This really clever man interested us both immensely, the real, undisguised intellectual Jew! We had both read most of the books he had written, placing 'Children of the Ghetto' first.

Before leaving, he brought out of his pocket-book a large document with many signatures on it. Placing it in William's hands he said, "Now I want you to sign this before we go."

I leave my seat, and leaning over W.W's shoulder glanced rapidly through it, noting the names; though, remember, he did not hand it to me at all, but was powerless to stop me from reading it, as I did.

Its purport was 'For a Premature Peace'. I pinched William's arm to show him that I was well aware of its meaning. Then W.W. stopped. "Well, Mr. Zangwill," said he, "I will never sign this - that you should even dream I would do such a thing shows me how little all I have stood for in this Country is known."

Zangwill did his very best to persuade him, and went on to tell us that he had been instrumental in raising the money for Trotsky to leave Spain, where he then was, when War broke out,

ROYAL CLEMENCY.

159

and get back to Russia; ending with "If Peace is not soon signed,
we shall all be beggared in this country."

"Better far to be beggared than dishonoured," said W.W.

Then the Zangwills took their leave, looking very crestfallen.

I saw them down the Skelgill Lane on their way back.
Zangwill said, "What has happened, that you appear so very
poor?"

"Poor! rich, rather, I consider, with death and destruction
everywhere."

So they departed, pitying the Poor Poet! I fled back to
express my satisfaction with the Fine Blasting Temper, shown on
a Porridge Diet.

Sir Roger Casement.

"... You say you and your wife are very anxious as to
what will happen to Roger Casement. My dear fellow, I and
those working with me can do no more -- His Diary has blasted
everything with its references to 'O.W.' -- (if its true - and
not just trumped up). As you say -- its a pitiful situation
to be in - Not one Soul can save him - but Royal Clemency.
You are absolutely right - that if the Authorities only had
some 'Inward Eyesight' to pardon him - would bring many Friends
from Ireland.

I liked the glimpse of his home in Ballycastle Co.Antrim.
Poor Fool, the Pawn of VILLIANS ---"

160

and take a peep at Roger Casement's home - lovely in its serenity,
completely hidden in roses, red and white English roses. What
a time that boy must have had in this wild spot, and in maturity
he is lover and loved. Nevermore will his eyes gaze on the
rocky headland, or watch the Peewits wheel and dip, or tread
again the Glens.

The village people remember 'the Time', and when we mention
him, there are lips that move in a blessing - never a curse.
He was, and is still, 'Their boy'.

## THE TWO LANDLORDS.

Our Landlord, glad to have us, rich in possessions when we
arrive, has his Greatest snatched from him by Cruel War - his
only Son. He now intends selling his estate.

Our cottage is quite outside the private grounds of the
mansion, right up above it, in Skelgill Lane.

"Have no apprehension on that score whatever," he says,
"you are quite safe. Surely there is enough room for him and

161

his servants here."

But we are uneasy. After some time, it is sold.

X

The new Owner takes possession, Mr. Hacking, brother to the present Lord Hacking, and within two days a letter is delivered by hand, demanding that W.W. vacate the cottage, giving him a quarter's notice; it is wanted for his, the Landlord's, Chauffeur.

Consternation seizes us. There are no houses whatever vacant - we cannot take to the woods. This, he is informed, but shows no mercy. His Agent is then instructed to 'Get us out', though he is well aware of the new Protecting Law in force. The rent is raised to the highest capacity he can really put it, and he surges on in his spleen, for when the Agent fails to move us, after repeated efforts, though we tell him 'just as soon as we can obtain a house we will leave,' he lifts the eviction of an English Poet out of his hands into that of his Lawyers, who write, "Our Client considers you are doing him an injury by retaining possession of High Close Cottage, of which he is the owner...."

X It is the custom up here if a person is obviously very rich to say from whence come his riches - 'Soap'.

162

From a carriage at our Lane end comes a tell, girt figure.
As he comes nearer, you will see Henry C. Montgomery of Bally-
hackamore, County Down. He, of the fine appreciative mind,
every three months or so he comes thus, laden with all the
good things he can carry across the Sea - "to keep the Poet
alive", he says. The children race to meet him, for is he not
their "Great bearded playfellow, whom they love?"

In the gloaming, while the children sleep, he, my fellow-
countryman and I, go down the Lane together, into Low-Wood
fields, and there, in view of the Tyrant's abode, we confide
in each other various things, known only to 'Our People', and
you, my friends, shall hear just one of the subjects discussed,
"Close Seasons for Landlords....".

Winter. Deep under snowy mantles are our mountains, they
appear of surpassing beauty. We are prisoners. It has snowed
practically a week.

There comes a knock on the door. Our Landlord's man-
servant with a message. "There's a telephone call at the 'all
for you, from Hadmiral of the Flett, Lord Fisher. Please come
down and answer it."

"If the All Highest called me on that telephone, I should
refuse to answer" I confide to W.W. He upholds me.

163

That night off goes a letter to the Beloved Admiral, for
such is our name for him. I tramp through the snow to Trout-
beck to post it, the road is all my own. I sing most of the
way in the crisp air, and my voice echoes along the valley,
naught matters, there are none to hear. "Ploughing" down
Skelgill Lane as I reach the bend, on my return I start
'Excelsoir' at my loudest, and hear William's fine voice catch
up the refrain with great gusto! Night is falling, he has
been anxious for my safety.

"You are safe, my Wife?"

"I am safe."

HIDDEN RICHES.

Much wealth is hidden away in these mountainy nooks, yes,
and much ignorance too.

Often we would like to bring 'the Mill Hands' say from
Leeds and Bradford and Manchester to Lodge Gates which shut
in from prying eyes, the Overlords, and their species, wallowing
in their gains.

A peep from this One gate will show you a glorious avenue,
bordered in white heather, backed with superb trees of every
kind imaginable, which grow in prolific magnificence. Walk a
little further - do. Here are shady nooks and dells galore,

164

with tiny cascades singing musically of their capture by the
Mountain Beck. Telling, too, a romantic story of how this
glorious garden has grown out of a rugged baldness: How their
first master was kind, and Irish, and very, very poor, when he
landed at Kendal to work as a spinner; how, little by little,
at first, a great fortune in the end, with fine mills to his
credit. When 'The Accounts' are handed in, this beautiful
place of his dreams, descends to his son, who has no need to
work - Alas, to be denied by Wealth, the one salvation of man!

Have another peep. It is War. There are women wandering
in this earthly paradise, decked in silks and priceless pearls.
One moves towards a grassy mound with a depressed air, she
kneels down, and places choice flowers there. But we will leave
her to this unusual grief - remember, the War is on, and her
dog has just lately died!

## THE HORROR OF THEIR WEALTH.

Come on inside - Liberty's furnished this sumptuous home,
even to the Library. England's pride gleams in perfect
bindings behind glass doors, but these doors are never unlocked,
never have been. Never once, have the bored pampered children,
peeped inside, to join in a world all unknown to them, and to
where they could escape from the horror of their wealth.

And their Begettor asks, "Just exactly What is Prose?"

Come away - Do.

165

IRELAND CAPTIVE, OR IRELAND FREE?

William Watson once again rises in undaunted Rebellion
against 'Black and Tan' Rule in Ireland, and to his Everlasting
Honneur wrote 'Ireland Unfreed' - probably unknown to Your Land.

'England's Choice'. Given by the powers that be in Dublin, as
a message to the People, printed on Placards, some of which are
posted on Kilmainham Jail, and on the lamp-posts in Old Kilmainham,
to be torn down by the English soldiers, after Mass one memorable
Sunday!

X Fisher. "A sorry sight. Is that your point of view? All
monster Ships should be scrapped - Submarines alone will be
wanted in future."

Fisher. "You're right - Nothing but Hate. But it's War.

W.W. incredulous. "Not invited to witness your own triumph?"

Fisher - sadly. "No. I give them ten years to come back, and

166

then - No Declaration of War, they will just Come."

W.W. "So soon, Admiral?"

Fisher. "Do you imagine we can keep a Great People on their
knees?"

W.W. "Never. They are not on their knees. I am not under
any illusion about it, and never have been, where a People of
intelligence are concerned."

Fisher. "No. Neither am I."

'I MET WITH A RETAIL ROBBER.'

THE IMPENITENT THIEVES.

I met with a retail Robber,
Who robbed at his counter and till.
I met with a wholesale robber ---
A greater miscreant still.

For both I would build a Gibbet,
As high as their souls are low,
And swing them aloft to their kinsfolk
The vulture and carrion crow.

One MS of 'The Impenitent Thieves' was given to H.C.Montgomery
on condition that it would hang on the wall of his office in
Rosemary Street, Belfast.

H.C.M. was given many M.C. by M.W.

W.W. giving him that addressed 'To H.C.Montgomery', Bally-hackamore.

167

THE MURDERER'S KITBAG.

The Wife of our neighbour fell ill - the long expected child had not arrived we knew, though the Doctor had come that evening to see if all was well. About ten o'clock I express anxiety about her to William, who agrees that I shall go over and offer help. I do, and find her alone, crying bitterly before the fire, with her apron thrown over her head.

For some little time I can get no clear response to my questioning. I realise it is not FEAR which has taken possession of her, so I wait. Then she stands up, and taking my hand in hers, leads me into the parlous; there, on the table is an old black leather bag, and with tears gushing forth again, she points to me to open it. I do so, and spring back aghast - I take another peep. Then I realise. It was Fear.

Fear of the DOCTOR'S BAG. A Murderer's Bag, surely! Its once white lining, saturated in fresh blood! There lie all the Doctor's instruments, Thick With Rust. I have never fainted in my life, or felt even dizzy, but I confess I let a scream escape me.

The Doctor had intimated his intention of returning in two hours, so reassuring the frightened little creature, that he will NEVER be allowed to use them where she is concerned, I take up the bloody Bag, and racing through the wood which separated the Lodge from our cottage, I wake William up, tell him all, preparing him for the shock of a peep.

"My God," he gasps, "what a blessing you went."

The Doctor in this story had a large practice. Later W.W. expresses himself shocked to see the number of New Graves in the Churchyard!

168

Then, I run back with it. The husband is home now, very worried. So I stay with his Wife, while he goes down to his Master's telephone and 'phones this, "My Wife is very ill, please bring another Doctor with you and come at once."

## THE OTHER DOCTOR.

They came together, the Other Doctor being the poor creature's salvation.

## THE CONDEMNED.

We are in Ambleside, and are quit of our Landlord at last. His Chauffeur never lived in the Cottage, he was 'Called up'. Our new little home is nice enough, the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton gave the money to pay for it, friends of Fisher's, but in after years William Watson admitted that he "bitterly regretted being forced to accept this money" though it spelt "Escape from the Landlord" at the time when the rents of all houses were at a very high premium - indeed there was scarcely a house to be had - food alone taking our tiny income - there was very little over.

William often has heart attacks now; the Doctors say "It's not to be wondered at - leaving the fine clear air of Wansfell."

169

assistance from "Funds" - supposed to be doled out in all
"Privacy" yet are so "Very Public" - that friends in various
parts are able to write to W.W. and say "Sorry to hear you
are driven to accept help from "The Royal Literary Fund"
NOTHING IS EVER PRIVATE".

Poetry is not a plant that can be forced - neither can we
live by its sale, but my man has been born a POET - just that -
and nothing else - THIS I SAY WITH PRIDE, NOT WITH REGRET.

Cash received from various Editors for a Weekly article,
invariably goes into the Doctor's pocket, or most of it.
Even a short Lyric costs W.W. a very great deal of strength,
and I beg him not to encourage work.

"If you want to live, Sir William, you must give all this
writing up" say the Doctors, and to me (privately) they say
"His heart is so bad, don't be surprised if he drops dead at
your feet." A ghastly secret to be hidden from the "Condemned
One".

A friend at this time writes to Lord Curzon as the one
most likely to be active in the matter of help; and as W.W.
is on easy terms with him, Lord Curzon's answer is "Indeed
I will write at once to the Prime Minister and urge upon him
the necessity of increasing the Civil List Pension, I feel
sure he will agree, especially if it will mean ease and
comfort in Sir William's last years, and a continuance of his
own splendid work in Poetry."

170

Lord Curzon received the following letter from 10, Downing
Street:

LORD CURZON AND THE CIVIL LIST PENSION.

10, Downing St.
16 Dec. 1923.

Dear Lord Curzon,

You will doubtless remember writing to Sir Ronald Water-
house in June last in regard to the request made to you by
Sir William Watson that his Civil List pension should be
increased. The Prime Minister has recently examined the out-
standing applications for Civil List Pensions and he has asked
me to let you know that he regrets that he cannot see his way
to entertain Sir William Watson's application.

The amount of Sir William Watson's present pension is
very rarely exceeded - in fact during the last ten years no
pension exceeding £200 per annum has been granted in any case,
and there have only been a very few cases, say five or six, in
which such a large pension has been awarded. The amount avail-
able for Civil List Pensions in each year is limited to the
comparatively small figure of £1200, and the Prime Minister
feels that he could not entertain this application without
injustice to the many deserving cases which come before him
where the element of hardship is of a most distressing
character.

Signed R.P.M.Gowers

The Most Hon. The Marquis Curzon of Kedleston, K.G., G.C.S.I.G.C.I.E.

A Note to be placed with the answer from Lord Curzon re an
addition to my Civil List Pension. William Watson.

In this letter Mr. Stanley Baldwin, states his reasons
for refusing my request to have my pension of £200 raised to
£250. One of them is that even the smaller sum has only been
given to say "five or six persons". I presumes that the vagueness
of "say five or six" is pardonable in a Prime Minister - where
a sum naturally so trivial in his eyes is involved. But passing
over this, it is quite certain that the larger sum - £250 per
annum has been awarded as a Civil List Pension to two literary
persons in my own lifetime. One of them was Austin Dobson, an
estimable man, whom I knew, and whom I admired as a writer no
less than I respected him as a human being. But seeing that

171

for many years he drew a salary of £800 a year as a far from
overworked Civil Servant, and a life Pension of Two thirds of
that amount on retiring, his claim to a further £250 a year
from the Civil List seems to verge on the dubious. Another
Literary recipient of a Civil List Pension of £250 per annum
was William Ernest Henley - a very different man, who used his
notable gifts and powers with a conspicuous absence of generosity
towards some of his contemporaries, my own early self among them.
In his case, these very gifts and powers - employed largely in
Journalism - and in support of the Government which rewarded him
as above mentioned - must have been by no means unlucrative,
and the urgency of his need of a Pension of £250 from the Civil
List is therefore not very apparent. Mr. Baldwin's letter
concludes with the remark that "he could not entertain this
application" (namely my own) without injustice to the many
deserving cases which come before him where the element of
hardship is of a most distressing character.

I do not wish to comment on the phraseology here, beyond
saying that I should be glad to think it is the Secretary's
rather than the Statesman's. In fact it is a desire to be
absolutely just to Mr. Baldwin that makes it difficult for me
to imagine him merging me with "Deserving Cases" in general.
But however this may be, one might have supposed that "the
element of hardship" was not altogether absent from a "Case"
where an English Poet, whose reputation in Literature is at any
rate many years older than Mr. Baldwin's in Politics, has been
for the last twelve years quite unable to provide his wife with
any assistance whatever for domestic affairs - or alleviate
the cruel strain to which she has been continuously subjected
as a result of her husband's now notorious poverty - Such
poverty as is perhaps not likely to redound to the future
Honour of the Great Country which he has so long and so faithfully served.

It would not become me to say much more about myself, and
I will add this only. A Statesman who is cousin to the most
wealthy of living Poets, cannot be expected to know that
relatively to the width of my literary reputation I am beyond
question the poorest author now alive on this Planet.

Such a mournful distinction might not be necessarily a
very cruel one to a young man in the heyday of his strength,
but I shall be Seventy-one years old in less than two months,
and my misfortunes are not mine alone.

WILLIAM WATSON.

172

THE GOLD MINE.

About this time, a Mrs. Andrews called at The Bodley Head, and asked to see John Lane. He forwards the following message:—

"I have a portrait of William Watson in Black and White, which I did in 1892, and I would very much like his Wife to possess it. I will send it to you to be packed, if you promise to send it to her. My husband did one a little later in Black and White, but I do not know what became of it, for it was bought by the Macmillan Company. We happened to be staying in the same house at Southend, where he was staying with his Mother, and to see him was to want to paint him!"

W.W. "I am glad you have it. That was a kind woman, that Mrs. Andrews, I remember."

M.W. "Is there any chance that Macmillans still have that portrait which hung in their office?"

W.W. "Probably went on a dust heap long ago, or burnt. I am not Kipling. the Goldmine, remember."

M.W. "I will write to them, and find out."

Off goes a letter in W.W's name. A reply comes in a few days. "Nothing is known of it, but Mrs. Lillie Craik, their Partner's Widow, may know something." Her address is given. Mrs. Little Craik replies that she has never seen it, but

173

He is written to. Here is his reply.
York House, Tooting, Graveney.

"I understand you have approached Messrs, Macmillan in the matter, and have been inadvertently informed about the picture. Mrs. Craik also knew nothing about it. As a former Secretary of the Company, when I was asked about it a few days ago I was able to indicate where it was, and indeed saw it the day before yesterday.

## TWO PORTRAITS.

Mrs. Craik has asked me to negotiate with you in the matter, and I suggest Twenty pounds for the picture. It is well framed and in excellent condition, and if you agree to the price, will draw a cheque in favour of Mrs. A.R.Craik and send it to me, I will obtain her receipt for it, and send the picture to you.

Signed. James Foster."

No, not in the fire, among the 'interesting things' it goes.

The scene shifts to 'The Times', Obituary List, about a year later. "James Foster, late Secretary of Messrs. Macmillan & Co., etc., etc."

174

Immediately, a letter goes to Mrs. Craik, I am fearful of losing sight of the picture. I tell her 'It would have been purchased had I had the Twenty pounds.'

Porchester Terrace, W.

"I was no party to any Charge being made for the portrait. The Secretary - Mr. Foster - having died, I have asked the Directors of Macmillans to send you the Picture, which I hope will reach you safely.

A. R. Craik."

There is an unbelievable difference in these two portraits. See for yourselves and remember their dates 1892 - 3 Before and after Windsor Park.

WILLIAM WATSON'S ALABASTER BOX OF OINTMENT.
"THERE THERE - Sweep It Out of Your Mind As You Would Sweep Out of a Room Black Beetles."

Nevermore to climb the hills - nevermore to tread the valleys - "No more work."

W.W. "I work till I die."

M.W. "Yes, go on."

W.W. "I wish I had been born a Greengrocer, then I could have provided for you."

175

Doctors say no work. How can I, at will, stop working? Sometimes I would like to, but it is as though I were seized by an Old Man of the Sea and must go on - or perish! Illness and age are just a clogging of the wheels."

M.W. "Clogs can be removed."

W.W. "Yes, for a time."

M.W. "Be brave, and Caesar's wife must be above reproach - And will."

The Winter finds the Watsons at Flushing.

This year there appeared in the 'Nation' and 'Atheneum'
a review of "Poems Brief And New."

So filled with Venom is it, that I hide it from W.W.
while he is ill, but I challenge its Author for its spitefulness,
and here you may see his reply.

Photo.

176

GORDON WORDSWORTH.

"Perhaps I will be better at Hawkshead," says W.W.

So, in the small village on Esthwaite, you will find the
Watsons next - under the shadow of the old white Church - in a
little house beside Wordsworth's lodgings. In the old deeds,
the name Joseph Varty is given as Writing Master in the Schools
Accounts, of the Wordsworth boys. It was known by the name of
'The Crown and Mitre' and the earliest date given is 1756.

Strange to say, the name Bainbridge Semmerwater comes
into the deeds, and every year a fee of ninepence must be paid
to the Duke of Buccleuch, Lord of the Manor, the tenant or
owner would be called upon for service to his Overlord!

Gordon Wordsworth, grandson of the Poet, comes for the
first time to see us. I had passed him up the Holbeck Lane in
former years; he is tall like his Grandfather, wears a beard,
and peers at you out of very small eyes through glasses. A
fine looking man though: he is rarely seen in the country
roads without his bicycle, and he comes along on it now.

After this first visit, he often brings some relic of his
Grandfather's, such as a letter, or a piece of interesting
manuscript to show W.W. When the Spring comes, he insists that
we shall go over to the 'Stepping Stones' for lunch and to see
his garden. He arranges a day, and we go by car.

Though it is nearly the end of May, just after we start
there is a great storm of sleet and snow, so there can be no

177

garden walks. Our lunch is served in a room with no fire. As I rise from the table to fetch my husband's overcoat, and place it round his shoulders, G.W. says, "Surely, you're not cold?" But we are cold, and let him see it too! We never go again.

Gordon Wordsworth has been very anxious to obtain possession of his Grandfather's false teeth and 'Dump them into the lake' - he says, "they are always cropping up, someone hears about them, and then I am told 'Why don't you buy them.' I have tried to buy them, times without number, but the wretched people hang on to them as a relic. I have offered them five pounds for them, but no!"

W.W. "It would be well worth your while to give them something like Twenty pounds. Teeth floating about belonging to a Great Poet, you know..."

G.W. "That would only make them wait a little longer, so that I might offer a little more."

M.W. "Thank, my Poet's won't 'Float'. He has every tooth but one!"

G.W. "Lucky man - I wish I could say the same. I may as well confess - The 'Teeth' have worried me for years - the descendants of his old manservant have them: The Arnolds did their best to obtain possession of them, and give them to me to destroy, and now Dear Old Miss Arnold says, 'In my Will I am leaving you that

178

"I HAVE WON THE YACHT RACE."

Although Gordon Wordsworth left £55,000 in his Will, he never obtained possession of his Grandfather's Teeth.

Wordsworth's Prelude interests us, in that it might be taken for a travesty of Truth.

The Living, who dwell here in Hawkshead - with the exception of just a very few, care not one whit for all its Sacred Past, except in as much as it brings them Filthy Lucre from 'Pilgrims to the Shrine'. And the same may be said with truth about the whole neighbourhood, Grasmere included. The Poets who dwelt there, and their reputes in the world beyond the mountains, have been, and are, a veritable goldmine to the inhabitants, which they assiduously work, though the shafts have to be sunk a bit deeper now.

Gordon Wordsworth writes to say, "I will call on Thursday."
He comes to tell us with great joy - "I have won the Yacht Race -
Fancy, I have beaten Hacking by ten lengths!!!"

G.W. "Oh yes, I thought of writing to protest to him. Many people did."

W.W. "Why didn't you?"

179

G.W. "Oh! Well - I didn't think it was exactly my place to interfere."

I turn my back upon him, that I may not look at his face.
William Watson wrote "Wordsworth's Grave" and helped to keep
his Grandfather's name alive. "Oh, Gordon Wordsworth!!"

He comes fairly often, and expresses himself as most
anxious to have William's little picture of 'Wordsworth's Grave'
for Dove Cottage. But I look at him calmly and say, "It will
never hang in Dove Cottage."

The picture shows two graves - that of Wordsworth, and his
daughter Dorothy's. In the background is the 'Old Rude Church' -
and a glimpse of Rotha near by. Just a hint of other graves -
but very few.

The inscription on the back runs thus: -
"This drawing of 'Wordsworth's Grave' was done by my Great Aunt,
Henrietta Crofts, sometime in the Fifties. It used to hang in
my Father's dressing room, Archbishop Benson. It is now given
to William Watson by the desire of my Mother.
Eton College. 1908.
Arthur Benson.

## THE COMING OF DOROTHY UNA.

It is Christmas time. The lamps are lit - not half early
enough to please two impatient children. In the centre of the
tea-table you may see a very handsome Cake - very large too.

180

It is James Bromley's 'Usual' for his God-daughter Rhona. The Rydal Mount cups look handsome in the glow of light. Mother is being laughed at, because in the manner of Ireland she has laid out the whole set of China, supposed to "Bring plenty" to the household during the year. "And only two guests besides ourselves" says a merry voice, "but it looks nice." The guests come, they are companionable too.

Nearly Cake time; a very loud knock on the door. When it is opened, a clear young voice from the outer darkness says: "Does Sir William Watson live here?"

M.W. "Yes, who is it, please?"

"I'm DOROTHY UNA RATCLIFFE" -

M.W. "Come inside. William, a girl would like to see you."

W.W. "Bring her in of course."

In she comes, and her escort too, who has not been visible till now. In the darkness, only the girl's form is distinct. With unerring instinct, passing our male guest, she thanks him for his offer of a chair with a smile, and blurts out - "But I didn't come all this way to sit beside anyone but William Watson" - and in a trice, she is holding the poet's hand in hers! We just sit there, speechless onlookers!

Now to tea, perhaps a word will drop our way as to who this stranger is, no one Ordinary, anyway: But till the Cake has descended in scale considerably, we at our end of the table are quite forgotten. Then we glean from the happy guest that

Mrs. McGrigor Phillips, Author.

181

she hails from Yorkshire. And many a fine story she can tell
too, of William Watson's Dales, which bring such a light into
his eyes, that I feel like barring the door and saying: "Stay"
for she is pretty and witty, and though we never saw her again
you will hear more of her, for I count her my friend in that
she let my Poet see that he and his work came into her life.

'WIDNES WAS A MEDICINE'.

On William's birthday, 2nd August, comes remembrance
from some part of England in one shape or another, books,
kitbags, a bundle of letters; left behind after a stay in
village, town, or beside the sea. Here is one letter from an
old maid of the Watson family, which came during the last years:—
Dear Sir,

Mrs. Yates

1 Farm Towerhouse Lane, Widnes.

W.W. remembered this servant because she said that 'The
air of Widnes was a medicine' to her. A funny thing, we have
heard the very same remark from quite a number of people since.

182

Another interesting letter (1931) came from Australia,
from two brothers. "Our Mother was Nurse to Sir William
Watson when he was a baby in Yorkshire."

It has been raining nearly a month.

W.W. "Another Winter coming along - the third I am kept
prisoner I suppose," looking very sad.

W.W. "Perhaps - but not very likely. Maureen, do you realise,
my work is nearly finished, very rarely does the impulse come
now."

M.W. Who knows when she is addressed by her name, to expect
more. "What is Sussex like? Would you like us to pack up
and go there? Doctor ------ says you would have a new lease
of life."

W.W. "Oh, splendidly healthy, glorious sunshine, have you
never been?"

M.W. "Oh yes, in my Youth, on the way to Paris, with a red
ribbon round my arm so that the Duponts would recognise me,
at the Gare San Lazare."

M.W. "That the inhabitants were mighty lazy - with not a potato
to be seen on their bald ground. No wonder William The Conqueror
landed there!"

183

It is decided upon there and then...

It can.

We take the journey to Childwall, a suburb of Liverpool.

W.W. "That is my Grave."

W.W. Sadly: "Yes, it might be yesterday, I said 'Goodbye'."

M.W. "Look, William, the Brocklebanks are actually next to it,
the very people who said 'We won't call on the Watsons, we
have nothing in common with them' - Yet their kinsfolk are in
the very next vault to yours."

W.W. "Strange, what pranks Fate plays! Well, now you've seen
it, you won't mind the idea of coming here one day, will you?"

M.W. "We'll think about it - the Irish Sea between you know!"

We leave in silence - W.W. standing at the gate, looking
at the picturesque Hotel opposite. "A favourite Nurse of the
Derby's ran the Hotel when I was young, and on the walls hung
many Nelson relics, given her by the family. All the Great
Actors and Actresses who 'played' in Liverpool stayed there
to be quiet. I have met Tree there, and have gone for walks

184

with him, round the neighbourhood. I have seen Ellen Terry too,
looking very tired, I can tell you."

We pause to take in the splendid view over the Wirral to
Mersey's Flashing Mouth!

W.W. "The land lies so high here, that after a hundred and fifty
years exhumed bodies are found to be in a state of perfect
preservation, and yonder they have vanished in ten, on account
of damp."

He is leaning on the gate, seemingly lost in thought,
then I catch a whisper - 'Perfect Freedom is for All who Serve.'

Bold Street, Liverpool - now.

X

W.W. "Yes, it's the one the Unitarians have in their Hymn Book
in America, and have been singing for the last twenty years.

Why?

W.W. "I have tried you know, often, but have never been
satisfied with it, and the Americans sing it to one of the very
old tunes. They say they cannot improve on it:

185

"Great and Fair is she our Land,
High of heart and strong of hand -
In her Roadsteads Navies Ride,
Hath she need of Aught beside?'

M.W. "William, it is just what is wanted now. The English, your People, want a recall to the things 'That are more excellent'. Shall I write to Elgar, he would do it with dignity befitting the words. Shall I?"

W.W. "Yes, if you like. But these are a strange people, who find out no Poem which suits their very own Country - until a Poet has been in his grave a hundred years."

Elgar is written to later, not by M.W. about it, and his reply is "I cannot do it. England is no longer a Great Country."

Stopping at Kendal for a few hours, I hear so much of its history, that the place is turned into a Story. Never can I pass it lightly again.

## AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUE BELL.

Along Stricklandgate we walk and talk, William seems so well. Can the Doctors all be wrong? Is it possible, this companion of mine, who carries a whole Town's history in memory, may be snatched from me any moment?

Now we are in the Stramongate.

W.W. "Here's something you'll like, I think. When I was twenty two, my people on their annual trip to Grasmere, generally stayed there a night, pointing to a large old house. It called

186

itself an Hotel - but it was just a glorified Inn. I remember
once there was a huge meat pie put on the table for supper, in
front of my Father. He seemed to be struggling with it and
then gave it up, rang the bell loudly, and told the waitress to
bring a hatchet, as nothing else would cut into it: And indeed,
the whole crust - or roof - of that pie had to be lifted off
before anyone could be served."

Then he relates how he saw a group of Mill girls coming
down Stricklandgate, arm in arm - on the other side were a
group of young men, evidently Mill hands too. The men started
singing, "Oh! where and oh! where, does your Highland laddie
dwell?" Quick as a flash in the uptake, the girls are
singing the answer:

"He dwells in Bonnie Scotland, at the Sign of the Blue Bell."
So delightfully unexpected was it, that even the road traffic
was suspended, pedestrians joining in - W.W. included!

Hearing Evelyn Scotney sing "Whistle, and I'll come tae ye
me lad" - "That's the one and only way" - W.W. 1935.

"EVER HALF SCALING THE HARD HILL OF FAME"
AND EVER BY SOME IMPISH FATE FLUNG BACK."

William Watson.

How true it is.

W.W. "Not now. It is far too late in the day to be of any

187

benefit, except, perhaps, that the emolument would be useful,
and in the event of my death the powers that be would have to
take into consideration your position as my Widow."

M.W. "I would like to think that our girls could say in the
future - 'My Father was the Laureate of England'."

W.W. "They will never say it. No Prime Minister, since
Lloyd George, has ever cared one farthing what I have done."

M.W. "And he a Welshman!"

M.W. "The Irish too."

The Laureateship continues to be 'guesswork'. Then comes
a letter from Hall Caine, saying - among other things - "I
have just written to Ramsay Macdonald to say, 'If you give the
Laureateship to anyone, give it to William Watson, who has been
passed over twice since Tennyson."

W.W. "He may be a friend of the Prime Minister. But I wish he
would leave my affairs alone. If Macdonald refused to increase
my Civil List Pension, then he will certainly not give the
Laureateship to me. And remember, there are men all over the
Country doing very fine work - who are members of no coteries -
and who pull no strings - yet are well fitted for the Bays."

188

THE CROWN OF THORNS.

M.W. "Your Dantesque head would just suit them."

W.W. "In your eyes."

It is from a copy of a letter to the Prime Minister.

I think it was Gladstone who gave Watson the Civil List Pension, and my recollection is that he told me he did so because he could not give him the Laureateship. You will understand what he meant, when I remind you of the unhappy Incident in Windsor shortly after the death of Tennyson, when Watson was partly beside himself, and had to be removed to a "Mental Institution". Ah! -"

W.W., with a very stricken face, turns to me after reading it

189

and says, "From henceforth, read my letters, answer any, say
what you like, or throw them into the fire - I want to read
no more, nor even sign any either."

Time is my enemy now - his features must be preserved
if possible, before the Eternal Shades snatch them. I write
to Augustus John, Orpen and others, and enclose a copy of the
photograph you see on page 3, but receive no reply!

In late Autumn we arrive in sunny Sussex. One thing
upsets three of the family, anyway. We have left our beautiful
trees behind, and it takes us some time to get used to our loss.
Much dearer is rent, I tell William, than in the Lake district.
W.W. "As long as we are all better in health for the move, any
shanty will do."

And it does do until Dorothy Una Katcliffe senses our low
estate and persuades her Uncle to buy a little house overlooking
the Channel.

Here, for a time, W.W's health improves, and in spite of
Doctors, he is working; back to his own legitimate calling,
back to the work this England sets no value upon now. The
Proud Day is gone when she did.

Ill health again holds sway, and it is to the various
editors who have held the Fort through the years, that M.W.

A WOMAN OF THE STREET.

190

turns when all seems lost - when her Man with the splendid
brain, can no longer earn money by journalism or a penny from
his Life's work. Yes, to the men who feed the mass mind and
hold the pulse of this changing, surging world. In a pigeon
hole, close by the editorial chair, you may see one marked W.W.
In America I was shown it too. It is the 'Life' of that W.W. -
written up to date - by that same editor's forerunners, there-
fore that name cannot be Ignored. It will not be Ignored -
It is a Trust.

I am glad when the appeal goes forth for your Poet and
Mine that it is not the Financier, or the Rich Men who help
to keep him alive, but it is the real Lovers of Literature who
send their aid in our day of need. Yes, and dearest of all
was a shilling from 'A Woman Of The Street' who remembered just
one line of his Poetry.

'One came and opened Michael's Gate,
And Magdalen went in.'

Bath has publicly welcomed William Watson, and his family are
very sensible of the nice feeling of its inhabitants towards
them, and even above these considerations, is the fact that in
its more genial climate the Poet is once more gaining back
the health he has lost for so long, but is still confined to

191

his room. In little more than a month, Spring will be in, and
then happy days in store, and perhaps we may make our home in
this delectable City - who knows! And R.N. Green Armytage -
Ecclesiastical Lawyer, leader of the town's literary clique,
has lectured on W.W's work and professed great friendship.

It is about 10 o'clock in the morning, such a sunny bird-
singing morning. W.W. is actually up and whistling in his room.
W.W. "Shall we engineer a shave?" contemplating himself in the
glass.

M.W. "We certainly need it."

W.W. "We do and shall - For all we be and are - just you
produce and needful and you wont know me."

W.W. "Don't answer it, stay with me, I can do with your company."

I stay, but the ringing persists, and then loud knocking starts
and continues; so I go down at last and open the door. Two
young men stand before me, who very politely request a few words
with me. "Yes," I say, "Come inside please, in here - indicating
the sitting room: "Yes" I commence, as they seem to hesitate
somewhat to get to business.

X

First Spokesman: "Well, there is a suggestion in certain quarters
that Sir William Watson is not staying here with you and that he

192

has not been in this house, or in fact in Bath at all; and we
have been asked by our Editors to come and make enquiries, and
to ascertain the facts, etc. etc.

They are both tall men who look down upon me, their
inquisitorial eyes seem to bore through my very soul. I, of
the ready speech, am bereft of it now for a space, but with a
supreme effort I recover, and say "How vile! Sir William _not_
here, then where is he?"

At that No. 2 pulls out some newspapers from a Case, and hands
them to me to read the very large headlines: "There is a Mystery
as to the Whereabouts of Sir William Watson. Is he staying at
Prior Park OR? ----- etc., etc."

I hand them back, and then leave the "TWO" who could come and
face me with so wicked a thing in their hands - Me - the MAN'S
Wife - and as I mount the stairs repeat to myself "Despicable
Hounds".

M.W. "William, I just want you to trust me absolutely, will
you?"

W.W. "Of course. But what is the matter? You look quite ill?"

M.W. "No, I'm not ill, but I wonder if you could come down for
just five minutes and see two young men who have called about a
very Important Matter. I will help you down, but do come and
show yourself, do."

W.W. "It is a most extraordinary request to a still sick man,
but if you really want me to come down, then I will come. You

193

go down and I will follow you more slowly." I go down, and
await his coming in the hall.

When we enter the room, I turn to the two men and say -
"Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes" they say, and retire with many expressions of
politeness.

Then William turns to me for an explanation, but I am
swept with a tempest of tears, and for a time am unable to
speak. Then I tell him all. He totters into a chair, and
remains quite still. Then turning to me whose tears are
still falling, says - "A vile enemy has done this iniquitous
thing upon us and our children, we must quit this place at
once and forever."

M.W. "I am willing, but I am heartbroken that you should be
stabbed again."

W.W. "Not for long now - a very short time - shorter because
of this last cruellest stab of all."

We leave the City where we have been publicly welcomed.

In 1935 a Bath reporter calling at Arlington Cottage, for details
of W.W.'s death, confessed that at Rottingdean, Sussex, at R.N.
Green Armytage's instigation the whole incident which occurred
in the Bath Papers was due solely to him: he, at the same time,
professing great friendship and giving readings of W.W.'s work at
the Pump Room Bath. He is now one of the City of Bath's
Magistrates.

1

NOTES.

The County of Yorkshire -

"That region which cradley the earliest known of English
poets, Caedmon, and which long afterwards gave birth to Miles
Coverdale, the first English translator in whose hands the
Bible began to have the beauty of cadence and nobility of
style on which some of us have been reared and bred, may seem
to have taken less than its natural share in the subsequent
development of this country's literature; but certain parts
of the great shire have been the nursery of a most unusual
number of minds destined to eminence in various collateral
paths; the county, as represented collectively by her children,
has been eminently versatile." - William Watson.

2

NOTES.

Example of the wind up of a sermon in 1878 by Canon Alcock
(related by W.W.) "For Five and forty years have I wrestled
and laboured among you wicked Sinners."

For many years his (W.W's father) office and one of his ware-
houses were in Brunswick Street, opposite the Corn Exchange,
but at a later date he removed to premises at the corner of
James's Street and Goree - the site of which is now occupied
by the Palatial Offices of one of the Great Steamship Companies.

Messrs Robinson & Watson, of Liverpool, Jute Merchants, traded
with Dundee and Calcutta.

Dr. George Robinson of Richmond, was Uncle to Dorothy Robinson, W.W's Mother. Dr. G. Robinson left £60,000 to his only Son who afterwards lived at Reith - ten miles from Richmond.

4

NOTES.

Schooldays.

W.W. carried 'Milton' about in his pocket on walks, familiarising himself with the language of the Master. Another school was at Birkdale.

W.W.'s father delighted in his garden and often called to his son to give him a hand in the evening; a form of labour which went much against the grain. But it is singular to relate, that by a pre-arranged plan between his nose and himself - a bleeding would come on after a very short interval!

Once on reaching Windermere and walking out of the station, the Watson family heard a boy shouting out, "The Life of H.M.Stanley, The African Explorer." (ld. pamphlet).

Business letter in rhyme by James Watson,
Brother of W.W.

Liverpool July the Third
Eighteen hundred and seventy eight
Messrs Simpson, Brown and Bird
Yours of yesterday came too late
For reply in course of post.

We beg to notify herewith
That if the balance of our account
That it be paid not to the full amount
To us or to our Agent Smith
On this day fortnight at the most
We shall cut the matter short
And put you in the County Court
We remain Yours very truly
Sharp and Fox per Thomas Hooley.

To James Ashcroft Noble W.W. gave the MS of 'The Prince's Quest', who left it in his Will to his daughter.

5

NOTES.

Letter written to the "Liverpool Mercury" in 1883, under the title 'Magistrates and their Victims' signed Agitator.

James Bromley received close upon 350 letters from W.W. and four MS poems, two unpublished. These letters were 'Willed' to W.W. after his death.

Professor Corson while staying with the Watsons in Liverpool told them his son was supposed to be dying of consumption, but they were advised as a last resource to try the effect of the leaves of the Erithraxilon Cocoa Tree and that he was recovering, and later they heard he was completely cured.

It was to Edmund Clarence Stedman that W.W. when twenty two, sent his poem 'Shadow and Substance'. It appeared in Scribner's - later the Century Magazine.

Letter from Messrs Macmillan & Co. dated 1883 - to William Watson.

Dear Sir,

We beg to acknowledge receipt of your letter together with the MS of 'Epigrams of Art Life and Nature.'

MS returned herewith.

(Signed) F. Macmillan.

Bromley had six complete sets of the 'Argus' in his Library.

Henry Harland, Author of 'The Cardinal's Snuff-box', wrote 'David Blake' a satire on Hall Caine.

6

NOTES.

'The Prince's Quest' attracted the attention and admiration of D. G. Rossetti, who wrote of it, "He goes right back to Keats with a little modification."

Robert Fowler, artist, signed his pictures under his monogram R.F. He did a Black and White portrait of William Watson at Magull, and another at Aigburth - they were both considered good.

These were evidently included in the sale by Branch and Leete of Liverpool, of the contents of the Watson home, at Aigburth in 1889 after his Father's death.

The family Vault is at Childwall, a Norse name, just outside Liverpool.

Photos of John and Dorothy Watson by William Clark, Photographer, Southport.

On James Shield's advice, Lawyer, in 1907, W.W. offered a certain sum of money to Robinson, and to pay the fares of the whole family to a foreign land. After much trouble Robinson agreed - and peace reigned.

7

NOTES.

When the 'Coronation Ode' appeared, thousands of letters poured in from the Colonies and from America. America says, 'Watson's Ode shows a Magnanimity as Great as his Craftsmanship, which is Superb.'

'The Wye and The Severn'. Borrow mentions this fact, but does not give their ultimate history.

On the occasion of a very early visit to Grasmere W.W. was standing on the bridge over the Brathy by Loughrigg, idly watching the river. A very old clergyman approached, and joined him in conversation. "You will be surprised," said he, "when I tell you that I lived with my family at Rydal Mount, before Wordsworth." It seemed incredible, but nevertheless it was quite true. "My name is North. I am Vicar of St. Catheres, Abercromby Square, Liverpool."

Dorothy Wordsworth mentions the Norths in a letter:-
"They are asking too much for the blinds they left on the windows, and William refuses to pay."

8

NOTES.

Henry Norman, later Sir Henry Norman, son of a Boot Manufacturer,
then co-Editor with H.W.Massingham of the Daily Chronicle to
which William Watson is a valued contributor.

A Rare Copy. Lacrimae Musarum. October 18, 1892 by William
Watson, Author of 'Wordsworth's Grave'.

No Printer's name appears on it.

With an etching of the Nine Muses - by Fouston, and contains a
print of a bust of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, after the late T.
Wodner, R.I.

While actually engaged upon 'Lacrimae Musarum' following his
usual rule when working, he made for the open country, to
leave his mind untrammelled by noise. In all probability he
would be so absorbed that he would be quite unconscious of his
surroundings - for he writes to his North friend, saying, 'On
turning into a deserted bridle path I lay down on the bank
'conning' aloud my work - when suddenly, with a tremendous
roar, an express train thundered past. The shock for a few
moments was so deadening, so terrific, that my mind was a
complete blank. However, after a little, I recovered my memory,
and all was well."

9

NOTES.

Gosse was hated even in those days, and some critics would start
a review of a book of his with a list of inaccuracies. He was
furious when his friend, Professor Dowden, of Dublin, sent him
a list of sixty, which he had found in his latest book. This
fatal fault stuck to him through life. He was Heinemann's Reader,
and could make or mar a book.

Dowden's list was from 'Critical Essays on 17th Century Poets'.

Lane always declared himself out of pocket by this arrangement,
and often in letters reminded W.W. of the many 'Benefactions' he
was receiving from him. It was supposed to be 'private' but
their mutual friends were all informed how matters stood. It
was most galling to W.W.

Years afterwards W.W. found out that the "money advanced" was
really out of Coutts' pocket, and not out of Lane's at all.

Henry Norman's first wife, formerly Ménie Muriel Dowie, author
of "A Girl in the Carpathians."

Edmund Gosse had married Miss Epps, very rich, another sister
married Alma Tadema. The sisters were nicknamed Grateful and
Comforting.

10

NOTES.

A Professor at Padua translated ten of 'The Purple East Sonnets'. And to this day Armenians remember that an English Poet dared to risk his country's displeasure to bring aid for their Oppressed People.

M.W. to W.W. 1933.

"What did you feel most from Outsiders, other than the Windsor episode, during your whole life?"

"I felt most deeply Mrs. St. Loe Strachey saying, 'No, you may not kiss her' after bringing her little girl into the drawing-room at their home, to see me, - and I never entered that house again !!

Shorter sent me Ten Guineas for Lacrimae Musarum, but later, when pressure was brought to bear upon him, he managed to get Twenty five pounds out of the Proprietors!

Mrs. Watson had paid a visit to Matthew Arnold's grave yesterday, and told William she had seen a tall lady, heavily veiled, crying there. A grave digger told her "That Mrs. Arnold, poor thing, often comes here."

11

## NOTES.

Miss Bumpus 'Frances Allitson' put many Watson lyrics to music, though no other gained such success as 'The Lute Player'. Urged by Miss B., J.L. often tried to 'arrange' a meeting between the 'two', but they never met.

Joseph Pennel designed the Title Page in the First Edition of 'Wordsworth's Grave'. Fisher Unwin Cameo Series.

Dr. Ridding, Bishop of Southwell, translated a great portion of 'Wordsworth's Grave' into Latin and Greek for an Oxford Anthology.

The Poem, 'Domine Quo Vadis', was commenced while staying with the Grant Allens, and was completed while staying at Lathom, Lancashire. It appeared in 'The Spectator' in May 1894, some two years or more before the novel under the same title was published. The legend was drawn to his notice by G.A.

Mrs. Lane, described by W.W. as "A bland handsome woman - assured in all her movements, and very capable."

The Welsh Fraternity in London might place 37, Southwick Street, W. in their Book of Remembrance.

NOTES

12

Mrs. Eichberg, mother of Mrs. J. Lane, was a really beautiful old woman - very rich. Her husband had been a noted musician in Dusseldorf, from where the family emigrated to America, making Boston their centre. He amassed a fortune before he died. She was very outspoken in her contempt for Lane's ignorance, and hated him, as he hated her - right royally! Many very great artists in London painted Mrs. Eichberg's portrait. W.W. was a favourite of hers. He would call for her sometimes, and take her for a walk or a drive.

Francis Money Coutts. Nephew of the Baroness Burdett Coutts, afterwards Lord Latymer.

The letter entitled 'A more than Royal Intellect'.

It was known that Meredith Townsend, himself, had written it, considering W.W. had received wicked handling at Windsor.

When W.W.'s voice was tested at the B.B.C. for a broadcast in 1929 it was pronounced "quite unsuitable". The Why and Wherefore not being explained, for he possessed a splendidly powerful voice to the last.

NOTES.

13

'English Lyries'. Compiled by A. Austin, later Poet Laureate.
W.W. wrote the preface to it, commissioned by Macmillans, giving
A.A. far too much praise. "At first I wrote a justly critical
note, but three times Macmillans wrote asking me to alter it,
and drop out any criticism. As they were my Pay Masters, and
I wanted the money badly, I could only acquiesce in these, behind
the scenes, tricks."

"To:-

I have purposely left this out of the main part of the
book because I feel deeply that Hardy for many years made rude
incursions into a province to which others were Native - though
he had a Right to enter if he so pleased. Yet he was The
Novelist And Not The Poet - I except to a 'degree' "The
Dynasts".

It is most singular to relate that not another City, except
Aberdeen, paid him Any Honour during his long life.

14

NOTES.

There are many letters from James Bryce - one of the gallant band - and from Miss Emily Hobhouse from South Africa, written during her great struggle for the Women and Children, breathing a comradeship with the Poet in the cause of Right against Might.

M.S. 'To the Invincible Republic' given in 1909 to our Ambassador at Washington. James Bryce.

As W.W. was walking up the main street in Knaresborough, he heard a voice saying - "God Almighty! W.W." On looking round, found it to be Joseph Pennel who designed the Title Page in the First Edition of 'Wordsworth's Grave' - Cameo Series. Fisher Unwin.

From that very Great Artist, G.F.Watts, comes a letter from 'Limmerslease'. "It will give me very great pleasure to try how far I can make a resemblance worthy of the Poet, but I am obliged to confess myself as uncertain. If you are generous enough to submit to the infliction - I will in return do my best. Can you come here at the end of February? The days will be longer for the Sittings, and you can have some long walks in the lovely country around here" - Compton. Guildford.

15

## NOTES.

Although there are many letters from G. F. Watts, about the proposed portrait, nothing eventuated - for the Poet disliked 'Sitting'.

An Exhibition of Phil May's work always 'fetched' Londonders.

A little before, Oscar Wilde had announced his intention to quit England and become a naturalised Frenchman

> 'And you're made French as easily
> As you might change the clothes you're wearing,
> Fancy, and 'tis so hard to be
> A man of sense and modest bearing.

W.W.

2. Vol.
Collected Edition. Edited by J.A.Spender.

After receiving a legacy of £15,000, Coventry Patmore left the British Museum - for health reasons !!!

The Number of letters from people Important in England in these days has been kept. They are not included, because, though important in their day, their names have faded in England during the years.

17

Extracts from a Lecture prepared for Harvard University and
John Hopkins University, U.S.A. undelivered.

How to appreciate (Poetry
(The Poets
(Our Poets.

1. Do not "study" them. Throw yourself into enjoyment of them.

2. Use your own judgment. But be sure it is your own judgment.
   Native independent opinion - not an unconscious reflection
   of the opinions current at a particular epoch, or among a
   certain school.

4. The fallacy that "we must study him" some given writer "in relation to his age". Quite the wrong way to "study" him. Study him - if we are to "study" at all - in himself. At a flower show we don't say, "this rose is a poor specimen of rose, but you must consider the lean soil, and harsh climate it was grown in." That was the rose's misfortune, for which it has had to pay the penalty. But we are to judge the Rose in itself, making no allowance for its unhappy circumstances.

   Of course, the study of a writer's environment may be very interesting historically, but the appreciation of that writer's qualities is largely independent of such external facts. If he was a very great writer indeed he would burst through all mischance of environment.

5. I advise young readers generally to eschew extreme developments in literature. I call e.g. Rossetti an extreme development. A writer who seems blase with respect to the sound classical qualities in style and diction, and always on the hunt for out-of-the way and outre distinction of manner and phrases. Such a writer's influence is corrupting to the taste, just as the excessive recourse to condiments and strong flavours is corrupting to the physical appetite. It is like being fed on curry and red pepper.

18

6. When reading a long poem do not plough steadily and doggedly through it, giving attention equally to all its parts, but when you come to a fine passage or noble line, let yourself dwell upon it, let it soak into your mind. There are long and laboured productions by great Poets in which the general scheme, conception, and structure are really of very little concern to us, and a fine passage here and there the only important things; while, on the other hand, there are short masterpieces - which if we neglected to admire the structure and coherent design we should miss some of the writer's special and costly excellence."

These poems are interesting - betokening his frame of mind after the Doctors have banned 'all literary work'. They were accounted 'too trivial' to be included in the last volume - though left by W.W. amongst his MS.

### THY HEART IS MINE.

Cleopatra, long ago, from cups of gold,
Drank the molten pearls of Asia in her wine,
But my wealth is more than hers a hundredfold,
For thy heart, for thy heart is mine.

Lofty Kings to whom the world did bow the knee,
Lovely Queens that from afar in story shine,
They were all exceeding poor compared to me,
For thy heart, for thy heart is mine.

### THE MARBLE FOUNTAIN.

In calm and tempest, in shine and shade,
On a faultless emerald lawn,
A marble fountain for ever played,
From dawn unto conquering dawn.

No rainbow'd bliss had the fountain lacked,
And its gaiety nought could mar,
Till it heard the Voice of the Cataract
In an Alpine gorge afar.

"With thunder of battle, in glory and gloom,
I have torn," said the torrent, "my way."
And the fountain murmured: "My cruel doom
Is to play - and play - and play."

19

THE ENAMOURED LUTE.

A sweet lute pined in a Palace
And heard the slow years roll,
And dreamed of the mighty musician,
Who alone drew forth its soul.

It abode mid splendour and glory
Mid stately and gracious things,
But afar were the magic fingers,
Beloved of the magic strings.

And the great sun looked on its pining,
And the calm moon gazed on its pain,
And they left it to dream of its hero
And be wooed by the world in vain.

Omitted because the Publishers Lady Reader - a contributor
to Punch - considered them not up to standard!!

20

EXTRACT from Review by William Watson in 'The Spectator'
1892 - of Thomas Hardy's "Tess of The D'Urbervilles."

....

But one of the problems of the book, for the reader, is involved
in the question How far Mr. Hardy's own moral sympathies go
with Clare in the supreme crisis of his and Tess's fate? Her
seducer, the spurious D'Urberville, is entirely detestable, but
it often happens that one's fiercest indignation demands a nobler
object than such a sorry animal as that; and there are probably
many readers who, after Tess's marriage with Clare, her spontaneous
disclosure to him of her soiled, though guiltless past, and his
consequent alienation and cruelty will be conscious of a worse
anger against this intellectual, virtuous and unfortunate man
than they could spare for the heartless and worthless libertine
who had wrecked these two lives. It is at this very point, how-
ever, that the masterliness of the conception and its imaginative
validity are most conclusively manifest, for it is here that we
perceive Clare's nature to be consistently inconsistent through-
out. As his delineator himself says of him: With all his
attempted independence of judgment, this advanced man was yet the
slave to custom and conventionality, when surprised back into
his early teachings. He had carefully schooled himself into a
democratic aversion from everything connected with the pride of
aristocratic lineage, but when he is suddenly made aware that

21

Tess is the daughter of five centuries of knightly D'Urbervilles,
he unfeignedly exults in her splendid ancestry. He had become
a rationalist in morals no less than an agnostic in religion.
Yet no sooner does this emancipated man learn from his Wife's
own most loving lips the story of her sinless fall, than his
affection appears to wither at the roots. "But for the World's
opinion," says Mr. Hardy, somewhat boldly, "her experiences
would have been simply a liberal education". Yet it is these
experiences which place her for a time outside the human sympathy
of her husband, with all his fancied superiority to convention-
alisms and independence of tradition. The reader pities Clare
profoundly, yet cannot but feel a certain contempt for the
shallowness of his casuistry, and a keen resentment of his harsh
judgment upon the helpless woman - all the more so since it is
her own week and uncomplaining submission that aids him in his
cruel punishment of her. "Her mood of long suffering made his
way easy for him and she herself was his best advocate."

22

NOTES.

23

Orchard - telling a tale of early English occupation.

Alas, tall weeds grow over their graves 1935.

In later years, on hearing this 'story' W.W. insists on buying
a dress of 'Mary's blue' for 'His Mary'.

Geography. To know the lay of the land is 'convenient' should
one ever be 'on the run'.

At Tallinstown Co. Louth - 1599 - the Great Earl of Essex saw
the 'Washer at the Ford' when the bundle of clothes, as she
raised them from the water made 'a figure of his head' -
An omen of the fate that awaited him on his return to England.

Lane, as best man at our wedding, kept our Marriage Certificate
ten months - said "It is lost." However after much pressure
he delivered it up, covered in stains, which looked very like
blood.

NOTES.

24

Sir Henry Wallop, Elizabeth's Treasurer at War, and Sir Richard Gardiner, Chief Justice, went to Dundalk to confer with O'Neill. They summoned him to attend by his English title of Earl of Tyrowen, when he made his famous answer - "For be it known to thee O Wallop, that the Prince of Ulster on his own soil does homage to no foreign Monarch, and as for your Earls of Tyrowen - Earl me no Earls, I am the O'Neill."

M.W.'s Parrot is now in the possession of Mr. F. and Mr. G.
Fielding, Enys Road, Eastbourne.

As a Vice-President of the Anti-Vivisection Society, W.W. refused to sign a resolution - "That Dating from the day of S.Coleridge's death his Widow shall be paid £350 per annum, from the Society's funds." 1935.

Owen Pritchard taught the Poet's two little girls 'His Playmates'
as he called them, many of W.W's poems.

Phillips was a descendant of poor Charles Lloyd, the friend of Wordsworth, and devoted admirer of Coleridge who escaped from the Asylum in Yorkshire.

25

NOTES.

In Colonel House's Memoirs, he states that during President Wilson's visit to Grasmere - 'He was found sitting on a bank reading William Watson's 'Wordsworth's Grave'.

In the library of the Rawnsley's house on Loughrigg, Ambleside, is the Manuscript of 'Crossing The Bar'.

The Rawnsley's who are related to the Tennyson's, told us that "After the ten years engagement, pressure had to be brought to bear on Alfred to fulfil it!"

The Robinson Watson Letters - to James Bromley, Lathom, Lancs.

And the Robinson Watson Letters - to his Brother, William Watson, are all extant and in safe keeping.

Our friend, Herkomer, the Artist, wants to paint the Poet's Wife, he says. The Poet's Wife does not want to be painted, she, however, begs him to paint her husband. After a good deal of arguing he gives in. "Very well, I will paint you both - I am not going to give up what I am interested in, and I shall like doing it." This fell through.

26

NOTES.

Robinson Watson died in 1920.

The Novelist, Arnold Bennett, would not sign the Testimonial to W.W. unless 'Great' was deleted before 'Poet'. A Greater deleted him.

Hall Caine never knew about the 'lines' on him!

Mr. Ramsay Macdonald had also been approached to increase the Civil List Pension.

Special Note.

x. R. N. Green Armytage,
Barrister, 5, Queens Parade, Bath.
'Trusted friend'. Informer.

Footnote:

These letters were found among Miss Cox his fiancée's treasures, after her death; - they were sent to Lady Watson in 1936 by her sister.

In their pomp and grandeur, must their passage through Windsor be interrupted by a commoner ?

Her Majesty had the last word.

At Queen Victoria's Jubilee Marie Conelli represented Literature.

In 1935 at Rottingdean I learned just who was the hated Instigator and Informer (from a Bath Reporter sent by his Editor to report on his death of William Watson.)

A man who had professed friendship towards the poet's family, and lectured on his various volumes; - now a respected Magistrate of Bath, and, an avowed enemy of Snoopers, in this year of 1947.

Footnote:

In 1893 The Duke of Edinburgh succeeded to the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg - Gotha. Tho' a German Prince he still retained the £25,000 allotted to him from the British Civil List. (Yearly)

Footnote:

These letters were found among Miss Cox his fiancée's treasures, after her death: - they were sent to Lady Watson in 1936 by her sister.

...1...

In 1935 at Pottingdean I learned just who was the hated Instigator and Informer ( from a Bath Reporter sent by his Editor to report death).

A man who had professed friendship towards the poet's family, and lectured on his various volumes; - now a respected Majistrate of Bath, and, an avowed enemy of Snoopers, in this year of 1947.

intend to marry, and any little remaining money ought to go
into an Annuity. But perhaps you will advise me when you
come". W.W.

NO MINCING PHRASES.

"A Poet's wife may be forgiven a rather more emotional
standpoint; there is one such wife who is determined, that
when the time comes, A FEW THINGS WILL HAVE THEIR PROPER
PLACE IN LITERARY HISTORY - and in a Chapter in which she
will take care that no MINCING PHRASES were used. "W.W. (1934)

95

NO MINCING PHRASES.

"A Poet's wife may be forgiven a rather more emotional
standpoint; there is one such wife who is determined, that
when the time comes, A FEW THINGS WILL HAVE THEIR PROPER
PLACE IN LITERARY HISTORY - and in a Chapter in which she
will take care that no MINCING PHRASES are used." W.W. (1934)

At Queen Victoria's Jubilee Marie Cozelli represented Literature.

Footnote:

The Gotha, a German Prince he still retained the £25,000 allotted to him from the British Civil List. (Yearly)