27

for hospitality was pressed upon him, and many were the powerful friends around him.

As 'a Revivalist', who in the country could assail him or vie with him? - this impassioned young man, with the brilliant eyes. He alone, sent out from headquarters, has been able to get the home-rooted farmers of Dorset, Devon and Cornwall to his meetings. His portrait is everywhere, he is hailed as the Greatest Preacher in England, the claim is set up that the number of Souls saved by his Ministry is Legion.

The placards announced, 'Robinson Watson Invites You To Accept Christ Today - Come'. And they came in their thousands.

For some years his home sees little of him, and indeed, strange though it is to relate, he does not try to influence his own family. They are sympathetically watchful, with a background of distrust, James openly mocking, yet holding in, whenever Robinson would come home, not wishing to take any part in it. No one in that household ever allowed himself or herself - to be swayed by another, in religious matters.

After some years of this mode of life, Robinson returns home, and quietly fits into the niche which he has left in his Uncle's business, confiding in no one his sudden shedding of the Role of Evangelist. Nor were the other members of the family ever able to find out what any certainty what had actually happened. The Wesleyan Heads kept silence; others hinted he

28

hinted he had been dismissed through some love-affair of which
he had many. Robinson was always secretive, since reaching
manhood. He is inclined to be morose too, and at times can be
a good sulker.

Later on he marries, and sets up his own home near by.

W.W. is certain that Thomas Hardy at one time knew Robinson,
and had taken him as his character for 'Angel Clare' in "Tess of
the Durbervilles". "It is a pen portrait - the character is
from life" - but W.W. is reticent, and never discussed this
with Hardy, with whom later on he is on friendly terms.

"Robinson was always an enigma, and I wished the Shades of
oblivion to hang over him", he would say.

In 1934, discussing R.W. and 'Angel Clare' W.W. said, "Indeed,
Hardy may have taken both his characters in 'Tess' from Robinson -
both in a way fit his complex character!"

There could be found no picture of R.W. among W.W.'s possess-
ion, but an advertisement in the 'Western Morning News' brought
offers of many. This is very remarkable, after an interval of
sixty years, all the offers were couched in such terms as "He
was a Great Evangelist and brought many to Christ". In about
the year 1876 to 1881, his name was a household word.
Strangely enough, the injured knuckles show in the photograph.

Local associations should certainly include Robert
Cunningham Hall of Aigburth - that noble hearted, enthusiastic

29

THE POET ROBERT BURNS.

friend of both American and English men of Letters. His son,
Cunningham Hall, told W.W. that Emerson had stayed with his
Father when he lived in Sefton Park. Hawthorne was Consul then
in Liverpool and they were all friendly with Carlyle. He
possessed an armchair in which all the men of Letters had sat.

Best of all was the description given by the Father of his
being actually in the presence of Burns. He said, "My Father,
when a youth of about eighteen, was in the company of Burns at
the house of Burns' friend, Robert Ainslie. He sat in an embayed
window while Burns and Ainslie sat at a table in another part of
the room drinking wine, and cracking jokes, paying little or no
attention to him. Unfortunately, he has not handed down any
specimen of their talk. On the following day he climbed a
rather high hill in the neighbourhood and to his surprise came
upon Burns lying in a rather undignified posture, namely on his
stomach, and talking loudly to himself; Burns seemed annoyed
at being discovered in this position, and jumped up rather
angrily on the innocent intrusion". And here ends the reminis-
ence.

Cunningham Hall's father was at school with Scott, at High
School, Edinburgh, and once - so his son told me - saved Scott's
brother from drowning in the river at Kelso. This brother of
Scott's afterwards migrated to America where he died.

The Watson family never denied themselves relaxation, Mr.

30

and Mrs. Watson would very often go up to the Metropolis, put up
at some old-fashioned hotel and "do the Theatres and Concert Halls
etc." visit and receive friends, sometimes accompanied by William.

The Watson family saw Irving in the Merchant of Venice, from
the pit of the Lyceum - Irving's acting was splendid. The
father with Yorkshire directness expressed himself thus - "But
it isn't my idea of Shylock, Shakespeare didn't intend him to
look like a rag and bone man - He was a rich man, living in
luxury, and should be portrayed so".

It was in one of these old hotels in Kensington that he
remembered seeing the Irish Leaders, but it was Michael Davitt
impressed him most. Davitt, a most striking looking man with
eagle eyes, and only one arm - full of life - never sitting
still for a moment.

On a few of these occasions, W.W. would be found missing -
on purpose of course. He was browsing in the British Museum,
or some such place, among the books, or discussing current
literature with friends, or some bookseller or other, "time
forgotten".

## THE LUTE PLAYER.

x

'The Lute Player', which has now become a Classic, was
written when W.W. was twenty four. At that time, among musical
friends, none were so mutually drawn to each other than the Poet
and a German Teacher, and Conductor of Music in Liverpool, named

x Might go in Appendix.

31

Hermann Schumacher, and his daughter Dora - the latter a consummate mistress of her Art - playing often before the Royal Family - 'by request'. This young lady composed a beautiful little air one day, and played it for W.W. He was so enchanted with its illusive finesse and tenderness, that on waking one night he found himself repeating "In time of snowdrops they were wed". This happy line ultimately eventuating in a Poem, written up to her music. Indeed it can only be described as a Love-story in Cameo. Nevertheless, the song when published had no success.

Years later, when Miss Bumpus - Frances Allittson - mated the Poet's words with her music, its success was instantaneous. It would be interesting to know what the Publishers, and Peter Dawson, garnered from this Song.

## THE RUSSIAN PRIEST.

This little story was told one evening to the Watson family by a friend, who had been on a business trip to Russia, and vouched for its truth.

"It was my seventh trip, and I had been pretty fortunate with orders and was thinking about returning home, when I remembered a tiny village it might be wiser not to miss. When I got there, I found I would have to kill time, so to escape the heat I went into a Church: A service was in full swing. I took a seat just inside the door to observe it.

To my amazement, I heard a deep Scotch voice chanting

32

"Tac this, tac that
It can de ye nae guid
It can de ye nae harrm."

as he waved a brazier to and fro - and down the main aisle came
a tall Priest, attired in all the magnificent robes usual in a
Russian Church".

He could never get any enlightenment of the mystery, for
no living soul he knew there, knew any English, and to go and
ask the Priest himself might have been a very risky business
indeed.

The Watsons and James Bromley had a mutual friend, Edwin
Dean, an Uncle, by the way, of the Hero of Zeebrugge, who had
taken his A.B. certificate. He, and Bromley, would join in
hiring a yacht, the 'Stella', gather a crew, invite two or
three friends to join in cruising round the coast of England,
or across the Irish Sea: and if the latter, they would land
at Kingstown, to be made free of the Yacht Club there; all
appreciating to the full the hearty Irish welcome of its members.
W.W. would then leave them to continue their cruise, or tour the
country; he would go into Dublin, and stay with Professor Dowden
and his family for a week or two.

At that time, Dowden held the chair of Literature at Trinity.
The whole family were staunch Home Rulers, and their guests mostly
so. Later on, they turned their cloaks, when it became 'mooted'
that the 'Chair' would be abolished if Home Rule came in. The

33

THE PHOENIX PARK MURDERS

Phoenix Park Murders set the seal against this, however. Some time, after things had calmed down, W.W. was over in Dublin, and hired an outside car to take him round the Phoenix Park. When passing the Viceregal Lodge his jarvey said to him, "This is the fattal spot, - and its meself knew Joe Brady well - one of the murdersers. He was one of the best "intintioned" young men that ever lived". Strangely enough, Brady had been the sweetheart of a valued servant at the Dowden's.

Their friendship remained good until Dowden sent him his "Life of Shelley". I wrote and told him it was too biassed for me to swallow. The Shelley family had thrown open all portals of information for this book, and the sequel was a 'Whitewashed Life'. Next time I went to Dublin I evaded the Dowden family.

Dowden's father, a rich business man in the South of Ireland had the foresight to give his family a splendid education. They amply repaid him in their various walks in life. Professor Dowden would cross yearly, either alone, or with his family, and stay near, or with the 'Watsons' on his way North, to Scotland, then on to stay with his brother - a Minor Canon there.

x. In 1939 a chance meeting with a Mr. Geo. Philo of Cambridge, elicited the following: "It was my lot to meet this young woman at the Convalescent Home in Temporly, close to Buenos Aires, in the year 1891, when she confided to me her sad tale. She firmly believed Joe to have been innocent.

34

TABLE RAPPING.

It was while staying with the Dowdens in Rathmines, Dublin, that W.W. met W.B.Yeats, a tall stalky youth, seven years younger than himself; very dark eyes, with a great deal of long hair on his head which never kept in its place; a huge bow, as tie, and usually a flowing cloak, and wide brimmed hat, such as was thought the right 'get-up' for poets and artists, at even an earlier day than his! Whenever he came, he would receive encouragement to read through his very latest poem to the family and guests. W.W. would describe him as a "Very likeable young man, much interested in the Occult". Often, while there, Yeats would urge those willing and unwilling to join in 'Table Rapping', nothing ever happened, but perhaps a kicking of shins under the table. This young man and W.W. were as far as the poles apart in their aims, and their ambitions.

All his life John Watson had been subject to fainting attacks on rising in the morning - these tended to increase as he grew older. He was compelled to leave most of his affairs in the hands of his eldest son James; "I must take more care now", he tells W.W. one evening. Next morning, on going to his room, his wife finds him, as she thinks, 'still sleeping' but, looking closer, it is the sleep from which there is no awakening.

There are three executors named in his Will, but beyond small legacies to his sons, everything is for his wife, Dorothy.

35

This Will had been made some years previously, when everything connected with his business was flourishing, now investigation shows John Watson had been speculating, and had lost a great deal of money. The facts came out, fully, that he had allowed himself to be influenced by his son Robinson, and had risked money laid by for his business and family, worry hastening his end. The executors waived their rights, and left the management of the business in the hands of his son James, on behalf of his Mother.

The home is broken up. Mrs. Watson and her youngest son face the new life together.

Within a year, James Watson has so neglected this formerly splendid business, that it is in bankruptcy, his mother and brother are practically penniless. Only by William's unaided efforts now, can a roof be kept over their heads. His hitherto scattered contributions to the foremost papers and periodicals stand him in good stead.

## 'THE SPECTATOR'.

Leaving his Mother in comfortable lodgings in the neighbourhood, we next find him in London, taking up quarters at 16, Montague Street, Russell Square. There is plenty of reviewing to be had, and very soon he is definitely on the staff of 'The Spectator' with R. H. Hutton as his chief.

In a letter William Watson says:

36

THE BOOK OF LEISURE.

"After finishing 'The Prince's Quest' I began to study Shakespeare more seriously, wandering about the Country a whole summer with volumes of the plays in my pocket, and for about six months lived on him and nothing else. The result was - that my late piece of airy phantasy forthwith looked very flimsy in my own eyes. I acquired some sort of perception of the greatness of life, as well as of literature; and I suppose a kind of despair in that tremendous presence must have sent me to the cherry stone - carving work of the Epigrams".

Both volumes found literally no buyers for several years later, except a few personal friends of the Epigrammatist.

Ten years after publishing 'The Prince's Quest' he found himself entered at the British Museum as "William Watson, Poetical Writer".

William's father was by temperament much more interested in Science and Politics than Poetry, but never discouraged his youngest son's literary leanings; indeed one might truthfully say he greatly encouraged him, in that he cheerfully bore the cost of publishing his first two volumes, and granting him the inestimable boon of leisure.

In another letter North he says, "I am a man with a great many faults of character, serious faults some of them, but one fault I have not, and that is ingratitude."

'LYRIC LOVE'.

37

I must bring my Mother South, and look after her somewhere in
country lodgings, near London... Her elder sons will take no
further trouble, and as to my Uncle Robinson, he, her own
brother, would not give her a penny if she were in want of a
crust of bread - this sounds extravagant, no doubt, but is
literally true. He lost Two thousand pounds lately, through
my brother Robinson, and this has made him absolutely determined
never to help any other relative during his lifetime. Robinson,
as you know, was handed over his business, a fine one too, when
he retired, together with Five thousand pounds and any amount
of credit. But he neglected it, and gambled on the Stock Exchange,
then deceived Uncle Robinson as to debts, confessing to one
quarter only, and allowing him to practically throw away the
aforesaid Two thousand pounds, the money only raising the payment
to his creditors by Twopence in the pound. His deceit was
colossal, unforgiveable, and utterly shameful".

"Poems", a slim volume appeared, and later in the year
"Lacraeme Musarum" - through MacMillans, and "Lyric Love"
commissioned by them for their Golden Treasury Series, the
latter causing its Editor endless labour, under the conditions
he had imposed upon himself - that of bringing together as far
as was practicable, all the best love lyrics in the English
language, having "Love" as its personal inspiration or its
objective theme.

38

"Poems", First Edition, dedicated to M.R.C. has no preface -
a perfect bit of his prose, delightfully delicate in style and
lucidity.

Macmillans, when taking over his 'Wordsworth's Grave' and
other poems, from Fisher Unwin, and bringing out a much needed
Second Edition, bought a portrait of W.W. done in black and
white, by an artist named Andrews; the likeness was considered
good at the time, but the expression too gloomy. It had appeared
in the Spring Show of the Liverpool Art Gallery. This portrait
hung on the wall of Macmillan's inner sanctum beside that of
Rudyard Kipling. His final break with Macmillans came in 1893.

## THE INSANE WIFE.

W.W. on Hutton: "This splendidly versatile Editor - a man born
with a zest to stretch out a hand to the under-dog, and pull
him up to a seat beside himself, or higher if possible - went
home nightly to eat a solitary dinner and play a simple game,
or take a drive with a wife, whom he loved, but who, alas, had
been insane for years. This brave man faced his life with
what might truly be called modern heroism, and a kind of
Ancient Greek grandeur! To me, a young man, he gave his
confidence, certainly not to obtain sympathy but to instil a
fortitude within me to face my own difficulties. What were
mine against his? Mine lay in the passing for ever of a
carefree existence - I must toil night and day at uncongenial

39

labour, which never comes easy to me. Journalistic work, in
fact, tore me with its adamant demands, its time limits, and
if you will, wave limits - known. Alone to the Slaves of
Journalism. Yet, all this time, in the innermost recesses of
the "real" me was a vast yearning to be at my own legitimate
work, which except for a chance leisured day, must remain banked
down to earn bread".

"My verse is a slow Deposit, a scanty Secretion and demands
Entire Leisure and Abstraction. 'Wordsworth's Grave' itself was
the work of the best and choicest moments of three years - in
the sense in which Gray's 'Elegy' was the work of some five years.
But I do not think Gray could have written another 'Elegy', and
I am in doubt if I could write another 'Wordsworth's Grave'.
I have no longer the happiness, the free and untrammelled mind,
which was mine in those old days, when I slowly and quietly
produced it, know that it would have to wait years for recognition,
but never for one solitary moment doubting that it was among the
imperishable things in English Literature".

This young man with the Roman face, is a Classist, not by
intention, but by nature. If this fact is well imbibed now, the
inner meaning of all he has produced, and left for those who
follow on, can be gauged more accurately. His strivings towards
the goal he himself has set up will reveal itself. Judge now,
for yourselves, whether all is Base for those who follow the
delightful Muse....!

40

William Watson can only work slowly, and painstakingly. He must feel that his work, whether in prose or verse, is worth while. At this time he considers himself justly and rightly in the vanguard of the World's thoughts and ideas - modernity of thought flows swiftly through all his work - it is there, plainly visible to the observant eye. There is no clinging to the wreckage of bygone ages - all this has been shed for good.

It is in his poetry alone, that he can thus frankly express his innermost mind, and it is there you will find it bright as dawn.

"And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language, - tricking out with beads
This noble vesture that no frippery needs" -

'Wordsworth's Grave' first published in the National Review in 1887 and in book form in 1890 certainly laid the foundation stone for his career as a Poet, and it would be sheer folly to deny that it was a substantial one. But 'Wordsworth's Grave' with its seemingly serene undercurrent, and outwardly quiet air, was really a Militant Manifesto against the Aesthetic School and the New Euphuists, and all they stood for, at this period.

With the publication of 'Wordsworth's Grave' behind him, William Watson ceased Once and for All to be any man's disciple.

Photograph here.

41

CARLYLE AND WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Hutton told W.W. the following story:

"Carlyle and William Allingham often took a walk together, Carlyle pouring out his ideas to the usually silent Allingham. One day, Allingham ventured to express just a shade of disagreement. ---- Carlyle turned on him, and thundered out, "Young man, let me tell you, you have in you the Capacity of becoming one of the Greatest Bores in Europe".

A GREAT POET (1891)

In July 1891, Grant Allen, foremost novelist and critic of his day, has lately made himself acquainted with all that W.W. has produced. He is fired with a great desire to see this young man get the justice he deserves, and writes a bold, brilliant and powerful article on his poetry. It was certainly calculated to make history in the literary life of those days - indeed, its appearance in the Fortnightly Review in August of that year was epoch making, where the young Poet was concerned - Announcing the Advent of a new and great Poet.

Immediately after its publication, W.W. was sought out, and a perfect clamour for his books took place. These dust-collecting volumes in the hands of an apathetic Publisher are bought by an at last interested public. Fisher Unwin, never dreaming such a thing could happen, was "sold out" in a few days, and could not supply the demand.

THE VISIT TO MEREDITH.

42

Macmillans approached W.W. with cordiality, and understanding. They are prepared to bring out a Second Edition of 'Wordsworth's Grave' at once, and any other volume he may care to bring them. What a change of tone! Can you wonder, in his letter to James Bromley, at the exultant voice with which he described his first real triumphs, "I am really bowled over with invitations to this and that, though you are in my mind for a confidence later. I am booked to dine with Clodd at the Savile Club, Friday - I understand I am to meet Besant, Hardy and Allen, others too. Couldn't you join us? It could easily be arranged. Do!

"Yesterday, I was captured by the Grant Allen's - (by the way Mrs. G.A. is very pretty!) and we all drove over to Box Hill to see Meredith - the latter wishing to make a personal convert of his 'National Reviler', I was told. He has a nice place there, beautiful trees. We found him in the garden, with Professor Ray Lankester, and an actor named Farquhar. We were received with great goodwill, a little overdone I think - perhaps for effect - for he is a most fantastic and theatrical old man, talking for an audience all the time, talking rather brilliantly, I must say. A strange, unhealthy, weird looking creature, something spectral and unreal about the whole personality - apparently a man of genius tottering into madness! He is semi-paralytic. He has a nice daughter, but she is not allowed to read some of her Father's book for fear of corruption!

They have three Dachshunds, which I envy.

43

On our way back to Dorking the G.A's said to me, 'How
could you ever write another unkind word about Meredith?'
Because a great celebrity has given me a cup of tea and done
the gracious generally, is my mouth to be closed about his
books? No, I would say my say just the same about him tomorrow.
They seemed disappointed, but agreed that, after all, my
attitude was right. G.A's 'story' you shall hear later.
He has a heart of gold - this is his third venture in the
marriage line.

A spirit of devilry apparently seized Meredith before we
left, for he turned to me with a most grotesque expression,
and he said in a peculiar loud drawl that he has, 'Let me -
tell you - I know as much - about poetry - as you do'. I said
'That's quite conceivable', and we all laughed in unison.
And so the visit ended'.

## THE TYPE OF GRAY.

In another letter W.W. bares his heart to his friend -
"I myself, should very well like to do what you suggest - go
to some secluded place and devote myself to poetry, for my
poetry is infinitely above my prose, and it is on poetry alone
that my name will ultimately rest. But how live while writing
the Poetry? You forget, I am not a Poet of the profuse or
exuberant order, like Shelley, nor yet of the prolific and
unequal type, like Wordsworth, who produced great quantities

44

of tame and dull work, together with a few immortal, but except-
ional, successes. I am rather of the type of Gray - a slow,
scanty producer of highly polished and concentrated work.

To Miss Marion Roalfe Cox is the dedicatory poem in "Lyric
Love" - an interesting and charming young girl in her Twenties,
to whom W.W. had a little earlier, become engaged, to the great
satisfaction of his Mother, who at this time was living at Southend
for her health. It was while visiting the Andrew Lang's that
he became acquainted with her. Before they met, she had collected
and published, all the Cinderella Stories to be found in each
country: She was an intimate friend of the Tree's and their
circle. The Cox family lived at Streatham - the father, a rich
veterinary surgeon, would laughingly tell his guests, that close
by, had lived Fontleroy the Forger, and Charles Peace the Murderer.

I had a very great regard for her", W.W. would confide, "but
brought up in a home lacking nothing, what could she know of my
hidden money worries".

Writing North, he says, "I invariably came across inaccuracies
if I garnered from any Anthology. Indeed it was quite palpable to
the seeing eye, that Anthology mongers had just 'lifted' what they
wanted from each other. I went to the source - The British Museum
being my chief ground for digging in - and when that failed, then
I went to the John Rylands' Library, Manchester, and in some of
the chained books there, I found my prey". So rare are many books
there, they are chained.

45

A WRETCHED OLD SENSUALIST.

W.W. always expressed himself as very surprised at the alacrity with which the various living Poets acceded to his request to be included in his Anthology, many of the foremost of them, almost thrusting a dozen poems or so upon him. "But they did not overcome me", he said, "I was polite but firm. Indeed, Coventry Patmore quite worried me, but I was glad later that I had put so few of his in, for I met his son sometime afterwards at the Bidley Head, and he expressed himself to Lane and me 'That his Father was a wretched old sensualist!'"

GRATEFUL AND COMFORTING.

X
Edmund Gosse.

Writing W.W. in November 1892 says "Thanks for the MS of the 'Dream of man', not one of the critics recognises the importance of that piece, so watch for The New Review for December - in it you will see the very high opinion I have of it. Thank you for Arthur Benson's message - he is translating a great number of your poems into Latin Verse.

The other night I read aloud your 'Dream of Man' to Dr. Aldie Wright, Vice Master of Trinity, and friend of Tennyson and FitzGerald - he is decidedly of my opinion, and is enthusiastic.

Mrs. Gosse begs me to say how much she enjoyed your talk after Dinner last night.

WHITMAN AND GOSSE.

Mr. Gosse is reported to have said that Whitman must for ever stand remote from the Society of Great Poets.

46

"Despair not! Though thy sea-short cry
Of wistful bird through wandering chords,
Entrances not the sleek and sly
Librarian of the House of Lords."

Stephen Phillips.

THE WIZARDS WAND.

"Sir Bigwig Windbag, dull, diffuse, and drear,
Proses on poets from his rostrum high.
O Hippocrene, what miracle is here?

Thy very water at his touch seems dry."

William Watson.

Macmillans paid him One hundred pounds for it, Twenty five pounds on account. Before it was completed he found himself embarrassed by debts on his Mother's account, and went to ask for a further Twenty five pounds! Lillie Craik - Macmillans' Partner, wheeled round in his chair on hearing the request saying, "Mr. Watson! Please understand we are not here to give charity!"

W.W. took up a book lying on the desk, and flinging it down on the table said, "When this collection is finished I too am finished with you".

"Poems" (Macmillans) had a good sale in America - no mean judges heralding it forth, as you see.

A handful of gems - 'Autumn' a lovely first. Prophetic indeed, is the last stanza of England and her Colonies.

"Oh ye by wandering tempest sown
'Neath every alien star,
Forget not whence the breath was blown
That wafted you afar!
For ye are still her ancient seed
On younger soil let fall
Children of Britain's Island breed
To whom the Mother in her need
Perchance may one day call."

DEATH OF THE POET LAUREATE.

47

And the delightful 'Keyboard' - turned into a barbed jest by the
Linen Draper's son, Owen Seaman, who parodies it in 'Punch' with
the title 'Audi Alteram Partem'. To be in 'Punch' at all in
those days was considered a feather in one's cap, - but a feather
dipped in gall could be ugly. And it was meant to be!

In 1892, October 6th, the Laureate of England died.

The Poets, young and old, minor and major, vied with each
other to do him honour - their tributes - many of them very fine
indeed, were lauded by a discerning public - and certainly were
worthy of the occasion, great as it was. If you readers can
imagine the passing of a great Chieftain, you will be able to
capture in some measure the reverence with which England regarded
her Laureate at that time, and the grief at his death. One of
her Poets held back. It was he, who in early youth, 'had had
speech with Him'. He had been chosen as one of the pall-bearers
to the dead hero. "Where is Watson? What is he doing? Has he
written nothing? Watson remained silent, seemingly crushed for
the moment by death. Then 'Lacrimae Musarum' appeared, just four
weeks later in the 'Illustrated London News' -

"Low like Another's, lies the Laurelled head
The life that seemed a perfect song is o'er".

A torrent of acclaim burst forth from every quarter, hostile
and friendly critics alike are unanimous - It is the greatest
poem of them all. It is a triumph".

It is, but at what cost of brain power, what mental strain

48

is there, written at white heat in fifty hours! The Poet utterly prostrate with the whole effort - exhausted, spent.

He only craves rest. Rest, there is no rest, no peace.

Robinson has hung about for some days wanting money, he often does want it now, and he twits his brother on not seizing his opportunity to make some, while the going is good. He urges him to ask more when the Editor sends him Ten Guineas, but he refused.

"I gloried in having written it, not in the money it brought me", he said.

If only W.W. could shake his brother off. But no, he sticks closer than any leech. Money, always money, he wants.

Gladstone, himself, read the 'Ode' to Her Majesty. Certainly it was worthy of a place among the great memorial tributes of English literature. Numerous and influential friends, including the kindly Hutton, interested in William Watson's work, and knowing the utter drag there is upon him in the matter of relatives, dependent and independent, knowing too, how little leisure he has, for his own legitimate work, have obtained a grant for him from the Royal Bounty Fund of Two hundred pounds. This is a veritable Godsend! What will it not do? Care will be banished, surely peace and relief from all at last!

Not quite all. December has come in, but with it a certain lethargy has crept over William Watson. It is on long walks in

WINDSOR.

49

the country that he feels best - there is certainly no urge to write - things at home are peaceful, and they are free of the important Robinson, to the great relief of Mother and son, who has joined her at 5, Royal Terrace, Southend.

On the 13th - unlucky day - he starts off for Windsor, telling his Mother where he is going to, and that afterwards he will probably push on to Laleham. "I may be lucky enough to see the Veiled Lady by the grave as you did" he said on leaving. (Mrs. Mathew Arnold, the widow.)

After W.W. left home, his mother was surprised by a visit from Robinson. She sensed he wanted something, but could obtain no information from her secretive son. After an hour or two, he decided to follow William to Windsor. They met there. The two were on sufficiently smooth terms for Robinson to stay the night at the same Inn as his brother. And to quote the latter "If R.W. wanted to 'do' a thing, and you wanted him 'not to', hints would be sheer waste of time". To shake him off after breakfast, next morning W.W. told him he was going to Laleham. "But we must go home, William, I want to get back to business", he said. "Am I preventing you?" said W.W. "I came here to be alone, and alone I mean to be". "Well", said R.W. "I'll leave you alone if you agree to lend me Thirty pounds for a week only. I am in a very tight corner". "Not one penny more will you get out of me, and I am off", stormed W.W. He paid the bill for both, and left for Laleham.

50

He was conscious that R.W. was following him, and instead
of going steadily on, doubled back to the Long Walk. "I hated
the idea of this Brother of mine going with me to Laleham". He
was abreast of me then, and I remember shouting at him 'If you
insist on coming with me, you may walk behind, I won't walk with
you, I have suffered too much from you". They each stormed at
the other. "As no one else was close enough, I called to a
coachman, driving a carriage by, but he appeared not to hear, so
I caught hold of the reins to stop the horses, and as FATE DECREED,
IN THAT SAME CARRIAGE WERE SOME OF THE ROYAL FAMILY".

WILLIAM WATSON.

WINDSOR CASTLE AND STONE ASYLUM.

"TILL CROWDS BE SANE AND CROWNS BE JUST".

(From The St.James's Gazette).

Mr. William Watson.

Mr. John William Watson, the Poet whose "Lacrimae Musarum"
upon the death of Tennyson, and other lyrical works, have
recently attracted much attention, was yesterday brought before
Alderman Wellman and Cantrell at the Windsor Guildhall upon the
charge of being a dangerous lunatic. Superintendent Charles
Fraser and Inspector Savage represented the Royal Household
Police, and Mr. Robinson Watson attended the proceedings on
behalf of his brother, and testified that his brother had been
engaged in literary pursuits. He was recommended to Mr. Glad-
stone for a pension on the Civil List, and he was recently

51

offered a grant of £200 from the Royal Bounty Fund. His
literary success, and the highly favourable notice accorded to
his later compositions, seem to have unhinged his mind. Towards
the close of last week, he left his residence in Royal Terrace,
Southend, and went to Windsor. Mr. Robinson Watson followed
his brother to Windsor, where they both remained till Sunday,
when the Post proposed that they should walk to Laleham Church-
yard near Staines, in order to visit Matthew Arnold's Grave.
Mr. Robinson Watson endeavoured to dissuade his brother from
his purpose, as Laleham is ten miles from Windsor. They however
walked to Virginia Water, and back to the Long Walk, where Mr.
William Watson ordered his brother to walk behind him, and they
proceeded in this manner shortly after four o'clock in the after-
noon up the Avenue towards the Castle. About this time THE DUKE
AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH and one of THE ROYAL PRINCESSES left
the Sovereign's entrance to the Castle for an airing in the
Great Park. They left the Private grounds by the Cambridge Lodge
Gate, and were driving down the Long Walk, when Mr. William
Watson rushed towards the horses, and seizing the reins, attempted
to stop the carriage. He was speedily arrested, and taken by
Inspector Savage and Constable Belchambers to the Police room
at Henry VIII's Gate.

He was subsequently handed over to Superintendent Armour
the Chief of the Windsor Police, as an Insane Person.

HE IS COMMITTED TO STONE ASYLUM.

52

William Watson is not allowed to explain anything - and to try to defend himself would be quite useless - had he done so, it would make no difference - he has done an outrageous thing - Stopped a Carriage containing Royal Personages! ANY OTHER CARRIAGE - ANY OTHER.

'All Robinson's lies are swallowed - he is mentioned in the proceedings as 'The Famous Evangelist'.

And certainly the famous Evangelist has surpassed himself - and his BROTHER goes to Stone Asylum - and all is dust and ashes.

Till Death will he carry the Mark. He of the CLEAR MIND
THE SENSITIVE HEART -

ANY OTHER CARRIAGE.

"I certainly lost all restraint", said W.W. "I felt frantic with this wretch of a brother dogging my steps for money, surely someone could stop him".

A MORE THAN ROYAL INTELLECT.

EXTRACT

From The Daily Chronicle.

The Sad Story we publish today about Mr. William Watson will be read with deep regret by all friends of English Letters. MR. WATSON'S remarkable genius has received widespread recognition and there has been hardly a dissentient voice among the Critics in anticipating for him a very distinguished Career. His Poems have not only great originality of conception, and beauty of

53

construction, but they have been chiefly noteworthy - and it is
this that has won for them such universal admiration - for a
peculiar restraint and sanity of thought. The Calamity which
has overtaken their writer is the very last that we should have
expected to happen.

From Published Letters on MR. WILLIAM WATSON.

Sir,

I fear the report of the proceedings at Windsor in this
distressing case, may leave an impression on the Public Mind,
that Mr. Watson had a felonious intent against some of the Royal
Personages named in it.

As one of his oldest and most intimate friends, I should
like the Public to know that his horror of brutality amounted to
a passion, and that I cannot conceive it to be possible for any
temporary aberration of Mr. Watson's intellect to take that
direction.

Knowing Mr. Watson's temperament I have strong hopes of
his restoration to his normal mental power.

JAMES BROMLEY.

The Homestead,
Lathom.

FROM THE BRITISH WEEKLY.

"A MORE THAN ROYAL INTELLECT".

Sir,

I knew Mr. William Watson and his brother Robinson when I
was a lad in Southport. In those days, now twenty years ago

54

in
Mr. Watson then a boy was severely disciplin himself for the
Vocation to which he found himself called. His life from that
day to this has been one of uncompromising self repression and
strenuous study and heroic devotion to the Prophetic faculty
within him. Later in life he was a brilliant member of a gifted
fraternity in Liverpool, and was conspicuous among them. I
cannot wonder that a mind such as his should suffer temporary
derangement especially considering the long discipline and the
fluctuations of literary emotion through which he has passed.

My one regret is that this temporary debility should have
been heralded to the WORLD AT LARGE - THERE SEEMS SOMETHING LIKE
DESECRATION in this Public detailing of a GREAT MIND'S SICKNESS.
A great deal too much has been made of the matter - One could
wish that the Guardians of THE ROYAL PARK who know how to keep
secrets touching the health of ROYAL PERSONAGES had felt the
obligation of a little more silence touching a more than ROYAL
INTELLECT.

For myself and for the Nation I thank God there is little
probability of the MUSES being called to weep over the early
extinguishment of a Poetic Soul. There is however infinite
pathos in the sight of a man who has borne SUFFERING with
FORTITUDE AND UNAPPRECIATION with calm patience.

WOLVERHALPTON. 1892.

CHARLES BERRY.

Footnote: These letters were found among Miss Cox's (his fiancée) treasures, after her death; they were sent to Lady Watson in 1936 by her sister.

55

THE SWORDS OF CAESAR, THEY ARE LESS THAN RUST.

After the almost unbelievable news reaches him, that good
friend R H. Hutton goes to see him - and it is mainly through
his and Townsend's instrumentality that he is removed from Stone
Asylum to Roehampton Priory - where at once he is freed from
all restraint, and is only required to conform to the rules.
Two Ladies acted as housekeepers and dined with the patients.
William Watson and Lord Hereford were quite free to take walks
wherever they liked!

"The Seasons change the winds they shift and veer
The grass of yesteryear
Is dead; the birds depart, the groves decay:

Empires dissolve and peoples disappear:
Song passes not away.

Captains and conquerors leave a little dust,
And Kings a dubious legend of their reign;

The swords of Caesars, they are less than rust;
The Poet doth remain.

56

"AM I MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?"

Again in a letter W.W. says, "After a very few days there, I felt an impulse for work again. I seized it as a refuge from all my woes. I must say the Normans were good friends. H.C. came to see me there, and that brilliant woman, his first wife, wrote to cheer me!"

The much loved Mother, utterly grief-stricken, waits for her son where he left her. They are reunited very soon now, but only on the understanding that he goes to Switzerland for change of environment, and, say the Powers that Be, in the charge of his BROTHER who has so KINDLY volunteered to go with him!!

"It meant my freedom", he said, "and I took it. Robinson travelled with me to Switzerland, at my expense. As soon as we crossed the frontier, I told him I was my own master".

Returning home in about six weeks time, W.W. senses a change of attitude towards him. Macmillans have nothing in the matter of sales to show; Even Mrs. Grant Allen, when they meet again, says, "You are not as nice as you were". The stigma of STONE ASYLUM placed upon him by cruel hands, has made him not as nice as he was! Oh! Mrs. Allen!

In that year he had written:-

England my Mother      Song is no bauble
Wardress of waters      Slight not the songsmith
Builder of People      England my Mother
Maker of Men          Maker of Men.

Yes, the songsmith has risen again.

57

THE PUBLIC AND THE POET.

"Grant Allen", said the letter going North, "has a heart of gold".

And Edmund Gosse, with his professed friendship, and his dulcet pen, makes a point of calling upon W.W's publishers and asking them, "Have you seen his mad Poem?" - With courage indomitable William Watson returns to face the Pack!

There is a vast amount of private correspondence awaiting W.W's attention when he returns from Switzerland to join his Mother. "Robinson wanted to go through it", she said, "but after his wicked behaviour, I would not allow him to touch anything of yours".

The letters, one and all, expressed the greatest sympathy with him, and utter disgust against the high-handed punishment meted out by the Powers that be - indeed, some of them went so far in daring that had they been published there would have been a nice furore and some fine exposures. In some, the Queen herself, did not escape judgment. She was none too popular at that time.

To be incarcerated in Stone Asylum, deprived of his liberty, raised up for him a public, utterly and completely outside his own particular world! A vast crowd of them, who never spent a penny on a book in all their lives, in fact, hadn't a penny to spare, yet were drawn by a magnetic cord of sympathy towards him. "It was very bewildering to me at first - later, when I

Had this young Poet died now, there would have arisen a tumultuous shout - Keats over again!

58

could contemplate the whole atrocious business with Time between
me and It, I felt heartened and inspired to go on". Here was
the Sympathy of the Crowd - who were Human.

Among the Lettered Ken, here are a few of the names which
have stood the test of time: F. Locker-Lampson. A.C.Lyall.
A.C.Benson. Lord de Tabley. Lady Katherine Manners. Pierpont
Barnard. The Hon. Mrs. Henniker. Sir Aubrey de Vere. Francis
Coutts. Lord Crewe. Sir Henry Norman, etc.

In a letter to James Bromley at this time he says, "My post
is quite beyond what I can tackle. Don't be surprised to see my
address, Belgrave Road, Torquay. I had to get away from callers -
it is a publicity I do not seek. Torquay, whose picturesqueness
much exceeds my expectations, is warm and genial, and through
Lady Katherine Manners, who is here, I have made acquaintance
with many of the residents - all interested in literature - and
I am proud to say, in me too! I have, thus, no more solitude
than I care for. By the way, the Rutlands have had to have one
of the main towers of 'Haddon' under-pinned".

Macmillans have yielded to persuasions to part with my two
copyrights, and to complete the transfer, my Agreements should
be returned to them - and now I am blest if I know where they are!
Look in one or other of those bags I left at the 'Homestead' and
if found, send. You know I am grateful".

The engagement between Miss Cox and William Watson ended in
1893.

59

MORS LIBERATOR ANIMI.

And another letter dated February 1903, says, "Hackwork
will kill me, but to live and let my Mother live, I must go on.
I find now that my sales have declined to zero. I have been
given my death blow. Who will listen to me again?"

Mors Liberator Animi
Death is the freer of the Soul.

Lady Katherine Manners had much akin to the post - sharing
his pleasure in country rambles. The ties of lineage troubled
her not at all - she was one with nature, and nature one with her.
Her home was ruled by her stepmother, her life, ruled by her
father, who petered out a niggardly 1300 a year, which was not
enough to keep up a position such as might be expected of a Duke's
daughter! In nice but simple lodgings with her maid, or to stay
with friends from time to time, was all that it could be stretched
to.

W.W. and she met at the Barnards, while staying at Windmere.
"...very happy boating and climbing with us all - sharing all the
talk and fun". No hint of the tragic future in store for her.
It was she who told me about Gosse!"

One day she received a telegram from her father demanding her
immediate return home.

* Some years after she was Found Drowned in a lake on her father's estate.

Poem addressed to the Lady Katherine Manners, commencing
"On lake and fell the loud rain beats".

Daughter of the Duke of Rutland.

60

LORD ROSEBERRY.

The Stage is the world's looking glass
Across this mirror all men
Pass
Who flies it? He that doth not dare
To meet his own reflection
There.

The filling of the Laureateship loomed big in literary
circles and in the press. This one and that one have been named
as fitting to wear the much envied laurels. To succeed Tennyson
would be no easy matter.

'The Spectator', now boldly comes out with a brilliantly
written article headed 'The Laureateship' quoting long passages
from 'Lacrimae Musarum' - and calling upon Gladstone to give it
to William Watson, but Gladstone, sagacious old man, is deaf to
suggestions. Or, is he afraid to appoint one who has been
condemned for touching the reins, belonging to Royal Personages?
He, himself, great as his position may be, lacks the courage
though he has been made aware of the murmuring undercurrents.

Invitations have appeared in the press inviting the public
to send a postcard with the name of their favourite poet on it.
One paper received six hundred postcards, all advocating the
appointment of Eric MacKay, a half-brother of Marie Corelli.
Later the postcards were traced to Marie Corelli herself.

When Lord Roseberry became Prime Minister, one of the first
things he did was to write to W.W. asking him to come and see him.
The interview passed pleasantly - Roseberry's suave culture put

PRIME MINISTER.

61

one at ease immediately. "I intend to give you the same pension
Lord Tennyson had - £100 per year", he said. "Excuse me, my Lord",
said W.W., "it was £200 per year Lord Tennyson had". "Oh! so it
was", said Roseberry, "you are right, but I have no more to give,
the Civil List is wickedly inadequate".

Roseberry, while he was Prime Minister, paid W.W. many
handsome compliments, both in public and private, and sent him
friendly and encouraging letters. Lord Crewe, who later married
Lord Roseberry's daughter, was another staunch friend, with whom
W.W. would sometimes spend a holiday: Lord Crewe was a widower
then, with three pretty little girls, and W.W. would describe
him as a 'model father', who always devoted part of his evening
to the children, principally reading to them their favourite
authors, Dickens being first favourite.

As W.W. already possessed many friends in America, great
indignation had previously been expressed in Flaring Headlines,
such as "Crucification of Young English Poet by Order of Royal
Personages".

This was at a period when the American Public took a perhaps
greater interest in English poets than in some of its own - and
certain American Newspapers made ironical comments on the perfectly
reckless generosity and munificence of the British Nation in
lavishing such prodigal largesse, "Five Hundred Dollars Per Annum
On Its Singer".

62

One paper said that National Bankruptcy would be the inevitable end of such riotous profusion! But the Poet specially responsible for calling forth these witticisms was nevertheless grateful for a timely boon.

There were many invitations to "Come over Here and Sing" - "Our Air Would Suit You" - "Here's Where Freedom Lies", etc. etc.

At the same time that he received the first Civil List Form, a demand was made for the sum of Ten Shillings - this being the cost of the Government Stamp required for ratifying an Act of Imperial Beneficence! But he had to borrow the Ten Shillings to pay it - from Hutton.

In a letter from Lord de Tabley he says, "When Gladstone resigned Office, and Roseberry succeeded him, one of his first acts was to give you the Pension of One Hundred pounds. Even that small Pension silenced some of the many: The Prime Minister certainly thought you were badly treated. And so you were - scandalously".

## John Lane.

John Lane was certainly no ordinary young man, and his beginnings are interesting, at the Bodley Head, Vigo Street. It was to become known later in England, yes, and beyond it too, as the Hall Mark of choiceness in publishing Belle Lettre. J.L. was born at West Putford, Devon. Later, his family moved to Hartland, where John finished school at fifteen. His father

A HOME FOR DIPSOMANIACS.

63

had a farm there. By this time the father had become crippled
by rheumatism, but with great courage and resource, his mother
planned to save the situation, which was serious.

"I thought matters well over", she said, "went round in our
trap, and called on all the gentry, telling them our trouble,
and that I was determined to take 'Wards in Chancery' if possible.
They gladly promised assistance, but one and all advised me to
get John settled first". I did, I went up to London with him
where he obtained a clerk's place in the clearing office of the
S.W.Rly. I stayed there until he was settled in lodgings in
Star Street, off the Edgware Road".

Mrs. Lane prospered. "It was a paying game, I can tell you",
she would say.

Some years later, the Lanes ventured further. They quitted
Devon, and took an old Mansion called 'Kingswood Park', Bristol,
and opened it as a 'Home for Dipsomaniacs'. This was a great
success.

## HIS WELSH FRIEND.

J.L. spent some years in the Railway Clearing House. He
was amiable, and had a fair education, with a gift for making
friends with just those persons most able to help 'John' - a
legacy surely from his mother.

Practically his first friend in London was a young Welshman,
named Owen Pritchard, who had come from Anglesey as assistant to

64

a Doctor at 37, Southwick Street, which abuts into Star Street - where J.L's mother had planted him.

With Owen Pritchard, the tall dark youth, with a voice as deep as his own mountains, J.L. becomes friendly; they are both lonely. It is O.P. who loops his friend into his circle of acquaintances - all of them keenly interested to read and appreciate the best literature of the day.

It is the humble assistant who, when Dr. --- throws up his practice at No. 37, to become a 'Prop to the Grave' - to the Duke of ---' promptly steps into his Master's shoes! A fresh brass plate is fixed on the large green door, announcing, Owen Pritchard, M.D. This is a very great step. Will his predecessor's rich patients come to him? Up to this time, he has only been allowed to minister to the very poorest.

"I decided to fill every room in the house with lodgers, till I saw if I was to 'sink or swim'" he would say, "and John Lane was my first".

Owen Pritchard 'swam', with the ride well in his favour. And with its Welsh atmosphere, 37, Southwick Street became known to a very large circle, mostly Welsh!

Shortly after this, J.L. becomes certain that his work does not suit him, and another thing, he has become entangled in a love affair and wants his freedom. "Why not try joining some Publisher

x. J.L. lodged with Dr.O.P. for many years till his marriage.

65

and go Fifty-fifty with him? You ought to do well in that line",
advised his friends. But no ready-fledged Publisher wants a
partner with no money! O.P. will lend him £100, and J.L. borrows
£500 from a Miss Chamberlayne, living in Halkin Street, Belgrave
Square, W., a relative of General Sir Neville Chamberlayne. He
has been paying her assiduous attention for some time. And the
start is made.

Very impressive were his visiting cards.

Mr. John Lane.

37, Southwick Street, W.
and
Kingswood Park, Bristol.

In later years, when Owen Pritchard was High Sheriff of
Anglesey, John Lane and William Watson accompanied him, W.W.
was referred to in speeches and in the Press as "The Great
Priddth" 'A Bard among Bards'. "I felt I was welcome there",
he would say, "and I rambled everywhere".

Owen Pritchard, good faithful friend of the years, to the
Poet, was ever ready to stretch out a hand to a fellow-countryman,
none were sent empty away. He died in 1929. All his First
Editions of Watson's poems were 'Willed' to the University of
Wales.

John Lane himself could be the entertaining companion, but
his was certainly a complex personality. On one hand, he developed
into a keen business man, eager to seize every opportunity to

THE COMPLETE HUMBUG.

66

draw the right man into his far flung net. On the other hand, one might describe him as deplorably ignorant - utterly dependent upon his 'Readers' to pick them out for him. While he kept to the discerning 'Reader' able to do this - well and good. Frederic Chapman was probably the best 'Reader' he ever had. Chapman was a really cultured man, and he kept Lane right. To J.L. the very writing of a letter calling for a little extra gumption in its drawing up, generally floored him, and those in the know were aware of the 'Staff' being called in to help compose it. His utter callousness could be allowed for, but the forces of his native Devon would be hard put to it to beat him in crafty instinct to 'get there'.

J.L. would never admit ignorance, or anything approaching it, but it is doubtful if he ever read a single volume he himself consented to publish! In his special sanctum at the Bodley Head, if you ventured in while some author - we'll say Phillips, for instance, was reading to him picked passages of what he considered his supreme masterpiece, Lane would sit back in his chair, hands joined finger to finger, a rapt expression on his countenance, slowly nodding his head in approval, and repeating parrot-like "Perfect", "Majestic", "Superb". Very few of the habitues who haunted the sacred abode ever found out the complete humbug he was - the ignoramous in all matters literary. He really depended

67

upon the special guests he gathered at his various clubs, or
in his own house to lunch or dine, for 'their Opinions'.
These he cleverly passed off as his own.

His business never ran smoothly during its early days,
and after the dissolving of the partnership with Elken Matthews,
he was always hard up. O.P. put a great deal of cash into it.
Francis Money Coutts was always bolstering it up. He would say,
'As one of the Poets, I can't see the others go to the Wall and
not help'.

This rough tide continued until Lane married the rich Jewish
Widow, whose one ambition was to enter London Society. She
purchased a house in Lancaster Gate, and they 'set up' with her
mother, Mrs. Eichberg.

Now you can visualise the New Publisher, W.W. is induced
to take his next book to: "Why not let Lane have it?" says
O.P., their mutual friend. "You might do worse. Johnnie is
determined to succeed, there is so much at stake". So, "Elkin
Matthews, and John Lane" bring out W.W's next book. And it is
the Bodley Head, Vigo Street, that will publish sixteen of his
subsequent volumes.

In 1894, Mrs. Watson has become very feeble, and constantly
requiring the attention of a nurse. So hard pushed is her son

x. There is a sketch of the Bodley Head in frontispiece of these Books - G.I. The Albany.

WALTER BESANT AND HENRY IRVING.

68

to meet all the expenses, that he comes to an arrangement with
John Lane, to pay all the Royalties due to him, directly to her!
J.L. to be reimbursed as W.W. himself receives payment for work
done. If the said Royalties did not reach a stated sum, then
J.L. promised to make it up to Five pounds per week.

Apart from the invariably punctual payment for work done
for "The Spectator" other periodicals were not so prompt, and
W.W. would be forced to wait.

At the end of the year it is quite obvious Mrs. Watson is
failing, and her son decides to take her and her nurse to
Bournemouth. Almost the first person he meets there is the
genial Walter Besant, who spends many an evening with Mother
and son, and arranges long walks with W.W. He tells the latter
that immediately on arriving at any place of note he has his
photograph taken. And sure enough, as they pass the principal
photographers, there is his visage gazing at them. "Publicity
pays, my dear fellow", he says. "Some!" says W.W.

Besant dreaded his name being associated in any way with
that of Mrs. Annie Besant, and would instruct the uninitiated
to pronounce it 'Beesant'. One could always rely upon his
friendship.

It may seem strange to some Readers that Henry Irvine and
W.W. were good friends, so dissimilar were they. Irvine would

x. Mrs. Annie Besant of Indian freedom fame.

I NEVER SEE THE NEWSPAPERS.

69

wire "If you have not seen Cymbeline see it, box ready tonight".

"I often met Irving at parties, mostly at H.D.Traills in Gordon Square. He and I would leave about the same time - 2.0 a.m. - Once, during a gap in the talk I heard Irving say in mournful tones - "Well! ....I dine alone every day... and all my food tastes alike". In talking to me, he said, "Your voice, Watson, would be good on the stage". I often met him in Piccadilly, but the moment we stopped to have a chat, crowds would gather round to hear what we had to say, and gaze on the Great Actor".

Robert Bridges had been one of those anxious to be represented in 'Lyric Love' and more than anxious that W.W. should review his last volume for 'The Spectator'. He actually writes to W.W. to inquire on what date he will review it. In answer W.W. encloses a cutting of his review.

R.B's acknowledgment is interesting:-

"I am grateful to you for handling my little book so leniently, I have heard of your justice, now I experience it.. Some years ago you promised to spend a weekend here, have you forgotten? I must apologise for the mistake I made - I Never See the Newspapers, at least, only one now and then. How about lunching with me at the Saville Club on Wednesday, I can then give you some details about my work? My only other guest would be Canon Dixon. Anyway, I shall call upon you".

70

Another interesting letter from the late Lord Oxford to
William Watson;

"Perhaps it may interest you to know, that, after the
death of Lord Tennyson, I strongly urged upon Mr. Gladstone -
unless the office was to be there and then abolished - your
claims to the Laureateship.

(Signed) H. H. Asquith".

This summer of 1895 was a peaceful and happy one for Mother
and son. They spent it in a cottage on the Green at Frant, owned
by a Mrs. Braybon. Greenwood, Editor of the Anti-Jacobean had
just vacated it. James Rhoades had written his 'Coronation Ode'
there, and W.W. is working on "The Father of the Forest".

Phil May was very friendly with W.W. He was born in a Leeds
slum. The Yorkshire in him appealed to the Poet, and the York-
shire in the Poet appealed to the Artist. He often sketched
W.W. rather getting the perfect make of his 'suit' than a good
likeness!

Lord Leighton, looking at one of these sketches said, "Why,
there's genius even in the way that man draws trousers".

One day, in the Devonshire Club, W.W. dropped asleep, but
woke just in time to prevent Phil from finishing a sketch of him!
"A nice sight. Quite enough to upset my reputation; I told him.

In 1896 we have the Lyric "April". W.W. had been staying
at The White Hart in Salisbury, where he woke at two o'clock in

70

the morning and wrote it.

Soon after this he was summoned to Folkestone, where his Mother had become much worse in health, and as it was out of the question for her son to stay there with her, or bring her back to his rooms in Town, Robinson and his Wife were asked to receive her, and let her stay with them for a little change at Lee, Blackheath; it being very desirable that she should be among her own Kin.

Robinson stipulated beforehand that he should be paid at the rate of £150 a year, with £50 down, and another £50 after three months, for extras! Robinson considered himself to be making great sacrifices in lending himself to this arrangement, for they will require a larger house, and another servant - though they have two already - on account of his Mother living with them.

After the first three months had passed R.W. writes for the further £50 owing. He is told that it will not be convenient to pay it for another week.

During the early part of that week the Mother seemed to be much better, but towards the end she said, "I know I am dying. Send for William." William was not sent for - until too late - to his inexpressible grief.

A letter North says:-

"....because Robinson had to wait on that money, he delayed to tell me. Can I ever forgive him?"

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In a letter to J. Bromley W.W. says: "A little before this Lane had a 'Breakdown'. And ever since, if any of his 'Authors' take umbrage, and their books elsewhere, he will say as soon as they have gone, 'Oh! of course, P...... and again S....... are steeped in laudanum, or worse!' His brain seems to have taken on, say, the attitude which his Mother's might take towards her Dipsomaniac patients! In an outburst, Owen Pritchard confides: 'I suppose he will get this out of his head, it may be true of Phillips, and a few others, but wildly ridiculous about N.B., F.S.O., and R.N. as you and I know. If it occurred only at the B.H. it would not be so bad.'"

Lane says, "Though Spender's name counts here, it is nil in America - and there are carpings at the number of things he left out to suit his Political side in the selected Edition of my work."

By the way, apart from what Lane says, The Westminster, in which practically all the Purple East Sonnets appeared, never paid me one farthing for a single one, though, as you know, in the papers which have attacked me they say, 'Of course, Watson has been well paid to write as he does.'"

'The Athenaeum' staff has a nice fellow named Douglas. I heard he made a stout stand with his Editor on the subject of what he considered the gross injustice the paper had always previously

Immediately after W.W.'s death James Douglas (slowly dying himself) gives a realistic account of the Windsor Park tragedy in his paper.

72

shewn me. I take it the article you saw on my work was of
composite authorship probably - a compromise between Watts-
Dunton and the newer man: To say that I stand almost alone
amongst poets in my sympathy with the most modern thought, as
well as my sedulous avoidance of Archaism in language, is to
say but the truth. Lane is taking in two partners - of whom
Money Coutts is the larger, financially speaking, but he himself
is only coming round after his nerve breakdown and partial
paralysis - fancy, couldn't read a letter even, for months, nor
be consulted, and most of his time spent at Bath in the "Home".
It all occurred in a flash. Sitting in a chair in the inner
sanctum at the Bodley Head, talking to a clerk, he fell forward
speechless.

Meanwhile, Money Coutts is Deus Exmachinae. He will see
to it, that actual disaster is averted, having faith in the
essential, and inherent soundness of the business. He has
virtually taken the helm - in a financial sense too. The writ
serving stage had not been reached, but was imminent! My worst
fears for myself are thus averted - though I need not expect
any money from that quarter for a while, for there is nothing
in the B.H. exchequer.

WILLIAM ARCHER
AND THE BALLAD OF SEMMERWATER.

To W.A. (W.W.writes), "I am glad you think so highly of
'The Ballad of Semmerwater' - I felt I had a native right to

73

the Legend - it was near there that my Mother, Dorothy Robinson, had her roots, and imbibed all the beauty, all the Songs, and her innate gift for choiceness in the things that matter - the things she gave to me.

Semmerwater is a very lonely Tarn, or small Lake, hidden away among the Moors and Fells, between Wensleydale and Coverdale, and not far from the ancient and beautiful village of Bainbridge - where the Romans had a camp, and where a very ancient Custom is still kept up, namely the sounding at Nine in the evening of a Horn, which was blown in Roman times to call in wandering Legionaries. The Horn is still to be seen in a cottage on the Village Green.

I wrote the poem 'At The Rose and Crown' at Bainbridge.

In the Winter of 1898 Harvard University and the John Hopkins University invites W.W. to deliver six Lectures on Poetry. His lectures, though prepared, were never delivered.

In a letter to W.A. he says:- "I consider it a great compliment from Literary America - but I am not certain of being able to go".

RUDYARD KIPLING AND WILLIAM WATSON.

'The Unknown God' was suggested by Mr. Kipling's 'Recessional' which it follows in metre. It asks the question whether God created Man, or whether Man has not always created God, and whether the World does not now worship

74

A God whose ghost, in arch and aisle,
Yet haunts his temple - and his tomb;
But follows in a little while
Odin and Zeus to equal doom;
A God of kindred seed and line;
Man's giant shadow, hailed Divine.

Best by remembering God, say some
We keep our high imperial lot,
Fortune, I fear, hath oftenest come
When we forgot - when we forgot!
A lovelier faith their happier crown,
But history laughs and weeps it down'.

W.W. and Kipling met at The Saville Club in the Smoke Room.
Besant, Clodd, G.K.S. and others were all chatting together -
W.W. amongst them - when R.K. joined them. The two latter
commenced to wrangle about religion - R.K's faith being of a
very primitive brand - he has worked himself up to a white-heat
of rage. Kipling - "You are a sentimentalist, I can see it in
your face, and you haven't seen as much of the World as I have".
Watson - "Not as much of its Surface, I admit", was the withering
reply.

Whispers in the background - "Doesn't the ________ come out
in him when his temper is up".

"Sh!" -

W.W. would describe R.K. as a Vulgar Genius. When Kipling
was ill in America, Lady Randolph Churchill called at the Bodley
Head while W.W. was there, and said, "Oh! Rudyard Kipling has
the right sort of Publishers: His Royal Highness has just had
a cable from America, asking if he will send a message of
The Urasian coming out very strongly in Kipling.

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sympathy - but he isn't going to commit himself - so he is
getting Princess Beatrice to send one!"

## THE RICH UNCLE AND THE FARE.

Some time after the burial at Childwall, Liverpool, of
Mrs. Watson, W.W. was invited to stay a few days with his Uncle
Robinson, who was living at Southport.

The day after his arrival, he was much surprised to see
Mr. Shield come in. He had been friend and lawyer to the whole
family from the earliest days of their coming to Liverpool.
His Uncle said, "Now, William, I want you to give us your
account of the Windsor affair".

I told them both exactly what had happened, and left them
together, and went over to see Bromley for an hour or so. When
I returned that night, I was surprised to receive an invitation
from my Uncle to accompany him to Madeira. I really didn't want
to go, but when I talked to Bromley about it he said, "Go!"
And Shield said "Go!" So I agreed.

He gave me the money to get the tickets, and off we went
in a week's time. I stayed there with him seven weeks - after
the third week, he reminded me I still owed him my fare!! I
was much taken aback, but duly paid him - in fact I had to.

When I returned to Liverpool, I called at Shield's Office
in Harrington Street; and to my astonishment he confided to me,

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that my Uncle had made his Will before he left and made my eldest brother James and myself his 'Heirs'. Shield told me he was adamant against leaving one penny to Robinson.

The Uncle was remarkable for one thing. He made it a code all his life, to have no quarrels. "If anything occurred ot which he disapproved, he took it very coolly and calmly, but he never forgot or forgave! R.W's deceit to him over the bankruptcy decided him there and then not to leave him one penny in his Will, and later his behaviour during the Windsor episode towards me clinched the matter".

The lawyer, pointing this out to Robinson, after the Uncle's death, could never get him to understand it. "My Uncle never mentioned it to me afterwards, and I was sure he had relented", R.W. would say to James Shield.

The Uncle returned to England later, and died at Plymouth.

The two brothers came in for a windfall of over Twenty four thousand pounds. The first thing they did was to hand over Two thousand pounds to Robinson.

"That won't last him long", said James.

He proved right. Within two months Robinson was asking for more.

James took his little hoard to America; and died there a few years later.

x.

Robinson then commenced on a regular campaign of venous

x. At Clifton, Bristol, where W.W. was in lodgings, Robinson bombarded him with demands for money - sheer blackmail. Mostly using postcards.

77

activities, to induce his brother William to hand over to him
many, and often, sums of money which, had he acceded to all his
demands, the result would have been W.W. reduced to penury in
four or five years.

"My Uncle, though all his life very much immersed in money-making, was well aware that I had never sought to make money; but simply to devote such talent as I possessed, to the most honourable uses, of which they were capable; gaining an honoured position, in the face of many disadvantages, the utter absence of influential connections, or outside help of any kind, at the opening of my career. Winning my way to the front rank of contemporary literature, to one of the most genuinely dignified positions which a man can occupy in the service of his country. I felt during my stay with him in Madeira that he was aware of these facts for the first time. I never saw him alive again".

And now we find John Lane acknowledging repayment.

"When your Mother went to live with your brother, and a larger house was taken, I advanced Royalties up to £5 a week, which was continued up to the time of your Inheritance from your Uncle. I well remember your coming into my office, on 2nd March 1899 with a cheque for One thousand pounds in your pocket, which Mr. Shield had sent you on account of your legacy, and saying 'I'm afraid I owe you all of this'.

But on your account being made up a day or two after, it

78

appeared that you only owed me about Five hundred pounds, which
was the second cheque you drew".

Photo of cheque.

Lane certainly behaved generously in making the advances,
and they were genuinely appreciated. But, even after W.W. had
repaid him, he was never allowed to forget his indebtedness to him!
Indeed J.L. brandished his generosity to all and sundry.

A
GEOGRAPHICAL STORY
THE PLAYMATES.

When Stephen Phillip's 'Ullyses' was being played by Tree,
Lane had given One hundred and fifty pounds towards advertising
it - Tree himself gave Two hundred and fifty pounds - all to
help the booming of Phillips! The latter, in an interview in
one of the weeklies he gave about this time, confessed to making
Thirty thousand pounds during that year - probably a far-fetched
statement, though he must have netted a very large sum.

Yet, Lane came to W.W. and asked him if he would pay
Phillips' rent for him - about One hundred and twenty pounds.
A strange request, after the above 'Interview'.

At last - an easeful life - no more reviewing, in fact no
uncongenial work whatever - only the wooing of the Delightful
Muse - Who sells so dear her Fatal Favours - The old zest for
wandering is still there and can be gratified.

The Poet finds himself now deep in some Welsh valley, amid

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towering grandeur, or following from their Source, as two tiny
Streams, those deep-throated Rivers, the Wye and the Severn,
and find with what consummate skill he traces their geographical
story.

"The Playmates".

"The Wye and the Severn are offspring,
Of Dark Plinlimmons' side".

Or up through the English Mountains, where he wrote the
glorious 'Ode in May', or to be gladly welcomed in Scotland,
and that Bonny Land receives in return some of his Noblest Songs!

William Watson could never lower his standard. He abhorred
eccentricity and obscurity, and polished and repolished in his
search for perfect lucidity and precision.

He was incapable of producing anything successful except
when he was at his very best as regards brain power, and bodily
health combined.

No man on earth would credit the labour that has gone into
the making of some of his shortest and simplest looking poems
and lyrics - the process is a most exhausting one. It is the
fashion now to call their Author a Classist, and the term is
certainly no despicable one, but the romantic elements in his
work are so very marked as to suggest a doubt whether the right
label for this many sided Singer has yet been found!

'The Lute Player' of his early days - a love story in Cameo -

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and 'The Ballad of Semmerwater' of his later days might be
cited to confirm this.

Take then 'The Coronation Ode'. Where in the World could
any other Poet, then or now, compete with it? With its glorious
pagentry of the History of England. It was not an inspiration
from this wonderful brain, just to be left high and dry on the
Shores of Edward VII's reign - no, it was written for the Glory
of England down the Ages. Why is it not in every school book
for the Youth of England to learn it? Why - because the School-
masters of England are themselves unaware of its existence.
The German Schoolmasters have beaten them, by setting supreme
value on the teaching of only the Poets that Matter!

In writing 'The Coronation Ode' with all its apparently
easy flowing of line upon line, the difficulties to be overcome
were enormous. The looping of the Colonies so that they clasped
hands with the Mother Country, acknowledging her Rule - held the
'Ode' up for some weeks.

It was to Frederic Chapman that W.W. turned for advice -
Lane's Reader.

"Nine times I sent Chapman a completely new or amended
version, and nine times he returned it with the caustic remark
'No, I can't say I like it', or 'Certainly, better than the
last'.

See 'Man who Saw'. "It is rather the German Schoolmaster will
being Old England down!"

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One day I flung it there, and went off for a ten mile walk
- it was to Harrogate - and lunched at an Inn there at a long
table with about thirty young Schoolmistresses - I had to lunch
at their table, I was the only 'male'! They chattered gaily
together, and to me, certainly shewing great intelligence.
They said they had arranged the 'Outing' at the end of some
stiff examination. Their manners, their talk, and their 'bonhomme'
towards life in general, gave me fresh courage; for on the
homeward walk my 'Ode' just seemed to arrange itself. Before
I went, dog-tired to bed, I wrote it out, and sent it to Chapman.
At Ten next morning I had a wire containing just one word -
'Magnificent'.

A SENSE OF GREATNESS KEEPS A NATION GREAT.

Strange to relate, those particular lines have been the
most quoted of all W.W's work. They dig into the memory.

"Time, and the ocean, and some fostering star,
In high cabal have made us what we are,
Who stretch one hand to Huron's bearded pines,
And one on Kashmir's snowy shoulder lay,
And round the streaming of whose raiment shines
The iris of the Australasian spray.
For waters have connived at our designs,
And winds have plotted with us - and behold,
Kingdom in kingdom, sway in oversway,
Dominion fold in fold".

The 'Ode' received just praise on all hands. There was
no dissenting note. But no word from his King.

The manuscript, as usual, was left in Lane's hands. Watson,

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once he had committed a poem to paper, being ever indifferent
as to its destination.

From time to time J.L. mentions in letters that "So and So"
from America, Italy, or even Spain, "has begged me to give him
a piece of your MS." This is an interesting fact, for later on
in his life he is astonished to find how many reached America!
Principally given by Lane. Why this Giving? Because this
Publisher was well aware that the Author was incapable of setting
a monetary value on his manuscripts, and indeed, never troubled
to inquire what became of them.

Lane may have sold them for 'hard cash'. But more likely
they would be used as 'Bait' to bring off a coveted deal. The
MS. of 'Lacrimae Musarum' is at the present day one of the most
prized possessions of the University at Austin, Texas!

## FIRST EDITIONS AND THE PRINTER'S CRAFT.

To St. Loe Strachy, went the MS. of 'The Father of the
Forest'. The majestic trees around Newlands Corner delighted
W.W. when he paid him a visit.

Dowden, de Tabley, Gosse, and Aubrey de Vere, are a few
to whom the Poet himself gave orders of poems. But rarely, very
rarely, did he give away copies of anything he himself had
written; indeed, throughout his whole life he remained adverse
to 'presenting' as he called it, a MS. to anyone.

Texas: Are you aware?

83

"I certainly place no value whatever upon it, and why should I think that other people will?" The perfectly ridiculous value set upon First Editions of 'just the Printer's Craft' amused and amazed him. In the handwriting of say, some truly great writers, well, that's a different matter."

As an anchorage, at last, we find him at Clifton, Bristol: Thomas Hardy, in a letter at this date says: "You are right about Bristol - its complete absence of Fashion is its chief charm."

His Will has been made afresh! JOHN LANE, is heir to his Copyrights. A goodly sum has been allotted to R.W's children.

To Bromley, he confides, "I shall ask James to join me in setting up Robinson in some safe business, for reasons connected with my own self-interest, mainly, as Robinson's periods of adversity are always sources of inconvenience and anxiety to me and invariably publicity of an ignoble 'character' on his part. To give him the best chance of making a good commercial position for himself will be my aim now!"

When the London Season returns, W.W. is in quarters at 1 Clarges Street, Piccadilly, W.

As the best dressed Literary man in London, is "The Tailor's" comment on W.W. It amused him vastly, for he would describe how, while sheltering from the rain one day near Drury Lane, a blind beggar took a piece of pudding out of his pocket, and generously offered him half of it!

84

## OSCAR WILDE AND DONNE.

From a letter to the North -

"The Wilde case seems to have cast a blight over Lane, who is still in America, smoothing out the tangles there. You remember, no doubt, you started for South Africa the day the Trial commenced. I told Lane in a letter that he had better stay where he was and get over it, and not be publicly identified with anybody who in general belief was tainted with the 'Oscar' sort of thing. I cabled him 'That all Beardsley's designs, five of them besides the cover, Must be Omitted from the forthcoming Yellow Book, or else I would not allow my 'Hymn to The Sea' to appear in it. I got my way, and Beardsley was chucked out - finally too!!"

Lane says he is grateful for what I saved him from, I wonder - for the designs were extremely objectionable.

A truly crucial moment - I hear many of 'Oscar's' disciples are entering the Church! History repeating itself - 'DONNE' - though I doubt if any will reach His Eminence - who knows, only God.

## STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

"My own meetings with Phillips were by no means numerous, but were always very enjoyable, thanks largely to his unfailing gay insouciance which was specially agreeable over a bottle of Port. I liked him, and he appeared to like me, as a man who shared his own freedom from literary humbug. But circumstances, at that

85

time, made it impossible for me not to know of certain matters
connected with what, for the moment, I will call the Lane-Tree-
Phillips boom, and on the ways and means, financial and others,
by which it was engineered".

I reckon myself to have been one of his really discriminating
appreciators, I disliked equally the opposite Thing - the syrrupy
sugarcandiness into which he tended later to fall; but at a point
somewhere between these extremes, he was often very good, and one
accepted his defects as the price of his qualities. Even so, how-
ever, the qualities were not beyond Cavil, and the defects were
really immense.

Stephen Phillips is most unduly depreciated now, but it is
practically a certainty that some of his work will be revived in
the future.

A young Aberdeen Doctor friend, named R.C.Macfie, most loyal,
has been anxious that his 'Alma Mater', Aberdeen, shall honour
W.W., and it is about this time comes the invitation to bestow
the LL.D. on our Poet. It finds him uninitiated, and he turns
for information to J. M. Barrie, as to procedure.

J. M. B's generously expressed letter is well worth reading.

"My LL.D. is St. Andrew's, but the procedure is always the
same. "You will get a tremendous reception, for to Most of the
students, your poetry will be well known. You will realise that
day, if you haven't already, That You have A Great Name in

IT WILL BE OF SCARLET.

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Scotland, and I believe you will be a good deal touched by their enthusiasm. I was delighted to hear that Aberdeen was doing a thing so creditable to itself, for I am among Your Most Fervent Admirers.

The Professors, etc., will all unite in giving you a great time. Yes, you can go up with the certainty that you have nothing to do. They will do it all. You have to go in person - if you can't they wait till you can. J.M.B."

So we find him in the Granite City, given the Great Welcome promised by J.M.B.

From The Palace Hotel, Aberdeen, he writes:-

"The essence of the distinction, I take it, lies in its absolute spontaneity, it being in this case conferred upon a man wholly unconnected with the University, or indeed any University- which happens rarely, I fancy, especially to one whose reputation rests upon no scholastic attainments."

As "The Westminster" remarked, 'Tennyson and Browning were both Doctored at Cambridge, but they were Academic Sons of that University'."

From Aberdeen he writes:-

"Yes, when you are cremated, as you describe it, I'll come and Crease over your cinders. I may wear my Doctor's Robe, I presume? It will be of Scarlet, like your Sins!!"

(Sir James Barrie)

COLLECTING LLD'S LIKE BLACKBERRIES.

87

There is much to be said for that mode of disposing of One's
Vesture of decay - but I for my part have certain hankerings for
rejoining Mother Earth!

The following year, Aberdeen honoured Thomas Hardy, W.W.
travelling up for the ceremony. Hardy, unprovided with a Robe,
was lent one belonging to some tall 'Fellow' - in which he is
described as 'looking quite lost in it, not seeming to enjoy the
ceremony overmuch, and complains that he has left the Spring a
month behind! Frankly, he made us all a bit dreary - but there,
he is a d-r-e-a-r-y little man!!

This One Honour, considered so at that date, from a City in
Scotland, was never to be repeated by any other, during W.W's
whole lifetime. But to Thomas Hardy, his friend, fell the
Honour, and Glory, of collecting them as he would collect
blackberries in a Dorset Lane!

While in Aberdeen W.W. found in an ancient Church, a long
seat or bench, with this inscription 'This seat is for the
Baxters and was give be Tham. 1610'.

W.W. is much preoccupied with the humane issues of Inter-
national Politics. Blatant Imperialism touches him not. He
loathes it. The Armenian massacres arouse in him a wild and
surging Wrath against the Turks, who butchered these helpless
people with fiendish cruelty.

"A poet owes it to himself, and to his public, not to seek
to suppress aught he feels he has honestly written, for what he
conceives his Country's Welfare."

Its value a puff of smoke today when 'all' are Drs.

88

The Sultan of Turkey was massacring his Christian subjects, to the number of about One hundred thousand - helpless people - forbidden even to possess arms, much less to use them in self-defence.

Statesmen were calmly treating all this horror with what looked like complete apathy and indifference on their part. At once large numbers of W.W.'s appreciators ceased to appreciate. The doors of many aristocratic houses in England were closed to him. Large numbers of Society people were alienated. "The Turk was such a Gentleman - and our old ally".

Many literary people take little interest in politics, and have not the least idea of what W.W. has suffered for his opinions. In the middle Nineties his indignation is white-hot against the oppressor. A hater of cruelty, a fierce foe of tyranny, a Fighter out and out for the under dog is he. Half his life he has suffered for his consistency, and is still "doomed to suffer". He was supported by many, but only one name need be mentioned - that of Mr. Lloyd George.

In later years James Bryce, our Ambassador at Washington writes - "As you knew at the time, I was entirely with you, and said so, but had we moved it would have meant War with Russia."

His Epithet - "Abdul The Damned" has stuck in the memory of Englishmen as one of Shame justly come by. This Sonnet -

And was not much English Gold well invested in Turkish Bonds?

89

a Milestone in his life - is not included in the 1936 Volume.

"I AM NOT MAN'S BUT NATURE'S SOCIALIST". WILLIAM WATSON.

TO THE SULTAN ABD-UL-HAMID II.
(during his Massacres.)

Caliph, I did thee wrong. I hailed thee late
"Abdul the Damned", and would recall my word.
It merged thee with the unillustrious here
Who crowd the approaches to the infernal gate -
Spirits gregarious, equal in their state
As is the innumerable ocean bird,
Gannet or Gull, whose wandering plaint is heard
On Ailsa or Iona desolate.
For, in a world where cruel deeds abound,
The merely damned are legion; with such souls
Is not each hollow and cranny of Tophet crammed?
Thou with the brightest of Hell's aureoles
Dost shine supreme, incomparably crowned,
Immortally, beyond all mortals, damned.

However, time flowed on, and the Poet seemed to be partly
forgiven for sympathising with the massacred Armenians, but
then a fresh blow befell him.

The Boer War Broke Out - and with magnificent courage he
"Leaps among the Spears" - telling His England She is Wrong,
and will Have to Pay Dearly In The Future - "Prophetically
True".

In London at his Club, The Devonshire, he has noticed the
waiters whispering together before they served him - their
dalliance irritated him so much he inquired of Thressel, the
Hall Porter, as to what was the matter - "Well, sir, I don't
'old with this 'ere War, but they do!"

The next day news of a frightful reverse came in.

90

On entering the Smoking Room, he saw Joseph Chamberlain sitting in an armchair immersed in a novel. Two hours afterwards he was still there - oblivious of everything but his book!

OSTRACISED.

In the Dining Room W.W. ordered a meal, waited some time, rang for the Head Waiter. Then the truth came out. No One Would Serve Him - Ostracised with a vengeance!

"I never entered the Club for three months after that. I live by choice, quite out of touch with Society, and have spent more than eleven twelfths of the year in the country, mostly alone, and in a small and permanent minority with regard to my views on public affairs.

I have scarcely any friends who share my opinions, which are, indeed, very unpopular. I am in no sense a political partisan, being a plain man who loves Justice, Mercy and Honest dealing in International relationship, and should denounce their violation no matter what Party violated them. While, with respect to my attitude towards the Boers, and the pro-Boer Party in this country, I may fairly claim to have Led rather than Followed Public Opinion.

Considering what I have suffered, in pocket as well as repute, by my habit of speaking out of my own independent thoughts and feelings, about the course and conduct of this

91

Nation's affairs, may well, plead my disinterestedness and
abnegation of self.

Thomas Hardy and Stephen Phillips share my views about
the Boers, as they have admitted in talk with me, but they are
much too Worldly Wise to say so publicly.

I have stood for Right and Light among those who espoused
the Boer Cause, and close by stands Mr. Lloyd George".

'KIRREMUIR'.

William Earl Hodgson delighted to relate how when Lord
Rosslyn brought out a volume of poems he was most anxious to
present a copy to Her Majesty. E.H. offered to deliver it.
So, after having one beautifully bound, Lord R. gave it to
E.H. who started off in the Rosslyn Equipage - got to Buckingham
Palace and presented it... But how he got away, he never knew -
he was so drunk!

E.H. was a source of great fun to Lady Colin Campbell of
Fame who edited, "The Lady's Realm", E.H. being sub-Editor.
She invariably called him, 'Sonny' - he being very tiny, and
she very tall.

Frank Richardson, the Novelist, meeting with W.W. one day
at The Devonshire Club, told him he had just returned from Little-
hampton where he had been staying for a month.

"The day before I left I was sitting on a seat on the front,
sunning myself, when two elderly men came and sat down beside me.

92

They talked loudly in deep Scotch voices. One said to the other,

"Oh! then you knew the Docthor?"

"Oh! yes."

"He used to drink!"

"Ah! He does still."

F.R. said he had a chat with them, and found they came from
'Kirremuir'.

## MACTE NOVA VIRTUTE.

Probably among all of W.W.'s friends, the most enthusiastic and genuine admirer of his work was Churton Collins. Writing from 57, St. Giles, Oxford, on notepaper stamped "Oxford Union Society" in January 1895 he says:-

"Do come and spend a few days with me Watson. I will be delighted. I want to introduce you to a man here - a queer, clever fellow, whose judgment on matters poetical is in my opinion, worth all the Varsity's put together, who was one of the first to recognise you and Robert Louis Stevenson. He yields not to me in enthusiastic admiration of what you have done, and thoroughly agrees that yours is work of permanent quality - the Voice of Posterity.

### Macte nova virtute

Come. As you may guess, because you are not of Oxford, you will not be generally accepted. - Care you? No - Come then.

"The Docthor" Editor British Weekly.

Robertson Nichol.

WRETCHED PHANTOMS AND MOST GIBBERING SPECTRES.

93

I want to get you acquainted with this place, so that peradventure you may make it one of your haunts. The University Sets I abhor and shun - and come here for solitude, and one or two choice spirits who beguile the evenings for me.

We live in a cursed time. In my humble way I have been hammering to get good things read and studied. I don't know whether you saw my onslaught on this wretched place in the Nineteenth Century for February. I think it would amuse you. But to lift up any voice at present is but sowing the Sand, feeding the Wind, darning cobwebs, and whatever else of publicity can be practised.

God be thanked we have at least you to keep the great tradition. Verily, it is as the Psalmist said, "They are all gone out of the way and become abominable, there is none that doeth good".

I hope and trust you will come here, for I feel sure if you come once, you will come again.

Wretched Phantoms and Most Gibbering Spectres represent the Living here, but Memories, and the Dead are Alive, and whispering much to those who have ears. Certainly, you would have to hush up your presence, for they, the Gibbering Living, would swarm around you like bees when the Sun with Taurus rides.

E. Churton Collins.

P.S. Some string pulling went to secure Austin Dobson, that Civil List pension of £250. Just think of it, Watson."

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Churton Collins letter quoting Richard Garnet -
".... R.G. on Thos. Love Peacock is right - The same causes
which restrict his popularity, insure his permanence. Watson,
the same is right with regard to your own work. Clarity, Sanity,
Permanence".

It was at a dinner party at Churton Collins that W.W. met
Madame Antoinette Sterling. They hadn't been introduced.
C.C. said to him, "We never introduce her to anyone now, because
she can't remember for two minutes, and take no notice of what
she does".

As the dinner proceeded 'Mme', who sat opposite W.W.seemed
suddenly to become agitated - got up from the table - walked
once round it, and then again, singing "John Brown's Body",
pathetically and beautifully, returned to her seat and quietly
went on with her dinner.

When the dessert was placed on the table, she suddenly
looked across at W.W. and holding her face in her hand said,
"It takes generations to produce a forehead like yours".

I NEVER INTEND TO MARRY.

Extract from a letter North written by William Watson - 1909.

"Why don't you throw all your troubles to the winds, and come
here - I will be delighted to have you - though my rooms look
pretty chaotic at present - they wouldn't suit Mrs. Bromley. I
suppose a wife would keep them tidy for me - but there - I never

x. This was rather remarkable, because she was quite oblivious
as to who he was.

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)

96

M E.

About the last time that William Watson strolls through
Dublin's highways and byways - when blustering March has arrived.
In a very old house called "Ashmount", surrounded by gardens
and fields, its setting in an unfashionable part of Dublin,
overshadowed by that dread pile Kilmainham Jail, on one side;
and on the other the Royal Hospital, which houses the Chief of
the English Forces, Island Bridge and Richmond Barracks near,
and Red Coats galore, to keep the Peace, or instil Strife?

The very street names proclaim their battlings with a
fateful past - Routerstown, Murthering Alley. Yes, and even
the windows of "Ashmount" can show their vindictiveness, by a
suddenness of shutting, which might spell 'decapitation', or
suspension by the 'middle' for an invader!

Into this environment, comes their fifth child - a girl,
to Mary and Harry Pring - in her Grandfather's home. She comes
without the aid of either doctor or nurse! When Harry Pring,
in the Revenue at Armagh, heard the news, he telegraphed, 'The
baby brings luck, my promotion came today!' At the christening,
as the Man of God took the child in his arms, the father asked
him to 'wait a moment'. The names chosen must be changed; as
it stood it might blight her life, for the initials would be
IMP.

This small girl's earliest memories are, being held up in

OLD KILMAINHAM.

97

her Nurse's arms to watch the Black Flag unfurl over the Jail,
to see the vast crowd of kneeling figures covering the roads
leading to it; praying for the departing Souls, and then to
School, at the Jail itself, kept by the Governor's daughter.

It becomes a familiar sight to see the prisoners with
their hunted look - their despairing eyes - "I wish I could
tear those locks off and set them free", she would assert in
her childish grief at their fate. But even the Jail, sinister
as it stood, towering high above the River Comac, could look
majestic in the setting sun from "Ashmount" windows - for just
below it grew one of the most splendidly rare Orchards in all
Ireland. A vision in Spring, of pink and white beauty like a
gossamer cloud seemed to link the care-free life of the child,
with that of the 'Bound Ones'.

For the illiterate servants there was much letter-writing
to do to soldier-sweethearts quartered in India or elsewhere.
A little variety to their endings would be suggested by their
youthful scribe - but no - "my heart is fairly bustin for love
of you" was the inevitable finale, which brought early knowledge
of deceit.

"Ashmount" Old Kilmainham, built on the site of a Castle of
Strong Bow, was to become an indelible land-mark in the life of
this child - always returning with joy, leaving with sorrow!
The austere grandfather, with his love of books and music;

DUNDALK, EIRE.

98

leader of a choir in Dublin for thirty years; Collector of
original manuscripts, and some of the earliest Irish songs,
which his numerous grandchildren must leave alone, and never
did! The grandmother, much his junior, and the Aunts who
possessed, not just beauty, but that rarest of gifts 'a way
wid them!' To quote a humble neighbour, "Sure then, its them-
selves would entice the birds off the bushes". But they enticed
more than birds, their 'Home' became known, far and near, as
'Open House' on Sundays for lonely young people, engaged in
various businesses in the City, or at the Universities, whose
homes might be, say in far Tyrone, Kerry, Galway or on the
slopes of the Magillicuddy Reeks. There are men and women
living, who have made 'names' for themselves beyond the City
of Dublin, who still remember the old House and its welcome.

The Pring family, numbering seven now, are gathered into
an enchanted home, Dundalgan Castle, Dundalk, alongside Slieve
Gullion, Culan's Mountain, supreme in its beauty, and all the
glorious Range bluely dipping down till lost in the magic of
the Bay.

Dundalk and its people need no Heralding, they are secure
in Ireland's History. Walter Scott stayed in the Town, Thackeray
also speaks of its 'happy inhabitants'. Here too, you will
find a people capable of appreciating genius in another land

99

"As a tribute to the genius
of
Robert Burns
The National Bard of Scotland
and in respect for
the memory of his eldest sister
Agnes
whose mortal remains are
deposited in this Churchyard
Erected
by the contributions of the
Poet's numerous admirers in
Dundalk and vicinity.
25th January 1839".

"Time but the impression stronger makes
as streams their channels deeper wear."

My Father has nicknamed me 'Bunny' - "Wild, like the rabbits",
said he. And sure I agreed - but I tell you privately, that he
and I were much alike. He was a Rover by nature, and he alone,
in the whole household shared my love of poetry; and when I was
'caught' neglecting my lessons for it, Himself would beg me off.

The big family were fun. I loved my home, and of course, it
was haunted! And when Bridget, our Nurse shepherded the lot of
us to bed on wintry nights, with the wind howling among the trees
- yes - and a moan in it too - often enough if I dallied a bit,
she would whisk off with the candle, and sure, you wouldn't blame
me if I conride in you, I went to bed in me Boots!

There were so many to provide for - the food alone devoured
would make one pause sometimes to consider "Which had diabetes
on the sly!" I can never remember being dressed in anything but
navy blue, and between ourselves this is monotonous. Many a time

100

I slipped into St. Patrick's, dipped my fingers in the Holy Water, making the Sign of the Cross, knelt before the Blessed Virgin, and asked - not her intercession for my sins - but that I, Bunny Pring, might one day possess a dress as Blue as her Robe! May I be forgiven!

LORD CLANRICARDE.

In earlier days a great feud was waged at the village of Crossmaglen between it and its Landlord. From the City of London had come orders to the Agent, "If the tenants will not pay the increase in rent, remove the windows". The tenants, too wretchedly poor, cannot pay a penny more, and could only await their fate. Eventually the order came, "Have the roofs removed". The Agent, a humane man, held out against this last order as long as he dared, but his own living was at stake, then he gave in, off came the roofs! Misery, in its most ghastly form, was rife. Children died, and were born, under carts and in ditches. At the height of their agony, one Sunday after Mass, a very old woman, bleak of face, huddled in her shawl, stood by her roofless cabin, and holding up her hand above her head chanted her own and her neighbours wrongs -

"Tis blood money it is, he's asking, and I tell you this, as sure as ther's a God above us, never will he, or those who come after him know Peace, Happiness, or Health, and that's my Curse".

THE IRISH FAMILY.

101

A sorry sight it was to us children in those days, as we
drove through. A dark deed. A darker lifelong lesson.

A long walk to our school at Seatown Place - a mixed one -
kept by two ladies, the Misses Parks. Quite pretty they were
too. Both wore side-curls, Miss Polly and Miss Isabel. Home
lessons I never knew, but invariably help was forthcoming from
a boy on either side. Floored by Arithmetic, Grammar too, the
fundamentals evading me, Geography, well, to this day I can hear
Miss Polly saying, "Bunny Pring, I am determined you shall learn
your own Country thoroughly". And I did. So attractive was the
lesson, so many maps did we draw, that it became 'nice and easy
like' to nod to 'any place, mountain, river, or even streams',
or wasn't Harry Pring himself interested in them, an inheritance
from his ancestor, one Martin Pring of Bristol, Merchant Venturer.

Alas, all too soon came the day when our Father was sent to
England, to Watford. There we were called 'the Irish Family'.
Little they knew of my utter despair as an emigrant. School,
too, was drab and uninteresting, just bald routine, though, to
my own amazement, I carried off the prize for History. Priceless
it was to me. "Nineteenth Century Poets". "The Lute Player" by
William Watson, first favourite!

And I remember well H.P. would read aloud to us from the
English Papers, speeches of Lloyd George. He took a huge interest
in this magnetic Welshman, and before he was finished with us,

THE IGNORAMUS.

102

I too, had become a Bugler in the Welsh Army!

Nine in a Church pew is surely a formidable crowd, but goodly too, for "Will it or no, we must go". My father chose a Church, where he considered the preaching good, and the Preacher cultured, so on Sundays we sit under the benevolent eyes of the Rev. Scott James, and in a pew near by, are his own Motherless Brood.

I had been backwards and forwards to Ireland many times before this reserved family made friends with us.

My Father, just back from overseas, brought his girls Yashmaks, and the boys cigarettes, though he didn't encourage smoking. We were playing at keeping a 'Harem' and a fine noisy one it was too, I can tell you. Choking with the fumes from much smoking, I had climbed the garden wall for air, still retaining the Yashmak, of course. To my great discomfort, who walked beneath, but Rolfe Arnold Scott-James. My get-up had to be explained, and out of this encounter, eventuated a friendship.

From Brasenose come many volumes, Cicero, Plato, etc., etc., to be read and discussed in the vacation. I am taught to define my path in literature, especially in Poetry, for he was a Poet too. Yes, and it was he who asked me once, to define a Philosopher, and finding a blank face and a dumb girl, called me 'Ignoramus' twice!!

THE CATTLE DEALER'S OFFER.

103

You will be hearing too much about B.P. and time is flitting. I am selected to live at "Ashmount", the Grandmother is now alone, her family gone; youth, in her eyes, must be curbed. No gallivanting, no novels, and Poetry indeed!! But nightly a chapter of the Bible must be read aloud, which is deliberately selected by the Grand-daughter to show resentment against tyranny!

One day, a wealthy cattle dealer arrives to buy a Kerry cow my Grandmother owned. I let him in myself, and see there is a good supply of the 'crathur' - indispensable during a deal. It is known to prolong the preliminaries, but a successful issue is practically assured. As the two emerge from the house to make for the fields, I overhear that same Dealer say, "Now what about the Grand-daughter, what price for her?" - joking of course. Up to this time I hadn't had much of an opinion of myself, but from that moment I began to set a value on 'ME' as being 'Something'! Strange enough, it received encouragement from the Grandmother. "Don't think a Duke is too good for you", she would say, "but remember, it's you have to sit round the fire nightly with him". Yes, and that same 'nightly' sitting kept me from many a one.

The Grandmother joins her kindred. And I have seen many lands, absorbed much, have known those possessed of wilting ignorance blissfully happy, those possessed of knowledge sunk in deep depression.

104

Back to the 'Land' I come, and then a letter from England.
"I am not well, will you come back" says my Father, and I do
come, before death steals my loved one, which up to now has
left me and mine alone.

We, a very small remnant now, return where we belong.
Soon, the only bird left in the nest is myself. Very poor, too,
are we, who had plenty. Happily we possess in the balancing
scale, a fine indifference to poverty and its smarting aches
and pains.

In a romantic little home, perches on the rockiest point at
Howth Head, Dublin, the Mother and I take stock of our future,
and well we might, it's none too bright. Her sons can spare
her something, relations, rich enough, indeed, are miserly.
Surely B.P. could fend for herself. Yes, she can, and for a
time becomes Governess to a little daughter of the Under-Minister
of Marines in Paris. Three years pass, and if you wish to hear
all, you must come to England again, to the City of Bath.
An Irish Uncle lives there who invites his sister and myself
to come for awhile. So little do I anticipate pleasure from
this visit that I pack only one dress, other than that in which
I am clothed. The day after our coming I am given a ticket
for a Concert at the Pump Rooms. Lost in wonderment at the
strange and novel surroundings for a Concert, I am only made
aware that the seat next to mine is occupied, by hearing a

105

whispered request for the loan of my programme. As I hand it
over, I find a very friendly, merry pair of hazel eyes, taking
stock of me. Quite naturally, shyness forgotten, do I talk
to this stranger, and he to me. The music, the City, all are
discussed. By taking surreptitious glances, I guess him to be
about forty odd years, striking in appearance; certainly his
speech is that of an English gentleman. I realise he knows a
deal more about me than I do about him, before the Concert is
over, yet I feel captured, somehow!

He insists upon taking me home, but up to the time we reach
the very gate I have not fathomed the enigma of my companion's
personality, though I confess to being curious.

His name is William Watson, he says, and he likes the Irish.
Greatly daring, I invite him in to share some "Irish Tay".
Just see what a sunny day in August can do!

After confiding so much, you will want the rest in plain
black and white, I suppose, and I intending to keep all private.

AT STANTON DREW.

Well, it was out at Stanton Drew, after an hour or two
mostly talking about the stones themselves, we were, that we
fell into talk about 'ourselves alone'.

"The worst of it is I have a very bad temper", said my
companion.

"And", said I, "sure mine would make Fionn McCool himself

106

tremble, and anyway, it's only the people with grand flaming
tempers get things done at all".

And I tell him, just as a consolation, that my Grandfather,
when engaging a new servant in Dublin always took the one
mentioned in her 'Character' as having "A temper too much for
me to put up with". He laughed well over this, and after a
quiet spell said, "Then perhaps the temper could be got over,
but what about the years, with their big gulf which I cannot
'bridge'?"

In the end, we arranged to build one between us.

Clear-hearted in the Golden Air
The Eternal lyrist flew:
But dark and full of silence were
The stones of Stanton Drew.

And that same day, in a happy 'malice aforethought' mood,
I return home to tell of my intention to marry. The marrying
they seemed to take casual like, but when I added "he's a Poet,
just what I always wanted", you might have thought by their
silence I had done a murder on the Lord Lieutenant himself!
And from the kitchen regions can be heard a shrill whistling
"God Save Ireland" by my Parrot. Then they find breath.

"I won't allow it", said the Aunt. "You won't be asked"
said I. "And a Poet too! Both of you to starve in a garret".

After a while, the little Mother steals a look at defiant
me, at bay, and senses "I have found the 'One' I can sit round
the fire nightly with".

MY FRIEND AND PUBLISHER.

107

The morrow is more peaceable. William Watson makes clear the desires of his heart, and the ability to support a Wife, penniless though she comes to him. The relations, easy in their minds now since "no money" is discussed beyond that of the suitor's own, give way. I, watching from an upper window, know my fate, by his way of walking, by the exalted poise of his head as he takes his leave.

"My published writes 'Come back from Erin'," says William Watson when next we meet, but as my only get-at-able friend, in this month of holidays, he agrees to uphold me on the 'Eleventh'. Yes, as soon as that, comes our marriage day, and my Poet, already fitting me into his life, has inscribed in his Prayer Book: "William and Maureen Watson, Bath, August 8. 1909". On that same Eighth day of August, William Watson plays for his future wife, the Bridal March in preparation. The Wedding is duly solemnized in the sight of God and Man, and in future I write as WE.

"My Friend and Publisher" has stipulated that both the marriage and the new book announcements, shall see daylight together - "An advertisement too good to be missed".

Not till later, do we realise what our acquiescence entails.
Nothing more or less than separation, for at least a week!
Some bad blood comes out between them, as you may guess, but a
promise is a promise, so accordingly, William and Maureen, his

108

Wife, with the Parrot between them, travel to London. In a
near-by carriage are the Mother, and John Lane.

At the Russell Hotel, Publisher and Author take leave of
us. We are to camp there for the night, and return to Ireland
next day, to await 'his' coming.

What a night!! My Mother, between her sobs, tells me that
John Lane, during the journey from Bath, has poured out so much
"Vitriol" against my husband, that she demands, even if I am
married to him, I will flee tonight - never to see him again,
and certainly never live with him!

Slowly I take it all in. He accuses Watson of being a
madman, and can prove it, he says, and all this just after the
marriage, though he, John Lane, has been backwards and forwards
between the Hotel in Bath and my Uncle's home many times before
it. What is the explanation? Is it the champagne, vitriolic
hatred, or what?

"Describe him in the carriage", I say, to gain time to
think.

"Well, he bought a large bag of gooseberries before the
train started, and as I declined any, he sat eating them, and
dozing alternatively, and then commenced by saying "I got very
little sleep last night. W.W. would insist on sitting up to talk
about his future". Then he started and told me. But when I
begged him to help me save my daughter he just said, "OH! it's
easy to disappear".

109

"May be", said I, "but I don't intend to disappear to
please him. And remember, having put my 'hand to the plough'
I am going on. I don't believe him, he's a mighty liar, but
he cannot separate us. And he won't."

She is still 'fearful' when we reach our Rock-bound home,
and 'determined' still is her daughter, who has locked "all
up in her heart".

Unconscious do I leave my husband, as to his friend and
publisher's rank treachery. A letter or two comes daily, and
the telegrams soon need a case to themselves!

The new book is out at last. And at night time, by the
light of a fine 'Paddy's Lantern', William Watson sails over
to me.

Together we roam around Dundalk, my early home captures
his fancy. "It explains much", he says. But what that 'much'
is, I am not allowed to fathom. The Hotel might be better,
or when William orders Welsh Rarebit as a savoury, and the
Waiter delivers 'scrambled egg', I notice a pained look on
his face.

Clement Shorter is anxious to have us as tenants for
Knockmoroon, Missenden. And there, begins my wrestle with
housekeeping. Principal bugbear - cooking. Is not my Man
English? therefore I must see it is good. And Shorter's garden,
if it had the gift of speech, could tell of many an elaborately

MOTHER BEETON.

110

planned meal going under the 'Sods' - "Buried darkly at dead
of night". My patient husband sallies forth to buy me a
.X.
"Mother Beeton", and here is his inscription and you are
welcome to read it.

Photo
A LENGTH OF THE SHANNON.

In Shorter's library are all the Poets - and with my own
as chief, a great happiness and contentment pervades there;
and we make it our stronghold, and can be irresponsibly inclined
or the reverse, but when I insist upon writing "will" for "shall"
in the manner of Ireland, we actually fall to quarrelling, as he
sits in 'Swift's' place and I in 'Stella's', an unbreakable
habit.

Welcome too, are we made by the people that matter. By
this, I mean, of course, the ones endowed with brains, and
sometimes the ones without, are the most amusing. They can be
very polite to the Irish, and some confess to me that the Irish
are a charming Race really, and nauseous to me is 'charming' in
that quarter. Others, with eyebrows lifted pretty high, condemn
the brogue, mine included, I add, - internally of course.

But it is at Stafford House, with all its grandeur, that I
quarrel with a great English Lord, who has bet me a length of
the Shannon he owns, that I can't repeat 'One single unjust Law

.X. To my wife Maureen this exposition of the culinary art is herewith lovingly inscribed by her virtuous but voracious husband, William Watson.

111

put upon Ireland'. I give him the 'Very Worst' - that a 'Land-
owner Can Demand The First Night With The Bride of any man marry-
ing on his Estate'. A rare fishy look comes into his eyes, when
I waive my rights to his bit of the Shannon.

THE TOUGH STEAK.

I see too, he is beginning to think a Poet may marry a
viper or worse. I don't tell William.

Lane has been down. The new book is going well, he tells
William, but the papers want to know who 'Miranda' is, and who
the Woman with the Serpent's Tongue. But William smiling says -
"I have met a good many in my time who would adorn the label".

Lane hands him some American headlines.

"Is it Lady Cardigan or Mrs. Asquith?" naming two English names, but no Irish among them I am glad to note.

"The discussion is good for Sales," says Lane.

"I hate to think that a chance poem obliterates my whole
volume in their eyes", says William.

"Are you very interested in your husband's book?" says
Lane, across the table to me, between chews of tough steak.
But there, I have no conscience where he is concerned, indeed
I congratulate myself on my magnanimity that I feed him at all,
returning so much good for evil.

"Yes", drily. "Very much interested in it".

Owen Pritchard has been down before him, and has confided

112

Lane's description of the Bride. "Like a piece of Dresden China!" "Not nearly so useless, and brittle will he find me", is my reply to the Doctor, who by his devotion to William, already has my trust, and never once during the years is that trust misplaced.

"I shall see with your eyes, and hear with your ears", says my husband, and seemingly he does, for in his new Poem I recognise little bits 'passed on' in rambles through the country side.

Now, he is deep in work, after explaining "long silences" do not spell ill humour, or dissatisfaction with life in general. I must learn not to take amiss an absorption so deep as to continue some weeks - yes, and even perhaps for months, for his Lode-Star is 'Perfection'.

Often, too, he paces up and down the length of a ship's deck in the garden, under a starry dome, hands clasped behind him, conning new lines. A murmur as of many bees wafts in through the windows of Knockmoroon, and then an eager happy face appears.

"I am finished at last", is the joyful call, "all has come right! I hope you understand". I do indeed, thank God. We are glad, and make merry, just as though a great fortune had been lavished upon us. Indeed, more than gold and precious jewels to him is the 'Weaving of This Woof'.

No snake has penetrated our garden so far, barring one, no

A MEAN TRICK.

113

disaffection that cannot be squared. Shorter carefully reminds us in advance of our rent. I am on friendly terms now, with many an Editor, and very human and sympathetic too, are they, and sure, isn't it principally by their grace, we are fed and have our being?

That stalwart Scott, Ronald Campbell Macfie, who values poetry, and its making, much more than medicine, has already shared with us, and many another. I watch R.C.M. away, in a fervour of joy, since his book has been praised unstintingly by William! Praise too, he receives from me, in that 'Food' counts not at all - all the same is bad or good cooking, when they are hot on the trail. Hey ho!

Many a mean trick contemplated by me, is nipped in the bud by W.W. - such as 'lifting' say, "Wuthering Heights" from Shorter's well-stocked shelves. "One must be rich, or an Editor, to gather so many books, but you wouldn't find all a delight, either. Let him keep his possessions", says he. "What does a man want with Forty feet of books, anyway?" say I. But Emily Bronte with whom I have an affinity, goes back into her niche!

W.W. "Seven invitations in a week, to lecture in America, and promises of more. If I hadn't burnt those letters I wrote before we met, it might be managed now. I wonder!"

M.W. "What?"

114

W.W. "If you would like to go, I have always wanted to, but somehow going alone always deterred me".

M.W. "Most decidedly, if you go I go."

And in one short week, we are aboard that grant ship the Lusitania, bound for U.S.A.

The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue.

She is not old, she is not young,
The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue,
The haggard cheek, the hungering eye,
The poisoned words that wildly fly.
The famished face, the fevered hand, —
Who slightes the worthiest in the land,
Sneers at the just, contemns the brave,
And blackens goodness in its grave.

In truthful numbers be she sung,
The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue;
Concerning whom, Fame hints at things
Told but in shrugs and whisperings:
Ambitious from her natal hour,
And scheming all her life for power,
With little left of scanty pride;
With venomed fangs she cannot hide;
Who half makes love to you today,
Tomorrow gives her guest away

115

Burnt up within by that strange soul
She cannot slake, or yet control:
Malignant lipp'd, unkind, unsweet;
Past all example indiscreet;
Hectic, and always overstrung, -
The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue.
To think that such as she can mar
Names that among the noblest are!
That hands like hers can touch the springs
That move who knows what men and things?
That on her will their fates have hung! -
The Woman with the serpent's tongue.

"And what of the Ship, the great brave vessel,
Buffeted, howled at, patient, dumb."

Captain Turner rides her straight through a fog, so dense
you could cut it. Mountainous are the Seas, and all through
the Storm my 'Mate' is in his element, pacing the deck, evolving
in his mind the nucleus of a lecture.

We dock to time. And on the morrow a prideful Me reads
the great headlines from the papers -

In New York Today

"A Prince of the Royal House of Song"

I am proud I married William!

116

At six o'clock sharp, telephone bells ring. By nine o'clock, they may just ring! W.W. congratulating himself he has never learnt to handle one, and vows he never will. By ten o'clock, the corridor outside our door seems full of men.

M.W. "Shall I be Kate Barlas?"

W.W. "Yes, if you will."

"Are you the Irish Bride of the Poet?" drawls their spokesman, as I endeavour to hold the fort. So enticing are their manners towards me I feel Uppish, till, later, finding all my Species sit on a Pinnacle, become Downish.

Having captured William, their prey, he returns to me shaken, saying "Never again", which interpreted, means much.

The evening papers brindle with Attacks on the Poet, for 'attacking Womanhood'. Man is certainly not Lord of Creation here, it is Women or Woman. Unbelievably Women are the Rulers for good or ill, in this land.

The battle of serpents tongues rages loud and long. If it does not portray one woman, then it does betray a certain type, and is deadly in their eyes!

## THE YAPPING CUR.

"For God made the arrows that around life Whirr, And the thunders that above life peal, And he made, too, the miserable, mangy little Cur, And its instinct for yapping at one's heel."

Yes, and that godly, Reverend Doctor Aked, just lately

117

arrived, after bidding a tearful farewell to his Flock in
Liverpool in answer to a 'call' value 100,000 Dollars, leads
even the Churches to damn us.

I become a Heathen now. William says "I prefer the heathen".

The morrow deluges us with Cancelled Lectures and Receptions-
all of which we consider with great placidity, 'outwardly'. And
before the last Bark has ended, a voice of Nectar comes over the
'phone.

"Are you Maureen Astore?"

I repeat the question audibly, and in my husband's face
read consternation there. "That can only be Robinson," he
says. "Better to face him". And down I go to prepare the way.

Yes, Robinson Watson it is, with a son. His talk is good,
and most suave to me, but my heart is hard towards him, though
I am polite with my lips. The son is handsome, and about my
age, but I distrust him when he says, "My Uncle is to be
congratulated".

Then William comes.

Not one reference do the brothers make to the past, but
amicably chat about the present. Robinson advises sueing the
papers for libel, but William says, "No, they may just fizzle
on as long as they like, we are hardened now."

Robinson invites me to drive with him in Central Park.
My answer is, "No, thank you", and I receive a look which makes
even me quail.

118

William dines them that night. I do not go down, but
write to Ireland.

There are two doors to our room. One has a key, the other
none. While alone, I hear the locked one 'tried'. Determined
not to be disturbed, I drag the huge dressing-table to blockade
the other door! Later, I hear it also is tried, and resists!

We two, have a special whistle to announce ourselves to
each other, so I know a stranger lurks there.

William returns, and I tell him. "Probably Robinson,
thrusting himself where he is not wanted" says he in a fury.

GENTLEMEN OF CREDIT AND RENOWN.

Next day, that second door has its appendage, and through that
same door, I enlarge "On the gentlemen of credit and renown
one meets in the Newspaper Profession in England', to the
reporters on the other side. But I don't let William hear.

New York - magnificent in a Snow Storm - meets our eyes
next day. But on and on, for days, it continues to snow, and
we become droopy in the fetid air of our Hotel, and Robinson
still dogs our steps, so that we wish ourselves 'away'.

We have made friends with various people who take us at
our 'Worth', but one in particular appeals to us. His talk is
mostly about 'Down South'. His people have kept a Diary for
Centuries, and as he trots out bits from it, mentions how, at t

"STEAL AWAY TO JESUS".

119

this time of year, a warm sun gently penetrates into one's house.
William looks across at me, and quite casually says, "I believe
my Wife is longing to be there".

The Prisoners slip away with a 'Goodbye' to none. Daily,
nightly, and hourly, are we carried into Summer. On through
gigantic forests we clank, over breath-catching bridges we joly,
through sylvan glades of amber glory - pass too, impossible
shacks and tiny churches, like furniture Crates, each with a
fine big Bell on top, and we laugh over the black congregation,
dolefully dressed up in what look like Elizabethan clothes.
And they carry Bibles as big as a hearse!

I catch glimpses of Emigrants from many lands, including
my own, and tears for their 'lostness' deck my eyes, and I
whisper to myself "How brave".

All looks very faery as we flit through vast lonelinesses.
Swamps covered by gigantic grasses, and a Moon, so large, so
bright, binding all in beauty, shows up tiny villages like so
many glow-worms, housing a happy patient people.

"It is from about here came that singularly haunting
melody "Steal away to Jesus", whispers my William. My eyes
are in a mist again, and his are too.

In St. Augustine we stay, and bank in its delight. William
buys a shady hat. The man who sold it, dines next to us at the
Hotel table.

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"That's as it should be in God's own Country", we confide.

Sleep is good and sound, and waking I find a smiling black-
faced Mammy peeping round the door saying, "Ten o'clock, Marm".

"No more Porterhouse Steaks, No more corroding care", sing I,
as I reach the garden of the Alcazar to join a happy man.

"I was up at six to explore", he says, "and it seems a
Paradise".

"Be careful of intruders", I mumble from the depth of an
orange.

"Strange, I can feel no resentment here, after all our
hurts, can you?" he continues.

"Plenty", I say, turning my back to hide my face, "only they
don't show".

We explore together. Outside that garden are great tanks
of Crocodiles - yes, actually Crocodiles, which I can safely
worry by knocking on their abode with a stone, and end up by
suggesting it would be a good place to 'dump enemies in'!
He laughs immoderately.

"IN THE MIDST OF THE SEAS".

That very evening he has receded within himself. I know
Work has seized upon him by the 'rapt' expression on his face,
as we stroll along the Coral Strand, oh, real coral, and watch
a sunset like a vast opal, embrace everything, including our-
selves. I am happy to share it with William.

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So my Poet becomes a Monk, leading an asthetic life for
days. I watch him shun me and slip away into shady lanes.
And though I fain would follow, he treads a path so narrow,
only 'One' will fit.

I am humble and keep to myself.

Paddling under the lee of many gardens, a distant joyful
whistle rings out; from no bird there it comes, sure its
beyond even them! Bare of foot I race on and on through
countless shrubs, and giant cocoanut trees, and arrive scratched
and sore before 'Himself' who greets me with "Like to hear it?"

And so, "In the Midst of the Seas" was born.

"Let them not dream that they have known the ocean
That have but seen it where its Spume is shed."

In a Golden Trance, I cover my bleeding feet.

At Key West our boat (from New Orleans) takes on a motley
crowd of passengers. We dine in the Hold, at a table the ship's
length, and my dignified husband seems surprised at the 'Serving'.
I like it. From the end of the table you flick the dish of say
"Beans" to the top with one huge slide and vice versa, your
finger and thumb must be 'steel' of course, and a huge voice
bellows "Go Ahead". A diversion from this miracle comes when
William repeats, as an aside:

"I'm Mr. Spurgons Haberdasher
Oh God, oh Montreal!"

HIS VALUES OF AMERICAN REPORTERS.

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Here, at Vadado, on the shore, where huge waves drag up
and down, we bestow ourselves. Not in any fine hotel in Habana,
thank you.

"Dese come for a year", says the porter, with the eunuch's
voice, as he lugs my trunk to our room. We have lived lately
among such beauty, it's a change to consider other things.

The Morrow Castle poking up gaunt and rusty at ebb tide,
turns us to History, and I can preen myself here, with some
knowledge, as we wander among antiquity. Everywhere are people
with liquid eyes, seductive smiles, and voices a blackbird might
envy.

True, the Press seek us out, but we are accepted, and made
much of. To one Reporter, with the presence and manners of a
Grand Senior, I am able to confide some things on my mind anent
his fraternity in America, and with a great surge of joy in me,
I see him go slightly behind and heave out a huge spit, before
he clears his throat sufficiently to give me His Values.

Every morning with clockwork regularity, our Proprietor
and Proprietress give us their greeting in passing, and every
morning they wind up by enquiring if their food pleases our
honourable palate; William ignores all this, but politely I
praise, as is customary in my Country, right or wrong.

I DONT TELL WILLIAM.

123

When Chinese collect for the wash, their memories fail them where, say English collars, are concerned! So to appease an irate husband, I sally forth "Like Dalilah thy Wife" to demand his.

"No English lady ever goes there" says our horrified concierge.

I am not an English lady, so I defy him, and find out Li Hung Chang's abode.

It appears empty, so I go poking down an entry, where I hear gurgling of water, and through a slit, I peep at eight or nine yellow, impossibly thin scarecrows of Chinamen, thinly clad, all busy ironing collars, with Li standing like an immobile Schoolmaster with a long cane in his hand pointing to faults in their work.

Too fascinated to move, I see each fill his mouth with water from a huge can, which stands near, and as their separate irons pass up and down over the glossy surface, each yellow mouth sends out jets of water, warm now, just ahead of them!

When the pile of collars, magically "gotted up" rise like a column, I feel Li Hung's eyes meet mine, and I flee.

Until we are safely back in England, I don't tell William.

Night time there, can be weird in the extreme. Turkeys gobble gobble till Dawn, everyone keeps and eats them, and other insects 'bleat' till the stranger blocks his ears, like the Poet Spencer, and gets peace.

124

A great storm is another thing though. "Cannon at sea" I mumble, drowsily. "Much more than Cannon", says a voice, "you must get up, it's too good to be missed". I pity myself, but get up, and out through the huge rage we struggle, to be faced with a Purple Sea having cast across it sheets of hissing flame which threaten to envelop us in its livid beauty. I am cowed and flee. The Intrepid One, stands entranced before it. I can see him from my stand of safety, till Dawn.

We lunch at the Hotel Granada, in the Town, and at the corner Kiosk William has captured some New York papers. They lie near his chair on the floor, neither of us are interested in reading them, except for scraps about England. The 'Tongue' no longer occupies columns.

Idly I pick one up, wider grow my eyes, and my throat seems taut as a snake's, as I read on and on from one to another.
I look across at William.

"Before we go have a liqueur brandy", I seem to squeak.

"Thanks, yes," is the answer, in a rather surprised voice.

He has it, while I pretend to read, and then I start "Robinson". "Don't mention his name to me", he implores. "But I must". I pass him the New York Times to read.

At first sight its import appears to evade him, then as he reads on, I see a face so stricken, lips so blue, I force water between them, keeping quite silent, but I have taken up

SINN FEIN

Ourselves Alone.

125

.x.

my napkin, and copying the 'Washer at the Ford' I make a figure
of R.W's head, hinting what I could do to it. At that William
recovers. I listen to many things which were vague when told
me before. I was a girl then, since, he has tunnelled deeper
into my heart.

Robinson has again betrayed his brother. He has had his
pound of flesh, I will have mine too.

"Robinson proclaims you 'mad' to the whole world", I say baldly, "and never once mentions that your Wife is with you. Therefore, anything you may say will be used against you. So will you trust me to settle the account with him?" "Yes, indeed", he says.

I am become as a River in Full Spate, as I plan my cable
to the papers that matter.

"Havana. December 1909.
Mr. Robinson Watson's message to the World is a
wicked attempt to ruin my husband, Mr. William
Watson's reputation in America. It accords well
with his conduct for years past."

My Rocket arrived - for later news comes over the sea, that
my cable has greatly damaged him. In his eyes, it is I who have
the Serpent's tongue.

A product now of Sinn Fein - I confide to William John Lane's
treachery, and when you read 'A Vignette' it may possibly occur
to you that it was approved of in close circles!