INTO THE HIGHLANDS OF THE MIND LET ME GO.

9

When William had read him, he was keenly disappointed at not
seeing him in the flesh.

About this time he persuaded his Mother to buy him
volumes of Keats and Shelley - these were First Editions,
and could be bought cheap at that time, - a fairly rare
Shakespeare he already had, - and this had been studied no
doubt wisely in one way, but unwisely in another, for the
print was bad, and his manner of reading worse, as he walked
in the surrounding country, or among the sand dunes on the
Southport shore. For at this time his eyes began to trouble
him, and a well-known Liverpool Opthalmic Surgeon ordered
black glasses "Or you will be blind in six months". The
glasses were worn three months, the small print Shakespeare
put aside, - eyes right!

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

Definitely, not until it became apparent that Literature must
come first; "Paradise Lost" he had committed to memory at
nine years old, and his parents were told by the Master that
their son had the best French pronunciation in the School.

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

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

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

THREE BROTHER'S.

10

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

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

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

About this time it was whispered in Liverpool that William Robinson was becoming a rich man, and in a lesser measure John Watson was certainly very prosperous. The menage was well run-three maids and a manservant were kept -. Summer holidays seemed to be principally spent among the Welsh mountains or those of Westmorland - Grasmere, for preference. "Broadgate", an old house with its garden near the Rothay, would be generally booked in advance, and in their own carriage, with the Father driving, the family would set out - in a very leisurely way - but it was a sine qua-non that the first glimpse of the

ABILITY FIRST.

Mountains, must be seen in daylight. Often this required a halt en route, probably at Kendal, and after arrival, perhaps it would rain for a week, - indeed it is recorded, once it rained for two weeks, -- But then, - how well worth the waiting it was to see the grandeur of the mountains emerge in that wonderland, and a climb to Easedale Tarn in the evening would be undertaken by Father and Sons.

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

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

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

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

JAMES BROMLEY

A Great friend - James Bromley, - had inherited the
business from his Father, and though indefatigable in
seeing to it, he was already rich, and could indulge his
pet taste of being among the literary men of his ken and
day, - and buying books. Blessed with a taste for the
best only, his library became filled with the pick of
the Present and the pick of the past. Numerous and rare
books were among them - two volumes of the Kilmarnock
Burns, with many notes in the Poet's handwriting - and
much Burn's manuscript - Wordsworth rarities, and
countless others. His collection was quite free to
his friends to browse upon, and nothing gave him more
pleasure than to have young, interested, and interesting
men at his hospitable table, - the evenings given over
most probably to literary discussions - for he had dug
deep and well, and was a mine of knowledge. The
'Derby's' of that day, acknowledged indebtedness to him,
for bringing obscure facts concerning their family to
light.

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

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

A YOUNG MAN WITHOUT A HERE AFTER.

13

Hall Caine - at that time frequenting The Green Rooms, in Liverpool, and free-lancing for most of the papers, but *actually* earning his living as cashier in the office of James Bromley of Lathom (Architect and Builder) and dubbed by Bromley in later years "the Best collector of rents I ever had!" -

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

## A Sketch.

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

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

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

The following month finds W.W. in London. He became acquainted with a young man named MacKay - about his own age - who told him this, "As Mother and I walked down Bond Street one day, I spotted Whistler coming towards us on the opposite side, in his rather singular garb. I told my Mother who it was. (she was an old Scotch lady) After looking hard at him she said, 'That's a young man without a hereafter'."

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

THE PILGRIMAGE TO TENNYSON.

14

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

At Farringford, on being shewn into the library, a young man, older than himself, came forward to greet him with outstretched hand. It was Hallam Tennyson, and during the talk that followed between the two young men, Tennyson himself joined them. He had been at work upon a play he said.

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

Tennyson advised him strongly against looking for Poetry for a livelihood. "Look at Browning," interposed Hallam,"- he only makes £200 a year." The Laureate threw a reproachful look at his son, as though to say that was not a matter to be discussed. Browning, however, came in for severe chastisement

I WAS A MAN AT SEVENTEEN.

15

from Tennyson. "What do you see in Browning's Poetry that
should not be there?" he said. "His scaffolding is too
visable", said W.W. "Right," said Tennyson,

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

Hallam accompanied W.W. back to the Inn. In the course
of the walk he was astonished to find William only seventeen.
"Why," said he, "my Father thought you much older. He will
be surprised when I tell him, but I wish you had told him
yourself." (Many letters passed between Tennyson and W. W. in other years.)

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

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

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

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

'COLUMBUS' AND AMBASSADOR HAY.

16

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

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

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

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

The most insistent voices came from the two brothers e But then, what business?. "Certainly not mine," said Uncle William, - "he is useless where money is concerned." "Then it must be mine," said the Father, and forthwith a season ticket for Liverpool was taken, and for six months or so William accompanied the other three members of the household to business every morning - spending the hours 'principally in collecting debts due from other firms.' "I was always received very politely," he said, "and mostly brought home all the cash, or something on account, but of course it was

rapidly seen that I should make no headway in the business
line in my Father's or that of any other."

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

About this year, John Watson is called as a
JURIS to the Assizes. He comes home horror-stricken by
the fearful sentences given. 'Five years for stealing a
sack of potatoes.' - Indeed, he has publicly protested in
Court and been reprimanded. So much is he 'moved' that
he 'moves' his son William to write a Letter of protest
to the papers. This letter was destined to have such an
effect upon Public Opinion, that the pendulum swing in a "too"
opposite direction towards lenience, it was said.

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

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

THE TEN POUND LIMIT.

18

He is still tripped up by family quarrels, anent his incapacity to earn a living, - generally after the brothers had goaded the Father, as to his partiality to William, - or his 'injustice' in allowing one son to do 'nothing'. The gentle Mother steadfastly refused to take any side at the time, - but, when William's book is ready, then she urged her husband to pay for its publication. - Thus it was that "Epigrams" (G.G.Walmsley, Liverpool) appeared in 1884. Five or six hundred copies were printed, costing the father Twenty seven pounds, It certainly had no monetary success, but its publication was epoch making, for the critical fraternity, at that date, were critics indeed. - (They themselves must go through the mill). So the little book received its just due, and its Author's name became known beyond the borders of Lancashire.

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

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

At Barnstable, he was much struck with the inscription to Grenville. "Tennyson took the whole of it for his poem 'The Revenge'," said W.W. A poem he had himself a very great admiration for.

Up the Clyde too, at this time, and the visit to

FAITHFUL TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

19

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

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

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

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

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

Writing to a Yorkshire friend he says -

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

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

THE ROLE OF EVANGALIST.

William often described Robinson, his brother, as having dark flashing eyes - a magnificent head of curly black hair of which he was inordinately proud, small hands, (not like mine) one injured on the knuckles by imitating Blonden in a youthful feat at School, average height, rather round-shouldered. Anything he took into his mind to do he would Do - in the most intensive, persistent way imaginable. For example, - he greatly admired a young lady living in Ormskirk, and pressed his attention so vehemently upon her, that in desperation she went to his Father's office to protest, "I hate him," she said, "will you stop him from pestering me."
His gift for public speaking brought him under the notice of the 'Powers that Be' of the Wesleyan Methodists - he already belongs to them by dint of family tradition, - and now they claim him. He becomes one of their Evangalists, and for that leaves his Uncle's business.

His fervour was intense, his success instantanious. All over the country, from North to South, and East to West, the biggest hall will not hold, nor quarter hold, the multitudes which collect to hear him. In many towns he is carried shoulder high to the pulpit, wherever it might be set up,- (sometimes in a large barn) - indeed he could reach it no other way. Or, weather permitting, he gave his discourse in the open air. At the end of each meeting, young and old flocked up to the Penitent form. His name

B O Y . C .

THE PENITENT FORM.

21

became one to conjure with! What magnetism did Robinson Watson possess 'To draw all men unto him' in such a manner? He was avowedly a huge success, an invaluable asset. At the end of each service a collection would be taken. — Robinson received no settled salary, but from the collection would take what he considered sufficient for his expenses. These latter would not be great, 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 with any certainty what had actually happened.' The Wesleyan Heads

AN ENIGMA AND THOMAS HARDY.

22

kept silence; others 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
possessions, 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 Evangalist 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.)

Photo

THE POET ROBERT BURNS.

23

Local associations should certainly include Robert Cunningham Hall of Aigburth - that noble hearted, enthusiastic friend of both American and English men of Letters. His son, Cunningham Hall, told W.W. that Emerson had stayed with his grandfather 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 grandfather of his being actually in the presence of Burns. He said, "My grandfather, when a youth of about Eighteen, was in the company of Burns at the house of Burn's 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 reminiscence.

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. & 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".

THE LUTE PLAYER.

24

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', 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 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 it's 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.)

*X. might be in Appendix*

THE RUSSIAN PRIEST.

25

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 it's 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

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

as he waved a brazier too 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.

THE PHOENIX PARK MURDERERS.

26

The Watsons and James Bromley had a mutual friend, Edwin Dean, (an Uncle, by the way, of the Zebrugge) 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 it's 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 Phoenix Park murders set the seal against this, however. Sometime, 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 fatal spot, - and its meself knew Joe Brady well. (One of the murderers) He was one of the best intantioned young men that ever lived." *(Strangely enough, Brady had been the sweetheart of a valued servant at the Dowdens.)*

Their friendship remained good until Dowden sent him his "Life of Shelley," "I wrote and told him it was too biased 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

In 1939
a meeting with
Mr Geo Philo of Cambridge, executed the following.

"It was my lot to meet this Tony woman at the equivalent Home in Temporly, close to 'Bunners Aries.' At the same time, in the year 1891, when she confided to me her sad tale, she firmly believed Joe to have been innocent."

TABLE RAPPING.

27

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, to stay with his brother - a Minor Canon there.

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 hugh 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.

X

'THE SPECTATOR'

28

All his life John Watson has been subject to fainting attacks on rising in the morning, - these tend 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, Doroty. 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 come 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. 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, and 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.

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.

THE BOON OF LEISURE.

In a letter William Watson says
"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 simply on him and nothing else.
The result was, - that my late piece of airey 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. 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

'LYRIC LOVE'

30

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 collossal,
unforgiveable, and utterly shameful."

In "Poems", a slim volume appeared, and later in
the year "Lacrime Musarum" - through Macmillans, and "Lyric
Love" commissioned by them for their Golden Treasury Series,
the latter causing it's 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.

The First Edition, dedicated to M.R.C. has as 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 the MacMillans inner sanctum
beside that of Rudyard Kipling. (His final break with Macmillans
came in 1893).

THE INSANE WIFE.

31

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 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, knowing 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. - Judge now, for yourselves, whether all is Easy for those who follow the delightful Muse....!

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 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 *deaciple*

Photograph here

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)

33

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, there 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.

Macmillan's 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 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, - and we

THE VISIT TO MEREDITH.

34

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, however, 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. His daughter, but she is not allowed to read some of her Father's books for fear of corruption!

They have three Dachshunds, which I envy.

On our way back to Dorking the G.A's said to me, 'Now 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.'

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, while writing the Poetry? You forget, I am not a Poet of the profuse or exuberant order, like Shelly, - nor yet of the prolic and

35

THE TYPE OF GRAY.

unequal type, like Wordsworth, who produced great quantities
of tame and dull work, together with a few immortal but
exceptional successes. I am rather of the type of Gray e
a slow, scanty producer of highly polished and concentrated
work.

A WRETCHED OLD SENSUALIST.

36

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.

Photo of Miss C.

"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."

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 Bodley Head, and he expressed himself to Lane and Me 'That his Father was a wretched old sensulist!'"

GRATEFUL AND COMFORTING

37

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. Aldis 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.)

"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.

DEATH OF THE POET LAUREATE.

38

McMillans 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. X

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."

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 Poet's held back. It was He, who in early youth, 'had had speech with Him'. He had been

THEY THAT STAND HIGH HAVE MANY
BLASTS TO SHAKE THEM.

39

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 a cost of brain power, what mental
strain is there - written at white heat in fifty hours!
The Poet utterly prostrate with the whole effort - exhausted,
spent. X

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

X Robinson has hung about for some days wanting money, - the
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

WINDSOR.

40

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 the country that he feels best - there is certainly no urge to write - things at home are peaceful, and they are free of the importunate 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.

(Miss Mother Arnold, the widower)

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.

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

41

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 CROWDS BE JUST".

(From The St James's Gazette)

Mr. William Watson.

Mr. John William Watson, the Poet whose "Lament for 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. Superintendant 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

brother had been engaged in literary pursuits. He was recommended to Mr. Gladstone for a pension on the Civil List, and he was recently 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 Exchange Terrace, Southend, and went to Windsor. Mr. Robinson Watson followed his brother to Windsor, where they both remained till Sunday, when the Poet proposed that they should walk to Laleham Churchyard 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 afternoon up the Avenue towards the Castle. About this time THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH and one of THE ROYAL PRINCESSES left the Soverigns 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 Bellchambers 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

William Watson is not allowed to explain anything --and to try to defend himself if he 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,' -

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 WW. "I felt frantic with this wretch of a brother dogging my steps for money, surely someone could stop him."

A MORE THAN ROYAL INTELLECT.

43

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 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 a Published Letter

~~on~~ MR WILLIAM WATSON.

Sir,

I fear the report of the proceedings a 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.

The Homestead.

JAMES BROMLEY.

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 Mr. Watson then a boy was severely discipling himself for the Vocation to which he found himself called. His life from that day to this has been one of uncompising self repression and strenous study and herioe 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 MINDS 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 born SUFFERING with FORTITUDE AND UNAPPRECIATION with calm patience.

CHARLES BERRY.

WOLVERHAMPTON.

1892.

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 Townsends 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 Cæsar's, they are less than rust:
The Poet doth remain.

"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 brilliantly fascinating woman, his first wife, wrote to cheer me!"

In that year he had written:-

England my Mother
Wardress of waters
Builder of People
Maker of Men

Song is no bauble
Slight not the songsmith
England my Mother
Maker of men.

Yes, the songsmith has risen again!

The much loved Mother, utterly griefstricken 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." STONE ASYLUM.
The stigma of A placed upon him by cruel hands, has made him not as nice as he was! O MRS. ALLEN!

"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 he returns to face the Pack!

(Had this young Poet died now, there would have arisen a tumultuous shout. - KEAT'S over again!)

THE PUBLIC AND THE POET.

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."

They, one and all, expressed the greatest sympathy with
him, and utter disgust against the highhanded 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.

STONE ASYLUM

To be incarcerated in a 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 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. X The Hon. Mrs. Henniker. Sir Aubrey de Vere.
Francis Coutts. Lord Crewe 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

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

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' and quoting long
passages from 'Lacrimae Musarum', 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. One paper received six hundred postcards, all
advocating the appointment of Eric MacKay a half-brother of
Marie Correlli. Later the postcards were traced to Marie
Correlli 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 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."

PRIME MINISTER.

Roseberry, while he was Prime Minister, paid W.W. many
hansome 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."

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."

A HOME FOR DIPSOMANIACS

50

## 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 had a farm there. By this time the father had become crippled by rhumatism, 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 within 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.

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 leggy old man, but his mother.

Practically his first friend in London was a young

HIS WELSH FRIEND.

51

Welshman, named Owen Pritchard, who had come from Anglesey as assistant to a Doctor at 37, Southwick Street, which abutts 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 predecessors' 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 tide 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 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 Chamberlain) He has been paying her assiduous attention for some time. And

THE HIGH SHERIFF OF ANGLESEY.

52

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 William Watson accompanied him, 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 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 decerning '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 caliousness could be allowed for, - but the forces of his native Devon would be hard put to, to beat him in Crafty instinct to 'get there'.

Photo

THE COMPLETE HUMBUG.

53

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 ignoramus in all matters literary. He really depended 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 house 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.

Picture of Bodley Head here.

WALTER BESSANT AND HENRY IRVING

54

In 1894, Mrs. Watson has become very feeble, and constantly requiring the attention of a nurse. So hard pushed is her son to meet all the expenses, that he comes to an arrangement with his Publisher, John Lane, to pay all the Royalties due to him - directly to her: John Lane to be reimbursed as W.W. himself receives payment for work done: If the said Royalties did not reach a stated sum, then John Lane 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 Irving and W.W. were good friends, so dissimilar were they. Irving would 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 everyday... 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."

54, A

I NEVER SEE THE NEWSPAPERS.

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.

Robert Bridges. "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."

Another interesting letter

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 Yorkshire 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. (Photograph here)

In 1896 it was written the lyric "April". W.W. had been
staying at The White Hart in Salisbury, where he woke at
Two o'clock in 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 before hand 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's domination 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 from North says:-

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

Since Lane's 'Breakdown' if any of his Author's take umbrage, and their book 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 Dipsomanic patients. In an outburst, Owen Batchard "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. 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 my C.E."

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, with a very vivacious and pretty wife - 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 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

57

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 B.H. talking to a clerk, - he fell
forward speechless.

Meanwhile, Money Coutts is Deus Exmachina. 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 eminent!
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.

58

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 the Legend - it was near there that my Mother, Dorothy Robinson, had her roots, and imbibed all the beauty, all the Songs, and her inate 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."

59

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

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

THE RICH UNCLE AND THE FAÇON NOIRE
MADEIRA.

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, 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
occured of which he disapproved, he took it very coolly
and calmly, - but he never forgot or forgave. R.W's decedit
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 his brother William

THE LEGACY

61

clinched the matter.

Robinson

The Lawyer, pointing this out to R.W. 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 after.

Robinson then commenced on a regular campaign of
venomous activities, to induce his brother William, to
hand over to him many, and often, sums of money which had
he aceded 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 carear. 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

Note At Clifton,Bristol, where he was in lodging, Robinson lonsarded him with demands for money - sheer blackmail,

A CHEQUE FOR A THOUSAND POUNDS.

62

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.¹ 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 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!

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 'Interview'.*

A GEOGRAPHICAL STORY.
(THE PLAYMATES)

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 will find himself now deep in some Welsh
valley, amid 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"
where he or up through the English Mountains, 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) - and 'The Ballad of Semmerwater' of his later days
might be cited to confirm this.

Take then 'The Coronation Ode'. Where in the World

64

"TIME, AND THE OCEAN, AND SOME FOSTERING STAR"

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 Schoolmasters 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! (See 'Man who Saw')

"It is for the German Schoolmaster Will bring Old England down!"

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!'

One day I flung it there, and went off for a ten mile walk (it was to Harrogate) and lunched at an Inn - at a long table with about thirty young Schoolmistresses - I had to lunch at their table, and *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.

65

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 shulder 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, once he had committed it 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 'Lacramental Musarum' is at the present
day one of the most prized possessions of the University
at Austin, Texas!

To St. Lee 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 copies of poems. - But

FIRST EDITIONS AND THE PRINTER'S CRAFT.

66

rarely, very rarely, did he give away copies of anything he had written: indeed, throughout his whole life he remained adverse to 'presenting' as he called it, a MS ~~To anyone.~~ he said

"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 Printers 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 - it's complete absence of Fashion is it's chief charm".

His Will has been made afresh! JOHN LANE, is heir to his Copyrights. A goodly sum has been alloted 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. 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 Dury Lane, a blind beggar took a piece of pudding out of his pocket, and generously offered him half of it!.

## 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 publically 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.

68

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 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 syrupy sugarcandiness into which he tendered 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, however, 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 L.L.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 L.L.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 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."

IT WILL BE OF SCARLET

69

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 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 Crate over your cinders. I may wear my Doctor's Robe, I presume? It will be of Scarlet, like your Sins!!"

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

COLLECTING LLD'S LIKE BLACKBERRIES

70

collect BLACKBERRIES! in a Court-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 International Politics, Blatent 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 supress aught he feels he has honestly written, for what he conceives his Country's Welfare."

The Sultan of Turkey was massacrering 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". And was not much English Gold well invested in Turkish Bonds?

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,

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

7/1

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

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.

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 vengence!

"I never entered the Club for three month's 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 **patisan**, 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 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 publically.

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

73

'KIRREMIUR'

William Earl Hodgson delighted to relate how when
Lord Rosslyn brought out a volume of poems he was most
<u>anxious</u> to present a copy to Her Majesty. E.H.
offered to deliver it. So, after having one beautifully
bound, 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 Littlehampton 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. 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.

74

Probably 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."

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 practiced. 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........."

WRETCHED PHANTOMS AND MOST GIBBERING SPECTORS

75

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 Spectators 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. J.C. "

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

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 C.C.'s 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."

Photograph here

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, then 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."

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

I NEVER INTEND TO MARRY.

76

Extract from a letter North/ - 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 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.

79

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 procliam their battlings with a
fateful past - Routerstown, Muthering 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; "And without
pain," said her mother. 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
her Nurse's arms to watch the Black Flag unfurl over the Jail,
and 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

80

OLD KILMAINHAM.

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. In Spring, a pink and white 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; 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 themselves 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 Trinity, whose homes might be, say in far Tyrone, Kerry, Galway or on the slopes of the Magillicuddy Reeks - There are men and

DUNDALK CO. SOUTH.

81

women still alive, 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

"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 me 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 wintery nights, with the wind howling

LORD CLANRICARDE.

82

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 confide 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 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?

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 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."

83

THE IRISH FAMILY.

A sorry sight it was to us children in those days, as we drove through. - A dark deed. A darker 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 sidecurls - 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', - for wasn't Harry Pring himself interested in them: an inheritance from his ancestor, - one Martin Pring of Bristol. Merchant Venturer.

Photo here

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, 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 Sunday's we sit under the benevolent eyes of the Rev. Scott James, and in a pew near by, are His Own Motherless Brood.

THE IGNORAMOUS.

84

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!!

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 owned by me - 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

AT STANTON DREW.

86

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 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 - 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.

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 tremble - and anyway, its only the people with grand flaming tempers get things done at all."

MY FRIEND AND PUBLISHER.

88

"My Publisher writes 'Come back from Erin'". says William 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 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 "Vitrol" 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
Amadman, and can prove it, he says - and all this 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 -

GOOSEBERRIES.

89

probably, or what?"

but what?

"Describe him in the carriage," say I, 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"."

"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 nighttime, 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,
for when William orders Welsh Rabbit 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

A LENGTH OF THE SHANNON.

In Shorter's library are all the Poets - and with my
own as Chief, a great happiness and contentment prevades
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 "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 put upon Ireland.' - I give him the 'Very Worst' - that a
'Landowner Can Demand The First Night With The Bride of any
man marrying on his Estate'. A rare fishy look comes into
his eyes, when I waive my rights to (His) bit of the Shannon.

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.

Photo here

Is it Lady Cardigan or M....? Naming many an English name (but

THE TOUGH STEAK.

92

no Irish, 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," I said, "very interested in it."

Owen Pritchard has been down before him, and has confided 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 - why 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 may 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.

A MEAN TRICK.

93

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. Barring one, no
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 Scot, 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" K
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?"

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 grand ship the
Lusitania, - bound for U.S.A.

A PRINCE OF THE ROYAL HOUSE OF SONG

94

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

Captain Turner rides her straight through a fog - so dense
you could cut it - then 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 out
the great headlines from the papers -

In New York Today

"A Prince of the Royal House of Song"

I am proud I married William!

At six o'clock, sharp, telephone bells ring - By nine
o'clock, they may just ring! W.W. congratulates 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

W.W. "Shall I be Kate Barlaston?"

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. Women 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 portray a certain
type - and is deadly in their eyes.

THE INVINCIBLE REPUBLIC

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 it's instinct for yapping at one's heel."

Yes, and that Godly, Reverend Doctor Aked - just lately
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's deluge 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.

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

GENTLEMEN OF CREDIT AND RENOUN.

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 <u>blockade</u> 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. 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 this time of year, a warm sun gently penetrates into ones bones; - William looks across at me, and quite casually says, "I believe my Wife is longing to be there."

The Prisoner's 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 jolt, 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 Elizabethian clothes.

"STEAL AWAY TO JESUS"

97

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 lonelines.
Swamps covered by gigantic grasses, and a Moon, so large, so
bright, binding all in beauty, show up in tiny villages like
so many glowworms, housing a happy patient People.

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

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

"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."
Sings me, as I reach the garden of the Alcasar 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

"IN THE MIDST OF THE SEAS"

98

suggesting it would be a good place to 'dump enemies in': - He laughs immoderately.

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 ourselves-
I am happy to share it with William.

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 it as an aside!

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

Here, at V�ado, on the shore, where huge waves drag up
and down - we bestow ourselves. Not any fine hotel in

HIS VALUES OF AMERICAN Reporters

Habana, - thank you.

"Dese come for a year", says the porter, with the
eunuchs voice, as he lugs my trunk to our room. We have
lived lately among such beauty, - its 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 Señor, I am able to confide something 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
of Americans!*

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.

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

"No English Lady ever was soghan" 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!

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

THE NEW YORK PAPERS

faced with a Purple Sea, - having cast across it sheets of
hissing flame - which threaten to envelope us in its livid
beauty. - I am cowed and flee - The Intrepid One, stands
entranced before it: I can see him from my point 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 from England!
The 'Tongue' no longer occupies columns.

Idly I pick one up, - widely grow my eyes, and my throat
seems taut as a snakes, 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 a paper to read.

SINN FEINN
(Ourselves Alone.)

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 some water between them - keeping quite silent, - but I have taken up 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 have the Serpent's tongue.

A product now of Sinn Feinn - 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!

'THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.'

105

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

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

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

Photo.

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

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

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

M.W. "No."

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

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

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

LIKE ROYALTY AND GOD

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

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

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

Steady is the ship as she surges home! - A gentle rain drops from Heaven on - "The Land of Hope Deferred Where the Shamrock Grows."

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

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

A relative from Bath carefully passes on the U.S.A. papers containing the 'Story,' to Dublin - where it pleased some to believe it. All this I learnt - and remembering the Old Woman of Crossmaglen - Out-did Her!¹

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

M.W. "That's Alice Meynell"

D.S. "Where?"

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

THE STALKER DOWN THE YEARS.

on her arm."

D.S. "Really! - That Mrs. Meynell."

M.W. "Yes."

(Her daughter carefully draws her from our close vicinity.)

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

A.S. to M.W. "How is He keeping?"

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

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

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

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

108

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

In the City of Dublin, His Excellency The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland is at this time, _One_, Aberdeen, - who has an exaggerated idea of His Own Importance! Indeed, so grateful are the people of Dublin to have his Over-Lordship, that they will feel an abiding gratitude if he tags on another 'Marquisite' to his name - that of Tara, the place of Kings. _What a compliment_ to Ireland! So appreciated, that England's Might is weakened by it, - _Aye_, and Ireland's Right strengthened by it!

An English Poet rescues Tara - one, William Watson.

## THE PEER'S PROGRESS.

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

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

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

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

Bemarquess'd or beduked - who cares a
straw?

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

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

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

God made me English - English through and
through -
But, bound to Ireland by one bond supreme.

I know her soul - something unknown to you -
Her vision and her passion and her dream.

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

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

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

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

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

# HIS 'FAR FLUNG BATTLE LINE'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then England, - home at last.

AN ACCOUNT FOR SAUSAGES

110

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

Photo.

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

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

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

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

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

HE FORGOT THE BANK

We have lived here in much happiness with our neighbours.

HAPPY -

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

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

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

'BINDLE' AND £50,000

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

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

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

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

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

'GERMANY'S' CLEVEREST SPY.

1/3

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

Scheffauer, the German, - not only well versed in his own country's literature, but on easy terms with that of England, yes, and Ireland's too, I find to my surprise. So interested are we, that the hours fly, listening to this fine talker. Then they depart, - but from Berlin later comes many a letter. Here is one - "My play - 'The New Shylock!' has been staged here - and critical audiences are really enthusiastic - but many here are enthusiastic also where *Your* work is concerned, - and are interested too, to be told that your *wife* is Irish, and that I listened to German music played for me from memory by you - yourself."

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

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

THE SCALE OF LIFE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I go to see him - and await his coming in his little

MY VOCABULARY IS IRISH.

garden room. The door opens - and a slender youth appears
to enter, with hair Snow White. No! -- Yes! -- It is indeed
my William, - startling, remarkably handsome, - but with *never*
*a smile for me*.

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

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

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

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

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

Our capital is exceeding small now, so I sell nearly all
the best books we possess: They are few enough, for no rich
library was ours. My Poet never was dependent upon them.
"Thank God", I say, as I 'lift' them; and I take our
Cruckshank's to Cambridge, where I hear there is a demand, - and