The Casual Ward: Academic and Other Oddments

THE NATION IN ARMS

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

THE INCUBUS

 
Essence of boredom! stupefying Theme!
   Whereon with eloquence less deep than full,
Still maundering on in slow continuous stream,
   All can expatiate, and all be dull:
Bane of the mind and topic of debate
   That drugs the reader to a restless doze,
Thou that with soul-annihilating weight
   Crushest the Bard, and hypnotisest those
Who plod the placid path of plain pedestrian Prose:
 
 
Lo! when each morn I carefully peruse
   (Seeking some subject for my painful pen)
The Times, the Standard, and the Daily News,
   No other topic floats into my ken
Save this alone: or Dr. Clifford slates
   Dogmas in general: or the dreadful ban
Of furious Bishops excommunicates
   Such simple creeds as Birrell, hopeful man!
Thinks may perhaps appease th’ unwilling Anglican.
 
 
Lo! at Society’s convivial board
   (Whereat I do occasionally sit,
In hope to bear within my memory stored
   Some echo thence of someone else’s wit),
Or e’er the soup hath yielded to the fish,
   A heavy dulness doth the banquet freeze:
Lucullus’ self would shun th’ untasted dish
   When lovely woman whispers, “Tell me, please,
What are Denominational Facilities?”
 
 
From scenes like these my Muse would fain withdraw:
   To Taff’s still Valley be my footsteps led,
Where happy Unions ’neath the shield of Law
   Heave bricks bisected at the Blackleg’s head:
In those calm shades my desultory oat
   Of Taxed Land Values shall contented trill,
Of Man ennobled by a Single Vote, —
   In short, I’ll sing of anything you will,
Except of thee alone, O Education Bill!
 

THE WORKING MAN

(After seeing his Picture in the Press)

 
Working Man! whose psychic beauty
   (Unattainable by me)
Still it is my pleasing duty
   Painted by your friends to see, —
You, whose virtues ne’er can bore us,
   Daily through their list we scan,
Let me swell th’ admiring chorus,
   Let me hymn the Working Man!
 
 
You whose Leaders, highly moral,
   Always shocked by war’s alarms,
Could not in their country’s quarrel
   Contemplate the use of arms,
Yet, should strikes provide occasion,
   Then by higher promptings led
Do with more than moral suasion
   Break the erring Blackleg’s head: —
 
 
You, whose intellectual state is
   Such that you are aiming at
Getting all your culture gratis
   (Not that you’re alone in that), —
Always with the strict injunction
   That whate’er be false or true
Every teacher’s simple function
   Is to teach what pleases you: —
 
 
Not to gain by learned labour
   Any sordid quid pro quo:
Not to rise above your neighbour
   (Comrades ne’er are treated so):
Not to change your lowly station,
   Not for rank and not for pelf,
Academic education
   Only, only for itself, —
 
 
Yet in whose commercial dealings
   Vainly we attempt to find
Those disinterested feelings
   Which adorn the Student’s mind, —
Seeing that, O my high-souled brothers!
   There your dream of happiness
Is (like mine, and several others’)
   Earning more for working less!
 
 
’Tis not that I blame your getting
   Anything you think you can:
’Tisn’t that which I’m regretting,
   Noble British Working Man!
No – although the facts I mention
   Sometimes wake a mild surprise —
Still – the truth’s beyond contention —
   You are good, and great, and wise:
 
 
Swell my taxes: stint my fuel:
   Last, to close the painful scene,
Send me, rather just than cruel,
   Send me to the guillotine:
Ere the knife bisects my spinal
   Cord, and ends my vital span,
This shall be my utterance final,
   Bless the British Working Man!
 

CONCERNING A MILLENNIUM

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

* * * * *

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

FORECAST

 
Tomkins! when revolving lustres
   Thin those shining locks that now
Wreathe their hyacinthine clusters
   Round your intellectual brow, —
You who in your nobler station
   Still are kind enough to seek
Our political salvation
   Rather more than once a week, —
 
 
Think you, will your rightful value
   Still be duly understood?
Will the British Public hail you
   Always great and always good?
When the Peoples fight for Freedom
   And the tyrant’s rage confront,
Will they call for you to lead ’em?
   – No, my friend: I fear they won’t.
 
 
Soon or late are Truth’s apostles
   Laid upon their destined shelf;
You, who talk of Ancient Fossils,
   Tomkins! will be one yourself:
Dons and Men with gibe and sneer your
   Ancient crusted ways will view,
Wondering oft with smile superior
   What’s the use of Things like you!
 
 
All the schemes that win you glory,
   Meant to mend our mortal mess —
These will simply brand you Tory,
   Nothing more and nothing less:
You who waked the world from slumber,
   You, who shone in Progress’ van,
You’ll be then a mere Back Number,
   Obsolete as good Queen Anne!
 
 
You I see with zeal excessive
   Dying then for causes, which
Now (forsooth) you call Progressive,
   In reaction’s Final Ditch:
By Conservatives in caucus
   (Ardent youth, reflect on that!)
Sent to stem the horrid raucous
   Clamours of the Democrat.
 
 
No: I do not wish to quarrel
   With your high exalted sense;
No: there isn’t any moral —
   Not of any consequence:
Only, ’neath your exhortations
   Passive while we’re doomed to sit,
Themes like these conduce to patience, —
   And I thought I’d mention it.
 

PAGEANTS

 
My Tityrus! and is’t a fact
   (As wondrous facts there are)
That History’s scenes thou wouldst enact
   Beside the banks of Cher?
Wilt thou for pomps like these desert
   Thy calm and cloistered lair,
Not quite so young as once thou wert,
   Nor (pardon me) so fair?
 
 
We saw thee stalk in youthful prime
   With high Proctorial mien:
We saw the majesty sublime
   Which marked the Junior Dean;
O pundit grave!  O sage M.A.!
   Say in what happy part
Thou wilt before the crowd display
   Thy histrionic art!
 
 
With cranium bald, which ne’er again
   Will need the barber’s shear,
Wilt thou present in Charles his train
   Some long-locked Cavalier?
A sober Don for all to see
   Who once didst walk abroad,
Wilt now an Ancient Briton be
   And painted blue with woad?
 
 
Me from such scenes afar remove,
   And hide my shuddering head
Where Nature doth in field and grove
   Her fairer pageant spread:
There will I meditating lie
   ’Mid summer’s calm delights, —
But thou wilt walk adown the High
   My Tityrus, – in Tights..
 

RULES FOR FICTION

 
A Novelist, whose magic art,
Had plumbed (’twas said) the human heart,
Whom for the penetrative ken
Wherewith he probed the souls of men
The Public and the Public’s wife
Declared synonymous with Life, —
Sat idle, being much perplexed
What Attitude to study next,
Because he would not wholly tell
Which Pose was likeliest to sell.
To him the Muse: “Why seek afar
For things that on the threshold are?
Why thus evolve with care and pain
From your imaginative brain?
Put Artifice upon the shelf, —
Take pen and ink, and draw – Yourself!”
The author heard: he took the hint:
He photographed himself in print.
His very inmost self he drew..
The critics said, “This Will Not Do.
No more we recognize the art
Which used to plumb the human heart, —
This suffers from the patent vice
Of being not Art but Artifice.
’Tis deeply with the fault imbued
Of Inverisimilitude:
He’s written out; his skill’s forgot:
He only writes to Boil the Pot!
It is not true; it will not wash;
’Tis mere imaginative Bosh;
And if he can’t” (they told him flat)
“Get nearer to the Life than that,
He will not earn the Public’s pelf!”
 
 
This happens when you draw Yourself.
Or – I should say – it happens when
Such portraits are essayed by Men:
For presently a Lady came
And did substantially the same.
(Let everyone peruse this sequel
Who dreams that Man is Woman’s equal), —
She with a hand divinely free
Drew what she thought herself to be:
It did not much resemble Her
In moral strength or mental stature —
Yet did the critics all aver
It simply teemed with Human Nature!
 

ART AND LETTERS

 
In that dim and distant æon
Known as Ante-Mycenæan,
When the proud Pelasgian still
Bounded on his native hill,
And the shy Iberian dwelt
Undisturbed by conquering Celt,
Ere from out their Aryan home
Came the Lords of Greece and Rome,
Somewhere in those ancient spots
Lived a man who painted Pots —
Painted with an art defective,
Quite devoid of all perspective,
Very crude, and causing doubt
When you tried to make them out,
Men (at least they looked like that),
Beasts that might be dog or cat,
Pictures blue and pictures red,
All that came into his head:
Not that any tale he meant
On the Pots to represent:
Simply ’twas to make them smart,
Simply Decorative Art.
So the seasons onward hied,
And the Painter-person died —
But the Pot whereon he drew
Still survived as good as new:
Painters come and painters go,
Art remains in statu quo.
 
 
When a thousand years (perhaps)
Had proceeded to elapse,
Out of Time’s primeval mist
Came an Ætiologist;
He by shrewd and subtle guess
Wrote Descriptive Letterpress,
Setting forth the various causes
For the drawings on the vases,
All the motives, all the plots
Of the painter of the pots,
Entertained the nations with
Fable, Saga, Solar Myth,
Based upon ingenious shots
At the Purpose of the Pots,
Showing ages subsequent
What the painter really meant
(Which, of course, the painter hadn’t;
He’d have been extremely saddened
Had he seen his meanings missed
By the Ætiologist).
 
 
Next arrives the Prone to Err
Very ancient Chronicler,
All that mythologic lore
Swallowing whole and wanting more,
Crediting what wholly lacked
All similitude of Fact,
Building on this wondrous basis
All we know of early races;
So the Past as seen by him
Furnished from its chambers dim
Hypothetical foundations
Whence succeeding generations
Built, as on a basis sure,
Branches three of Literature,
Social Systems four (or five),
Two Religions Primitive;
So that one may truly say
(Speaking in a general way)
All the facts and all the knowledge
Taught in School and taught in College,
All the books the printer prints —
Everything that’s happened since —
Feels the influence of what
Once was drawn upon that Pot,
Plus the curious mental twist
Of that Ætiologist!
 
 
But the Pot that caused the trouble
Lay entombed in earth and rubble,
Left about in various places,
In the way that early races —
Hittites, Greeks, or Hottentots —
Used to leave important Pots;
Till at length, to close the list,
Came an Archæologist,
Came and dug with care and pain,
Came and found the Pot again:
Dug and delved with spade and shovel,
Made a version wholly novel
Of the Potman’s old design
(Others none were genuine).
Pots were in a special sense
Echt-Historisch Documents:
All who Error hope to stem
Must begin by studying them;
So the Public (which, he said,
Had been grievously misled)
Must in all things freshly start
From his views of Ancient Art.
All (the learned man proceeded)
Otherwise who thought than he did,
Showed a stupid, base, untrue,
Obscurantist point of view;
Men like these (the sage would say)
Should be wholly swept away;
They, and eke the faults prodigious
Which beset their creeds religious,
Render totally impure
All their so-called Literature,
Lastly, sap to its foundation
All their boasted education, —
Just because they’ve quite forgot
What was meant, and what was not,
By the Painter of the Pot!
 

* * * * *

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

THE NOVEL

 
When by efforts literary you might scale the summits airy
   Which the eminent in fiction are ascending every day,
Why obscurely crawl and grovel? – I will write (I said) a Novel!
   So I started and I planned it in the ordinary way.
 
 
I’d a Heroine – a creature of resplendent form and feature,
   With a spell in every motion and a charm in every look:
I’d a Villain – worse than Nero, – I’d a most superior Hero:
   And the host of minor persons which is needed in a book:
 
 
Each was drawn from observation: yet was each a pure creation
   Which revealed at once the genius of originating mind:
Not a man and not a woman but combined the Broadly Human
   With a something quite peculiar of an interesting kind:
 
 
What a wealth of meaning inner in the things they said at dinner!
   How their conversation sparkled (like the ripples on the deep),
Half disclosing, half concealing a Profundity of Feeling
   Which would move the gay to laughter and incite the grave to weep!
 
 
There they stood in grace and vigour, each imaginary figure,
   Each a masterpiece of drawing for the world to wonder at:
There was really nothing more I had to find but just the story,
   Nothing more, but just the story – but I couldn’t think of that.
 
 
Yet (I cried), in other writers, how the lovers and the fighters
   Are conducted through the mazes of a complicated plan, —
How the incidents are planted just precisely where they’re wanted —
   How the man invites the moment, and the moment finds the man!
 
 
How a Barrie or a Kipling guides the maiden and the stripling
   Till they’re ultimately landed in the matrimonial state, —
And they die, or else they marry (in a Kipling or a Barrie)
   Just as if the thing was ordered by unalterable Fate, —
 
 
While with me, alas! to balance my innumerable talents,
   There’s a fatal imperfection and a melancholy blot:
All the forms of my creating stand continually waiting
   For a charitable person to provide them with a Plot!
 
 
Still I put the endless query why I wander lone and dreary
   (Barred from Eden like the Peri) minus fame and minus fee,
Why the idols of the masses have an entrée to Parnassus,
   While a want of mere invention is an obstacle to me!