Book„-iS- 6 Tg '']l? Works by J. C. Squire The Gold Tree Twelve Poems The Three Hills And Other Poems The Survival of the Fittest And Other Poems Imaginary Speeches Steps to Parnassus TRICKS OF THE TRADE > BY J. C. SQUIRE G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON Gbe fmicttecbochei; press 1917 ^*wort and sprole and old-man's-mokes, And lillikens and dinks and bitter-ease. And mortmains that the hind in autumn sees In places where the mist lies on the hay And all the land is frozen with the May. 24 TRICKS OF THE TRADE And with her arms full, poor old mother staggered To her poor child there dead upon the grass, ♦' My little Flo, " she whimpered, '• I'll be jaggered I don't know how it ever come to pass, I don't know how I done it, little lass; Whyever did I sharp that carvin' knife And let out all my lovely darlin's life? " She wor a merry grig, wor little Flo, She kep the family goin* nicely, she did. There never was a wheeze she didn't know. She always pinched us anything we needed; Cripes, but I cannot tell why I proceeded. Just 'cos she left the family to starve. My pretty Flo's sweet darlin' back to carve. " And so she brought the flowers to her dead, And piled them on her feet and face and breast, Flo lay there still as down the blossoms shed, A heavenly angel lying down to rest, A downy bird at evening on its nest, A cloud, a moth, a wave, a steamer, or Almost any other metaphor. TRICKS OF THE TRADE 25 " Good-bye, my Uttle Flo, »* said poor old mother " You had your faults, I wUlingly admit. Yet I am, taking one thing with another. Sorry for my rash act more than a bit. But still, I do not want to swing for it. Mimi is the word, least said is soonest mended. " So mother left the Park, and all was ended. No. 5. MR. G. K. CHESTERTON When I leapt over Tower Bridge There were three that watched below, A bald man and a hairy man, And a man like Ikey Mo. When I leapt over London Bridge They quailed to see my tears, As terrible as a shaken sword And many shining spears. But when I leapt over Blackfriars The pigeons on St. Paul's Grew ghastly white as they saw the sight Like an awful sun that falls; And all along from Ludgate To the wonder of Charing Cross, The devil flew through a host of hearts — A messenger of loss. With a rumour of ghostly things that pass With a thunderous pennon of pain. To a land where the sky is as red as the grass, And the sun as green as the rain. 26 No. 6. CANON H. D. RAWNSLEY Britannia mourns for good grey heads that fall, Survivors from our great Victoria's reign; For they were men; take them for all in all We shall not look upon their like again. 2^ No. 7. NUMEROUS CELTS There's a grey wind wails on the clover And grey hills, and mist around the hills, And a far voice sighing a song that is over And my grey heart that a strange longing fills. A sheen of dead swords that shake upon the wind, And a harp that sleeps though the wind is blowing Over the hills and the seas and the great hills behind, The great hills of Kerry, where my heart would be going. For I would be in Kerry now where quiet is the grass, And the birds are crying in the low light. And over the stone hedges the shadows pass, And a fiddle weeps at the shadow of the night. With Pat Doogan Father Mxirphy Brown maidens King Cuchullain 28 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 29 The Kine The Sheep Some old women Some old men And Uncle White Sea-gull and all. (Chorus) And Uncle White Sea-gull and all. No. 8. THE PEOPLE WHO WRITE IN SECRET WHAT IN PUBLIC THEY ALLEGE TO BE FOLK-SONGS The night it was so cold, and the moon it was so clear, When I stood at the churchyard gate a-parting from my dear, A-parting from my dear, for to bid my dear good-bye! And I parted from my dear when the moon was in the sky. *' I never shall forget, " said he, " wherever I may roam, The day that I parted from my own true love at home, My own true love at home that was always true to me, I never shall forget my love wherever I may be. "But I must off to Barbary for good King George to fight, And it's farewell to Bayswater and to the Isle of Wight, And it's farewell to my true love, it's farewell to you. It's farewell to my own dear love, so faithful and so true." 30 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 31 He kissed me good-bye, and he gave me a ring, And he rode away to Lunnon for to fight for the King; Oh! lonely am I now, and sair, sair cold my pillow, And I must bind my head with O the green willow. For last night there came a white angel to my bed. And he told to me that my own dear love was dead; My ov/n dear love is dead, and I am all alone^ (So it's surely rather obtuse of you to ask me why I moan). No. 9. MR. H. G. WELLS I do not qtiite know how to begin. . . . Ever since I left England and settled here in this quiet Putumayo valley I have been wondering and wondering. ... I want to put everything down quite frankly so that you who come after me shall understand. It is very peaceful here in the forest, and as my mind goes back to that roaring old England, with its strange welter of aspirations and base- nesses, that little old England, so far away now, a small green jewel in the great sea, I break into a smile of tender tolerance. Here, as the immemorial procession of day and night, of summer and winter, sweeps over the earth, amid the vast serenities of primeval nature, it all seems so very far away, so small, so queerly inconsequent. . . . The men who made me, the men who broke me, the women I loved, the sprawling towns, the confused effort, and that imgainly lop-sided structure of our twentieth-century civilization, with its strange welter of sex. . . . 32 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 33 II And then it was that the Hon. Astarte Cholmondeley came into my life. I remember as clearly as though it were yesterday — and it is now over thirty years ago — the mo- ment of our meeting. It was at one of those enormous futile receptions that political hostesses give at tlie begin- ning of the Session, assemblies of two or three thousand men and women, minor politicians, organizers, journalists, all clamorous for champagne and burning for nods of recognition from the great men of the Party. It was a fine night, almost oppressively warm, and I had walked across the Park from Hill Street, carrying my opera-hat in my hand. There was a dull uniform roar from the distant traffic; the tops of the trees faintly swished in the light wind, the lights along the lake shone very quietly, and above were the vast serenities of the sky, powdered with stars. On benches in the shadows liuked pairs of quiet lovers, and the stars looked down upon them as they had upon lovers in Nineveh and Babylon. As I stepped out into the rush of Pall Mall, with its stream of swift motors, I thought, I remember, of my career. . . . Ill The crush was vulgar and intolerable. I had spent an hour passing dejected remarks to the other young men, also there out of duty and as bored as I 3 34 TRICKS OF THE TRADE was myself. Then suddenly she entered ... a slender slip of a thing, brown-haired and brown-eyed, leaning flower-like on the arm of her elephantine mother, the Dowager. . . . IV " Dearest, " she wrote me next day, ** did you sleep last night ? I did not sleep a wink. All night long I lay dazzled and overwhelmed by this wonderful thing that has come to us. And then this morning, when God's great dawn slowly lifted over the westward hills, I got up, did my hair (oh my beautiful, beautiful hair, now all yours, my ov/n Man, all yours), and sat down to write this, my first letter, to you. I am sitting at the little window of my room in the Lion Tower. The breath of the roses rises in the fresh morning air; and out beyond the park, where the deer are placidly grazing, the slanting sun glints exquisitely on spacious woodland and rolling down, mile after mile. . . . Far away, against the blue of the horizon, there is a little pointing church spire, and somehow it reminds me of you. . . . Oh, my lover, I am going to lay bare to you the inmost shrine of my heart. You must be patient with me, very patient; for do we not belong to each other? We must live openly we two, we who are the apostles of new freedoms, of new realizations, of a second birth for this TRICKS OF THE TRADE 35 dear, foolish old world of ours. " Thus she wrote, and there was more, much more, too sacredly intimate to be set down here, but breathing in every Une the essence of her adorable self. . . . And then it was that Mary Browne came into my Ufe. I had known her years ago when I was at college; I had thought her a meek and rather dull little girl, as insigni- ficant as the rest of her family. But now there was about her a certain quality of graciousness, very difficult to de- fine, but very unescapable when it is present, that gave to her mouse-grey hair and rather weak blue eyes a beauty very rare and very subtle. She had spent, she told me, two years in theEast End at some social work or other. . . . VI And then I met Cecilia Scroop. . . . vn And so the end came. In those last days I worked more feverishly than ever, writing my book, attending com- mittees, speaking on platforms throughout the country. I was the chief speaker during that by-election of Brooks's 36 TRICKS OF THE TRADE at Manchester, which I still believe might have been the germ of a new social order, of coherences and approxi- mations, of differentiations and realizations beyond the imagining of the men of our time, but to be very clearly and very palpably apprehended by that future race for whom we, in a blind and groping way, are living and building. . . . And then the blow fell. . . . It was a Friday afternoon. The House had risen early after throwing out some absurd Bill that that ass Biffin had brought in; I think it was something about Bee Disease. I had been one of the tellers for the Noes, and at three o'clock I walked out into Palace Yard and along the chalky stone cloister that leads to the private tunnel through which members enter the Underground Railway station. I had promised to meet Astarte at four at the foot of the Scenic Railway (this was before the time when little Higgins revolutionized the amusement business with his actino-gyroscopes) in the Earl's Court Exhibition. Since her marriage with Binger communication had been increasingly difficult for us. All her letters were opened, and Binger had eavesdroppers at work in the telephone exchanges. Her chauffeur, happily, played his master false, and she was usually able to keep appointments when she had made them; and for some months we had arranged our meetings by little cryptic notices in the agony column of the Morning Post, We had thought our- TRICKS OF THE TRADE 37 selves safe. But she must have dropped a casual word to somebody; some fool had given us away; and when I got to Earl's Court I found that Astarte was there, but that Mary ard Cecilia were there as well. . . . vm I remonstrated with them. I knew it was hopeless, and my heart sank; but I did my best. Greatest agony of all it was to know that these women in whom I had trusted, whom I had looked to as pioneers, as auguries of what was to be and what still will be, were, when the crisis came, still shackled and bound by the little petty jealousies of the old system. With set, white faces they glowered upon me (it was raining a little I remember, and the ground at our feet was muddy and covered with stained and trampled paper) as I spoke, softly and passionately, of muddle and waste, of the sordid and furtive shames and reticences that man has brought with him from the ancestral past, that he must shed before we build for our gods the diviner temples that might be. . . . Night came over . . . and then, as my voice failed, a tall man stepped out from behind a hoarding. It was Montacute, the Prime Minister. " I am very sorry for you, " he said simply, " but I am afraid, Mr. Bilge- water, we shall have to ask you to resign. " He seemed to hesitate a moment; then, as though half ashamed, he held 38 TRICKS OF THE TRADE out his hand and looked me in the eyes. ... I had known him since I was a boy at school and he a young man, a fastidious and kindly young man who had seemed al- most too delicate for the rough work of politics. He had always taken a friendly interest in me even when I was bitterly fighting him. ... " Good-bye," he said. My voice was husky as I returned his farewell. IX I went back to my chambers and told my man to pack a single portmanteau. There were just three hours before the boat-train. Before I left I wrote ten letters. . . . No. lo. MR. G. BERNARD SHAW Fragment from an Unwritten Play MAHOMET THE PROPHET Act n The library of the Prophet's house at Medina. As the audience is looking straight into a corner, only two walls are seen. The right wall contains two high windows, through which much blue sky is visible', between them Mahomet is seated, with his back to the audience, at a handsome oak writings-desk. At the far end of the left wall is a door, and along the rest of its length runs a long blue divan, piled with multicoloured cushions, on which recline Ayesha, a slender girl with deep black eyes, pale cheeks and golden hair, and two others of the Prophet's eighty wives. They are drinking coffee from brass bowls and turning over the pages of illustrated magazines. The floor is strewn with rich rugs. After five minutes' silence the Prophet stretches his arms, rises, and turns round. He is a fleshy man with huge head, hands, and feet. His eyes are red, his aose imperious, and 39 40 TRICKS OF THE TRADE bis beard covers half his chest He walks up and down nero vously jerking his hands, then stands still, right centre^ Mahomet: Well, well, my poor dead Khadija! The Wives: We think you might have the decency to refrain from mentioning our predecessor in front of us. Mahomet: Don't be absurd, my dears. You, Ayesha, ought to have had more sense. You ought to know that my feelings are perfectly natural. Here has the army just been cutting up the big summer caravan to Mecca, chock-full of all the latest things from Constantinople. I have become the biggest property-owner in Arabia; and you refuse to let me lament the death of Khadija, who used to run the grocery-shop with me. Your behav- iotir is monstrous. I shall present you all at Christmas with complete editions of August Strindberg. Ayesha (screaming): No, no, anything rather than that! Mahomet: Well, mend yoiir manners then. It is simply intolerable that I should drudge like a slave work- ing up this prophet business for a pack of ungrateful women, and then get treated like this. (Enter Abu, a white'' bearded servant, with a card on a tray.) Schopenhauer was right ... or was it Weininger ? Abu (advancing): Weininger, sir. I am sure that is TRICKS OF THE TRADE 41 correct, sir. I know his book very well. I used to read it to my poor wife, sir, when she was in her last illness. ( Wipes his eyes.) It was a great solace to her. Mahomet {taking the card and looking at it) : I thought I had told you I was not at home. I am supposed to be at the front. Abu {turning to go) : Very well, sir. Mahomet: Here, come back. Is there any news from Mecca? Abu {rubbing his head) : Oh, yes, sir! I quite forgot, sir. The excitement of the moment, I suppose, sir. Mecca was taken last Simday, sir. It was dark, sir, and your men ran into the town by mistake. The other side had run out of it by mistake. Yes, it must have been an exceedingly dark night, sir. Mahomet : Any converts ? Abu: Well, sir, it is like this, sir; there were not many left when your hono;u"'s men had finished. A few child- ren, perhaps. But the general who was impersonating your honour had a great reception from the troops. {Goes out) Mahomet (to Ayesha): Abu is really getting ridiculous. We cannot possibly keep the old fool any longer; he may give me away at any time if he goes on like this. Why the devil can't you put an advertisement for a servant in the paper as I asked you to ? 42 TRICKS OF THE TRADE Ayesha (sulkily): Where would you be if I left off writing your wretched old Koran for you ? Mahomet: Precisely where I am, my dear. You are not indispensable. Anybody else could easily continue my Koran. In fact I think it would actually be a good thing to make a change. All those disgusting things you've put in about women, and so on. They really revolt me with their tactlessness. ( There is a great noise at the door, which suddenly gives way and lets in a tall, restless, thin man with a high forehead and a forked red''grey beard. He is dressed in a fawn''ccloured all^'wool coat and knickerbockers and wears a red tie, He nods his head sideways with a gay smile, rubs his hands and takes up his stand with his back to the corner, Mahomet and the woman all stare at him in amazement, for they have never seen a dramatist before,) The Dramatist: Come along. Prophet, brighten up. You must certainly know my name. I think this inhospi- tality is perfectly disgraceful. (Mahomet makes a threat,- ening move towards him,) No, no, don't bother about ringing for coffee for me. I don't drink your barbarous poisons. Don't you think you might introduce me to the ladies, Mahomet? TRICKS OF THE TRADE 43 Mahomet (fo the women) : Go to your rooms at once. I cannot possibly let you listen to the conversation of this pernicious Englishman. (Ayesha and the others, with evident reluctance, get up and file through the door, the last shutting it behind her,) Well, sir, to what do I owe this most unwarrantable intrusion? T. D. : Now, now, my friend, you can't come it over me like that. I shall blacken your character thoroughly if you are not careful. The trutli is, that I came here for the simple reason tliat though I have frequently put my own name into my characters' mouths, I have never hitherto actually introduced myself as a person in one of my plays. After all, when you come to think of it, my habit of express- ing my sentiments through invented characters has been utterly fantastic. And, besides, some of these con- founded actors have made hay with the parts by trying to tiu:n them into other people. One of these days I shall have to start a school for actors. No actor ought to be under eighty years of age. Men younger than that always will insist on interposing their own personalities between the author and his public. What I want is some one who will speak my lines. What on earth do people think my plays are for ? I wasn't born in order that a lot 44 TRICKS OF THE TRADE of stupid mximmers shoxild have an opportunity of parading their temperaments in public. At all events, here I am, you old reprobate {takes out his watch and looks at it), and I propose to talk to you for your good Mahomet (groaning and sinking on divan): But what do you want to write a play about me for ? I have never done you any harm. I am only a poor prophet, earning an honest living. My Arabians are a simple, imsophisticated people, and they have never seen a play in their life, except my butler, who is merely a menial and doesn't coxmt. T. D.: Now, really, my dear Prophet, this is the basest ingratitude. Why, in most of my plays the characters have had to tolerate a simple honest Englishman introduced into their midst. I can assure you that if I had sent you one of those instead of very kindly coming myself, you woiUd have fotmd him much duller company than you are finding me. Upon my oath, I think you ought to pay me for letting you off so lightly. Mahomet (blubbering) : But why do you want to drag me into it at all? Especially as my dislike of art is notorious. T. D. (elevating his eyebrows) : Well, my friend, if you insist, I will tell you ; but yotar blood be upon your own head. You have about you several characteristics that make it in- evitabl 2 that sooner or later I should nobble you. In the TRICKS OF THE TRADE 45 first place you are exceedingly well known; in the second place you are a humbug and an impostor; in the third place you are a shameless polygamist; and, in the fourth place, if you refer to any decent encyclopaedia, you will find that you are probably an epileptic, like Caesar and Napoleon. I ask, have you the atrocious conceit to think that you have a right to escape what Caesar and Napoleon have had to submit to ? Why, my dear sir, the thing is perfectly preposterous. I wonder you aren't ashamed of yourself. I shall really have to write to the Times about you. Mahomet: Wallah, Billah, Allah, Bismillah ! {He falls to the ground, foaming at the mouth. The Dramatist rings bell in the wall, Abu enters,) T. D. : My friend, your master seems a little indisposed. Abu: Yes, sir. So it appears, sir. Very sad, sir. Unavoidable tragedy of our time. Clash of ideas, sir, and so on. . . . {Picks up the Prophet and props him against diran. The Dramatist goes out) Mahomet {recovering his senses) : My God, Abu, where ami? . . . I've had a good many visions and revelations, but never one quite so bad as this ! Curtain HOW THEY WOULD HAVE DONE IT 47 No. I. IF WORDSWORTH HAD WRITTEN "THE EVERLASTING MERCY" Ever since boyhood it has been my joy To rove the hills and vales, the woods and streams, To commune with the flowers, the beasts, the birds, And all the himible messengers of God. And so not seldom have mylfootsteps strayed To that bare farm where Thomas Haythornthwaite (Alas ! 'tis now ten years the good old man Is dead!) wrimg turnips from the barren soil, To keep himself and his good wife, Maria, Whom I remember well, although 'tis now Full twenty years since she deceased; and I Have often visited her quiet grave In simmier and in winter, that I might Place some few flowers upon it, and returned In solemn meditation from the spot. In the employment of this honest man There was a hind, Saul Kane, I knew him well. And oft-times 'twas my fortune to lament The blackness of the youth's depravity. 4 49 50 TRICKS OF THE TRADE For when I came to visit Haythornthwaite The good old man, leaning upon this spade, Would say to me, " Saul Kane is wicked, sir; A wicked lad. Before he cut his teeth He broke his poor old mother's heart in two. For at the beer-house he is often seen With ill companions, and at dead of night We hear him loud blaspheming at the owls That fly about the house. I oft have blushed At deeds of his I could not speak about." But yet so wondrous is the heart of man That even Saul Kane repented of his sins — A little maid, a little Quaker maid, Converted him one day. " Saul Kane," she said, " Dear Saul, I pray you will get drunk no more." Nor did he ; but embraced a sober life, And married Mary Thorpe ; and yesterday I met him on my walk, and with him went Up to the house where he and his do dwell. And there I long in serious converse stayed, Speaking of Nature and of politics, And then turned homeward meditating much About the single transferable vote. No. 2. IF SWINBURNE HAD WRITTEN "THE LAY OF HORATIUS" N,B, — Read this aloud, with resonance, nor examine too closely the meaning May the sword burn bright, may the old sword smite, that a myriad years have worn and rusted ? May an old wind blow where the yoimg winds go immaculate over the eager land ? May faded blossoms on ripening bosoms flame with lust as of old they lusted. Or the might of a night take flight with the white sweet arms of a dead Dionysian band ? Ah, nay ! for the rods of the high pale gods the power of the past have spilled and broken And over the fields the amaranth yields her guerdon of gossamer, bitter as rue, And the desolate blind sad ghost of the wind falters and fails as a word that was spoken Long since of a fire and a blazing pyre of perjured mon- archs and kings untrue.' ' Possible mention of Tarquin. 51 52 TRICKS OF THE TRADE The sword may smite and the keen sword bite though the clouds in the sky be clouds of peril, Though the Teuton glance at the flanks of France and the hand of Fate be a hand unseen, For the brave man's' arm was swift to charm and the coward's arm was weak and sterile Or ever the Saxon galleons swam to England' over the waters green And over the high Thessalian hills the feet of the maidens fail and falter, Samian waters and Lemnian valleys, Ithacan rivers and Lesbian seas. And the god retxirning with frenzy burning foams at the foot of a roseless altar. And dumb with the kiss of Artemis and the berries of death the virgin flees. With persisteace and luck the reader, after eighty verses or so, would bare come to something as specific as this: For the triumph of the trampling of the nations And the laughter of the loud Etrurian^ gates And the thtmder of a host of desolations And the lightning of an avalanche of hates I Conceivably Horatius. ^ Our mother, inviolate ever since, save for one only occasion. 3 Lars Porsena in poet's mind. TRICKS OF THE TRADE 53 Never daunted thee or made thy cheek the paler On the bridge which thou didst hold as held the fleet Drake, our own superb Elizabethan sailor, Yea, and drove the bloody tyrant from his seat. No. 3. IF MR. MASEFIELD HAD WRITTEN "CASABIANCA" *' You dirty hog," " You snouty snipe," " You lump of muck," " You bag of tripe," Such, as their latest breaths they drew, The objurgations of the crew. they roared As they went timibling overboard, Or frizzled Uke so many suppers All along the halyard scuppers. " You "... the last was gone, And Cassy yelled there all alone. (He thought the old man was on the ship.) " Father! this gives me the fair pip! " *' My God, you old vagabone, " he cried, " If only I . . . " No voice replied; Only the tall flames higher sprang. Amid the spars, and soared and sang, Only along the rigging came God's great unfolding flower of flame, 54 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 55 And Love's divine dim planet shed Her radiance on the many dead; And past the battling fleets the sea Stretched to the world's edge tranquilly, Breathing with slow, contented breath As though it were in love with Death, As it has breathed since first began Man's inhumanity to man, As it will do when like a scroll All the heavens together roll. There's that purple passage done And I have one less lap to run. Dogs barked, owls hooted, cockerels crew. As in my works they often do When, flagging with my main design, I pad with a descriptive line. Yoimg Cassy cried again: '* Oh, damn! What an unhappy put I am ! Will nobody go out and search For dad, who's left me in the lurch ? For dad, who's left me on the poop. For dad, who's left me in the soup, For dad, who's left me on the deck. Perhaps it's what I should expeck Considerin' 'ow he treated me Before I came away to sea. 56 TRICKS OF THE TRADE '* Often at home he used to beat My head for talking in the street, Often for things I didden do, He brushed my breeches with a shoe. O ! but I wish that I was home now. Treading the soft old Breton loam now In that old Breton country where Mellows the golden autimm air, And all the tender champaign fills With hyacinths and daffodils, And on God's azure uplands now They plough the ploughed fields with a plough. And earth-worms feel averse from laughter, With hungry white birds following after. And maids at evening walk with men Through the meadows and up the glen To hear the old sweet tale again." The deck was getting hot and hotter, " Father! " he screamed, " you rotter! " The deck was getting red and redder. And now he thought he'd take a header. Now he advanced and now he funked it . . . It had been better had he bunked it. For as he wavered thus, and swore, There came a slow tremendous roar. TRICKS OF THE TRADE 57 Lord Nelson suddenly woke up. ** Where is Old Cassy and his pup ? • Don't know,' you say ? Why, strike me blind, I s'pose I'd better ask the wind." He asked the wind; the brooding sky At once gave back the wind's reply: "Wotto, Nelson!" " Wotto, sonny ? " " Do you think you're being funny ? Can't you look aroiuid, confound you. At all these fragments that surround you, Thick as thieves upon the sea, Instead of coming bothering me ? " Or, alternatively, if you prefer his other method, it would run like this/ And the flames rose, and leaping flames of fire Leapt roimd the masts and made the spars a crown, A golden crown, as ravenous as desire. " Father! " he cried, "my feet are getting brown." " Father! " he cried. The quiet stars looked down. The flames rose up like flowers overhead. He was alone and all the crew were dead. No. 4. IF ALMOST ANY ELIZABETHAN HAD WRITTEN " SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS" Ask me not for the semblance of my loue. Amidst the foimtains of the christal Done Like to that fayre Aurora did she runne, Who treads the beams of the sweete morning simne. Forth from her head her hayres like golden wyre Did spring; her amorous eyes were lamps of fire, Bright as that torch their heauenly raies did mount Wherewith fayre Hero lit the Hellespont, Or as that flame which on the desert lies When new-borne Phenix soareth to the skies. Like wanton darts her eye-beames she did throw From out her noble forehead's iuorie bow Whose Beauties great perfection would withstand The skill of the most cuiming painter's hand. Her virgin nose like Dians self did raigne Amidst her vermeil cheekes' ambrosiall plaine; Her busie lips twinne Rubies did appeare From which her Voyce did come as Diamonds cleare ; 58 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 59 Venus' owne Sonne would sigh to look beneath At the straight pearlie pleasaunce of her teethe. Like to fayre starres, or rather, like the sixnne Was her smooth Marble chinne's pavilion, Wherefrom her slender necke the eye did lead To shoulders like twinne Lilies on a mead, Whiter than Ledaes fethers or white milke, As sweete as nectar and as softe as silke. O, and her tender brests, they were as white As snowie hills which Phebus' beames doe smite Engirt with azure and with Saphire veines. ... (Cetera desunt) No. 5. IF POPE HAD WRITTEN " BREAK, BREAK, BREAK" Fly, Muse, thy wonted themes, nor longer seek The consolations of a powder'd cheek; Forsake the busy purlieus of the Court For calmer meads where finny tribes resort. So may th' Almighty's natural antidote Abate the worldly tenour of thy note, The various beauties of the liquid main Refine thy reed and elevate thy strain. See how the labour of the urgent oar Propels the barks and draws them to the shore. Hark ! from the margin of the azure bay The joyful cries of infants at their play. (The offspring of a piscatorial swain, His home the sands, his pasturage the main.) Yet none of these may soothe the mourning heart. Nor fond alleviation's sweets impart; Nor may the pow'rs of infants that rejoice Restore the accents of a former voice, 60 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 6i Nor the bright smiles of ocean's nymphs command The pleasing contact of a vanished hand. So let me still in meditation move, Muse in the vale and ponder in the grove, And scan the skies where sinking Phcebus glows With hues more rubicimd than Gibber's nose. . . . {After which the poet gets into his proper stride) No. 6. IF GRAY HAD HAD TO WRITE HIS ELEGY IN THE CEMETERY OF SPOON RIVER INSTEAD OF IN THAT OF STOKE POGES The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The whippoorwill salutes the rising moon, And wanly glimmer in her gentle ray, The sinuous windings of the turbid Spoon. Here where the flattering and mendacious swarm Of lying epitaphs their secrets keep. At last incapable of further harm The lev/d forefathers of the village sleep. The earliest drug of half-awakened morn. Cocaine or hashish, strychnine, poppy-seeds Or fiery produce of fermented com No more shall start them on the day's misdeeds. For them no more the whetstone's cheerful noise, No more the sun upon his daily course 62 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 63 Shall watch them savouring the genial joys, Of murder, bigamy, arson and divorce. Here they all lie; and, as the hour is late, O stranger, o'er their tombstones cease to stoop, But bow thine ear to me and contemplate The unexpurgated annals of the group. There are two hundred only: yet of these Some thirty died of drowning in the river. Sixteen went mad, ten others had D. T's. And twenty-eight cirrhosis of the liver. Several by absent-minded friends were shot. Still more blew out their own exhausted brains, One died of a mysterious inward rot. Three fell off roofs, and five were hit by trains. One was harpooned, one gored by a bull-moose. Four on the Fourth fell victims to lock-jaw. Ten in electric chair or hempen noose Suffered the last exaction of the law. Stranger, you quail, and seem inclined to nm; But, timid stranger, do not be xmnerved; I can assure you that there was not one Who got a tithe of what he had deserved. 64 TRICKS OF THE TRADE Full many a "ice is born to thrive unseen, Full many a crime the world does not discuss, Full many a pervert lives to reach a green Replete old age, and so it was with us. Here lies a parson who would often make Clandestine rendezvous with Claflin's Moll, And 'neath the druggist's counter creep to take A sip of surreptitious alcohol. And here a doctor, who had seven wives. And, fearing this menage might seem grotesque, Persuaded six of them to spend their lives Locked in a drawer of his private desk. And others here there sleep who, given scope, Had writ their names large on the Scrolls of Crime, Men who, with half a chance, might haply cope. With the first miscreants of recorded time. Doubtless in this neglected spot is laid Some village Nero who has missed his due, Some Bluebeard who dissected many a maid, And all for naught, since no one ever knew. Some poor bucolic Borgia here may rest Whose poisons sent whole families to their doom. TRICKS OF THE TRADE 65 Some hayseed Herod who, within his breast, Concealed the sites of many an infant's tomb. Types that the Muse of Masefield might have stirred, Or waked to ecstasy Gaboriau, Each in his narrow cell at last interred, All, all are sleeping peacefully below. Enough, enough! But, stranger, ere we part. Glancing farewell to each nefarious bier, This warning I would beg you take to heart, *' There is an end to even the worst career." No. 7. IF A VERY NEW POET HAD WRIT- TEN "THE LOTUS-EATERS" Ah! Ough! Umph! It was a sweat! Thank God, that's over! No more navigating for me I am on to Something Softer. . . . Conductor Give us a tune! Work! Did I used to work ? I seem to remember it 66 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 67 Out there. Millions of fools are still at It, Jumping about All over the place. . . . And what's the good of it all ? Buzz, Hustle, Pop, And then . . . Diunp In the grave. m Bring me six cushions A yellow one, a green one, a purple one, an orange one, an ultramarine one, and a vermilion one, Colours of which the combination Pleases my eye. Bring me Also Six lemon squashes And A straw. .... 68 TRICKS OF THE TRADE IV I have taken off my coat. I shall now Loosen My braces. Now I am All right . . . My God. . . . I do feel lazy ! No. 8. IF HENRY JAMES HAD WRITTEN THE CHURCH CATECHISM 0/ What is your name ? A. It may possibly be conceived as standing in a re- lation of contiguity to a certain — shall we say ? — somewhat complicatedly rectilinear design — to put it colloquially, a symbol — employed by such of the races of mankind as follow the Roman usage to denote a sort of suppressed explosion, or rather, a confused hxmi " produced " when the upper and the nether lip are brought with some firm- ness — or even, as one might phrase it, " snap " — together, and a continuous soimd is compelled for egress to flow through a less harmonious though tmdeniably more prominent organ. Or, on the other hand, its relation to that so interesting figxure may be something even closer than one of mere contiguity, however proximate, some- thing in the nature of coincidence, of body and soul iden- tity even: in a word, it may be, or, more exactly, may be represented by, that symbol itself. O. Who gave you that name ? A Which? 69 70 TRICKSIOF THE TRADE 0/ Oh no, not the other^one, the quite inevitably dis- cursive family " label." A, You mean my . . . O- Well yes, not that all so shared, and as it were almost — ^if one may forgivably say it — may one ? — " vul- garized " — ^your, as they call it, " surname. " A, Oh, not that one ? O. No . . . A, The other? O. Yes — that other — ^that more exquisitely personal, the more (dare one?) appropriated, the one of which, I had thought, we touched, even grasped, the skirts when our interlocution, or to put it quite brutally, when we began our conversation. A, You refer . . . 0/ I am, dear lady, all ears. A, To, in fact, my — since we are both to be so frank — Christian name ? 0/ Oh, but you are great! A. Not great, not, I mean, really, in the sense that you mean. . . . O, /mean ? A, The other sense, you know. 0< Yes, I apprehend you, but it wasn't that one I meant. A, Then what in the world was it ? TRICKS OF THE TRADE 71 O. Take it from another point of view, wasn't frank- ness to be, always, our splendid object ? A, Explicitly. O. Wasn't it? A, Oh no, I woxildn't doubt it; I wouldn't, really wouldn't, let you down. 0, Not even gently ? A. The other way, I meant. O, Divine clarity! And who gave it you? A. The Deluge! 0/ He was it, or she ? A, Oh, never he, as he would himself say, never on your life. O. And she ? A, She would, as she always will, bet her boots not! O. Not, surely it wasn't, they ? A. They! 0. They! A, Oh, certainly they ! Who could have stopped them. Not miserable I, so pitifully, so hopelessly, so microscopi- cally, futilely small ! They were all there, and there was I. And they did it, oh, quite finally did it. O. Who? Etc. No. 9. IF LORD BYRON HAD WRITTEN "THE PASSING OF ARTHUR" So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the western sea, Till, when the bell for evening service tolled. Each side had swiped the other utterly; And, looking roxmd. Sir Bedivere the bold Said, " Sire, there's no one left but you and me; I'm game to lay a million to a fiver That, save for us, there is not one svurvivor." " Quite Ukely," answered Arthur, " and I'm sure That I have been so hammered by these swine To-morrow's sun will find us yet one fewer. I prithee take me to yon lonely shrine Where I may rest and die. There is no cure For men with sixty-seven wounds like mine." So Bedivere did very firmly grapple His arm, and led him to the Baptist Chapel. 72. TRICKS OF THE TRADE 73 There he lay down, and by him burned like flame His sword Ezcalibnr: its massy hilt Crusted with blazing gems that never came From mortal mines ; its blade, inlaid and gilt And graved with many a necromantic name, Still dabbled with the blood the king had spilt. Which touching, Arthur said, " Sir Bedivere, Please take this brand and throw him in the mere. " Bold Bedivere sprang back like one distraught, Or Uke a snail when tapped upon the shell. Was this the peerless prince for whom he'd fought, A man who'd drop his cheque-book down a well ? Surely he must have dreamt the words, he thought. Had the king spoken ? Was it possible To give so lunatic a proposal credit ? . . . And yet the king imdoubtedly had said it. He said it again in accents full serene: " Go to the lake and throw this weapon in it, And then come back and tell me what you've seen. The business should not take you half a minute. Off now. I say precisely what I mean." " Right, sire! " But, sotto voce, " What a sin it Would be, what criminal improvidence To waste an arme blanche of such excellence! " 74 TRICKS OF THE TRADE But Arthur's voice broke through his^meditation, " Why this delay? I thought I said ' at once * ? " " Yes, sire, " said he, and, with a salutation Walked ofE reflecting, " How this fighting blunts One's wits. In any other situation I should have guessed — 'twere obvious to a dunce That this all comes from Merlin's precious oflSces, Why could he not confine himself to prophecies? " Bearing the brand, across the rocks he went And now and then a hot impatient word Witnessed the stress of inner argument. " Curse it, " he mused, " a really sumptuous sword Is just the very one accoutrement I never have been able to afford; This beautiful, this incomparable Excalibur Would nicely suit a warrior of my calibre. *' Could anything be madder than to hurl in This stupid lake a sword as good as new, Merely because that hoary humbug Merlin Suggested that would be the thing to do? A bigger liar never came from Berlin, I won't be baulked by guS and bugaboo; The old impostor's lake may call in vain for it I'll stick it in a hole and come again for it. " TRICKS OF THE TRADE 75 So, having safely stowed away the sword And marked the place with several large stones Sir Bedivere retiimed to his liege lord ] And, with a studious frankness in his tones, Stated that he had dropped it overboard; But Arthur only greeted him with groans: " My Bedivere, " he said, " I may be dying, But even dead I'd spot such barefaced lying. " It's rather rough upon a dying man That his last dying orders should be flouted. Time was when if you'd thus deranged my plan I shoidd have said, ' Regard yourself as outed, I'll find some other gentleman who can. ' Now I must take what comes, that's all about it. . . . My strength is failing fast, it's very cold here. Come, pull yourself together, be a soldier. " Once more I mustlnsist you are to lift Excalibur and hurl him in the mere. Don't hang about now. You had better shift For all you're worth, or when you come back here The chances are you'll find your master stiffed. " Whereat the agonized Sir Bedivere, His " Yes, Sire, " broken by a noisy sob. Went off once more on his distasteful job. 76 TRICKS OF THE TRADE But as he walked the inner voice did say: *' I quite agree with * Render imto Cassar,' But nothing's said of throwing things away When a man's king's an old delirious geezer, You don't meet swords like this one every day. Jewels and filigree as fine as these are Should surely be preserved in a museum That our posterity may come and see 'em. "A work of Art's a thing one holds in trust, One has no right to throw it in a lake, Such Vandalism would arouse disgust In every Englishman who claims to take An interest in Art. Oh no, I must Delude my monarch for my country's sake; Obedience in such a case, in fact, Were patently an anti-social act. " It is not pleasant to deceive my king, I had much rather humour his caprice, But, if I tell him I have thrown the thing, And, thinking that the truth, he dies in peace, Surely the poets of oiu: race will sing (Unless they are the most pedantic geese) The praises of the knight who lied to save This precious weapon from a watery grave. " TRICKS OF THE TRADE 77 He reached the margin of the lake and there Until a decent interval had passed Lingered, the sword once more safe in its lair. Then to his anxious monarch hurried fast, And, putting on a still more candid air. Assured the king the brand had gone at last. But Arthur, not deceived by any means. Icily said: " Tell that to the marines. " Sir Bedivere, this conduct won't enhance Your reputation as a man of honom*. If you had dared to lead me such a dznce A week ago, you would have been a goner, Listen to me! I give you one more chance; And, if you fail again, I swear upon our Old oath of fealty to the Table Round I shall jiimp up and fell you to the ground." So that sad soul went off alone once more. Rebellion frowned no longer on his face ; His spirit was broken; when he reached the shore He wormed the sword out of its hiding-place, Excalibur, that man's eye should see no more, And, fearing still a further lapse from grace, Shut his eyes tight against that matchless jewel And, desperately hissing, " This is cruel, " 78 TRICKS OF THE TRADE Swung it far back; and then, with mighty sweep, Hove it to southward as he had been bade. And, as it fell, an arm did suddenly leap Out of the moonUt wave, in samite clad, And grasped the sword and drew it to the deep. And all was still; and Bedivere, who had |No nerve at all left now, exclaimed, " My Hat! I'll never want another job like that! " Thus Bedivere at last performed his vow. And Arthur, when the warrior bore in sight, Read his success upon his gloomy brow. " Done it at last, " he murmured, " that's all right. Well, Bedivere, and what has happened now? " Demanded he; and the disconsolate knight In a harsh bitter voice replied, " Oh, damn it all, I saw a mystic arm, clothed iUiWhite samite all. " ** Quite right, " said Arthur, " better late than never; Now, if you please, you'll take me for a ride. Put me upon your back and then endeavour To run top-speed unto the waterside. Come, stir your stumps, you must be pretty clever. Or otherwise I fear I shall have died Before you've landed me upon the jetty. And then the programme's spoilt: which were a pity. " TRICKS OF THE TRADE 79 What followed after this (although my trade is Romantic verse) is quite beyond my lay. For automobile barges, full of ladies Singing and weeping, never came my way. Though, for that matter, I was once in Cadiz — But never mind. It will suffice to say That in his final act our old friend Malory Was obviously playing to the gallery. No. 10. IF SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE HAD WRITTEN "LITTLE DROPS OF WATER" Child, I am wondering. Last night I was watching the silver moon rising over the sea, And in her light the colour of the sea was pale, and the colour of the grasses was dark and sweet as the champak. I heard the ducks crying over the waters by the shore. I heard from the khitmatgar, threading like pearls on the darkness, the soft notes of the ctunmerbtind. Child, I am wondering. Child, I smelt the flowers. The golden flowers . . . hiding in crowds like fairies at my feet. And as I smelt them the endless smile of the infinite broke over me, and I knew that they and you and I were one. 80 TRICKS OF THE TRADE 8i They and you and I, the cowherds and the cows, the jewels and the potter's wheel, the mothers and the light in baby's eyes. For the sempstress when she takes one stitch may make nine unnecessary; And the smooth and shining stone that rolls and rolls like the great river may gain no moss. And it is extraordinary what a lot you can do with a plati- tude when you dress it up in Blank Prose. Child, I smelt the flowers. 6 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper pr Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxid Treatment Date: July 2009 PreservationTechnolo A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESER 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16061 (724> 779-2111