in good company 6

in good company 6

What he had meant when he spoke of writing poetry “to escape

from boredom” was that he was a tired child turning for comfort,

self-forgetfulness and consolation to his toys; and to him (happy

man!) even his life-work, even Poetry itself, was, in a sense, a

toy. That was why to the last he turned to it--an old man in years,

though I could never bring myself to think of him as old--with such

eager and childlike anticipation. The child heart, which could

exult and build up dreams around his toys, remained; but his toys

were changed--that was all. That was why he so loved and was so

loved by children. They recognised him, bearded man as he was, as

one of themselves. That was why he was so instantly at home with

them, and they with him. That, too, was why he so revelled in Mr.

Kenneth Grahame’s _The Golden Age_--not with the mild reminiscent

and ruminant interest and pleasure of a staid grown-up, chewing

the cud of childhood, but with a boy of ten’s actual and intense

identification with, and abandonment of himself to the part he was

acting, and with all a boy of ten’s natural and innate love of fun

and of mischief. I have seen him literally dance and caper and

whistle (yes, whistle) with all an eager boy’s rapture, over some

new toy treasure-trove, in the shape of a poem, by himself or by a

friend, a “find” in the shape of a picture, a print, or a coveted

first edition, picked up, during his rambles, at a stall.

 

“Eccentricity of genius,” you say?

 

Not at all. It meant merely that _his boyhood was as immortal as his

genius, as ineradicable as his intellectual greatness_.

 

Warm as was my regard for Algernon Charles Swinburne the man,

profound as is my admiration of him as a poet, I am not sure that to

this child-side of him must not be attributed much that was noblest

and most lovable in his noble and lovable personality, as well as

much that was loftiest and most enduring in his work.

 

Of him we must say, as Mr. William Watson has so finely said of

Tennyson, that he

 

Is heard for ever, and is seen no more;

 

but in seeking, for the purpose of these Recollections, to conjure

the living man before me, in striving to recall my conversations

with him, and in remembering, as I always do and shall remember, his

great-heartedness, I am reminded of what Watts-Dunton once said to me

in a letter.

 

“You will recall,” he wrote, “what Swinburne was remarking to you

the other day, when we were discussing the envy, hatred and malice

of a certain but very small section of the literary craft. ‘Yes,’

said Swinburne, ‘but these are the intellectually-little writing

fellows who do not matter and who do not count. The biggest men,

intellectually, are always the biggest-natured. Great hearts go

generally with great brains.’”

 

And I think--I am sure--that the saying is true.

 

 

 

 

LORD ROBERTS

 

“ORDERED OUT”

 

In Memoriam: Roberts, F.M., V.C.

 

DIED ON SERVICE, 1914

 

“When I was ordered out----”

_Lord Roberts, in a letter to the writer._

 

 

Prouder to serve than to command was he:

“When I was ordered”--thus a soldier’s soul

Answered, as from the ranks, the muster roll,

When came the call: “England hath need of thee.”

 

At Duty’s bidding, not by Glory lured,

For peace, not war, he strove; and peace was his--

Not the base peace which more disastrous is

Than war, but peace abiding and assured.

 

Thereafter followed long, untroubled years,

Wherein some said: “See rise the star of peace,

The morn of Arbitration. Wars must cease.

Away with sword and shield--Millennium nears!”

 

“_Keep shield to breast, keep bright your sword, and drawn!_”

Rang out his answer. “_On the horizon’s rim

I see great armies gather, and the dim,

Grey mists of Armageddon’s bloody dawn!_”

 

Few heeded, many scoffed, some merry grew,

And “Dotard!” cried, because, for England’s sake

For whom his son lay dead, he bade her wake,

And a great soldier spoke of what he knew.

 

Yet spoke--distasteful task!--against his will;

Death he had dared, but dared not silent be--

That were to England blackest treachery--

Wherefore he spoke: _his voice is sounding still!_

 

Even the while he spoke, the while they mocked

(With silent dignity their taunts were borne),

Europe, that laughing rose, as ’twere at morn,

At night, distraught, and in delirium rocked.

 

As the hung avalanche is suddenly hurled

Down the abyss, though but a pebble stirred,

So a crowned monster’s will, a Kaiser’s word,

Plunged into Armageddon half a world,

 

And Chaos was again. Crashed the blue skies

Above, as if to splinters. Was God dead?

Or deaf? or dumb? or reigned there, in His stead,

Only a devil in a God’s disguise?

 

Staggered and stunned, our England backward reeled

A moment. Then, magnificent, erect,

Flashed forth her sword, her ally to protect,

And over prostrate Belgium cast her shield.

 

Above the babel of voices, mists of doubt,

Rang forth his stern “To arms!” England to nerve;

Too old to fight, but not too old to serve,

Again he hears the call--is “ordered out.”

 

“Roberts!” the voice was Duty’s, arm’d and helm’d,

“To France! where India, greatly loyal, lands

Her stalwarts, and the bestial horde withstands

That raped and ravaged, burned and overwhelmed

 

“Heroic Belgium. Roberts, ’gainst the foe

No voice like thine can the swart Indians fire

To valour, and to loyalty inspire;

Roberts! to France!” Came answer calm: “I go.”

 

Nor once reproached: “I warned. You gave no heed,”

Nor pleaded fourscore years--“Ah, that I could!”

He who had England saved, an England would,

Only of England thought, in England’s need.

 

Then, where, on high, God captains legions bright

(On earth is Armageddon, and in hell--

May it not be?--Satan leads forth his fell

And fallen hosts, the heavens to storm and smite?)

 

Yea, from on high, from heaven’s supreme redoubt,

Came the last call of all, far-sounding, clear;

God spoke his name; he answered: “I am here.”

Stood to salute; again was “ordered out.”

 

From Camp to Camp he passed--beyond the sun’s

Red track, to where the immortal armies are,

Honoured of God, Hero of peace and war,

Amid the thunder-requiem of the guns.

 

C. K.

 

 

I

 

It was a score or more years ago, and at the Old Vagabond Club (now

merged into the Playgoers) that I first met Lord Roberts. When he

became the President of the Club, we celebrated the event by a dinner

at which he was the guest of honour and Jerome K. Jerome was the

Chairman. As one of the original members of the Club and as a member

of the Executive Committee, I was introduced to the great soldier.

All I expected was a bow, a handshake, and a “How-do-you-do,” but

Lord Roberts was as good as to be more gracious and cordial than any

great soldier, even if an Irishman, ever was before--so at least it

seemed to me--to a scribbler of sorts, whom he was meeting for the

first time. He was, in fact, so very kind that I was emboldened to

ask a favour. Among the guests was a young officer in what was then

the Artillery Volunteers. I knew it would immensely gratify him to

meet the Field-Marshal, so towards the close of the conversation I

ventured to say:

 

“It has been a very great honour and pleasure Lord Roberts, to me

to meet you and to have this talk. I wonder whether you’ll think me

trespassing on your kindness if I ask to be allowed to present an

acquaintance of mine? He is a Volunteer Officer, a junior subaltern

in the Artillery, and to meet you would, I am sure, be a red-letter

day in his life. Would you allow me to present him?”

 

“Why of course. I shall be delighted. Bring him along by all means,”