Chapter C: L. GRAVES and E. V. LUCAS

March 13, 1912.

_Metropolis_

The Ideal Home

[With apologies to the progressive organisers of a certain Exhibition at Olympia.]

"Before the thing ends," I observed to my Lilian,
"Let's hasten and see if it's true
That the Fortunate Isles and the Vale of Avilion
Are dumped at Olympia. Do."
And Lilian said, "Thos,
Happy thought!" and it was;
But that very same day it occurred to a million
Intelligent Londoners too.

There were hangings and curtains and carpets and ranges
For kitchens, and cauldrons and pots,
And vacuum-cleaners and servant-exchanges,
And toys for the infantile tots.
There were homes of the Russ
Which would not do for us;
There was furniture taken from futurist granges
At Hanwell and similar spots.

There were baths with gold taps and a malachite stopper,
And one with a card that explained
It was open to all who expended a copper
To fill it and try it. But, trained
As we were in the rules
Of Victorian schools,
Neither Lilian nor I thought that that would be proper,
And so we severely refrained.

There were rooms which suggested the time when the slattern
Should trouble no longer, and all
Should be comfort and peace in the empire of Saturn,
But oh, it was hot in that hall!
And "Lilian," said I,
"I could drop. Let us buy
That brace of armchairs of a willowy pattern,
And rest by the side of this stall."

But Lilian said "No." The implacable faces
Of constables frowned. With a sob
We turned us away from that palmy oasis
And went and had tea for a bob.
That was helpful, no doubt,
But before we got out
Through the ranks of the ravenous, squealing for places,
We all but expired in the mob.

"This is closer," said Lil, "than the bell of a diver."
"It's awful," I answered, "my sweet;
Any room in this show would be dear at a fiver,
Compared with our worst. Let us fleet."
So I hastened to nab
A well-oiled taxicab,
And "The Ideal Home," I remarked to the driver,
And mentioned our number and street.

E. G. V. KNOX.
October 29, 1913.

Ghosts of Paper

Should you go down Ludgate Hill,
As I'm sure you sometimes will,
When the dark comes soft and new,
Smudged and smooth and powder-blue,
And the lights on either hand
Run away to reach the Strand;
And the winter rains that stream
Make the pavements glance and gleam;
There you'll see the wet roofs rise
Packed against the lamp-lit skies,
And at once you shall look down
Into an enchanted town.
Jewelled Fleet Street, golden gay,
Sloughs the drab of work-a-day,
Conjuring before you then
All her ghosts of ink and pen,
Striking from her magic mint
Places you have loved in print,
From the fairy towns and streets
Raised by Djinn and fierce Afreets,
To the columned brass that shone
On the gates of Babylon;
You shall wander, mazed, amid
Pylon, palm, and pyramid;
You shall see, where taxis throng,
River lamps of old Hong Kong;
See the ramparts standing tall
Of the wondrous Tartar Wall;
See, despite of rain and wind,
Marble towns of rosy Ind,
And the domes and palaces
Crowning Tripolis and Fez;
While, where buses churn and splash,
There's the ripple of a sash,
Silken maid and paper fan
And the peach-bloom of Japan;
But, the finest thing of all,
You shall ride a charger tall
Into huddled towns that haunt
Picture-books of old Romaunt,
Where go squire and knight and saint,
Heavy limned in golden paint;
You shall ride above the crowd
On a courser pacing proud,
In fit panoply and meet
Through be-cobbled square and street,
Where with bays and gestures bland
Little brown-faced angels stand!

* * * *

These are some of things you'll view
When the night is blurred and blue,
If you look down Ludgate Hill,
As I'm sure you often will!

P. R. CHALMERS.
Jan. 4, 1911.

The Desert Optimist

An exile, I would fain forget
That circumstance hath put me down
Quite close to places like Tibet,
But very far from London town.

And though the outlook's rather drear
I sometimes fancy I detect
A sort of Cockney atmosphere,
A Metropolitan effect.

Behind my chair in solemn state
The bearer and khansama stand,
Swart replicas of those who wait
In Piccadilly or the Strand.

My punkah brings a grateful wind
To cheeks climatically brown'd,
A fitful gust that calls to mind
The draughts about the Underground.

And though they spoil my morning rest
I like to lie awake and hark
To parrakeets whose notes suggest
Their captive kin in Regent's Park.

About my house the pigeons roost,
They perch upon the compound walls,
Own brothers to the friends who used
To flap me greeting from St. Paul's.

In yellow waves the dawn-mist drives
Across the paddy-field and jogs
The memory of one who strives
To reconstruct his London fogs.

And when I hear a bullock-cart
Go rumbling 'neath its harvest truss
The echo wakens in my heart
The music of the omnibus.

And thus it is I've learned to find
A remedy for things that irk;
My desert fades and with a kind
Of cinematographic jerk--

"Urbs errat ante oculos;"
Then, Fortune, send me where you list,
I care not, London holds me close,
An exile, yet an optimist.

J. M. SYMNS.
Aug. 2, 1911.

To a Bank of England Pigeon

Descendant of the doves of Aphrodite
Who fluttered in that type of beauty's train
And followed her affairs--the grave, the flighty,
Cooing in just your calm, uncaring strain,
Whether she thought to rid her of a rival,
Or bring some laggard lover to her knees;--
I see you, Sir, the latter-day survival
Of such fair plumed satellites as these!

"Bred in the bone," perchance you know the motto!
And so you doubtless dream of tides that lace
O'er snow-white sand by some blue Paphian grotto,
Or of your sires' dark, murmurous, woodland Thrace;
A penny whistle shrilling 'mid the traffic
May seem the goat-foot god's own oaten trill,
Till you shall think to hear the Maenads maffic
In the upborne commotion of Cornhill!

And from your perch where sooty winds are striving,
O Bank Stock-dove, as o'er Hymettian bloom
You yet may watch the busy bees a-hiving
The sweet and subtle fragrance of the Boom,
And see, as once before the Cyprian matron,
The crowds that wait, obsequious and discreet,
On her, your passionless and newer patron,
The stern Old Lady of Threadneedle Street!

P. R. CHALMERS.
May 11, 1910.

Left Smiling

It is the joyful time when out of town
(For me a large red letter checks it)
To sea and loch, to dale and windy down
The public makes its annual exit,
Deeming that they are dotty in the mind
Who choose to stay behind.

"Exodus" is the tag the papers use,
A Scriptural term from ancient Jewry,
But I shall always steadily refuse
To do like PHARAOH in his fury
And fling my horse and chariot on their track
To fetch the people back.

Poor crowded souls, who think that when they fare
Forth to the briny, there to wallow,
They leave in London's every street and square
An aching void, a yawning hollow.
"Town," they observe, "is empty!" It is not:
I still am on the spot.

They picture Beauty vanished from the Park,
Clubland a waste for flies to buzz in,
The Halls of Song and high Cinema dark,
And here and there a country cousin
Sharing with vagrant cat and mongrel dawg
The putrid dust of Aug.

These are their views who shun the quiet shade
And go _en masse_ in search of glamour,
Wash in the same sea, walk the same parade,
Fill the same solitude with clamour,
And on the same rock, in a fist like Fame's,
Knife their confounded names.

So let them trip it where their neighbours press
With loud excursion and alarum,
And leave me London in her Summer dress
Exquisite as the lily (_arum_)
And fragrant with the absence, all too short,
Of the more stuffy sort.

For then, when all the obvious people flit,
The town unlocks her rarer treasures;
More freely, with companions few but fit,
I taste the less obtrusive pleasures
With which the Choicer Spirits keep in touch
(As Editors and such).

Dearer I find than any change of scene
The charm of old familiar places,
When the dull obstacle that stood between
Fades and reveals their hidden graces.
London with half her Londoners removed
Is very much improved.

_Enfin, j'y reste_. And, if some folk regard
My conduct as a thing of beauty,
Saying, "He stops in town, this virtuous bard,
Because he loves the way of Duty,"
Why, let them talk; I shall not take the trouble
To prick this wanton bubble.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
July 31, 1912.

The Sitting Bard

[Lines addressed to one of those officials who charge you a copper for your seat in St. James's Park.]

Fellow, you have no _flair_ for art, I fear,
Who thus confound me with the idle Many--
The loafer pensive o'er his betting rag,
The messenger (express) with reeking fag,
The nursemaid sighing for her bombardier--
All charged the same pew-rate, a common penny.

I am an artist; I am not as these;
He does me horrid despite who confuses
My taste with theirs who come this way to chuck
Light provender to some exotic duck,
Whereas I sit beneath these secular trees
In close collaboration with the Muses.

To me St. James's Park is holy ground;
In fancy I regard these glades as Helicon's;
This lake (although an artificial pond)
To Hippocrene should roughly correspond;
Others, not I, shall make its shores resound,
Bandying chaff with yonder jaunty pelicans.

All this escaped you, lacking minstrel lore.
'Tis so with poets: men are blind and miss us;
You did not mark my eye's exultant mood,
The inflated chest, the listening attitude,
Nor, bent above the mere, the look I wore
When lost in self-reflection--like Narcissus.

Else you could scarce have charged me for my seat;
I must have earned an honorary session;
For how could I have strained your solid chair,
I that am all pure spirit, fine as air,
And sit as light as when with wingéd feet
Mercury settles, leaving no impression?

Well, take your paltry penny, trivial dun!
And bid your chair-contractors freely wallow
In luxury therewith; but, when you find
Another in this hallowed seat reclined,
Squeeze him for tuppence, saying, "_Here sat one
On June the fifth and parleyed with Apollo_."

SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
June 11, 1913.

Nursery Rhymes of London Town

KINGSWAY

Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady,
Walking on the King's Way, will you go in red?
With a silken wimple, and a ruby on your finger,
And a furry mantle trailing where you tread?
Neither red nor ruby I'll wear upon the King's Way;
I will go in duffle grey with nothing on my head.

Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady,
Walking on the King's Way, will you go in blue?
With an ermine border, and a plume of peacock feathers,
And a silver circlet, and a sapphire on your shoe?
Neither blue nor sapphire I'll wear upon the King's Way;
I will go in duffle grey, and barefoot too.

Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady,
Walking on the King's Way, will you go in green?
With a golden girdle, and a pointed velvet slipper,
And a crown of emeralds fit for a queen?
Neither green nor emerald I'll wear upon the King's Way;
I will go in duffle grey so lovely to be seen,
And Somebody will kiss me and call me his queen.

March 2, 1916.

HAYMARKET

I went up to the Hay-market upon a summer day,
I went up to the Hay-market to sell a load of hay--
To sell a load of hay and a little bit over,
And I sold it all to a pretty girl for a nosegay of red clover.

A nosegay of red clover and a hollow golden straw;
Now wasn't that a bargain, the best you ever saw?
I whistled on my straw in the market-place all day,
And the London folk came flocking for to foot it in the hay.

THE ANGEL

The Angel flew down
One morning to town,
But didn't know where to rest;
For they shut her out of the East End
And they shut her out of the West.

The Angel went on
To Islington,
And there the people were kinder.
If ever you go to Islington
That's where you will find her.

MISS E. FARJEON.
June 4, 1916.

The Booklover

By Charing Cross in London Town
There runs a road of high renown,
Where antique books are ranged on shelves
As dark and dusty as themselves.

And many booklovers have spent
Their substance there with great content,
And vexed their wives and filled their homes
With faded prints and massive tomes.

And ere I sailed to fight in France
There did I often woo Romance,
Searching for jewels in the dross,
Along the road to Charing Cross.

But booksellers and men of taste
Have fled the towns the Hun laid waste,
And within Ypres Cathedral square
I sought but found no bookshops there.

What little hope have books to dwell
'Twixt Flemish mud and German shell?
Yet have I still upon my back,
Hid safely in my haversack,

A tattered Horace, printed fine
(Anchor and Fish, the printer's sign),
Of sage advice, of classic wit;
Much wisdom have I gained from it.

And should I suffer sad mischance
When Summer brings the Great Advance,
I pray no cultured Bosch may bag
My Aldus print to swell his swag.

Yet would I rather ask of Fate
So to consider my estate,
That I may live to loiter down
By Charing Cross in London Town.

NORMAN DAVEY.
June 21, 1916.

The Lanes leading down to the Thames

There are beautiful lanes leading down to the Thames
By the meadows all studded with buttercup gems,
Where the thrush and the blackbird and cuckoo all day
Waft their songs on the incense of roses and may.

But the lanes here in London, near warehouse and mart,
Are as winding and steep and as dear to my heart;
Their mansions all mildewed in tenderest tones,
With priceless old doorways by INIGO JONES.

Though the roadway is rough and the cobbles are hard,
There are plane-trees in leaf in St. Dunstan's churchyard,
And the twittering sparrows their parliament keep
In the peaceful demesne where the citizens sleep.

Oh! the sights and the sounds of those wonderful lanes,
The tramp of the horses, the creak of the cranes,
Men fresh from the perils that lurk in the seas,
The balm of the Indies that spices the breeze.

Crude critics find fault with the fish-porters' yells,
The strength of the briny and orangey smells,
But they're part of the charm of the lanes I hold dear,
"Harp," "Pudding" and "Idol," "Love," "Water" and "Beer."

R. H. ROBERTS.
July 12, 1916.

To a Dear Departed

["Georgina," the largest of the giant tortoises at the Zoo, has died. She was believed to be about two hundred and fifty years old.]

Winds blow cold and the rain, Georgina,
Beats and gurgles on roof and pane;
Over the Gardens that once were green a
Shadow stoops and is gone again;
Only a sob in the wild swine's squeal
Only the bark of the plunging seal,
Only the laugh of the striped hyæna
Muffled with poignant pain.

Long ago, in the mad glad May days,
Woo'd I one who was with us still;
Bade him wake to the world's blithe heydays,
Leap in joyance and eat his fill;
Sang I, sweet as the bright-billed ousel, a
Pæan of praise for thy pal, Methuselah.
Ah! he too in the Winter's grey days
Died of the usual chill.

He was old when the Reaper beckoned,
Ripe for the paying of Nature's debt;
Forty score--if he'd lived a second--
Years had flown, but he lingered yet;
But you had gladdened this vale of tears
For a bare two hundred and fifty years;
You, Georgina, we always reckoned
One of the younger set.

Winter's cold and the influenza
Wreaked and ravaged the ranks among;
Bills that babbled a gay cadenza,
Snouts that snuffled and claws that clung--
Now they whistle and root and run
In Happy Valleys beyond the sun;
Never back to the ponds and pens a
Sigh of regret is flung.

Flaming parrots and pink flamingoes,
Birds of Paradise, frail as fair;
Monkeys talking a hundred lingoes,
Ring-tailed lemur and Polar bear--
Somehow our grief was not profound
When they passed to the Happy Hunting Ground;
Deer and ducks and yellow dog dingoes
Croaked, but we did not care.

But you--ah, you were our pride, our treasure,
Care-free child of a kingly race.
Undemonstrative? Yes, in a measure,
But every movement replete with grace.
Whiles we mocked at the monkeys' tricks
Or pored apart on the apteryx;
These could yield but a passing pleasure;
Yours was the primal place.

How our little ones' hearts would flutter
When your intelligent eye peeped out,
Saying as plainly as words could utter,
"Hurry up with that Brussels-sprout!"
How we chortled with simple joy
When you bit that impudent errand-boy;
"That'll teach him," we heard you mutter,
"Whether I've got the gout."

Fairest, rarest in all the Zoo, you
Bound us tight in affection's bond;
Now you're gone from the friends that knew you,
Wails the whaup in the Waders' Pond;
Wails the whaup and the seamews keen a
Song of sorrow; but you, Georgina,
Frisk for ever where warm winds woo you,
There, in the Great Beyond.