Hugh Selwyn Mauberley

THESE fought, in any case, and some believing, pro domo, in any case . . Some quick to arm, some for adventure, some from fear of weakness, some from fear of censure, some for love of slaughter, in imagination, learning later . . .

some in fear, learning love of slaughter; Died some "pro patria, non dulce non et decor". .

walked eye-deep in hell believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving came home, home to a lie, home to many deceits, home to old lies and new infamy;

usury age-old and age-thick and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before. Young blood and high blood, Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before, disillusions as never told in the old days, hysterias, trench confessions, laughter out of dead bellies.

AMONG the pickled foetuses and bottled bones, Engaged in perfecting the catalogue, I found the last scion of the Senatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog.

For two hours he talked of Gallifet; Of Dowson; of the Rhymers' Club; Told me how Johnson (Lionel) died By falling from a high stool in a pub . . .

But showed no trace of alcohol At the autopsy, privately performed— Tissue preserved—the pure mind Arose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed.

Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels; Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbued With raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church. So spoke the author of "The Dorian Mood",

M. Verog, out of step with the decade, Detached from his contemporaries, Neglected by the young, Because of these reveries.

IN the cream gilded cabin of his steam yacht Mr. Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewer Dangers of delay. "Consider     "Carefully the reviewer.

"I was as poor as you are; "When I began I got, of course, "Advance on royalties, fifty at first", said Mr. Nixon, "Follow me, and take a column, "Even if you have to work free.

"Butter reviewers. From fifty to three hundred "I rose in eighteen months; "The hardest nut I had to crack "Was Dr. Dundas.

"I never mentioned a man but with the view "Of selling my own works. "The tip's a good one, as for literature "It gives no man a sinecure."

And no one knows, at sight a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it.

* * *

"DAPHNE with her thighs in bark Stretches toward me her leafy hands",— Subjectively. In the stuffed-satin drawing-room I await The Lady Valentine's commands,

Knowing my coat has never been Of precisely the fashion To stimulate, in her, A durable passion;

Doubtful, somewhat, of the value Of well-gowned approbation Of literary effort, But never of The Lady Valentine's vocation:

Poetry, her border of ideas, The edge, uncertain, but a means of blending With other strata Where the lower and higher have ending;

A hook to catch the Lady Jane's attention, A modulation toward the theatre, Also, in the case of revolution, A possible friend and comforter.

* * *

Conduct, on the other hand, the soul "Which the highest cultures have nourished" To Fleet St. where Dr. Johnson flourished;

Beside this thoroughfare The sale of half-hose has Long since superseded the cultivation Of Pierian roses.