Part 3

There is truth in the statement, but there is more behind the statement than appears at the first glance.

New and incoming tides of poetry lapped at his feet each morning, and the incoming of each new tide of poetry was to him as fresh, pure, crystalline-sweet, and free, as is the tide that rolls in upon the shore each day from the vastnesses and the sweetnesses of the central sea.

Hence he gave himself up to it, plunged in it, sported in it, with the zeal and rapture of a boy. Had the call to think poetry, dream poetry, write poetry, plunge himself into poetry, come to him as part of a set task, had he been compelled, in the mood or out of the mood, to take up poetry as an occupation, he would have turned from it as the sea-loving swimmer turns from a stagnant pool. It would have been to him the “boredom” of which he had spoken, not the “escape from boredom.”

I have said that the impression I formed of him after my first visit was that of a man who lived in a world of his own--a world which, so far as his body was concerned, was, with the exception of his experiences on and by the sea, bounded, for the greater part of his later life, by the four walls of his home, and by the limits of his daily walk, but which, in the imaginative and mental sense, was illimitable. Human and normal in passion, and in every other respect, as I believe him to have been (so far, that is to say, as genius, which by overbalancing one side of a man’s nature, inevitably necessitates some underbalancing on the other, ever _can_ be said to be normal), he had seemed to me, on the occasion of that first visit, a creature of other flesh and blood than ours, an elusive ethereal poetic essence, rather than a man of like passions to our own.

It had seemed to me as if the busy world, in which other men made love and married, begot children, bought and sold, laboured and schemed--though it lay outside his very door--was a million miles away from the monastic quiet of the book-lined room in which he lived and dreamed and wrote.

I do not say that it was so. All I say is that it had seemed so to me on that first meeting, but I am not sure that the impression I then formed was accurate.

I came away feeling as if I had been in the company of a creature living in an unreal world, whereas now I think that, to the man whom I had left behind in that book-lined room, life was infinitely more real than it is to us. I had left behind me, given over to ecstatic abandonment to the mood of the moment, and believing intensely in the reality and actuality of all which that mood called forth, or created, _a child at play with his toys_, for in spite of the magnificence and the maturity of his intellect (may I not say _because_ of the magnificence and the maturity of his intellect?) the child lived on and was alive to the last in Algernon Charles Swinburne as it lives in few others.

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,” was the reply.

The young man was accordingly presented. The reader will hardly believe me when I say that this Volunteer Subaltern of Artillery thought well to instruct the Master Gunner in the science of gunnery, and in fact to tell the Field-Marshal what in his, the Volunteer Subaltern’s, opinion was wrong with the British Army.

Had Lord Roberts replied civilly but curtly, as some in his place would have done: “You think so, do you? Oh indeed! Very interesting, I’m sure. Good evening,” and walked away, one could hardly have wondered. But no, he heard the other out with perfect courtesy, if with resignation, and in his own mind, no doubt, with amusement.

I reminded Lord Roberts of the incident when I came to know him better, and he replied with a laugh:

“I recall the matter perfectly, for I like to think I have a retentive memory. Of course I was, as you say, amused at the young man’s assurance and confidence in his own military knowledge. Many very young men are prone either to too great diffidence or to too great assurance. I think, on the whole, I incline to envy the young man with plenty of assurance, especially as I was disposed to be diffident myself at his age, as many of us Irishmen, for all our seeming confidence, are. But in any case I owed it to you, who had introduced him, as well as to myself, to treat him outwardly at least with courtesy and consideration.”

That was Lord Roberts’ charming and kind way of putting it; but to me, a young man myself when the incident happened, it was a lesson in fine breeding and in fine manners on the part of a great soldier and great gentleman.

I heard afterwards that the Volunteer Subaltern of Artillery, in speaking at a Distribution of Prizes to members of his corps, the very evening following upon his one and only meeting with the Field-Marshal, made frequent use of such phrases as “When I was talking to Lord Roberts about the matter,” “What I told Lord Roberts ought to be done,” and so on, no doubt to his own satisfaction and possibly with the result that the members of the audience were for the first time made to realise what a very important figure he was in the military world. Later on, however, some one who knew the facts wrote to him suggesting that the book for which the world was literally panting was a work from his pen entitled _My Recollections of Lord Roberts_, and when the Boer War broke out, a telegram, purporting to come from Lord Roberts, urging the Volunteer Artilleryman to take supreme command in South Africa, was dispatched to him by a playful friend. I have no doubt the young man, who will now be getting elderly, would be the first to laugh at his own youthful self-confidence, and that if this paper should by any chance meet his eye, he will pardon me for thus, and for the first time, telling the tale in print.

Here is an instance of Lord Roberts’ kindness to and interest in younger men. A Territorial Captain--his brother, an officer in the Regular Army, told me the story--was taking part in a Field Day with his battalion in Berkshire. His instructions were that he was to hold a certain line of country at all costs. It so happened that the attack developed in a direction which made it necessary for him hurriedly to advance his men to a flank and away from his reserves, whom he had posted where they were under cover and out of sight of the enemy. The young officer (he was a junior subaltern recently joined) in command of the reserves evidently had very mistaken ideas in regard to discipline. His idea appeared to be that discipline consists in staying where you were originally told to stay, like the “boy on the burning deck” in the poem of _Casabianca_, until receiving orders to another effect. Needless to say, the very reverse is true. Soldiers to-day are taught clearly to observe events and to act on their own initiative should unexpected developments arise. Seeing that the tide of war was drifting the Firing Line and its supports away from the reserves, the duty of the officer commanding the reserves was, not to remain stodgily where he had originally been placed (to do that would be less obedience to discipline than a breach of discipline), but while keeping the reserves directly in signalling communication with the Firing Line, as well as under cover and out of sight of the enemy, so to alter his own dispositions as to be ready to reinforce and to reinforce quickly when called upon to do so.

This, however, he failed to do, and when his superior officer, finding himself hard pressed, signalled for the reserves, there was no reply.

Unfortunately there was neither a galloper nor a cyclist at hand to carry a message. “If I don’t get my reserves here in half an hour,” he said, “I shall lose the position, and the loss of this position may mean, probably will mean, victory for the enemy all along the line. It shan’t be so if I can help it. Now what can I do?”

Hurriedly but keenly he scanned the rolling Berkshire down around him. Towards the north, on the whity-brown high road that curved outward in a huge half-circle from the point where he was standing, he saw a cloud of dust. “A motor! and coming this way!” he exclaimed. “Follow me, Brown.” (This to a non-commissioned officer.) Stooping low, so as not to offer a target to the enemy, he sprinted northwards in a line which intersected the high road, at the nearest point which the oncoming car must pass.

The motor was almost on him as he reached the road, and leaping into the centre held up his hand. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to the occupant, “but I’m in command of troops holding this position. We’re attacked in force, and my reserves are some distance away along the road in the direction you have come, near a copse. I’ve signalled for reinforcements, but they have not kept up their communications. I have neither a galloper nor a cyclist. If I get my reinforcements here in half an hour, I can hold the position. If I don’t, I lose it, and losing it means everything to the enemy. I wonder whether you’d be so very good as to lend me your car for a few minutes to carry a message!” “With the greatest pleasure,” said the occupant. Turning to the chauffeur he said, “You are entirely at this officer’s disposal. I shall walk on, and you can pick me up when he has done with you.” As he spoke he got out of the car, and as he lifted his cap, in response to the young officer’s salute and hasty word of thanks, the latter recognised Field-Marshal Lord Roberts.

A day or two later, the great soldier was celebrating his eightieth birthday, and received a letter from the officer in question. It was to remind Lord Roberts of the incident, to apologise for the liberty the young officer had taken in stopping the car, to thank him warmly for his kindness, and to mention that the reserves had been brought up at the double and in time to save the position. The officer concluded by asking to be allowed to congratulate the Field-Marshal on attaining his eightieth year and to express the hope that the great soldier might be spared to celebrate many similar anniversaries.

A reply came almost by return of post.

DEAR CAPTAIN ----,

Many thanks for your letter and kind congratulations on my 80th birthday. I was delighted to be of assistance, and am even more delighted to learn the successful result of that assistance. You did the right and only thing in stopping my car. If ever you are this way and disengaged, I hope you will call and give me the pleasure of making the further acquaintance of so good and resourceful a soldier.

Yours truly, ROBERTS.

After my first meeting with Lord Roberts at the Vagabond Club, I saw no more of him--except for a mere handshake and “How-do-you-do?” at a military function--for many years. Then I chanced, in April, 1910, to contribute to the _London Quarterly Review_ an article on National Defence. It was addressed specially to Nonconformists, one of the opening paragraphs being as follows:

I do not for a moment believe that Nonconformists are one whit less patriotic than any other great religious body, but I fear there is some misconception on their part--due no doubt to the intolerance and the exaggeration of some of us who champion the cause of National Defence--in regard to our aims and our purposes. It is in the hope of removing some of these misconceptions that I pen the present paper.

The article I did _not_ send to Lord Roberts, nor did I draw the attention of anyone connected with the National Service League of which he was President to it. I did nothing directly or indirectly to bring it under anyone’s notice. Yet a few days after the _Review_ appeared, I received the following letter from him. The Rev. R. Allen of whom he speaks, I may say, was, and still is, an entire stranger to me, and I to him:

ENGLEMERE, ASCOT, BERKS, _April 4, 1910_.

DEAR SIR,

The Rev. R. Allen, a friend of many years’ standing, has been good enough to send me a copy of the _London Quarterly Review_ for this month, and to draw my attention to the first article, written by you on “How to Defend England.”

I am _delighted_ with the article itself, and with the very clear and convincing way in which you have put forward the advantages of military training and discipline for all our able-bodied young men as affecting not only the position of Great Britain as a World Power, but the individual moral and physical improvement of the men of the nation.

But I am still more delighted that such an article should be allowed to appear in a Journal published from the Wesleyan Book Room. I am quite at one with you in believing that Nonconformists are not one whit less patriotic than any other great religious body, but that there is some misconception on their part in regard to the aim and purpose of those who advocate universal military training for Home Defence.

My hope is that such misconception may be removed and that every Briton, whatever his position and whatever his sect, will realise the necessity for taking the defence of his country seriously.

Such articles as yours will do much to effect this, and to open the eyes of those who are now blind to England’s needs and England’s dangers before it is too late.

Yours truly, ROBERTS.

Other men as greatly concerned in great matters as Lord Roberts was cannot always spare time to acknowledge and to show appreciation of work for a good cause, which is brought directly to their notice. Lord Roberts could find time, or perhaps I should say made time to write graciously about work the doer or the author of which had done nothing to bring that work under the Field-Marshal’s eye.

Thenceforward, no work of mine in the cause for National Defence was allowed to pass unrecognised, once it came under the notice of Lord Roberts--and not very much happened of which in some way or another he did not come to hear.

He followed the doings even of the rank and file under his command, and, like the great leader of men that he was, he thought none of them too humble to be honoured and heartened before going into battle, by a message from himself.

For instance, I was asked to give an address on National Defence to a great gathering of men--some 1500 or more as it turned out--at an Assault-at-Arms in the Kursaal at Worthing. Naturally I never trespassed upon such a busy man’s time by writing to him, unless in answer to a letter from himself, or unless I had something important of which to speak. So as I had not heard from Lord Roberts for some time, and had had no cause to write to him, I did not suppose he as much as knew of the Worthing meeting. Yet in opening the proceedings, the Mayor announced that he had just received a telegram from Lord Roberts to the effect that he was delighted I was to be the speaker that night, and warmly commending what I had to say to the attention of the audience.

Such a message and from such a quarter, did more to assure me--an entire stranger to my audience--a welcome and a friendly hearing than I could otherwise have hoped to receive.

One “Lost Chord” in the way of an unread message from Lord Roberts I often regret.

In the company of Mr. Neville P. Edwards, then an organising secretary of the National Service League, I went as an Honorary Helper of the League on three caravan tours in Kent and Sussex.