Bryn Mawr College - Bryn Mawr Yearbook (Bryn Mawr, PA)

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Greece. Missolonghi. Tavern I followed the trail of Livingston to Missolonghi be- scene. How the mighty fell! cause I heard of a revival meeting they were having Impossible interviews. Brawl- there. But it turned out to be one of those nights ing. Very disappointed. i n a n old tavern. Ben Jonson was there, as spruce as ever. He told me himself, as soon as I came in, that having worn out his influence on the romantic poets (tremendous, since he never wrote plays) he was travelling through Europe in search of a Boswell. He wanted to mend his fame, he said, so he went to Greece. But alas, he found many there in the old tavern already, all slowly dying of war or the world ' s neglect. He found Kipling holding out the last drop of water to Gunga Din, while Rupert Brooke wept silently upon the cool white tablecloths. The night I was there, things came to a sorry pass; in fact I was the only one who survived to tell the horrid tale. For Burns swaggered in somewhat tipsy and red about the ears, followed by Beaumont, of Beaumont and Fletcher Limited. There were not enough chairs, and insults began to fly, with the result that both Kipling and Gunga Din (who really was, by the way, the better man) collapsed; and Rupert, after writing on the tablecloth his last wish — to be buried under English sod, in a corner lot, if possible — expired, shot in the heart, gallantly pursuing the barmaid, a lover to the last. Ben and I were sitting pretty; presently Burns and Beaumont began squabbling with each other — the latter becoming officious about his business connections. Burns, who was anything but a snob, could not tolerate smugness, however delicate, however gentle- manly, the wine had been flowing freely, and they were both men for all that. Rumor says that each fired at the same instant; I shut my eyes; but I think that Burns missed his aim, and Beaumont, after killing Burns, feeling a bit Jacobean, and quite drunk, shot himself also, willing his famous house to Gilbert and Sullivan. This left the old tavern for Ben and me; as we sat there sipping the good grape, exchanging Scotch memoirs, I began to feel rather puffed up until — and this is the climax of my visit to the tavern — Boswell appeared, slowly walking, meditating visibly into his notebook. It ' s Boswell! I whispered naively, and let me hint to you that in my dreams I too had hoped for immortality, and here was the main chance, the only chance — here I was between a Boswell and a Jonson ! But woe to the English language, that one small letter could start a brawl. For when, with the greatest aplomb, yet with the air of an old acquaintance reviving friendship, large-hearted Ben produced his calling card, what should the great commentator do after reading the name but pronounce audibly to the air: The upstart! He has dropped the H ! Aitch be damned! cried Ben, I ' ll make you itch for this, you fraud, you eighteenth century darling! Thus the fray began; they both died fight- ing, out-Marlowing Marlowe in their disreputable performance. I decided to forswear literary men forever. 22

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and left New Zealand then once and for all, because I was on a tour around the world and did not want to get involved in any such plot. They all came to the boat to see me off, and my black bangs were flying in the wind, and Mr. Thackeray most gallantly pre- sented me with a pocket mirror. I caught the allusion on the wing, and so did the rest of them, and we laughed until the ship sailed. At Sea: Two of my fellow But New Zealand was only a prelude, a faint whiff of passengers drowned. Both excitement. Little did I know when I heard the ship poets. Dreadful! blowing its horn out of the harbour how close I was to the real stuff of life and death. I went to my cabin and started to relax when there was a faint scratching at the door. I opened it, and out- side stood a rather wan young man to whom my heart immediately unfolded itself. It must have been some quality of soul that I sensed. He stumbled in, regarded me strangely, then burst into a torrent of words. He said he was feeling death to be near, and could I possibly give him a copy of Cymbeline. All this was palpably absurd to me, but even more so when another knock sounded on the door, imperiously, loudly. I opened. A tall figure entered. I am Byron, it said, I have come to find my co-partner in mad- ness and exile. I realized all at once that it was Keats sitting on my bed, and then I began hunting eagerly for Cymbeline among my belongings, but could find no trace of it. I must have lost it, I sighed. You would! Dumpy! uttered Byron, and I shrank into myself at his cutting words, they were so witty, full of that famous European savoir faire. But it was a good copy! I apologized. Byron silenced me superbly by remarking that he wouldn ' t be found dead with it; and at that Keats sprang to his feet and rushed from the cabin. He ' s after that belle dame again! Poor idiot! cried Byron. At dinner I was all right again, with my bright eyes observing all. Byron was not far away from me, and I noticed his deathly pallor, and I said to myself that I had learned something true in college after all, and that undoubtedly his private life was in a ghastly turmoil. I wondered if he had perhaps kidnapped the one Woman who inhabited New Zealand (I never forgot her), because that would have borne out the best theories on the subject. But she was nowhere to be seen. Well, to be brief, both the dear Keats and the naughty Byron managed somehow to get drowned. It was a bad thing, I had my eye on the wan one ; when I saw him one of ternoon with that fatal drama in his hand, my bangs stood out straight from my head. Adieu, adieu, I said, the tears coming to my eyes, thy plaintive anthem fades, and indeed it did fade, drowned deep in the cold, cold sea, and only the seagulls over his grave. It was fated that way; all of us on board had felt an ominous thrill of disaster. But Byron, of course, drowned differently. It hap- pened at the crack of dawn; he had meant to die in Missolonghi, but something slipped, and he found himself joining the great mother sea instead of the Greek rebels. The sailors shot off the gun, he made his last salute, and down he went. Ours not to reason why, because we knew already that the gods kill the things they love, and if God does not love a poet well enough to kill him by land, by sea is the next best thing — or what ' s a heaven for? 21

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London. Realize at last the But fate had it otherwise. Someone, I think it was a desperate plight of English woman, if not The Woman ftom New Zealand, urged men of letters. Have just me to lay a wreath on the dead Chatterton ' s dootknob. been to Chatterton ' s room. It was the anniversary of his coming of age, and I could Horror, horror, horror! not resist it. It was decidedly a blunder. After placing the wreath, I smelt something strange; I opened the door, looked in. The air was thick with opium smoke, even though the window was open ; table and floor were covered with manuscripts ; there were decanters of wine ; and an old pulpit lay fallen in one corner. And the men assembled there! It was a sight that haunts me yet: De Quincey was dreaming on a couch, Poe quaffed at a side table; Donne raised his voice into the silence, then ceased ; Pope and Swift sucked in the morning air, and Dickens leaned from the window, bowing to the pedestrians; Lamb mutely ques- tioned the floor; Herrick bound a rose garland at a withered desk. I saw Coleridge chasing the bats along the wall; I should have gone then, but I was magnetized, caught on the spot. I heard Pope calling them all together; they stood in a great ring around the table; each swore an oath; I listened carefully, hearing the words the pact, and even De Quincey, through the fog, was making a ptomise. I felt I was certainly done for this time — but they never noticed me at all. They wete drinking now — to their great and final enterprise, they were drinking to death ! Thete, in Chatterton ' s room, they were making it at last, the gesture they had never been able to make, they were cutting themselves off — I was witnessing the most famous suicide pact of all time. A movement behind me. Shelley had entered, breathless; he had almost forgotten, and missed the plane from Calais, but had just made it, and now he stood there as big as death, and they took him into the circle and gave him his drop of poison. He drank, they all drank, they dropped their wine glasses — I wrenched open the door, and fled down the stairs; it was too much! I had seen during one grand tour twenty great men meet their doom; the slaughter was magnificent but terrible, ominous, a warning to me, and to England, and to you also, fair readers, who may even now be contemplating the nimbus of glory approaching you, even now planning a summer in Greece. Remember and tremble, remember the doom of the poet, the scourge of the master. Lay your plans well, avoid New Zealand, and keep Cymbeline, if you must travel with it, locked in the depths of your trunk. Eat well, sleep well, have no traffic with the past; and, above all, write nothing. 23