  THE conscious part of composition is like the finishing of roughly shaped briars in a pipe factory. Where there are flaws in the wood, putty has to be used in order to make the pipe presentable. Only an expert eye can tell the putty when it has been coloured over, but there it is, time will reveal it and nobody is more aware of its presence now than the man who put it there. The public is often gulled into paying two guineas for a well-coloured straight-grain, when a tiny patch of putty under the bowl pulls down its sentimental value to ten shillings or so. It is only fair to give an example of putty in a poem of my own; in writing songs, where the pattern is more fixed than in any other form, putty is almost inevitable. This song started sincerely and cheerfully enough:— Once there came a mighty furious wind (So old worthies tell). It blew the oaks like ninepins down, And all the chimney stacks in town Down together fell. That was a wind—to write a record on, to hang a story on, to sing a ballad on, To ring the loud church bell! But for one huge storm that cracks the sky Came a thousand lesser winds rustling by, And the only wind that will make me sing Is breeze of summer or gust of spring But no more hurtful thing. This was leading up to a final verse:— Once my sweetheart spoke an unkind word As I myself must tell, For none but I have seen or heard My sweetheart to such cruelty stirred For one who loved her well. That was a word—to write no record on, to hang no story on, to sing no ballad on, To ring no loud church bell! Yet for one fierce word that has made me smart Ten thousand gentle ones ease my heart, So all the song that springs in me Is “Never a sweetheart born could be So kind as only she.” Half-way through this verse I was interrupted, and had to finish the poem consciously as best I could. On picking it up again, apparently I needed another middle verse of exactly the same sort of pattern as the first, to prepare the reader for the third. Searching among natural phenomena, I had already hit on drought as being a sufficiently destructive plague to be long remembered by old worthies. This would make the second verse. So without more ado I started:— Once there came a mighty thirsty drought (So old worthies tell). The quags were drained, the brooks were dried, Cattle and sheep and pigs all died, The parson preached on Hell. That was a drought—to write a record on etc. So far I had concealed the poverty of my inspiration well enough, I flattered myself, but here we were stuck, my self-conscious muse and I. What was a pleasing diminutive of drought?—Pleasant sunshine? Not quite; the thirstiness of nature doesn’t show in pleasant sunshine at all. So, knowing all the time that I was doing wrong, I took my putty knife and slapped the stuff on thick, then trimmed and smoothed over carefully:— But for one long drought of world-wide note Come a thousand lesser ones on man’s throat, And the only drought for my singing mood Is a thirst for the very best ale that’s brewed, Soon quenched, but soon renewed. In manuscript, the putty didn’t show, somehow, but I am ashamed to say I published the song. And in print, it seemed to show disgracefully. “It was the best butter,” said the March Hare. “It was the best putty,” I echoed, to excuse myself. But there is too much of it; the last half of the last verse even, is not all sound wood. This poem has been on my conscience for some time. If spontaneous poetry is like the Genie from Aladdin’s Lamp, this conscious part of the art is like the assemblage of sheet, turnip-head, lighted candle and rake to make the village ghost. As I were a trapesin’ To Fox and Grapes Inn To get I a bottle of ginger wine I saw summat In they old tummut And Lordie how his eyes did shine! Suffolk rhyme. (Cetera desunt) The Genie is the most powerful magic of the two, and surest of its effect, but the Turnip Ghost is usually enough to startle rustics who wander at night, into prayer, sobriety, rapid movement or some other unusual state. |
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