Men who shaved their Beards off—Grog Shanty Sympathy—The Dead who returned on the Tide—Indian-like Men from the Malay Archipelago—The Little Carpet Bag and its Hidden Potentialities—True Belief—Idol-Worship in Secret—My Incorrigible Reverence for a Heathen Idol—The Old Clothes of Kindness from the Hands of Civilisation, and their Hidden Potentialities—The Devil tempts Eve in the New Garden of Eden, with a Leg Bangle!—Waylao returns Home late—Her Mother’s Wrath—Benbow’s Cottage—I conjure up a Picture of what must have been when Waylao fell in the Arms of Mohammed—The Cockney’s Disgust—Where did You get that ’At—A Bankrupt Poet—Helen of Troy—Odysseus

IN that grog shanty congregated the derelicts from the civilised cities of the world, for the Marquesan Group was the special province of those men who found it extremely convenient to change their names and shave their chins.

Some would come hurrying up the shore, stagger into the grog shanty, swallow a few drinks and once more pass away to sea, like ships in the night.

Some were fugitives from justice, escaped from Ile Nouve, the convict settlement of New Caledonia. They came in like waifs on the tide; some on rafts and some disguised as passengers on the schooners that traded from isle to isle.

It was an open secret amongst the scanty white population who these hurried men really were.

The well-seasoned shellback would gaze critically at the gaunt, haggard stranger who had arrived on the last schooner and say quietly:

“Waal, stranger, where yer bound for?”

Then he would immediately stand the new-comer a drink, and give a significant smile that expressed brotherhood, and seemed to say:

“I know the kind ye are, but never you mind that; we don’t go back on a cove when he’s down—no, not in these parts.”

I was deeply interested in these derelicts of the world. Some were devil-may-care fellows, caring not a tinker’s cuss how the wind blew, so low had they sunk in the social scale of human affairs.

Others had haggard faces that expressed something of bygone refinement, and hunted-looking eyes, telling of a mind distraught with fears—and sometimes, who knows, an intense longing for the homeland. Those rough men, many quite youthful, would often disappear as mysteriously as they appeared, probably stowed away on the outbound friendly schooners, never to be heard of again—but stay, I forget—sometimes they came back—with the tide, as a derelict corpse washed up on the shores of one of the numerous Pacific Isles. I often saw those returning visitors, stricken dead men—and women too! I’ve folded the hands together, looked on the dead face and wondered if I dreamed it all—so sacred-looking, so ineffably sad were the faces. Alas! it was no dream. Often a brief note was found on the body, a last request for the one whom he thought might still retain a tender thought for his memory in the world that he had left for ever. These notes would sometimes awaken sentimental discussion in the grog shanties, bring a Bret Harte atmosphere and a whiff of pathos into the bar. At times the rough listeners received a bit of a shock when the biggest scoundrel of the group ceased his volley of oaths, and with emotion said something that revealed a long unsuspected organ—a heart, after all, pulsed in his sinful anatomy!

These travellers were not the only suspicious arrivals who sought the seclusion of the isles without letters of introduction. There also arrived, about that period, several stealthy-footed followers of Mohammed, a kind of mongrel, half-caste Chinese-Indian, hailing mostly from the Malay archipelagos. I think they had been expelled from Fiji for indulging in licentious orgies with natives. It was hard to tell their origin. The traders called them “B—— Kanakas.”

Some wore turbans and looked genuine specimens of the man tribe; but not one of them was as innocent, as artless-looking, as the little tapestry-carpet bag that he carried. This little bag was generally full of feminine linen and delicate Oriental silks, modest-looking merchandise that was their stock-in-trade, which they hawked for a living. A few worked on the copra, sugar or pineapple plantations. Their chief ambition seemed to be to try to get native converts to their creed and their moral codes.

A silk Oriental handkerchief, or a pair of bright yellow stockings, made the eyes of the native girls positively shine with avarice—and true belief!

Those swarthy men blessed Mohammed and had fine old times.

I would not wish to infer that Mohammedans are worse than others who are successful in their ambitions. But I would emphatically assert that the emigrant portion of Malay Indians of that day were a decidedly scummy lot. Briefly speaking, they made converts of many of the native women, reconverting them from Christianity to the bosom of Islam—and their own.

I recall that I had been in Tai-o-hae about two weeks when I heard that a native festival was in progress. My curiosity was at once aroused. I had read in South Sea reminiscent, missionary volumes about Marquesan native dances, but still I was eager to see the real thing in its natural element. Though I had secured a berth on a schooner that was going to Papeete, I was not over-anxious to sail. I had been to Papeete before, and knew well enough that I was as likely to be stranded there as at Nuka Hiva, so I let the job go. Indeed as that very schooner went seaward I stood in the forest thrilled with delight, as fierce, stalwart savage men and women danced around a monstrous wooden idol. The missionaries had long since issued an edict that no idols were to be worshipped. The penalty for so doing was the calaboose (jail), or a fine that would plunge the culprit into life-long debt. It follows, naturally enough, that idols were worshipped in secret. Consequently, that secret pagan festival I witnessed was attended by all the adventurous half-caste girls and youths, and made the more fascinating from its being strictly forbidden. I must admit that the scene I witnessed was a jovial contrast to the dull routine of Christianised native life, and I count myself as the holiest culprit at the festival in question.

I had seen idols in the British Museum, London, also in Fiji, one or two in Samoa, and rotting in the mountains of Solomon Isles, but the one that I saw that day in Tai-o-hae was exceptionally interesting. I was fascinated by its emblematical expression of material might. As the forest children crept from their citadel huts just by and knelt in its presence, I too felt a strange reverence for it! It looked an awesome yet harmless thing to worship. Its big, bulged, glass eyes, staring eternally through the forest tree trunks, gave out no gleam of light to those leafy glooms; its big wooden ears, stretched out, ever listening, were deaf to all human appeals as the forest children wailed to its wooden anatomy.

Though it is now many years since I stood before that thing, I still recall the glassy stare of wonder, the grin of the wide, carven lips, the one huge red, curved tooth. It may have been but a wayward boy’s imagination, but that idol seemed to express to my soul the great, indefinable something representing the Vast Unknown! I also felt the awful reverence that was so deep within the dreams of those barbarian children—dreams far more intense than the religious fervour of the cultured minds of the civilised world.

I know that I’m incorrigible. I know that my confession will strike horror into the hearts of white people—but I cannot help it—I still retain a deep, reverent affection for that heathen idol! To me it still possesses manifold virtues. The golden silence of its physiognomy, its awe-inspiring grin—as if fully appreciating the fantastic movements of those semi-nude high chiefs dancing in wild whirls with pretty maids round its monstrous feet—filled me with strange reverence. I could not deplore the fact that its wooden, hollow throat whispered no rebuke against the irreligious levity that I beheld. And the whole time barbarian drums crashed fortissimo, whilst heathen maids chanted. No solemn denunciation came from its lips to thwart human happiness. It seemed to say, with the great voice of silence: “O children of the forest, drink kava, dance and be merry, for to-morrow you die!” The furrowed frown of its carven brow seemed to wail: “Look ye upon me, here am I stuck up like an emblem of unjoyous death that is devoid of evil motives, secret human passions and ribald song. I say, can I help this cruel dilemma? O children, what else can I do but grin in perpetual silence—till my lips, as yours, in ripeness of time fall to dust? Who am I? Why this monstrous infinity cast about me, I, who yearn to lift these wooden feet and fly from the worship of mankind—or dance with ye all!”

So seemed to speak the idol in the forest by Tai-o-hae as I watched. That old idol even grew moss on its gigantic cranium, as though it would mock hairless old age and the unfruitful passing of man!

It was an unforgettable sight. As the festival progressed the prima donna became more excited. She was a maid of perfect beauty, possessing musical accomplishments; nor were her high kicks to be outrivalled the world over. This particular prima donna would have achieved a vast fortune in the western cities, I’m sure. Her rhythmic virtuosity was marvellous! The terrific encores of the tattooed chiefs became deafening as she sang and danced. She seemed to support her frame in space on nothing but the balancing, rapid movement of her limbs. Suddenly she jumped from the heathen pae-pae (stage), lay sideways up in the ether and moved her limbs as though she were performing mighty cadenzas on vast strings of some invisible violin—with her toes.

It seemed the time of my life as I watched, and the white settlers and beachcombers cheered and cheered each wondrous performance. As the shadows of night fell over the forest height, the natives came in from the plantations to join the festival. It was a weird sight to see them running along the forest tracks that had been made by soft-footed savages for ages. As they reached that opÉra bouffe, each one rapidly cast off their European clothes with relief. Nor was this act of theirs to be wondered at, for those old clothes were supplied to them from the morgues of the South Seas and the far-off civilised cities, and usually swarmed with vermin and germs of latent disease that had managed to kill the late occupants. It is no exaggeration to say that the native cemeteries were crammed with victims who had been doubly unfortunate—those who had embraced the white man’s clothes as well as his creed.

As they leapt bodily out of those semi-shrouds, old coats and pants, they attired themselves in the cool, attractive suits that hung from the boughs of the forest. Dusky girls hastily attired themselves in sea-shells and strings of twisted leaves and tropical flowers. Then they embraced the impassioned youths, who blushed in green-fringed high collars that decorated their forest pyjamas, pyjamas noted for their cheap material and scanty width—but were of wide modesty.

While this was proceeding old chiefs joyously thumped mighty drums as they stood on the back level of the ancient pae-pae. The contagion of the glorious pandemonium spread. One by one old tattooed women remembered their happy heathen past, discarded the morgue chemise and plunged into the mÊlÉe. During the excitement about a dozen dark ghosts who appeared to be clad in bath towels came on the scene; it was a crew of Indians. Standing there beneath the giant bread-fruits, they looked like majestic statues of the old Pharaohs that had somehow been dumped into that forest. As they approached the huts that surrounded the festival spaces, the pretty heathen girls rushed forth from the doors, for lo! the stealthy mongrel Indians opened their little carpet bags. One old Indian looked like some swarthy Pied Piper of Hamelin as the children followed, clamouring after him and his little bag. It seemed almost magical, that sudden change from sombre colours of green and gold as the native girls purchased those Oriental decorations. Blue sashes, crimson and saffron striped stockings, all the colours of the rainbow were suddenly to be seen fluttering to the scented breezes of the forest as the maids clutched their purchases. Flocking beneath the banyan-trees, they squatted and started to swiftly attire themselves in those gaudy, tinselled silks. It looked like some scene from an Arabian Night fairy-tale as the shadows fell and moonlight pierced the forest depth. Away flitted Marvaloa with her big blue silken sash flying behind her—her only robe of simple attire. She was held by the impassioned arms of some dusky Lothario who had never dreamed that he would live to see that exquisite hour, as the sash flapped and the bright crimson stockings tossed toward the forest height.

My attention was diverted from the pretty fairy toatisis^[1] by the appearance of a Malay Indian. He bowed to Waylao with Islamic politeness. Waylao was alone; old Lydia, her mother, had departed homeward—probably had a headache and wanted some “unsweetened.” I had previously observed Waylao’s interest in one named Abduh Allah, but took little notice. I had been speaking to her and had flattered myself on gaining her attention, when that Indian settler obtruded with his presence. Waylao took a deep, awestruck breath as he bowed majestically to her. I can well imagine the girl’s thoughts, for I too have known those deep breaths. I dare say the Indian seemed some splendid hero of Eastern romance to the girl’s eyes as he stood there crowned with his turban.

“Gorblimy ducks!” murmured my new chum, an impecunious Cockney, as he turned from the forest opera-box to light his short clay pipe.

“Who’s he?” said I to the handsome Marquesan chief who squatted beside me.

He responded in this wise: “He great Indian mans, teach us kanakas all bout big god Mohamma; sella jewels, nicer tappa cloth, mats, stocking to womans from wonderful little tarpet bag O!”

At this my Cockney friend gave his inimitable side wink, expectorated on to my boot and remarked:

“Seen ’im darn Mile End way; a damned ole Indian ’awker, hout ’ere in the Sarth Seas aselling doar-mats and getting raund gals—that’s wat ’e ’is!”

We saw this sight: Abduh Allah with one knee bent Islamic wise as he dangled before Waylao’s eyes a fascinating brass leg-bangle. It was a sight replete with Biblical import, resembling nothing so much as a modernised South Sea version of the devil’s first love affair in the Garden of Eden.

From all that I perceived I was convinced that the magic carpet with all its possibilities wasn’t in it with that little Islamic carpet bag. It could overthrow creeds and heathen deities; it brought thousands of dusky maids to the feet of that old fraud, the harem-keeper of Mecca—Mohammed. It was even hinted that the devil himself sighed amongst the forest mangroves, when the heathen maids crowded by the hut doors and the stealthy old Indian opened that little carpet bag. I managed to see Waylao alone, and begged the favour of escorting her home. I well knew, from her own confession, that she must not be too late. Old Takaroa, the great high chief, who had ceased to pound the big drum, and was telling me in vehement pidgin-English mighty incidents of his high lineage, tried to detain me longer in vain. My wish to accompany the half-caste girl was greater than my affection for that Marquesan chief and his kind. I admit I was deeply interested in those old chiefs. And some day, when the seas are safe from submarines and high explosives, when the war fever has subsided from the martial bosoms of the Western world’s high chiefs, I’ll cast my disembowelling instruments and guns on to the rubbish heaps and sail away down South once more.

I have basked in the spiritual light of the abstruse pages of Herachlitus, Empedocles, Plato, Socrates, Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius, down to Spinoza and Kant of the latest Old Gang, with the result that I am determined to live my life amongst uncivilised peoples, peaceful semi-heathen people of the Solomon Isles. How happy will I be! I’ve still a life before me—the consequence of beginning young.

O happy days! I recall the tumbling, moonlit, silvered seas breaking silently afar as I strolled by the side of that half-caste girl. We had left the barbarian festival behind. When we arrived at her bungalow her mother welcomed me with a smile, but with the impulsiveness of her tribe swore at Waylao with much vigour.

“Wheres you been? You lazy tafoa vale [beachcomber], I told you come ’omes soons.”

“Kaoah! Whaine! Aue!” wailed the maid, soothing the maternal wrath with swift Marquesan phrases that I could not understand.

The maternal ire vanished completely as Waylao hung her head with shame, and the old mother shrieked: “PÈre de N—— the good missions mans been ’ere. ’E want know whys you no be in mission-room these many days.” Saying this, the old native woman took a deep swig from her pocket-flask, wiped her mouth and continued solemnly: “Ah, Wayee, though you belonger me, allee same you never be good Cliston womans like youse ole movther, you no good—savee?”

I was invited into that little homestead. It was wonderful how neat and civilised it looked within. A grandfather’s clock ticked out its doom in the corner of the cosy parlour. On the walls were old oil paintings of English landscapes, also a few faded photographs of Benbow’s—Waylao’s father’s—relatives. The furniture was better than one might see in many a Kentish cottage. The old sailor had evidently fashioned his South Sea home so that it might be reminiscent of other days. Not the least important item of that homestead was the large barrel of rum which stood by the unused fireplace, a grim, silent symbol of what wild carousals! I, of course, knew not then that Benbow’s home-coming from sea was a mighty event in the monotonous lives of the settled beachcombers who dwelt beneath the shading palms by Tai-o-hae.

Sometimes Waylao came to the shanty and sang as I played the violin. All this to me was very pleasurable. But one must not suppose that I had no other purpose or ambition in life beyond playing sentimental solos to handsome half-caste maids and impecunious sailors who had seen “better days.” Indeed I took all advantage of my musical accomplishments, attending as soloist many social functions at the French Presidency. I also ingratiated myself into the good graces of high-class Marquesan chiefs and chiefesses—many of the surviving members of the old barbarian dynasty. For a while I became a kind of South Sea troubadour among those semi-civilised savages, gathering experience and honours enormous.

Old chiefs, dethroned kings and discarded queens, after hearing my solos, conferred upon me their highest honours.

It was in a pagan citadel in the north-western bread-fruit forests, after performing Paganini’s bravura Carnaval de Venise variations, that a mighty, tattooed monarch invested me with the South Sea equivalent of the Legion of Honour.

This degree was bestowed upon me in ancient style. Kneeling before the bamboo throne, I kissed the royal feet amid the wildest acclamations of the whole tribe. I was then tattooed on the right arm with peculiar spots, which turned out to represent a constellation of stars that were worshipped by that particular tribe. (I have those tattoo marks to this day.) I recall the admiration of the Marquesan belles as I stood by the bamboo throne wearing my insignia of knighthood—the whitened skull of some old-time warrior! I recall the music of the forest stream as it hurried by, and the noise of the winds in the giant bread-fruits, the monotone of the ocean beating inland as a majestic accompaniment to the musical exclamations of “Awai! Awai! Alohao! Talofa!” from the coral-red lips of sun-varnished savage girls, handsome, tattooed, lithesome, deep-bosomed chiefs, and youths.

I have been honoured with so many degrees, so many knighthoods, and so often elected to the peerage that it is no exaggeration on my part to say that I am a veritable living volume of all that’s distinguished—a genuine personification of Who’s Who.

I achieved far-flung fame as a mighty Tusitala, singer of wondrous songs on magic-wood with long spirit-finger (violin bow). Old semi-nude poets, scribes of the forest, left their forum-stumps of the village and followed me from village to village. Beautiful girls, arrayed in picturesque tappa of delicate leaves and shells, threw golden forest fruits at my feet, and then stood hushed, with finger to their lips as I played again. Kind, babbling old native women called me into their village homesteads, and without ceremony made me sit down and eat large gourds of taro and scented poi-poi, which was made of bananas and many indigenous fruits. As I seated myself on the homestead mat and ate, those kind old Marquesan women would squat and gaze upon me with intense curiosity, evincing little embarrassment at my presence. Indeed they would touch my white flesh, and one curious old chiefess leaned forward and lifted the upper lid of my eyes so as to better scan the unfamiliar colour, the grey-blue iris that so pleased those Marquesan ladies.

Though those heathen citadels had numerous advantages which left the vaunted claims of civilisation far behind, they had a few disadvantages. For, to speak truth, the township bailiff would arrive at the author’s, poet’s, or artist’s hut door with a regiment of determined warriors who were often armed with rusty ship’s cutlasses, ponderous war-clubs and heathen battle drums. It was no uncommon sight to meet some tribal poet flying with his trembling family across the mountain tracks in the agony of some great fear.

It was my lot to assist a distressed poet who was flying from the aforesaid avenging law. When I came across him he was camped with his wife and little ones on a plateau to the southward of Tai-o-hae. Hearing the troubles and facts of his case, I bade him fear not. Ere sunset I had taken him back into his native village so that he might appear before the tribunal chiefs. In the meantime he, with his little ones and trembling wife, stood in the background as I appealed on his behalf. After much gesticulation and argument, and many stirring violin solos performed before the whole tribe, I turned to the distressed Marquesan poet, and said, as I touched his shaggy head with my violin bow: “Arise, Sir Knight of Tai-o-hae!” Nor shall I easily forget the consternation of the tribe or the fleeting delight of my bankrupt poet’s countenance at this gracious act of mine, when I explained to all the assemblage how I possessed the power to dub one with the glory of English knighthood. So did I bring happiness to a savage author, and I believe he achieved mighty fame in consequence of my impromptu act. One thing I know, that his misdemeanours and debts after that event were looked upon with extreme favour, and his songs were sung and engraved on the receptive brains of island races as far as the equatorial Pacific Isles.

For a long time I roamed at will among the tribes of that strange land. I recall one village that was nestled by a blue lagoon; the bird-cage, yellow bamboo huts were sheltered by the natural pillared architecture of gnarled giant trees. The scene presented to my imagination some miniature citadel of ancient Troy as the romping, pretty, sun-varnished children rushed up to me. One pretty maiden was a veritable Helen, and the tawny youths loved to bathe in the sunlight of her sparkling glances. They even looked askance, frowningly upon me, as, like some wandering Odysseus, I wooed her with tender strains on my violin, and held her up and admired the forest blossoms that adorned the glory of her dishevelled tresses rippling down to the dimples of her cremona-like varnished shoulders. “Aloue! Awaie! Talofa!” said she, as the little woman in her soul gave wanton glances. She caressed my hand, and all the while, from those Hellenic-like enchanted forest glades, stared the envious little Trojans and AchÆans who would slay each other to wholly possess her charms. She was only about eight years of age, but I could well believe that she inspired in the hearts of those youthful barbarians some epic glory of long-forgotten, fierce, bronzed lovers and romance, that seemed to sing over their heads as fitful sea winds sang in the lyric trees.

Ah me! I suppose some Paris arrived in due course from the civilised world and lured her from the arms of her dusky chief. And now ’tis only I of all the world would wish to be the Homer to sing her faery-like beauty, her childhood’s charms.

I never saw her again.

Talking in this strain reminds me of a Homeric character who suddenly arrived at Tai-o-hae. He was a wondrous-looking being, attired in vast pants that were held up by a monstrous, erstwhile scarlet sash, and a helmet-hat with another coloured swathing about it. He looked Homeric enough, indeed he could have walked on the stage anywhere on earth as Ulysses. He strode into the grog shanty, gazed half scornfully at the congregated shellbacks and ordered one quart of rum! He swallowed same rum in two gulps, then, looking round the bar, asked the astonished, staring shellbacks if their mothers knew they were out! The general atmosphere grew hot and thundery. It was only when his massive, vandyke reddish-bearded, sun-tanned face became wreathed in smiles, and his deep-set fiery eyes laughed, that we all realised that his apparently insulting manner was simply some fine overflow of inherent humour. His commanding way and height seemed to inspire all the respect that his rough audience had at their command. Ere he had shouted for his ninth rum, he got boisterous, drew an old Colt revolver from his dirty, blue, folded shirt and brandished it about as the whole crew dodged, blinked and listened with respectful awe to all that he told. Unfortunately he had to depart the next day on the same schooner that had brought him to Nuka Hiva. But he really did make up for his short introduction. He sang wondrous songs of adventure in far-off lands, of farewells to tender Nausicaas, of Circes and Calypsos, thundering forth in majestic strain of mighty warriors whom he had put out of action with one blow of his massive fist. His voice—well, all I can say is, “What a voice!” The shanty shook as he sang. The whole crew were transported into some age of Elysian lawlessness as he looked at us, darkling, spoke of Cimmerian tribes on isles of distant seas, and hinted of things that would have made blind old Homer tremble with envy. As he sang, a flock of naked goddesses on their way home from fishing in the ambrosial waters happened to peep into the shanty to see who sang so wonderfully well and loud. I shall never forget the massive gallantry, the inimitable Homeric grace of his manner when he sighted those maids, put forth his arms and sang to the pretty eyes of those Marquesan girls. As he stood there in the bar, his helmet-hat almost bashed against the shanty roof, so tall was he, the maids looked up at him with coquettish, half-frightened glance as he sang on. There’s no doubt he was handsome. What a nerve he had! Did not care one rap for the old beachcombers who looked on and wondered if they dreamed his remarkable presence. The muscles swelled on his neck like whipcord and his huge nostrils dilated in fine style. When he brought his enormous fist down on the bar to emphasise some bravura point, the empty batch of rum mugs seemed to do a double shuffle with astonishment. I admit that I breathed a sigh of relief when he replaced his fire-iron in his belt and demanded: “Rum—no sugar—damn you!” His vast Quixotic moustache backed to within two inches of his broad shoulder curves and seemed some mighty insignia of virile manhood. I could have wept with the joy I felt as he praised my violin-playing. “Play that ageen, youngster,” said he. Such fame I had never dreamed of achieving! And when he expectorated a swift stream of tobacco juice—no indecision, mind you—between the astonished faces of the two shellbacks who were sitting by the open window, my admiration for his prowess was something that thrills me to this day.

Though men doubt if Homer’s Odyssean characters ever lived, I for one have no doubt whatever that such redoubtable characters once walked the earth. For I met such men when the world was young.

That uninvited guest came into our presence, massive and wonderful, some strange embodiment of heroic romance and lore; then departed like unto a dream. He was the nearest approach to my idea of Odysseus that I ever came across. I can still imagine I hear the vibrant, melodious timbre of his utterance as he curses and swaggers up the little rope gangway that hung from the deck of the strange fore-and-aft schooner that had suddenly appeared in the enchanted bay off Tai-o-hae. The very deck seemed to tremble as his big sea-boots crashed on board. Even the skipper gave one awesome glance at that giant figure of his as he rattled his antique accoutrements; then with his huge, hairy, sun-tanned hand arched to his fine brow he stared seaward at the sunset. The dark saffron-hued canvas sails bellied to the soft warm winds as the outward-bound schooner went out on the tide, as he stood on deck and faded away on the wine-dark seas.

I could write many chapters on such men, their ways, virtues and sins. They were strange, unfathomable beings of Time and Space: men who followed their own wishes, who reigned as king over their own life: men who were disciples of the great transcendental school of the genuine old idealists—those spiritualists of the Truth, the wise and the beautiful, happy in the glad excitement of the wide and wonderful. They were men who in the great desert of life had found a wonderful oasis—in themselves! Men who were born to command themselves, standing on their own feet, standing apart from the supreme stagnation of conventional civilisation.

Heaven knows how it was, but I always liked that class. They were, to me, the posthumous books, works of long-forgotten heroes, the only works that I ever read with deep educational interest: they are still books to me, shelved tenderly in the library of my memory; books that I so well know are born to be sneered at, buffeted about and criticised, ye gods, by weak-kneed chapel disciples and all the sensual, godless, hypocritical survivals that pose as the personification of the beautiful.