THE WORLD OF BOOKS.

Press, Volume LIX, Issue 17821, 21 July 1923, Page 11

THE WORLD OF BOOKS.

HALF HOURS IN A LIBRARY. (SPICULLT WaiTTtK TOE "TSS PRESS.") By A. H. Geinijng. XVIII.—ON WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES. William Henry Davies is a Welshman. He was born in 1870 at Newport, m Monmouthshire, in a publichouse called "The Church House," kept by his grandfather, a native of Cornwall, "whose pride it was, drunk or sober, to inform all • 6trangers that he had bee 51 the master of his own ship." His father died before the boy could remember, and his mother marrying again, he was brought up by his grandparents. He was passionately fond of books and-reading and when 14 years of age he wrote a poem which was called "Death"; but he had to wait for more than twenty. years,' during which he had many incredible adventures, before the world recognised his talent; and then only, thanks to the kind offioes of Mr George Bernard Shaw. It speaks volumes for Mr Shaw's natural kindliness of heart that he befriended a poor poet to such good purpose ; how it came about Mr Shaw has characteristically told in his preface to "The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp" which is part of Mr Davies's life story. Mr Shaw wrote in 1907^: — In the year 1905 I received by post a volume' of poems by one William H. Davies, whose addresß was 'The -Farm House," Kennington, S.E. I was surprised to learn that there was still a farmhouse left in Kennington; for I did not then suspect that the Farm House, like the Shepherdess Walks and Nightingale Lanes and , Whetstone Park of Bethnal Green and Holborn, is so-called nowadays in irony," and is, in fact, a doss-hoi^ae,, or hostelry, where single men can have a night's lodging for, at most, sixpence. I was not surprised at getting the poems. I get a gift of minor poetry once a week or so The book ..was marked "price half a crown." An accompanying letter asked me very civilly if I required a half crown book of verses; and if so would I please send the author the half crown; if not, would I return the book. This was attractively simple and sensible. Further, the handwriting was remarkably delioato and individual; the sort of handwriting one might expect from Shelley or George Meredith. I opened the book, and was more puzzled than ever; for before I had read three lines I perceived that the author was a real poet. Mr Shaw goes on to say that instead' of throwing the book away, as he had often done before in somewhat similar cases, he wrote Mr Davies a letter, telling him that he could not live by poetry; As well as this good advice he bought a pound's worth of the poetry books and arranged for these to be sent t«. several of his literary acquaintances who were critics, in the hope that they would "recognise a poet -when 'they met one." Tlie scheme was su<£ cessful; it not only launched Mr Davies on a poetic career; it led to the pub. lication of "The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp," his first essay m prose writing, but by no means his last. Mr Shaw continues: — I presently saw in a London newspaper an enthusiastic notice of the poems, and an acoount of an interview with the author, from which I learned that he was a tramp; that the "farm house" was a doss-house;' and that he was cut off from ordinary in-, dustrial pursuits by two circumstances; first that he had mislaid one of his feet 6-OMewhere oh his trjimpinga, and now had', to make shift as best he -could with the-' other; secondly that he was a man of independent means—a rentier —in short a, gentleman; ' - The exact amount , of hia Independent income was ten shillings a week. Finding this too much for his needs ■ he 1 devoted .twenty per cent, of it to pensioning -necessitous. friends in his native place; saved a further per centage to print verses "with; and lived modestly on the My' purchase of eight copies of, the' book enabled him, I gather, to, discard all eoonr omy for about three months. ' It' also moved him to offer me the privilege (for such I quite sincerely deem it) of reading his autobiography in manueoript. , . . Mr Davies i 3 now a poet of established reputation. He no longer print® hitf verse 3 and hawks them; he is regularly published and Teviewed. Whether he finds the change a lucrative one I venture to doubt. 13hat the verse in "The Soul's Destroyer',' and in his "New • Poems" will live is beyond questionbut whether Mr Davies can live if anything- happens to hia eight shillings a week (unless foe takes to the road.again) is another matter. That is perhaps why he has advised himself to write and print his autobiograpy, and try his luck with it .as a Man of Letters in a more general sense. Though it is only in verse that: ho'.'writes exquisitely, yet this book, which printed' as it was written, without any academic corrections from the point of view of the Perfect Commercial Letter Writer, is worth reading by literary experts for its style alone. And since his manner is so quiet, it has been thought well by .his friends and'' his publishers to send a trumpeter before .him the more effectually to call attention to him before he begins. I have volunteered for that post for the • sake of his poems. Having now done it after my wellknown manner, I retire and leave the stage to him. Mr Davies is a Welshman,, but there are Welshmen and Welshmen —Mr Lloyd George, by the .way, although bred and brought ufi in Wales, was born on English soil, hia birthplace being a mean street in a dingy suburb of mancnester. • Mr Davies lias ho aliinity with the peasantry of West Wales, those gross-minded, hypocritical, immoral men and women of whicn Mr Oaradoc hit-ana gives so vivid but unpleasant a picture in those powerful books "Capel Sioh," "MyPeople,"'and "Neighbours." Nor has he anything in common with the "Lewy's Lad and His Friend Shadrack," of whom Mr Rowland Johns tells in that diverting book "Mind lou." Mr Davies, as beiits a poet hails from Monmouthshire, the Gwent, of which the ancient capital was Caerlon-on-Usk, for ever golden and immortal by reason of the romances of King Arthur and the Grail and the Round Table. In "A Poet's Pilgrimage," one of his later prose works, published some five years since, Mr Davies describes a walk he took through South Wales, renewing old acquaintances _ and visiting a familiar country. It is a simple, straightforward record, instinct with the very qualities which give hie ■verses so wide and popular an appeal. •For instance Mr Davies writes: — As I was crossing Newport Bridge I felt a touch on my shoulder,. and turning- my head saw before me a man. that I had not seen since I was a boy. At that time he was young and but newly married, being about twenty-four years of , age. However, in spite of the number of years tha,t haa passed, I did not fail to recognise him almost immediately. But I was rather surprised that he should have known me, seein" that I had gone through the change from "boyhood to manhood since .we had last seen each other; whereas, he, being a full-grjwn man, had not altered, nearly so m "Are you Will Davies ?" he a^ked. "Yes" I answered, "and I "Snow who you are too. Come and have a drink for the sake of old times. , , ~ As soon as w-e had crossed the bnago •we went into the "Old Green," where I called for drinks. This-old-"friend soon be°an to tell me of the various papers in "which he had seen my name, and ended by slapping me on the shoulder and saying- "I always knew that-you would succeed, fny hoy. Don't you -remember showing me some poetry years ago, which my wife liked so much? Won't you oome and see her, Will, before you leave the old I certainly remembered showing him a poem which I wrote when I was about fourtosn yrni of tge, and whioh

was called "Death," but I have always hod my doubts as to whether he really admired it or not. At that time I was only an errand boy, but as my grandfather allowed me to keep my wages for pocket-money, 1 • continually being asked by my elders to buy beer for them. This vi>ur.<; married man, who had my poem in his possession, had aski-d me to call for it at liis house on Saturday night, saying that his wife would not bo satisfied until she knew the author of 'Death." So I went there, -having five in my pocket, and was introduced to his wife. They were both so pleased to see me that' they cou'd liardly contain their laughter, and it was some time before the young wife couM say: "I'm so delighted to meet the author of-'Death.' " It w«s the first time I.had ever been called an author, and I was so pleased • that before I left I paid for two pints ✓of beer for the .husband and a bottle of stout for his wife, in addition to my own two bottles of lemonade. Whatever the reason, perhaps because u ooiii u puuuc uouae, '.a. Poet's Pilgrimage" reveal tlie poet as aA.wa.ya lor a wliiun iie dijujea. uii tlie more U he couid urmk it 111 company* Curiously enough the company lie especially stems to huve desired were tlie "Iruo i.ravel lers," a name signifying beggars or tramps. .Leaving he took the road to Pontypool, ten iniies away, and passing tkrougu familial- country he saw on the sign posts at the cross-roads such names as Caerleon, Cw-mbran, and Pohtnewydd. "When I reached 'The Three Blackbirds' at Llautarnurn,'' he writes, "i had my first glass of beer of the day, and enjoyed it very much. It was a good brew, mild and yet : satisfying, frothy and yet without gas. I would most certainly have had a second glass if any company had been present." On the road between Caerphilly and Cardiff ho was overtaken by a stranger, who asked: "Are you a preacher of the Gospel?" to wliich Davies replied 1 : "I'm not a parson, I'm only a poet." The stranger evidently had a great respect for poets, and exclaimed: "If you are a poet, as you say you are, make poetry of this"— indicating with a sweep ol his arm the beautiful soenery—"and I'll believe you." The poet replied that ho could Scarcely do that at a moment's notice; he must have time for thought. Chatting in this way the twain reached an inn, and the poet invited the stranger to have a drink. Over the beer the stranger 6aid, in a coaxing voice: wish ,you would write me some poetry on a piece of paper to show my wife, arid to prove that .I have been with a poet." The plea prevailed, the poet took out his notebook and wrote the following verses—the stranger declaring that he could neither read nor write: — TO THE WOMAN WHO WILL READ THIS POEM TO HER HUSBAND. I am the Poet Daviea, William, I sin without a blush or blink; •' I am a man that lives to eat, I em a man that lives' to drink. My face is large, my lips are thick, My akin is coarse and black almost; But the ugliest feature ia my verse, Which proves my soul is black .and lost. - Thank heaven thou didst not marry me, A poet full of. blackest evil; for how to manage my damned soul Will puzzle many. a-flaming devil. - The character of W. H. Davies as revealed in his writings presents some strange -contradictions. He-is- a devout' worshipper of .Nature and an ardent lover of bird and beast, and when communing with these things h-Vis able to pen the daintiest and most delicate lyrics imaginable, He is - wonderfully prolific; indeed the 111 numbers in the first series of "Collected Poems," to which he. has just added a second ' series • of. 112 poems, make up a body of poetry which for genuine inspiration and fine technique is probably unsurpassed by any other living poet. It is when in contact with' humanity thaw quite another side of the poet's character is revealed, and this is seen especially in "The True Traveller.", It is notable that in the "Autobiography of a Super-Tramp'.' there is scarcely V mention of' a woman ■, this omission is more than atoned for in "The True Traveller," which shows quite another side to the poet's life. It':may be mentioned, in passing, that Mr Davies' one literary failure was an attempt at a novel called "A Weak Woman," which, considered as a story, has scarce a redeeming feature. • . Next to the "Autobiography" Mr. Davies' best prose work is a volume entitled "Beggars," which goes for to explain why when, as a lad he left home -and crossed, the ocean to America, he chose" a roaming life. On his own showing Welshmen do not take kindly to begging; his essay on "The Nationalities of •B eg wars', '—the outcome of his actual experience—bristles with good points: — There is no question but that the American ■ beggar is the finest in his country ; but in that land of many nationalities he has a number of old-country beggars to contend' with.' Perhaps it would; interest —it certainly should—a number of people .to know that well or ill their own nation is represented, bj beggars in that most important country; whether England, Ireland, Sootland, Germany, and other countries have, cause to be proud or ashamed of their representatives. Both France and Italy have- much cause to complain, for : you may often travel many miles and not be approached by a French or Italian beggar. If you meet an .Ttalian you can safely despise him as a working man with hard-earned money in hia pocket, though he may be stealing rides like a beggar, and making ooffee with real beggars at their camps. / With regard to Germany she can place in the field a very large army of secondrate beggars; but it is seldom that you meet a German beggar, whose ambition raises him aibove that. . . Few people would think th<) Scotsman makes- an excellent beggar, Beeing that his manner is so undemonstrative. Although he is seldom . heard to raise his voice above one distinct pitch, or to indulge in loud laughter, or to show emotion of any kind, yet, for all this, .he is an excellent beggar. ' There ia quite a .large clan of Scottiea among. American beggars. He ia a good beggar for the simple reason that he ia a good talker. ... Alas, for the poor Irishman I for he is the most timid beggar of all. Though he is so independent in throwing up a. job, he ia alwr.ys glad when liis money is gone to seek another. .... ; Next to the Americans Mr Davies gives pride of 'place as beggars to the English, and especially the Cockneys. He sums up by saying: "No doubt Russia, Spain, Greece. Japan, and other countries have their beggars by thousands at home, but they are ill-repre-sented, in America. England has oftly Germany to fear, who has six beggars to England's one; but they have little energy and are badly trained, and ono Cockney is equal to . ten." Many curious fads concerning beggars, their character, and their creed are given bv Mr Davies, but it is in his defence of beggai-3 that he waxes most eloquent:— The beggar is the most religious man. in the world, for there is no other man that more truly keep 3 the seven com--1 mandments. He not only does no labour - on the seventh day, but lie also keeps holy the other six. He never bears false witness against hia neighbour, for the simple reason that he is a simple travellerand has. no neighbours. He . never steals —that is if ha is ft good beggar. He never ctfvets any other man's gocds because . he foates to be tied to any-property at all. He is the only wise man because he is not greedy to own houses or land. Ho ia not vain of his personal appearance and when he leaves a house where he has begged he never leaves behind him suspicion and jealouav -between a -man and his wife. People tell. a beggar to go to work but as you know well yourself he does very fine work as it is; he works on their best feelings and there is no nobler work in all the world than that. Because W. H. Davies is better known as a poet than as a prose writer I have chiefly directed attention to his (Continued at foot of next column.)

prose work; which is ngt to say that I do not appreciate his poetry tS the full. Shortly after he came to fame he was granted a pension from the civil list of £SO per annum; in 1917 this was increased to £IOO, and in 1922 to £l5O, so that Davies share® with Walter de la Mare, Arthur Symons, Sir William Watson, and others the privilege of enjoying State recognition as a poet , thus having a meed of financial independence. If I were asked to select a single favourite from among the many verses written and "published by W. H. Davits I should hesitate for a while, consider "The Rain," "feweet-Stnj-at-Home," "Nature's iViend," "A Child's Pet," and some others, and-Anally decide on "Leisure"» What ifl this life if,,full of care, We have no time to stand and star®. No time to stand. beneath the boughs And stare as long as cheep and cows. No time to .iw, vriien words we pus, Where squirrels hide their nats m grass. No time to see, in . broad daylight, Streams full oi stars, like stars at night. No time to turn at BeautyVglance, And watch her feet how they oan dance. No v time to-wait till her mouth, can. Enrich thajt smile her ejea began. • A jioor life this if, full of c&XG, W« have no time to stand and star*.