A Prisoner in Fairyland (The Book That 'Uncle Paul' Wrote)

first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky

omewhere there is a break in the chain of

stopped, and they cried in dismay-'Yes, that lost

r, and the cry goes on from one to the other

smile and whisper among themselves-'Vain is t

Prose translation by A

gal

Street, and found the morning dull. A pile of letters lay unopened upon the table, waiting the arrival of the discriminating

self with a sigh that meant 'I have written a new poem in the night, and would love to read it to you if I dared,' then flatten out his oblong note-book and look up, expectant and receptive. Rogers would say 'Good morning, Mr. Minks. We've got a busy day before us. Now, let me see--' and would meet his glance with welcome. He would look quickly from one eye to the other- to this day he did not know which one was right to meet-and would wonder f

ould manage, 'Oh, Mr. Minks, that's nothing at all; I'm only too delighted to be of service to the lad.' For he abhorred the expre

to do well by his wife and family, but-he was after other things as well, if not chiefly. With a childlike sense of honesty he had once refused a position in a company that was not all it should have been, and the high pay thus rejected pointed to a scrupulous nicety of view that the City, of course, deemed foolishness. And Rogers, aware of this, had taken to him, seeking as it we

ust somewhere include the prefix 'neo,' and the word 'scientific' must also be dragged in if possible before he was satisfied. Minks, indeed, took so long explaining to himself the wonderful title that he was sometimes in danger of forgetting the brilliant truths it so vulga

twice felt ashamed of himself. Minks, as it were, knew actual achievement because he was, forcedly, content with little, whereas he, Roge

r than before, put out his head. The sunshine caught him full in the face. He tasted the fresh morning air. Tinged with the sharp sweetness of the north it had a fragrance as of fields and gardens. Even St. James's Street could not smother its vi

of June obscured his sight, and something in the morning splendour brought back his youth and boyhood. He saw a new world spread about him-a world of sunlight, butterflies, and flowers, of smooth soft lawns and shaded gravel paths, and of children playing round a pond where rushes whispered in a wind of long ago. H

the street. He drew back from the window, realising that he was a sight for all admirers. Tossing the end of his cig

y success. He admitted he had been lucky, where so many toil on and on till the gates of death stand up and block their way, fortunate if they have earned a competency through years where hope and disappointment wage their incessant weary battle. But he, for some reason known only to the silent Fates, had crested the difficult hill and now stood firm upon the top to see the sunrise, the dreadful gates not even yet in s

ed him-he was old-fashioned enough to love country and walk through it slowly on two vigorous legs; marriage had been put aside with a searing disappointment years ago, not forgotten, but accepted; and of travel he had enjoyed enough to realise now that its pleasures could be found reasonably near home and for very moderate e

evealed it in him was the sight-common enough, alas-of a boy with one leg hobbling along on crutches down the village street. Some deep power in his youthful heart, akin to the wondrous sympathy of women, had been touched. Like a shock of fire it came hom

y, suffering, punished; but this boy belonged to a family that worked and did its best. Something in the world-machinery had surely broken loose and caused violent disorder. For no one cared particularly. The ''thorities,' he heard, looked after the Poor-''tho

ke the world go round a little more easily. And he had never forgotten the deep thrill with which he heard his father tell him of some wealthy man who during h

s must be reversed, for no man could fight without weapons, and weapons were only to be had as the result of steady, concentrated effort-selfi

ared, and unquestionably he had a certain genius for invention; for, while scores of futile processes he first discovered remained mere clever solutio

inal zest had faded. For the City hardly encouraged it. One bit of gilt after another had been knocked off his brilliant dream, one jet of flame upon another quenched. The single eye that fills the body full of light was a thing so rare that its possession woke suspicion. Even of money generously given, so little reached its object; gaping pockets and grasping fingers

with fuss and fury about empires, tariffs, street-cars, and marvellous engines for destroying one another, women, keeping close to the sources of life, knew, like children, more of its sweet, mysterious secrets-the things of value no one yet has ever put completely into words. He wondered, a little sadly, to see them battling now to scuffle with the men in managing the gross machinery, cleaning the pens and regulating ink-pots. Did they real

ck to the first reflection whence his thoughts had travelled so far-the reflectio

looked about him, confr

nusual, but really

ally instinctive beginning of a search, as though in the free, wonderful spaces out of doors he would find the thing he sought to do. Now, settled back in the deep arm-chair, he realised that

f concentrated toil for money, his strong will had neglected of set purpose the call of a robust imagination. He had stifled poetry just as he had stifled play. Yet really that imagination had merely gone in

He reflected on it, but clumsily, as with a mind too long trained in the rigid values of stocks and shares, buying and selling, hard figures that knew not elasticity. This softer subject led him to no conclusion, leavi

to move. He saw the old gravel-pit that led, the gardener told him, to the centre of the earth. A whiff of perfume from the laurustinus in the drive came back, the scent of hay, and with it the sound of the mowing-machine going over the lawn. He saw the pony in loose flat leather shoes. The bees were humming in the lime trees. The rooks were cawing. A blackbird whistled from the shrubberies where he once passed an entire day in hiding, after emptying an ink-bottle down the German governess's dress. He heard the old family butler in his wheezy voice calling in vain for 'Mr. 'E

imagination swarmed up from their temporary graves, and made him smile and wonder. After twenty years of strenuous business life, how pale and thin they seemed. Yet at the same time how extraordinarily alive and active! He saw, too, the huge Net of Stars he once had made to catch them with

e, already accomplished by others better than he could hope to accomplish them, and none of them fulfilling the first essential his practical mind demanded-knowing his money spent precisely as he wished. Dreams, long cherished, seemed to collapse one by one befo

charwoman, who passed with him for servant, ushered in his private secretary, Mr. M

r. Rogers. I tru

et's see now. How are you, by the by?' he added, as an afterthought, cat

oat, with a green tie neatly knotted into a spotless turn-down collar. He gl

where he might seat himself, and

tle and began to look

ight flush upon his cheeks, a long, narrow, mauve envelope with a flourishing address. 'It was a red- letter day for Mrs. Minks when I told her of your kindness. She

I'm glad to be of service to the lad. You must le

nds as though the fate of Empires depended on it. They attacked the pile of correspondence heartily, while th

watch him, you would never have dreamed that Herbert Minks had ever contemplated City life, much less known ten years of drudgery in its least poetic stages. For him, too, as for his employer, anew chapter of existence had begun-'commenced' he would have phrased it-and, as confidential adviser to a man of fortune whose character he admired almost to the point of worship, he was now a person whose importance it was right the world should recognise. And he meant the world to take this attitude with

if you'll get those letters typed, you might leave 'em here for m

Scheme for Disabled--' began the sec

rself, perhaps, meanwhile, and give me your ideas, eh? Look up what others have done in the same line, for

t of the matter did not really lie in him at all, and Henry Rogers forever dreamed of 'Schemes' he was utterly unable and unsuited to carry out. Improvements in a silk machine was one thing, but improvements in humanity was another. Like the poetry in his soul they could never know fulfilment. He had inspiration, but no construc

t, and stood by the table in an attitude of 'any further instructions, please?' while one e

ormed a hasty plan, 'you might kindly look up an afternoon train to Crayfield. Loop line from Charing Cross

the session closed, and Minks, in his mourning hat and lavender gloves, walked up St. James's Street apparently en route for the Ritz, but suddenly, as with c

s read it; for, returning late that evening from his sentimental journey down to Crayfield, it stood no longer where he had left it beside the clock, and nothing occurred to remind him of its existence. Apart from its joint composers, no one can ever know its contents but the charwoman, who, noticing the feminine w