THAT HUMILITY AND HUMANITY of Thompson’s made him lovable. Someone who travelled with him as far as Chester one day before Christmas many years ago has told me of the journey. Francis Thompson was going into the mountains of Wales, to dwell under the shadow of the Franciscan Convent of Pantasaph. He remained there for some considerable time. Would the Franciscans had kept him altogether! for London is no place for the poet unless it be for the poet who would make tragedies. Someone had provided the poor poet with a whole bundle of the Weekly Sun—or was it the Sunday Sun in those days?—by way of literature. It was an excellent paper at that time. Would we had its like again! But, as literature for Francis Thompson, it was ill-chosen.
My informant recalls that there travelled in the carriage from Euston some labourers, Hibernian, alas! very tipsy, and more Hibernico, very noisy. At Rugby they alighted for another drink, having been misinformed as to the time the train waited there. Everyone breathed more freely when they were gone—everyone except Francis Thompson, who had shown no irritation at their presence or their pranks. They were hardly safely within the refreshment room when the whistle sounded and the train began to move. There was an unacknowledged relief in the minds of the other occupants of the carriage that they were to be free of such unpleasant travelling companions; in the minds of all except Francis Thompson. He, on the contrary, was greatly perturbed about the fate of the poor fellows who were likely to be left behind. At the last moment they appeared, rushing wildly up and down the platform, looking for the carriage which they were too agitated to discover for themselves. The other passengers looked on, conscience-stricken, at least one of them, but determined to do nothing that would bring back the riotous fellow-passengers. But the poet nearly flung himself out of the window in his eagerness to direct the lost ones, who, however—or his fellow-passengers could never have forgiven him—found places in another carriage.
It was one salient incident of the day; for the rest he was quiet, or busied himself with his Weekly Suns, until a black-bearded Capuchin received him at Chester.
The person who was his travelling companion on this occasion also recalls that when domiciled together under the most hospitable of roofs he and the poet were alike eager over the latest cricket, whereby pink and green halfpenny newspapers littered the abode of the Muses. It was something dear and unexpected in the poet; yet, after all, not unexpected. He was always a boy; he need not stoop to children or boys, for his heart was innocent and boyish to the hour he died. No one has adorned cricket as he has. He, the Lancashire man, makes poetry of the Test Match. How haunting this is with its suggestion of real folk-song:—
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow:
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless clapping host.
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro.
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
