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“What an extraordinary thing,” exclaimed Dorian Wimpole, suddenly. “Why, I’m quite comfortable! Such a thing has never happened before, I should imagine. And how holy this cheese tastes.”

“It has gone on a pilgrimage,” answered Dalroy, “or rather a Crusade. It’s a heroic, a fighting cheese. ‘Cheese of all Cheeses, Cheeses of all the world,’ as my compatriot, Mr. Yeats, says to the Something-or-other of Battle. It’s almost impossible that this cheese can have come out of such a coward as a cow. I suppose,” he added, wistfully, “I suppose it wouldn’t do to explain that in this case Hump had milked the bull. That would be classed by scientists among Irish legends–those that have the Celtic glamour and all that. No, I think this cheese must have come from that Dun Cow of Dunsmore Heath, who had horns bigger than elephant’s tusks, and who was so ferocious that one of the greatest of the old heroes of chivalry was required to do battle with it. The rum’s good, too. I’ve earned this glass of rum–earned it by Christian humility. For nearly a month I’ve lowered myself to the beasts of the field, and gone about on all fours like a teetotaller. Hump, circulate the bottle–I mean the cask–and let us have some of this poetry you’re so keen about. Each poem must have the same title, you know; it’s a rattling good title. It’s called ‘An Inquiry into the Causes geological, historical, agricultural, psychological, psychical, moral, spiritual and theological of the alleged cases of double, treble, quadruple and other curvature in the English Road, conducted by a specially appointed secret commission in a hole in a tree, by admittedly judicious and academic authorities specially appointed by themselves to report to the Dog Quoodle, having power to add to their number and also to take away the number they first thought of; God save the King.’” Having delivered this formula with blinding rapidity, he added rather breathlessly, “that’s the note to strike, the lyric note.”

For all his rather formless hilarity, Dalroy still impressed the poet as being more distrait than the others, as if his mind were labouring with some bigger thing in the background. He was in a sort of creative trance; and Humphrey Pump, who knew him like his own soul, knew well that it was not mere literary creation. Rather it was a kind of creation which many modern moralists would call destruction. For Patrick Dalroy was, not a little to his misfortune, what is called a man of action; as Captain Dawson realised when he found his entire person a bright pea-green. Fond as he was of jokes and rhymes, nothing he could write or even sing ever satisfied him like something he could do.

Thus it happened that his contribution to the metrical inquiry into the crooked roads was avowedly hasty and flippant. While Dorian who was of the opposite temper, the temper that receives impressions instead of pushing out to make them, found his artist’s love of beauty fulfilled as it had never been before in that noble nest; and was far more serious and human than usual. Patrick’s verses ran:

“Some say that Guy of Warwick,The man that killed the Cow,And brake the mighty Boar alive,Beyond the Bridge at Slough,Went up against a Loathly WormThat wasted all the Downs,And so the roads they twist and squirm(If I may be allowed the term)From the writhing of the stricken WormThat died in seven towns.I see no scientific proofThat this idea is sound,And I should say they wound aboutTo find the town of Roundabout,The merry town of RoundaboutThat makes the world go round.
“Some say that Robin Goodfellow,Whose lantern lights the meads,(To steal a phrase Sir Walter ScottIn heaven no longer needs)Such dance around the trysting-placeThe moonstruck lover leads;Which superstition I should scout;There is more faith in honest doubt,(As Tennyson has pointed out)Than in those nasty creeds.But peace and righteousness (St. John)In Roundabout can kiss,And since that’s all that’s found aboutThe pleasant town of Roundabout,The roads they simply bound aboutTo find out where it is.
“Some say that when Sir LancelotWent forth to find the Grail,Grey Merlin wrinkled up the roadsFor hope that he should fail;All roads led back to LyonesseAnd Camelot in the Vale;I cannot yield assent to thisExtravagant hypothesis,The plain, shrewd Briton will dismissSuch rumours (Daily Mail).But in the streets of RoundaboutAre no such factions found,Or theories to expound aboutOr roll upon the ground about,In the happy town of RoundaboutThat makes the world go round.”

Patrick Dalroy relieved his feelings by finishing with a shout, draining a stiff glass of his sailor’s wine, turning restlessly on his elbow and looking across the landscape toward London.

Dorian Wimpole had been drinking golden rum and strong starlight and the fragrance of forests; and, though his verses, too, were burlesque, he read them more emotionally than was his wont.

“Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire.A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did treadThat night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
“I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,And for to fight the Frenchmen I did not much desire;But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayedTo straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our handsThe night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
“His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers runBehind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clearThe night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.
“My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seenBefore we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.”

“Have you written one, Hump?” asked Dalroy. Humphrey, who had been scribbling hard under the lamp, looked up with a dismal face.

“Yes,” he said. “But I write under a great disadvantage. You see, I know why the road curves about.” And he read very rapidly, all on one note:

“The road turned first toward the leftWhere Pinker’s quarry made the cleft;The path turned next toward the rightBecause the mastiff used to bite;Then left, because of Slippery Height,And then again toward the right.We could not take the left becauseIt would have been against the laws;Squire closed it in King William’s dayBecause it was a Right of Way.Still right; to dodge the ridge of chalkWhere Parson’s Ghost it used to walk,Till someone Parson used to knowMet him blind drunk in Callao.Then left, a long way round, to skirtThe good land where old Doggy BurtWas owner of the Crown and Cup,And would not give his freehold up;Right, missing the old river-bed,They tried to make him take insteadRight, since they say Sir GregoryWent mad and let the Gypsies be,And so they have their camp secure.And, though not honest, they are poor,And that is something; then alongAnd first to right–no, I am wrong!Second to right, of course; the firstIs what the holy sisters cursed,And none defy their awful oathsSince the policeman lost his clothesBecause of fairies; right again,What used to be High Toby Lane,Left by the double larch and rightUntil the milestone is in sight,Because the road is firm and goodFrom past the milestone to the wood;And I was told by Dr. LoweWhom Mr. Wimpole’s aunt would know,Who lives at Oxford writing books,And ain’t so silly as he looks;The Romans did that little bitAnd we’ve done all the rest of it;By which we hardly seem to score;Left, and then forward as beforeTo where they nearly hanged Miss Browne,Who told them not to cut her down,But loose the rope or let her swing,Because it was a waste of string;Left once again by Hunker’s Cleft,And right beyond the elm, and left,By Pill’s right by Nineteen NicksAnd left–”