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Mars by Day, Apollo by night; Bang the fieldpiece, twang the lyre; Silent dew-drops crystalled on each blade of grass."

Mr. Pickwick has been listening with close attention, with his finger tips together and his fingers outspread. "It seems to me there's something in it," he admits with incipient appreciation ; "the expression is certainly lovely." Mr. Snodgrass, however, gives a snort, presumably of contempt ; though it is difficult to determine the exact mode and cadence of his catarrhic expression. "Images - images - nothing but images, "the stranger goes on, "turned out thousands of them - thousands in a day!" "Thousands?" repeats Mr. Pickwick in utter astonishment. "Yes thousands - could do more!" "The fecundity of the human imagination is one of the most remarkable phenomena in nature," Mr. Pickwick confesses in growing admiration. "British Public - unsympathetic - no idea art - last year published twelve volumes - 700 pages each - bankruptcy - sheer bankruptcy ; "- and, turning to Mr. Snodgrass "Poet yourself, Sir?" the stranger enquires. "Well, yes," replies Mrs. Snodgrass with a slight blush ; "that is, I once wrote an 'Ode on my Dear Departed Canary', but only for private circulation." "Ah! - I see, "says the stranger, with a nod; "try New Poetry - may succeed." Then turning to Mr. Pickwick, "In England - critics, no common sense," he adds; "am founding New School of Criticism - bringing over men from France - know their business - grand scheme - want funds - like to help?" Mr. Pickwick is now quite captivated by the stranger's personality and evident genius. "When help is needed for such a laudable and charitable cause," he says, "I cannot withhold my support. How much do you require - fifty pounds?" "Splendid!" answers the stranger, "Splendid! - better make it a hundred - hundred guineas that is - great future - noble benefactor - not forget!"

So, just as they are entering a market town, Mr. Pickwick writes out a cheque for the stated sum and hands it to the stranger, wringing his hand most heartily and smiling on him with supreme satisfaction. "Ah!" says the stranger, "my destination - must alight here - lecture tonight - New Poetry - New Art."

The Pickwickians have just been stretching their limbs a bit at the "Boars's Head"; and, feeling now re-juvenated both in mind and body, are about to continue their homeward journey. And as Mr. Pickwick walks majestically out of the inn, with such a benign look on his features as only a conviction that all is right with the world can give, Sammy Weller directs his attention to a small enclosure on the common. "That," says Sam, with a merry twinkle, "is what they calls the pound. They used to put villagers in it when they were foolish enough to get intoxicated." "Sammy," Mr. Pickwick replies in a fatherly but now faltering tone, "we are all subject to human passions, no matter how righteous we may be; and thus it behoves us ..."

BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6 / MIST, Henry Masterman / Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners’ Pie, 1916.

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