Alexandra.pdf

A BIRTHDAY ODE

ALEXANDRA

A BIRTHDAY ODE

suggested by A BBEY ’ S masterpiece in the Academy of 1904

BEING THE WATKIN TOWER OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

(vice Kubla Khan and Hyperion retired hurt)

THE

UNFINISHED OR MUTILATED (OR BOTH)

MANUSCRIPT

of Mr ALFRED AUSTIN, Mr OWEN SEAMAN, or Mr A.N. OTHER

rescued from the flames

AND

copied fair, transcribed, edited, annotated, arranged, printed, published

OPHELIA COX ( NÉE M c HUNT)

AND DIAPER OF THE Woman’s Monthly

SHANGHAI

1905

Five Dollars

ALEXANDRA

“ Alexandra . (A short poem printed in Paris about 1909. The whole stock is

said to have been destroyed by H.M. Customs on the grounds of obscenity

and lèse majesté .)”

— Fuller’s Bibliography

This pamphlet is published privately for Thelemites and other friends.

A BIRTHDAY ODE

ALEXANDRA

EDITORIAL NOTE

Pleesm! said my [Diaper’s, not Mrs Cox’s] sloppy slavey one brilliant No-

vember morning of last year, as the orangegold clouds of deliciously per-

fumed mist stole, in spite of the Eighth commandment, down my chimney in

Fleet Street; [of course Diaper does not live in a chimney: she has a deevie

flat there and the flat has a chimney, two chimneys, in fact, O.C.] myav

thister litafir?

Woman! I replied sternly, whence came it? My practised eye had already

detected the indescribable cachet of a treasure trove — bene trovato, sin non

veri similitudo! as the immortal Mantuan bardic anarch hath it — ah! dear,

dear old Dante! — Dunnom! — Oyussm! with a vivid blush through her

smuts (Euphemia knows that she cannot hope to deceive me. What is my

secret? A simple one: I always believe the worst: once in a thousand times I

may be wrong, and it is only the next worst, but no matter.)

Without prolonging the agony, I may say that it shortly transpired that

Euphemia Bugg — such is her name — has for years been the adored (Pla-

tonic if not Aristotelian) mistress of a distinguished littérateur, whom I have

been able with difficulty (the maid is modest, as one would expect from the

No 1 belle dame of either of these cicisbeos), with one of the gentlemen

whose name is on our title-page. The student of style will be able to make his

or her choice.

All we care about is that he or she should pay his or her money.

It is at least certainly not a posthumous work of Walter Pater or John

Addington Symonds: only a crapulous mountebank would credit W.B. Yeats

or Robert Bridges with it. The only question is: did not perhaps the late Lord

Tennyson foresee events, and leave it to be published when the right time

came? But in this case, how account for Euphemia’s possession of the dainty

thing? Anyway, it’s not Tennyson: don’t worry: I was only teasing.

She had originally picked up the unfinished M.S. to use as curl-papers. It

was indeed written, as will be obvious from the style, on sheets of thinnest,

softest (and I believe sterilised) paper of a delicate and pleasing pale canary

colour, mullioned at the shorter edges like a postage stamp.

These she had placed on my mantelpiece for pipe-spills, and forgotten

about them.

It is my pride and privilege through my old and esteemed consœur, as I

suppose I may say for the lady of confrère, to give the providentially rescued

masterpiece; alas! too incomplete!! to the World of Society, though even the

humblest may enjoy (A navvy, when they were repairing the street, whom I

A BIRTHDAY ODE

asked up to taste my delicious T. — I think the abbreviation is so clever,

don’t you? — and to whom I had read it, said: “B...y good, miss, b...y good”.

A simple heartfelt tribute from the People).

Alas! too incomplete. But something at least is saved, — honour, which if

you remember was all Sir George got out of King Francis’ great lion at the

battle of Pavium — you have read Mrs Browning’s scrumptious poemlet, of

course.

“Diaper” will at least avoid the Infernum proscribed for John Stuart Mill,

Newton’s dog, and Mr Warburton’s housemaid. Nunquam plaudite!

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