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Updated: June 9, 2025
At last, as Downes's life seemed in danger, he wavered; the Jew-boy seized the moment, jumped up, upsetting the constable, dashed like an eel between Crossthwaite and Mackaye, gave me a back-handed blow in passing, which I felt for a week after, and vanished through the street-door, which he locked after him.
This last drop of kindness filled the cup to overflowing: a veil fell from before my eyes it was she who had been my friend, my guardian angel, from the beginning! "You you idiot that I have been! I see it all now. It was you who laid that paper to catch my eye on that first evening at D *! you paid my debt to my cousin! you visited Mackaye in his last illness!" She made a sign of assent.
The foundation of the poet's superiority is, of course, his claim that his inspiration gives him mystical experience of the things which the scholar can only remotely speculate about. Therefore Percy Mackaye makes Sappho vaunt over the philosopher, Pittacus: Yours is the living pall, The aloof and frozen place of listeners And lookers-on at life. But mine ah!
I just recollect the tramp of the yeomanry horses, and a clear blade gleaming in the air, and after that I recollect nothing till I awoke and found myself lying on a truckle-bed in D gaol, and a warder wrapping my head with wet towels. Mackaye engaged an old compatriot as attorney at the trial, and I was congratulated on "only getting three years." The weary time went by.
But I was too happy to care for a fresh debt, and home I went, considering my fortune made. My heart fell, as I stepped into the dingy little old shop! Was it the meanness of the place after the comfort and elegance of my late abode? Was it disappointment at not finding Mackaye at home? Or was it that black-edged letter which lay waiting for me on the table?
Mackaye, like a great many other aspirants, began at the wrong end: he made his piece poetry first and foremost, and drama only incidentally. And I think that the only way to prepare the public for true poetic drama is to educate the public's faith in its right to be bored in the theatre by poetry that is not dramatic.
How he got a clue to the scandal I cannot conceive. Mackaye and Crossthwaite, I had thought, were the only souls to whom I had ever breathed the secret, and they denied indignantly the having ever betrayed my weakness.
Mackaye, "o' whose uprightness and generosity they were pleased to confess themselves no that ignorant," should write to George, ascertain the sum, and pay it without my knowledge, handing over the balance, if any, to me, when he thought fit "Sae there's the remnant aucht pounds, sax shillings, an' saxpence; tippence being deduckit for expense o' twa letters anent the same transaction."
Why, I nursed that man through typhoid fever; we starved together on the headwaters of the Stewart; and he saved my life on the Little Salmon. And now, after the years we were together, all I can say of Stephen Mackaye is that he is the meanest man I ever knew. We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 1897, and we started too late to get over Chilcoot Pass before the freeze-up.
And what was more, the book "took," and sold, and was reviewed in People's journals, and in newspapers; and Mackaye himself relaxed into a grin, when his oracle, the Spectator, the only honest paper, according to him, on the face of the earth, condescended, after asserting its impartiality by two or three searching sarcasms, to dismiss me, grimly-benignant, with a paternal pat on the shoulder.
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