2
10
34
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/73142321080d7adaf2a5e0d1303225f5.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=ZTw9to9np3WlfQ3Jm1m1dhLqqhE0XgTXjQOPDt3fD9KHucOqG3xAwp9g9ezwEsNzgO-lCzNAaE1TQKQLLGXEV2vf1RShpxq%7EY9hYL2ivbordaXIitLVi96QO4ZSIwbm-NrDZlKy0qHB-7--KM29c-BSRsiE54iXy4dP0MTE3-6xM7wtHl%7EFbp9W3fFjWAa1-BeXX9TA0BnypWzmDRjSxrdTao5Yqh1RJ%7EjeiOqYQRPbh8lDMlQtI9JhaBnK8wuSqZmmbATYLbzFld78wzospgsSFvmivqp-Ok3jS64sk8aJug-JC1NuT5O8D7kRImcjdwJ2pVaP1TpxLMMPP4%7Ej7-w__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
7289b000145eb681bdce1d88b58af2c6
PDF Text
Text
�or/6 9 -
Presented in Memory of
Dr. Moncure D. Conway
by his children, July
Nineteen hundred C? eight
�LIBRARY
South Place Ethical Society
Rec’d...... .19.0.3...............
Ack’d................................. .....
Source
R...QPN..tr.folf;
1970,.. in detail
Class
Cat.
�KEYNOTE S.”
BY
ARBOR LEIGH.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
II THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD,
LONDON, S.E.
1876.
Price Sixpence.
�LONDON :
PRINTED BY C. "W. REYNELL, LITTLE RUMENS Y STREET,
H4SXARKET.
�“KEY
NOTES.”
UPWARD.
What is the tireless key
Of the unheard chorus of things ?
Of the ceaseless autumns and springs ?
Of the ebbing and flowing sea ?
Answer : that we may join in thy chorus, Eternity!
What shall we do to-day
To lessen the total strife ?
To forward the total life ?
To help the worlds on their way ?
To live by the last-learnt law is more than to praise
or to pray.
Why is the fit thing best ?
Why is the best thing fit ?
We work, and we cease from it;
Do we work for work or for rest ?
Daily the light comes up in the East to hide in the
West.
Never, never in sight,
The Perfect we long to see:
The Perfect we long to be :
The final, immutable Bight.
Nay : for the Perfect grottos, with growth that is
infinite.
Over the verges fair
Of the best we can feel and think,
Ever just over the brink
Of the best we can do and dare,
Till we ask—“ Are there ends at all, to Purposes
everywhere ? ”
�4
“ Key Notes. ”
From stars in the solemn sky,
From the tender flower at our feet,
Certain, and clear, and sweet,
Comes the same eternal reply :
“ Upward 1 upward, 0 man! for Progress can never
die I ”
UNTO THIS PRESENT.
i.
Free and yet fast: fast, and for ever free :
Led in the line of law to liberty :
Sweeping the spirals of invariant space:
On flees the little earth around her sun.
For ever tending to his fiery breast;
For ever tending to the outer cold;
So held, unfettered, ’twixt her two desires,
From either doom ; and of her impotence,
Driven, where hindrances are least, along
The curves of gentler possibility.
0 little planet! fated to be free,
And have thy leisure for an seon’s space
To bud, and bloom, and grow a teeming thing:
Cooling, yet lifewards ;—darkening unto sight
That wakes in many eyes of many lives;
And lights the living into wider light;—
0 little planet! Chariot of mankind,
Force-drifted from impalpability
Into thy rounded being, and the form
Thy children know thee by,—how sternly kind
Is Force, new-differenced as Life, as Love,
As Fitness for a freedom yet to be.
Free, and yet fast; fast, and for ever free!
Thy history is writ in parable :
Man’s tale is one with thine, 0 little world of
Man !
�“Key Notes.”
5
n.
I looked into the green sea yesterday,
And dreamt in outline of that sum of Cause
Which brought it there, and me to watch it curl
Its never-sleeping mystery to my feet.
Although so far agone as now appears
Like Never, yet I think there was an hour,
Down the dim reaches of a cosmic Past,
Ere the beginnings of the growth of things,
When Fact stayed, poised, and centred everywhere ;
And for one pregnant moment of suspense
The awful Infinite had nought to do :—
When universal forces nowhere clash’d,
And all thro’ Space hung equal formlessness :
When, wreck’d, some all-dissolved, older Past
Yielded its untired atoms for new work—
Or play—at System-churning; till there went
Slow, doubtful whirlings through Immensity,
And sameness grew new-focuss’d, here or there,
With glimmering, gassy nuclei. So, anon,
These, settling into fluid balls of fire,
Flung forth, all wildly spinning into space,
Planets; and these, all spinning, flung their moons,
Until, among an unguessed myriad more,
This little thing we live to call our world
Grew individual, and puny shone
Among the millions : thence, self-centred, roll’d,
An isle of gleaming chaos, thro’ the cycled years.
in.
The young world’s radiance ebb’d away to night,
And a slow-settling darkness veiled her curves,
As she, a vaporous mantle for awhile
Drew round her broodingly. And in that gloom
The mystery, Motion, learned a strange new art
In subtle particles. Change after change
Smaller and stiller grew, and more complex—
As Life began in darkness. For ’twas then,
�6
“Key Notes.”
Under a heaven all murky with the breath
Of young creation rising hot and thick,
Sprung that, which, lighted, had been loveliness.
Fem-forests, haply, at the steaming poles
Spread to the darkness beauty unbeheld;
And forms most gracious in the eye of Day
Were born unheralded, and died in night.
Nor so were wasted! What, though living eyes
That turn ethereal quiverings into light,
And use the light to find out loveliness—
Not yet were focuss’d from a vaguer Force :•—
Men, retrospective, in this later age,
Learn, by the trace of what they never saw,
A lesson worth the learning. Let it pass.
Dawn conquered e’en the long primeval night,
The blackness thinn’d, and wept itself away,
And let the light through from the parent sun,
And life began to know itself as life
In sentient things that joyed in some degree.
New inter-adaptation everywhere,
Among material bent on issuing
At last, in that supremest noblest thing,
Achieved by all that has been—Consciousness—
The being, who not only lived a life,
Loved, joyed, and suffered, slept and woke again,
But noted it, and recognised himself,
And found some words and said, “I am a man.”
rv.
In yon far distance, where the sea and sky
Make of two meeting edges one thin line,
A boundary seems where yet no boundary is.
Being persists : and, grandly gradual,
All aspects melt in one-ness as we move,
And, spite of all our severing, ill fit names—
Cause, as effect, retains its force unspent.
One fact grows smoothly on, through changing
lights,
�“ Key Notes.”
7
Stable alone in instability,
Unchangeable in constant changefulness.
In thine own piteous, piteous ignorance,
Break not the calm continuous tale of growth,
Told by the tacit truthfulness of things,
With theory of breach—0 petty man !
Pause with thy rounded story in mistrust
Of its full-blown completeness ! In the face—
The awful face—of deep, unfinished Life,
Cast they neat sketch of things aside awhile :
Forget thy need of headings to thy page,
Or final flourish hinting all is said.
Learn of thy planet home, man-dazzled man I
The life of man is mot the end of things.
For, not till earth hid all her fires away,
And gave but borrowed splendour to the night,
Knew she of greater glory than her own,
And, in her children’s vision, learnt to see the
stars.
?
v.
Strong, sanely conscious, sweet Philosophy I
I see her dealing with the fevered screams
Of angry over-certain ignorance ;
She measures men by what they tend to be,
Endures all honest lies right patiently,
Knows them for lies, but knows she knows them so,
By knowledge that would make the liar true
Could he lay hold of it. A day shall dawn,
When error, proved, shall be no longer held,
And battled for, as somehow, somewhat good
And beneficial, error though it be.
Grand, unrebellious, sane Philosophy !
Crowned and calm I see her sit aloft,
Upon the apex of things knowable ;
Her heart the stiller that it is so vast;
Her deed emergent from her gravest thought,
As it illumes and tempers to the Fact
�“ Key Notes”
The deepest of her feeling. And around—
Above her, spreads the measureless abyss :
Time both ways endless :—all ways endless,
Space.
0 strongly patient, fair Philosophy !
She reads the midmost truth betwixt extremes,
Dreams of the far point whither truths converge,
And with a question in her thoughtful smile
Ponders the poetry of paradox—
How highest knowledge waxes negative,
How he who soars the farthest in his thought,
Basks in a beatific ignorance,
Knows by his knowledge he can never know,
Sees by the light of sight that he is blind,
And loves the largeness of the total sum,
That lured him to be ignorant and wise.
0 just, harmonious Philosophy I
She links, and interlinks the sciences,
Finds the coherence of a Universe,
And one-ness in the varied wide-lived All;
Reads in a lump of dirt the very law,
That rules the being of Society,
Kinship between the atoms and the suns,
And reason for a Virtue foreshadowed in a clod.
VI.
There is a sense in which the Universe
Is pivoted upon a molecule ;
There is a sense in which Eternity
Hangs on each moment. Read that truth reversed,
The softest dimple on a baby’s smile,
Springs from the whole of past Eternity :
Tasked' all the sum of things to bring it there,
And so was only barely possible.
Yet ’twas so one and equal with its cause
’Twould need that whole of past Eternity,
Cancell’d and changed, and every motor force
And every atom through Infinitude,
�1
<f Key Notes.”
9
Set otherwise a-going to hinder it.
The Future lies potential in the Now :
The Necessary is the Possible,
The two are differing names for one stiff Fact,
That Fact—the Being of whatever is.
Is this dogmatic ? ’Tis the normal voice
Of soughing breezes, and of singing birds ;
It comes to me thwart distant silences
Of inter-stellar vacancy at night,
It comes to me from human influence
Drifted through centuries, half-unperceived ;
And in it is an all-embracing Code,—
And in it is an all-inspiring Creed,—
In what has been man learns the law of life,
And finds his Revelation writ as Genesis.
VII.
But now what says Philosophy of Self ?
What thinks her follower of the man he is ?
Can he, in presence of the symphony
That rolls around him, played by viewless Cause
On suns for instruments, with Life for Key
And the For Ever we can only name
As metronome to beat out rhythmic bars,
Great eeons long, in number infinite—
Can he revert to his small destiny,
As wjth a moment’s stopping of his ears,
While that sweet thundering of the huge “Not
Self,”
Challenges him to listen while he may ?
Aye, for his egotism is not killed,
But only stunn’d, by vastness : now forgot
In the strong consciousness of larger things,
But yet, anon, assertive ; full of rights ;
Measuring worth by “What is that to me ? ”
And so we look about us for a god,
Whom we may bind in trust to work our welfare
out.
fl
�IO
“ Key Notes.”
VIII.
The tacit flux of unexplaining fact
That deals one recompense to one offence
Whether we call the doer, “ fool,” or “ knave ; ”
The steady tendency that draws the child,
Playing too near a precipice, to death,
And holds in safety every wretched life
That fails of chancing on the way to die—
This tacit fact, this steady tendency
Breeds our experience, and makes us wise ;
Breathes on our wisdom then, and makes us good.
0 man! thou mad ! thou blind ! thou self
engross’d !
Let thy poor blindness be chastised to sight,
Grow acquiescent in the utmost ward
Of Nature’s fine impartiality :
Learn that what is must measure what thou dost,
That on thy knowledge hangs thy highest fate
And all thy virtue grows of the outer Cosmic
growth.
IX.
Daily we die, eternally to live,
Each in the measure of his deathlessness
In the undying life of that strong Thing,
That once was Chaos and that shall be God,
But now is Man, and needs the lives of men
To learn its Being,—weave its Future by.
Freedom is born of fetters. Joy of pain.
For he who feels the gain of greater things
In his own loss, makes of his loss a gain;
And masters so the stern Necessity
That so apportion’d. When thy will is one
With what must be, with or without thy will,
Thy will grows helpful, and thy will is free.
For mastery is service perfected,
And, being won, yields back obedience
To laws of larger life. ’Tis thus we grow
�“Key Notes.”
ii
And feel a world-pulse thrill our hopeful soul,
And feel our bark of life lift on the wave,
With progress, joyous, sure and palpable.
Free, and yet fast; fast, and for ever free !
Lured by a love-like law in lines of Liberty.
x.
Now'shall we worship ? Aye : but name no name.
A thousand G-ods, outgrown of growing man,
Strew with their martyr’d prophets, all the past.
Man’s spirit is the father of his God,
When, seeking in his misty ignorance
For sign of meaning in the drift of things—
For trace of purpose in his little life,
His hope,—his trust sends forth blind, yearning
cries,
Which echo back from the mysterious face
Of outer things, transfigured as Reply.
Is this so piteous ? Nay : but it is well!
Such dreams have brought man up the slippery
steep
Of half-learnt rectitude, and made him man.
But now we worship with our faces hid,
And name no name, since All we cannot name :
Our homage to the awfulness of Law
Lies in the meekness of the earnest act,
Which, with sweet constancy in its reward,
Deals with us well, and turns our awe to love.
The end lies hid in future victory,
Won by the faithfulness of man to man.
We know not of that end, and yet we wait,
And worship, acquiescent, for we feel it must be
great.
Amen.
�12
“ Key Notes.”
•SUMMER SONG.
i.
0 sun, that makes haste to be early to look on thy
self-kindled morn,
And to see the most beautiful brightness of dewdrop
fill’d daisies at dawn ;
0 tears of the gladness of greeting when earth
shakes her short sleep away,
And turns her to meet the long future of one more
intense summer day;
0 fullness of life in the flowers, of joy in the
fledgling’s new flight,
There is left no work for the heart at home, when the
earth is so full of delight.
ii.
I will hark to the innocent secret, in whisp’rings of
tall, flowr’d grass,
I will read the white lesson of daylight, in breezewreathed clouds as they pass,
And with fullest surrender of spirit to the free
efflorescence of things,
I will think not a thought that is duller than glint of
the dragon-fly’s wings.
My heart shall be tender and trustful, and hold not a
heavier care
Than a butterfly, flutt’ring ’mid roses at noon, might
carry, nor know it was there.
in.
There are harebells that, nodding and swaying, defy
the full sunshine to fade;
There are oaks, in their gnarled firmness, dividing the
noon from the shade ;
There are beetles that shimmer and vanish among
little stones by the bank ;
�“ Key Notes”
13
There are hummings of flight that is seeking, and
perfume of blossoms that thank.
Things seem all youthful and faithful, and life all
earnest and glad:
Who can believe ’tis the same old earth men say is so
sinful and sad ?
IV.
So busy the flowers are blowing, so busy and so
untired ;
So certain the bee is of finding the sweetness her life
has desired;
So steady the sky stands over, to bless all the
kindling and birth
Of a thousand new things in a minute, on the
teeming summer-day earth.
0 breezes, aglow with the sunbeams ! ye’d utter it all
if ye could—
The tending of things to be conscious of life: the
tending of life to be Good.
MORNING.
What’s the text to-day for reading,
Nature and its being by ?
There is effort all the morning
Through the windy sea and sky.
All, intent in earnest grapple,
That the All may let it be :
Force, in unity, at variance
With its own diversity.
Force, prevailing unto action :
Force, persistent to restrain:
In a two-fold, one-soul’d wrestle,
Forging Being’s freedom-chain.
�14
“ Key Notes."
Frolic! say you—when the billow
Tosses back a mane of spray ?
No; but haste of earnest effort;
Nature works in guise of play.
Till the balance shall be even
Swings the to and fro of strife ;
Till an awful equilibrium
Stills it, beats the Heart of Life.
What’s the text to-day for reading,
Nature and its being by ?
Effort, effort all the morning,
Through the sea and windy sky.
AFTERNOON.
Purple headland over yonder,
Fleecy, sun-extinguish’d moon,
I am here alone, and ponder
On the theme of Afternoon.
Past has made a groove for Present,
And what fits it is: no more.
Waves before the wind are weighty;
Strongest sea-beats shape the shore.
Just what is, is just what can be,
And the Possible is free :
’Tis by being, not by effort,
That the firm cliff juts to sea.
With an uncontentious calmness
Drifts the Fact before the “ Law,”
So we name the order’d sequence
We, remembering, foresaw.
�“ Key Notes.”
And a law is mere procession
Of the forcible and fit;
Calm of uncontested Being,
And our thought that comes of it.
In the mellow shining daylight,
Lies the Afternoon at ease,
Little willing ripples answer
To a drift of casual breeze.
Purple headland to the westward !
Ebbing tide and fleecy moon !
In the “line of least resistance,”
Flows the life of Afternoon.
TWILIGHT.
Grey the sky, and growing dimmer,
And the twilight lulls the sea.
Half in vagueness, half in glimmer,
Nature shrouds her mystery,
What have all the hours been spent for ?
Why the on and on of things ?
Why, eternity’s procession
Of the days and evenings ?
Hours of sunshine, hours of gloaming,
Wing their unexplaining flight,
With a measured punctuation
Of unconsciousness, at night.
Just at sunset was translucence
When the west was all aflame;
So I asked the sea a question,
And a kind of answer came.
*5
�16
fCKey Notes”
Is there nothing but Occurrence ?
Tho’ each detail seem an Act,
Is that whole we deem so pregnant,
But unemphasised Fact ?
Or, when dusk is in the hollows
Of the hillside and the wave,
Are things just so much in earnest
That they cannot but be grave ?
Nay, the lesson of the twilight
Is as simple as ’tis deep ;
Aquiescenceacquiescence:
And the coming on of sleep.
MIDNIGHT.
There are sea and sky about me,
And yet nothing sense can mark ;
For a mist fills all the midnight,
Adding blindness to its dark.
There is not the faintest echo
From the life of yesterday :
Not the vaguest stir foretelling
Of a morrow on the way.
’Tis negation’s hour of triumph,
In the absence of the sun,
’Tis the hour of endings, finished;
Of beginnings, unbegun.
Yet the voice of awful Silence,
Bids my waiting spirit hark ;
There is action in the stillness.
There is progress in the dark.
�“ Key Notes”
In the drift of things and forces,
Comes the better from the worse,
Swings the whole of nature upward,
Wakes, and thinks—a Universe.
There will be more life to-morrow,
And of life, more life that knows ;
Though the sum of Force be constant,
Yet the Living ever grows.
So we sing of Evolution,
And step strongly on our ways,
And we live thro’ nights in patience,
And we learn the worth of days.
In the silence of murk midnight
Is revealed to me this thing:
Nothing hihders, all ennobles
Nature’s vast awakening.
OCTOBER.
0 still, sweet mornings, silvery with frost!
0 holy early sunsets full of calm I
When the spent year has seen her utmost fruit,
And beautifully leans towards her doom.
I think if I could choose my hour to go
Into the unknown infinite, ’twould be
While earth is lying patiently bereft
During this yearning month—while summer holds
A failing hand across the narrowing days,
To meet the stern cold grip of winter : smiles
The last sweet effort of her life away,
And bids October mourn in gold and grey.
’Tis not quite hopefulness I gather there,
And yet methinks it is not quite despair,
But a resigning with a painless will,
Of what was lovely once, is lovely still,
17
�18
“ Key Notes”
And yet must go. 0 mystery of Death !
The formless blank that margins liveliest life!
We turn the weary face towards the wall,
We wish less vehemently hour by hour,
We let the thought-worn spirit ebb away
Into unconsciousness, and as we fail,
No more have energy to question God,
Or men, or things, but dimly think it strange,
That ever it had seemed to matter so.
Are there degrees of dying ? Or, when breath
Has ceased for ever are men all the same ?
Do varying intensities of Death
Mark of past lives which most deserved the name ?
When noble purpose, unfulfilled, subsides
With the out-ebbing of a human life,
With the slow-slacking beat of noble heart
That erewhile did conceive it, is no sign
Vouchsafed, to mark the lapse from death of such
As all his life long kept his soul asleep ?
Each did his nothing. One from lack of days,
Or lack of God’s-help—opportunity.
The other from the lack of purpose, or
Of force to wield it: now it seemsall one :
Each dies his death: the nothing that is done
Has less of satire for the self-wrapt fool,
Than for his loftier brother.
Earth’s fair things
Perish so unresistingly ; the while
They meet the autumn as they met the spring,
Lovely, and acquiescent: for the year
Seems never surer,—less indifferent
Than when the woods are withering and aglow,
And oaks in calmness let their acorns go,
To fare as they are able, in the dark.
Let the true aspirant endure to leave
His precious noblest thought. Aye ! bear to die,
Not seeing it prevail. Thou feeble man !
Meet the inevitable with strong trust
�“ Key Notes.”
’9
That waste is not, but fitness everywhere;
And though thy thought had seemed so very good,
Its worth might well have won thy fame for thee,
Mistrust that love of it as thine own thing,
In measure of its fitness, not as thine,
’Twill rule the life-blood of posterity,
And make of man meet master of his ways.
Good is too strong to need thy consciousness;
But, having blest thy vision, lets thee die.
0 prophet I live the flowering future through
In present days, however chill and few ;
Catch the vast measure of the march of man,
And read a cycle in an hour ; for he,
And only he, may live immortally,
Who lives, the while he lives, in tune with life
That lives for ever. Prophet! having lived
And quickened with thy word some further soul,
And sent a-ringing through eternity
The chord thy hand was formed to strike, and
leave,
Thou shalt October-wise, resign thy breath,
Glad with faint echoings from a future life,
Grown beautiful and great beyond thine hour of
death.
DECEMBER.
Winter; and loveliness of frosty hours :
Winter, and frost; and sorrow of the poor :
More than one-half of all the men alive,
Forced, by the struggle ’twixt the hurling power
Of orbit motion, and the strong, stiff pull
Of yon white sun,—to be immersed in cold.
Snow crystals! tiny, perfect, everywhere :
Man’s work and nature’s crisply fringed with hoar
That sends a gem-hued sparkle through the eye
Into the gladdened consciousness behind,
�20
“Key Notes.”
A.1X& helps the poet to sufficient theme
For kindling song where prose was yesterday.
What ? will he glibly, gaily dare extol
The levelling force of whiteness ; and the robe
Of Beauty, thrown alike o’er hut and hall,
And miss the lesson of it ?—Let him pause!
A ledge exists where snowflakes can be lodged;
There they are lodged, and there their beauty is,
And, being snow, their coldness, tho’ the shelf
Be shoulder of a baby, scarcely clad,
And dying of it, or the cosy eaves
That hold the flakes away from ruder lives,
Fitter to weather winter circumstance—
Admiring and not dying of the snow.
I do not trust the unreflective praise
That would appropriate the fair “ must be ”
As man’s especial, heaven-sent heritage.
For he who calls the glory of this world
His own, his right, his message from a God
Intent on beautifying life for man,
Will find his logic sadly overset,
And all his music stricken out of tune,
When he, perchance, shall find his own delight
Hangs on that fact that strikes a brother dead.
We skim the surface of the Actual,
Daub it with moral, wall it round with names,
Fit puny, arbitrary adjectives,
Where Fact is subtle, mergent, and itself,
Until we see no more the real drift
Of Being, nor coherence in the tale
Perpetually uttered everywhere.
Meanings are made and fastened by our moods:
Things only mean themselves : each fact proclaims,
By its existence, but that it exists :
What is, not what it stands for, is the theme
Of Nature’s teaching. Let us learn that first.
Grave lessons learnt of cosmic constancy
Work in us, patience. Thence more safely true
�li Key Notes y
21
Live we our lives, law-tempered, soberly,
But ever law-rewarded. And, unchill’d
By doubt of irony in sun or sky,
We learn to smile up in the face of Fact,
And praise its Fitness, fitly. Let us learn :
For, certainty attained, we acquiesce ;
And acquiescence wins the way to Happiness.
SONNET.
A little brook doth babble, and doth dance;
And in its eddies traps a sunny ray,
And toys with it, and splits it every way,
Till thousand seeming gems dazzle and glance,
The summer earth lies in a lovely trance; •
While a blithe song-bird on th’ o’erhanging spray,
Trills forth his mirth all thro’ the livelong day.
And some have said this world is ruled by Chance!
0 broad, blue lift I wherein the sun is set—
Whence the stars peep and sparkle all the night.
Why do things seem, so love-ruled, purpose-set,
If blind Chance gave them birth, and holds them
right ?
Most happy Chance ! such beauties chance to be :
I, too ; with ears thathear and eyes that see !
MARCH.
Wild winds of March I ruthless, and stern, and cold :
Wild flowers of March ! that tenderly unfold :
Wind—as a voice of sovereign fury wild,
Flower, only so, as is a peasant’s child.
Why come ye thus together, wind and flower,
Linked hand in hand, a weakness, and a power ?
One speaks in both; and doth the storm-wind hold
That it hurt not His primrose, and His smile,
�io.
“ Key Notes.”
’Mid blustering bleakness, helps the flower mean
while
With courage to be lovely in the cold.
For God is everywhere if anywhere,
Ruling the strong and weak with equal care :
In the wild days when Nature’s voice is harsh,
Weaving the rudest breath of bitter March ;
Yet guarding, that its fragrance may not fail,
The weakest bud that opens in the gale.
One law demands the twain. We are so blind 1
Spite of the legend God is in the wind,
As in the still small voice with which meanwhile
The meek, pale primrose wakes into a smile.
0 little flower ! teach me to be bold,
And Eke thyself keep courage in life’s bitter cold 1
APRIL.
0 sights, and scents, and sounds of this fair earth,
When Nature has her way unmarred by man I
From the arched beauty of the rainbow span
That sheds its lustre thro’ an April hour,
To yonder lark’s intensity of mirth,
Or the mysterious fragrance of a flower,
There is no.imperfection. It is strange
That man alone has power to disarrange,
And, when he will, can mar. Who would suspect
This creature, called a “ crowning work,” with handsDoing the meddling will of intellect.
The more can do the more he understands
To dim the face of Nature’s loveliness,
And make the sum of all her beauties less!
Sweet April morning ! by what wide mischance,
Is it that things more lovely are, in fact,
Where men are few and steeped in ignorance
Than where a crowd of thinkers plan and act?
Yet for all this is Beauty’s self a lie,
�11 Key Notes."
23
Because she shrinks away and seems to die,
When rude man in the hurry of his need
Tortures her into usefulness : when greed,
By twisting fair and good things into gold,
Makes “ progress ” one with wealth, and young men
old?
’Tis well there are some feats beyond our reach,
’Tis well we cannot climb the rainbow’s arc
With earthy tread, to make its glory dark ;
’Tis well no art of ours can ever teach
The wind and song-bird trammell’d, thought-bound
speech.
Or build sick cities on the mighty sea,
Or make one billow’s curve less wildly free.
And though on earth we crowd achievement so,
That little flowers have hardly room to grow,
Price-labell’d prose may reach not very high,
We cannot “civilise ” and spoil the sky 1
Yet stay 1 we weep this beauty that we soil,
And shrink from turning all our play to toil;
But this fair thought may shine athwart our tears,
And hope gleam, April-wise, on gloomy fears.
The reign of fitness is not over yet;
We never wholly lose what we regret.
If he be man who blots the sunny sky
With.breath of avarice and smoke of gain,
Yet man he is who feels relenting pain
For Beauty’s sickness : hates to see her die.
The poet in the bosom of the best
Shall never starve; because the law is just
By which it lives,—in which we put this trust,
That all fair things from final loss Love’s Strength
may wrest.
PRINTED BY C. W. REYNELL, LITTLE PHLTBNEY STREET, HAYMARKET.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
"Key notes"
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Leigh, Arbor
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 23 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Arbor Leigh is the pseudonym of Louisa Sarah Bevington, English anarchist, essayist and poet. Printed by C.W. Reynell, Little Pulteney Street, London.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Thomas Scott
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1876
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
CT168
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work ("Key notes"), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/3c56fc70fd8ac14b59855418a176ba0d.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=ooNhN3MOXAXFz959z2mgoUbP6Aa2u2z5zynDX8v7avSz2U7IfLBNJZji7JMZau68i9%7Ey6P24hBAZVO47KLvPfHpdhz6ZEnJwlOFmVlU5Im4mOIi5pGadmnDny2Qm88jynjZ0uLKZ1%7E1gmcrdi68OzboT-DBMB5ZElbod11ixg6x2MNjGbRN5jeXk5nIUwZRVqgwHtRiZT1eZis1ocCDIwq2gYWgHP4nEoHOJp8Eycmz9P1KSZsp2-dZpwRfOFsel8KrpB6HM7GkqBf9C9afbtObqa9YeuayobYwFW5jVSAbCPnAGDYaHx6U7vNWkN14oZsc9GaRKndtsRX4XZh5UZg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
be492c371e2fa2bc39236dc4a1a14006
PDF Text
Text
PSYCHE TO THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
A CHANT OF LOVE AND FREEDOM.
BY FRANCES ROSE MACKINLEY.
Arise ! my soul, thou breath of God !
Awake, to a full sense of thine all-coinprising consciousness
To hymn the praise of Love-Creative—
And Freedom-Regenerative of Humanity.
Disrupt the tyrannic bonds ;
That have held captive thy sex for ages !
Recklessly speak thy thought;
Mindful only of allegiance to Truth !
O for a voice !
That could resound throughout the universe.
A voice !
Not pitifully plaintive, like wailing Philomel’s ;
“'Tor calling aloud for relief,
Ake Israel in bondage;
Nor yet a voice, shrill and sharp,
Jenetrating the spheres
Like that of the soaring skylark—
3ut a voice, new made,
Louder, clearer, sweeter, fuller, than any voice yet heard—
An archangelic breath ! a voice divine !
Wherewith I could arouse Humanity from its lethargy,
And make lovers and freed of all women and men.
A voice to chant a Pean of Freedom, boundless as space ;
And love infinite and all embracing.
A voice, to stir in woman
Some inspiration of her coming destiny,
�2
That she may know that, in the future,
She is to lead the van of the Army of Progress,
Now advancing with victorious strides.
This age asks for new women—
Women, untrammeled by the temporary and stationary,
.Not stunted or warped by prejudgment or bias :
No more bigotries! no more prejudices'
For the woman who is to come—
The true woman, the pure woman.
I would sing the glory of the sexual act;
The most ecstatic bliss of the body !
I would sing the praise of creative copulation !
The act generative of an immortal soul;
Wherein, God as man, and Nature as woman,
Blend their essences.
1 would sing, of the coming woman—
Moulder of a new race;
Made perfect by her recognition
Of the goodness and purity of nature’s laws;
Of the woman who prides herself
On every particle of her delicious and sublime body,
The habitation and sanctuary of the Eternal Spirit.
The woman—slave of the Time Being—
Who is ashamed of herself—ashamed of Nature—
Will be ashamed of me.
Let the good and perfect woman
Have compassion on the woman
Who is ashamed of herself!
Who invented this trick electric, of nature—this Eroto
mania—
Whereby immortal consciousness is forced into entity ?
Was it invented ? No ! it is coeval with existence !
Invention and conception are forms of the same process;
And this material feat of concentrated sensuousness
Symbolizes the creation of intuitive and inventive thought.
�3
Eternal Coition is, then, the will automatic of the universe;
O ¡Nature's cunning method of causation;
Tnat.inct working itself up, forever, into reason;
By the principle of ceaseless and inexorable evolution.
The idea of one supreme is but a thought-limit;
Or the swell of presumptuous vanity, in the mere male mind.
The Elohim, that spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai,
Proclaimed his Godhood bi-sexual:
So, God and Nature—male and female—are perpetually be
getting ;
And the lustful Jove is but Jehovah in another character.
Into this instantial moment of transcendent felicity,
Nature concentrates every possibility of pleasure.
Science has exhausted the study
Of the outward, unconscious universe.
In this causal deed of the energy of nature,
Science must find the true origin of all things.
To study, know and apply its highest laws,
Will be to people the planet with gods,
And bring about the Millennium.
In the antique time, *
They consecrated temples to the Gods of Love:
To Venus, lascivious and free—
To Eros, hot and ardent—
To Lamps icus of the garden, fierce and lusty—
To the goatish Pan, chasing wood nymphs.
These deities are spiritual symbols
Of qualities of the soul.
Build anew to-day
These Fanes embalmed in poesy!
Science now knows these ancient'cults
To have been the worship of truth, not myths.
Build them!
Tokens of our return to the ecstacies of nature;
From the cold mathematics of Mammon,
Into which we have fallen.
�4
Crown with a wreath of lilies, emblems of purity,
The men and women—angels of love and freedom—
Who will offer, at the shrine of these attributes of Divinity,
Incense of honor and adoration !
Confess the sanctity of your natures ! Declare
How sweet, to man'or woman,
Is the tremulous and tingling titillation of nature’s battery.
Evolving a conscious soul-spark out of chaos !
Earth holds, for me, no more beautiful picture,
Tuan the nude bodies of a man and woman,
Clean, fresh and white (or be it brown or black),
United in amorous fondness,
As before they were severed by Jupiter.
The quivering lips, red cheek, bright eyes and palpitating
form,
Aie but the shadows of the convulsive throes of nature.
O for Venus-loving women ! for Sapphic souls !
And Lesbian natures !
I had a dream,
Aphrodite, the Celestial Goddess, appeared to me,
More radiant, more glowing, more interfused with love,
Than when first she sprang from the foamy sea.'
“ Daughter,” she said,
“ Repair to Cyprus !
Thence to all corners of the globe, send bidding,
Announcing that my worship is to be renewed.
Grecians loved me in lascivious wiles;
And in licentious rites.
This was a true tribute to my power.
Too much of love, too much of freedom,
Too much of delight, thou canst not have.
But I am to be worshiped, in the future,
As I have never been in the history of the earth :
With all the voluptuous imagination of the past,
And all the light of the science of to-day.
�5
In Olympus,
The fulfillment of an olden prophecy is expected :
Astrea returns to earth
Whence she fled, ages agone, from the cruelty of men,
The Goddesses sit in council and co-operate,
Hoping that the gentle and feminine virtues
Are about to replace the cruel reign of male force.
Minerva, Psyche and myself clasp hands in heaven,
As knowledge, soul, and love, must conjoin on earth.
And thus am I Venus !
To be venerated in reason and principle,
As well as adored in love.
Because my name has been mentioned with blushes ;
Because the arts I taught humanity
Have been practiced in secret and in shame,
Men have been converted into monsters of absurdity,
Instead of monuments of grace;
And penury and misery reign
Where art and plenty should.”
So spake the Goddess.
Join with me, O women,
In this song of love and freedom !
And, by the truth and beauty of your lives,
Inaugurate the reign of Psyche, Minerva and Venus '.
��
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Psyche to the nineteenth century: a chant of love and freedom
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Macinley, Frances Rose
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: {s.l.]
Collation: 5 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. A poem.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[187-?]
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5309
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Women's rights
Sexuality
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Psyche to the nineteenth century: a chant of love and freedom), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
Free Love
Poetry
Poetry in English
Sexual Relationships
Women's Rights
Women's Rights-United States
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/892c3ca7cf204dbcc9f2a67dca90f500.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=c94uGEcslELbIK%7Ewkh8LOI2HbVbI5VqLt2OrWnSnqp4GI88xyABx7stSfDsma-pU9TYW0%7E0HcJI2kUpzaWMOnnHOYYjzs8g3UlhW%7EgDIAfk5wdqDJAyRO1yUTHQqhvGaK4JStl16qHbwOYHrgS28AOACC-rWznP3IpHy091DsRrpBMTrLIf3wQSqf5%7Ee2XtdxDQC4mZPIdv%7EOVmPSzTnn26xgCoAwOSdYDH1LIWtfJY1l6wObqOOxiuz9If4VZtiJo%7EJmFxjyz5vGuM93nCtqZWVJgMF0R1QS94H6rC3Zgi1Auq2vt4TJWiMWz6Sxzv437bUGOIewlKfpVKFpDIJAg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
d2167ca7c77485121a3cb4f5836e093e
PDF Text
Text
DOWN STREAM.'
�211
JOoWN
Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
The river-reaches wind,
The whispering trees accept the breeze,
The ripple’s cool and kind:
With love low-whispered ’twixt the shores,
With rippling laughters gay,
With white arms bared to ply the oars,
On last year’s first of May.
Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
The river’s brimmed with rain,
Through close-met banks and parted banks
How near now far again :
With parting tears caressed to smiles,
With meeting promised soon,
With every sweet vow that beguiles,
On last year’s first of June.
Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
The river’s flecked with foam,
’Heath shuddering clouds that hang in shrouds
And lost winds wild for home :
With infant wailings at the breast,
With homeless steps astray,
With wanderings shuddering tow’rds one rest,
On this year’s first of May.
Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
The summer river flows
With doubled flight of moons by night
And lilies’ deep repose :
With lo ! beneath the moon’s white stare
A white face not the moon,
With lilies meshed in tangled hair,
On this year’s first of June.
�212
DOWN STREAM.
Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
A troth, was given and riven;
From heart’s trust grew one life to two,
Two lost lives cry to Heaven:
With banks spread calm to meet the sky,
With meadows newly mowed,
The harvest paths of glad July,
The sweet school-children’s road.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Down Stream
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel [1828-1882]
Brown, Ford Madox [1821-1893] (ill)
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: [210]-212 p. : ill. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From The Dark Blue 2 (October 1871). The Dark Blue was a London-based literary magazine published monthly from 1871 to 1873. Attribution of journal title and date: Virginia Clark catalogue.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[1871]
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5320
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Down Stream), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
English Poetry
Ford Madox Brown
Poetry in English
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/2ad833567bffd8c38a9a31707e49ae73.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=rmLBCPiY3cnSMNwq-ARJBhX9Inulu3jTOkBVM8T-B2VnSIlIW%7Eo22INZ6ZfGKEr7Sm77BNUJ3q7hK3pDHcrn1u9-yUUMrFudbus7lrLUMqtTSNVU4UP2qvnrEsMZHvo7fAD-k1Vjqa6DFa7y0jo58WDWC8GViP76HV1pyHm7KkkyJh5H7zUyNKNgVIzXQUJna6drZtgzr7CvM4HFyofjKy5bgJ5m3Ah8ZC1rcGFj0JGCOlqIqhb0LUkrzEP0jGN9ylxuCHiz0Dd-OJlPJtoItaB69mqtYnIibtEm7OnGnY5bEDHKzQjVwlpXY7OiSld8IqsXdGlBhfUOrwzT6ttWUg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
424066b8f55c8453d6e011f98db1c768
PDF Text
Text
1—-----------&
D U AN
jor
A Twofold Journey
With Manifold Purposes.
BY THE AUTHORS OF
“THE COMING K
” and “THE SILIAD.”
Contents :
Dedication
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
First .
Second .
Third .
Fourth .
Fifth .
Sixth .
Seventh
Eighth
.
.
.
.
.
.
. Ben Trovato.
. Ancestry, Parentage, and Education.
. The Queenless Court.
. Progress through Bohemia.
. Mother Church and her Children.
. The Savour of Society.
. The Lords and Ladies of the Drama.
. A Sojourn in Deer Land.
. The Smoke-Room at the M------ Club.
Junbun ;
WELDON & CO., 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, E.C.
1874.
�yON DUAN ADVËRTÏSEMENTS.
E. MOSES & SON,
Merchant Tailors and Outfitters for all Classes.
OVERCOATS in Great Variety, 19s. to £7.
The Newest Styles and Patterns.
Extensive Preparations have been made in every Department for the Winter Season.
A Distinct Department
for
Boys’ Clothing.
ALL GOODS MARKED IN PLAIN FIGURES,
RULES FOR SELF-MEASURE.
Any article Exchanged, or, if desired,
the money returned.
Patterns, List of Prices,
and Fashion Sheet, Post Free.
E. MOSES & SON’S Establishments are Closed every Friday evening at sunset till Saturday
evening at sunset, when business is resumed till eleven o’clock.
The following are the only Addresses of E. MOSES & SON:
¿CORNER OF MINORIES AND ALDGATE,
London]new oxford street, corner of hart street,
(corner
OF TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD & EUSTON ROAD.
COUNTRY BRANCH—BRADFORD, YORKSHIRE.
MUSICAL BOX DEPOTS, 56, Cheapside j and 22, Ludgate Hill.
WATCHES AT ABOUT HALF-PRICE,
By eminent makers (Frodsham, M'Cabe, Barraud, Dent, &c.), in Gold and Silver, quite unimpaired by wear; the system
of warranty ensuring complete satisfaction to purchasers. Catalogues, with prices, gratis «id post free on application»
WALES & M'CULLOCH, 22, Ludgate Hill; and 56, Cheapside, London,
�DUAN.
JON
By the Authors
of
“ The Coming K----- ” and “ The Siliad.”
Dedication.
EN DIZZY ! you’re a humbug—Humbug
laureate,
And representative of all the race ;
Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last, yours is still an enigmatic face.
And now, O Sphyntic renegade, what are you at
With all the Rurals in and out of place ?
You'll educate them, won’t you, Master Ben ?
And make them think that they are clever,
very,
Until the trick is won, and they’ll wish, then,
They’d taken you cum grano Salis-\>Mxy.
No wonder Mr. Miall’s making merry,
And rallying his Liberation men—
Where will you leave the boobies in the lurch—
He sees your tongue so plainly in your cheek,
Have you resolved to double D------ the Church ?1
When in your Church’s champion role you speak.
You’ve dished the Whigs before; we now would
Go on, neat humbug, laughing in your sleeve.
sing,
What is the pie that you’re so busy making ?
A dainty dish to set before the Thing—2
Or aught that its digestion will be shaking ?—
Or is it Discord’s apple that you bring
Or will you set the good old Tories quaking,
And winking, as you bid the Church not falter ;
We joy to see her aid from you receive,
To guard her ’gainst the dangers that assault
her;
The English Church has had her last reprieve,
Now_y<?zz are standing boldly by her altar.—
By saying that they hitherto have missed tricks,.
Already in the glass we see the image,
By not going in for equal polling districts ?
Of an impending, big religious scrimmage.
�DEDICA TION.
O, who shall tell the turmoil and the strife—
The more interminable because religious—
With which the coming Session will be rife,
When all the rival creeds shall wax litigious,
To help the State keep Madame Church, his wife,
In proper order ?
It will be prodigious !
The war of politics becomes mere prattle
Beside a rubrical religious battle.
Thank God ! it’s coming ! we shall live to see
The State Church crushed, and God from
Mammon parted ;
England from dowered priestcraft will be free,
The Bishops from the Upper House all started ;
Then flowers and fruit will fill fair wisdom’s
tree,
And Superstition from the land be carted.
O, Dizzy, for the coming state of things,
Our muse her warmest thanks, prospective, sings !
The Pope had better dance his can-cans straight
way,
For weak-souled Marquises he’s proselyted ;
For Truth is mustering at Error’s gateway,
Demanding that
the
people’s wrongs
be
righted ;
Priestcraft is doomed, and this will go a great
way
Tow’rds bringing sunshine into lands be
nighted.
“ The moaning wind
Oh yes, Ben, we have
heard it—
Is rising now, and woe to them that stirred it !
And we, because we call a spade a spade,—
Despising weak and washy euphemisms,—
Find everywhere false accusations made
Against us by the smarting “ ists” and “isms”
�DEDICA TION.
We have attacked ; they like not to be flayed
O’er fires made up with their own catechisms ;
So, as they writhe and twist like dying eels,
They make the air resound with libellous squeals.
Some have accused us of a strange design
Against the Heads and Tales3 of the land ;
They’ve traced it in The Siliad's ev’ry line,
And in The Coming K------ seen treason’s
brand.
Well, it no way displeases natures fine
As ours are, when our readers understand
More than we write ; or less, in very truth :
We mean no war; we’ve only crossed the Pruth.4
To the cool readers of this temp’rate clime,
Our style of writing may appear erotic ;
But what is ours to Musset’s passioned rhyme,
Or Hugo’s shafts ’gainst all that is despotic ?
The nervous English of this modern time
Will own that in our lines, poor things, is no
tic—
’Xcept douloureux, perhaps, which brings a pain—
We’ll hope we have not giv’n a twinge in vain.
We don’t believe, however, in the painful
Expression worn by some whom we have seen,
Who, speaking of our work, seemed, in the main,
full
Of pimples on their mind, and sought to screen
Impostumations foul, feigning a brainful
Of purest thoughts, and fancies always clean :
Such people are like blow-flies, who secrete
Their poisoned ova in the freshest meat.
Then there’s that cadging dodger, who saw fit
To write himself down Ass, on scores of pages,
And, in a volume lacking sense or wit,
To tout for preferment.
When next his wages
�lv
DEDICATION.
Are paid for such like raids, perhaps he’ll hit,
Or try to hit, the foe that he engages :—
It must be so annoying to lickspittle
As he did, and be wrong in every tittle.
Go to ! you reverend, “lining” gentleman ;
Go, take your ’davies, prostitute your pen ;
Go, do your hireling work, as best you can,
And be, as usual, all things to all men ;—
Be high, or broad, or low, as suits your plan,
And, greedily, essay the work of ten ;
But, if you’ve got a spark of manly virtue,
Don’t lie again of one who’s never hurt you.
Enough of scolding—in our purpose pure,
We care not what they call us—Fool, or Van
dal;
Of good and true souls’ approbation sure,
We glory in the hate of those who brand all
Plain truths as treason ; and who can’t endure
That we should lance and probe each public
scandal.
The fact being that these purists, who would
urge on
Our flaying, need themselves the moral surgeon.
’Tis pleasanter to see that light is spreading,
That Science has bowled Dogma’s middle
stump ;
And that the rays which Reason’s surely shedding,
Are penetrating now the dense, dark lump
Of Superstition ; that fair Truth is heading
Splay-footed Prejudice, the ugly frump ;
That Tyndall’s in the van, and naught can turn
him—
Oh, wouldn’t all the Bigots like to burn him !
Confusion fills the priestly camp ; the tocsin
That called to Church is summoning to Arms ;
I
�1,
-
-
■
-
!
iI ------ -—”
|
DEDICA TION.
The frightened priests are calling all their flocks in,
But find they heed no more the ancient charms ;
|
They vainly, now, are robed their smartest smocks
in,
Their threats and curses fill with no alarms ;
But there they stand, the church’s light so dim in,
And find their followers are but fools and women.
v
The morning comes, the outer darkness breaks,
And perfect day upon her shall, at last, steal ;
She dreams, and even in her visions shakes
From her the bloated Bourbon of the Bastile ;
Shrieks, as her hand the young Napoleon takes,
For at his touch dread mem’ries of the past
steal
O’er her ; and, vowing on his race, Vendetta,
She wakes and clings for safety to Gambetta.
Confusion fills the City—Samson’s fall
Has much vexed the financial Philistines ;
P And for another unjust judge they call,
’Stead of King Crump, who crumples their
You’re suffering—is it not so ?—from the gout;
Podagral pains afflict you, so our pen
designs,
And is a burden to them, as King Saul
Was to the Israelites.
And now, we mean to spare your feelings, Ben,
It is hard lines,
No doubt, to find they can nowise ensnare him—
He won’t be bought—no wonder they can’t “ bear”
him.
Confusion fills the Country—Tory Squires,
Elated at their triumph, try to stop
The march of progress, damp down Freedom’s
fires,
And ignorance’s shaking knees to prop ;
The peasant’s child, these worthies say, requires
No education, he his books must drop—
They care not how degraded their poor neighbour,
Shall show you mercy, and we will not flout
You further—may you soon be well! and then,
Why, then, your former mission set about,
Begin again, with resolution hearty,
To educate your stupid Tory party.
Teach it to use its brains, and ears, and eyes,
Teach it to think that Bigotry’s a blunder ;
Teach it that Education is a prize,
Teach it to hear the moaning wind and thunder,
Teach it to heed the people’s warning cries ;
Teach it to rend the Church and State asunder :
TeaGh it—-but, there, we trust to your sagacity,
For you know best your followers’ capacity.
Their sole idea is to get cheap labour.
Meantime, Ben Dizzy, we proceed to dedicate,
Confusion fills fair France—her breast is torn
By Royal Sham bores, Bonapartist bullies;
Her grief is great, and grievous to be borne,
Her cup of tribulation very full is.
But hope is springing, as she sits forlorn,
And waits for Fate to move the proper pulleys ;
In honest, simple verse, our lays to you ;
And though in flattering strains we do not predi-
cate,
Believe us, our intent is good and true.—
We must our Cantos with a moral medicate,
Because we wish a doctor’s work to do :
Her lips shall never an Imperial cub lick,
Our country’s sick, we’ve read the diagnosis,
May she firm found a glorious, free Republic !
The knife, applied in time, may save necrosis.
�DEDICA TION.
vi
We imply no profane intentions to Mr. Disraeli. He is
on the side of the Angels, and, of course, never swears. The
“ double D.” refers merely to that Disendowment and Dis
establishment of the English Church, which we rejoice to
think, thanks to our Prime Minister, are so imminent.
2 Thing or Althing. So was called the first Political
Assembly of the Northern nations. To Iceland, many years
before the Normans overcame the English, went many
thousands of hardy, intelligent settlers from Norway. These
were the men who preferred to be damned with all their an
cestors, than to be saved without them. Rather than give
way to Olaf, who had become a saint, and therefore a perse
cutor, they elected to depart and seek other shores. Thus,
little Iceland became a great community. One Ulfljot was
the man for the Thing; the hour was 930, A.d. Thence
forward it met annually on the plains of Thing Valla. For
the benefit of our present Premier, who may use the informa
tion to serve up in his next Bath Letter, or to his Aylesbury
1
Ordinary Farmers (these yeomen, surely, should be extra
ordinary ones), when next he addresses them, we shall add
one more piece of news. It may be useful to him to know,
and to keep in reserve—in company with Wilkes’s Extinct
Volcanoes, Coningsby's Plundering and Blundering, Balzac’s
Definition of a Critic, M. Thiers’ Obituary Addresses, and
the other choice specimens of his talent for eclectic epigrammatizing—that the President of the Thing was called Lagmadur. The first syllable is unpleasantly suggestive of the
rural régime, under which we have the present happiness,
according to the received formula, to live, but we trust to the
Member for Bucks to keep us moving.
Tales. Suchlike and so distinguished.
See Kinglake’s "Crimea; ” or the work of any veracions
historian of the Russian War, say that of M. Thiers, or,
better still, that of any of the companions of the author of
the “History of Caesar.”
Notes to Canto the First.
Our Gentleman from Dapping (VIII).—Every public
schoolboy knows that the fearless and reproachless Bayard
was the grandfather of Chastelard. But, as everybody is
not a public schoolboy, we print from the Dictionnaire de
Bouillet the following brief account of Mary’s hapless lover :
•—“ Pierre de Boscobel de Chastelard, un gentilhomme
Dauphinois, était petit-fils de Bayard. Ayant conçu une
violente passion pour la célèbre Marie Stuart, épouse de
Francois II., il suivit cette princesse en Ecosse après la mort
de ce monarque. Il fut surpris dans la chambre de Marie,
et condamné à perdre la tète.” Mr. Swinburne has sung, in
impassioned lines, the moving history of Chastelard’s erotic
adventures ; and the Saturday Review, whilst rebuking, has
fully described them.
David, Bathsheba (XIV).—Mr. Peter Bayle, in his Critical
and Historical Dictionary, thus sums up the case he makes
against the royal prophet, the man after God's own heart :
— “Those who shall think it strange that I speak my
mind about the actions of David compared with natural
morality, are desired to consider three things :—I. They
themselves are obliged to own that the conduct of this
prince towards Uriah is one of the greatest crimes which
can be committed. There is then only a difference of more
to less between them and me ; for, I agree with them, that
the other faults of the prophet did not hinder him being filled
with piety, and great zeal for the glory of God. He was
subject alternately to passion and grace. This is a misfor
tune attending our nature since the fall of Adam. The
grace of God very often directed him ; but on several
occasions passion got the better ; policy silenced religion.
2. It is very allowable of private persons, like me, to judge
of Facts contained in the Scripture, when they are not ex
pressly characterized by the Holy Spirit. If the Scripture,
in relating an action, praises or condemns it, none can
appeal from this judgment: every one ought to regulate his
approbation or censure on the model of Scripture. I have
not acted contrary to this Rule: the facts, upon which I
have advanced my humble Opinion, are related in the Holy
Scripture, without any mark of approbation affixed by the
Spirit of God. 3. It would be doing an injury to the
Eternal Laws, and consequently to the true Religion, to
give Libertines occasion to object, that when a man has been
once inspired by God, we look upon his Conduct as the Rule
of Manners; so that we should not dare to condemn the
Actions of People, though most opposite to the notions of
Equity, when such an one had done them. There is no
Medium in this Case ; either these actions are not good, or
Actions like them are not evil ; now, since we must choose
either the one or the other, is it better not to take care of the
Interests of Morality than the glory of a private Person ? •
Otherwise, will it not be evident, that one chooses rather to
expose the Honour of God than that of a mortal Man ?
Own the Corti (XVI).—According to the strict classical
ipsissima verba of the Sacred Vedas of the United States,
this should be written " acknowledge the corn.” Dr. Scheie
de Vere thus narrates the origin of the phrase. It arose out
of the misfortune of a flat-boatman, who had come down to
New Orleans, with two flat boats, laden, the one with corn,
the other with potatoes. He was tempted to enter a gambling
establishment, and lost his money and his produce. On re
turning to the wharf at night, he found the boat laden with
corn had sunk in the river ; and when the winner came next
morning to demand the stake, he received the answer,
“Stranger, I acknowledge the corn, take ’em; but the
potatoes you cant have, by thunder ! ”
BOOKS AT A DISCOUNT OF 30 TO 75 PER CENT.
S& T. GILBERT'S
,
NEW CATALOGUE OF VALUABLE BOOKS, offered at
the above liberal Discount, is Now Ready, and will be forwarded on application.
Il
S. & T. GILBERT, 36, Moorgate Street, London, E.C.
BOOKS! BOOKS!! BOOKS!!!
T
he largest and best selected stock of new and modern
BOOKS IN LONDON, together with a well-selected Stock of Bibles, Prayer Books, Church Services,
Cartes de Visite Albums, &c., &c., conveniently displayed in Show Rooms, and may be viewed without loss of
time to the purchaser. The utmost Discount allowed for Cash. Catalogues gratis and postage free.
S. & T. GILBERT, the Original Free Trade and Discount Booksellers,.
36, Moorgate Street, near the Railway Station, London, E.C. (late of 4, Copthall Buildings).
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
HIGH CLASS
FASHIONABLE CLOTHING.
LAWRANCE D. PHILLIPS & Co.
Court, Military, and General Tailors,
13, GEORGE STREET, HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON, W.
A fashionable private order trade of the highest class, established for upwards of Half
a Century on the credit system, but now doing business on a new’ plan, and supplying
Clothes and Uniforms of precisely the same style and quality at greatly Reduced Prices
exclusively for Cash payment.
PRICE LIST ON APPLICATION.
Spécialité for Ladies’ Riding Habits, Fur-trimmed and Braided Jackets
and Paletots, Tweed, Angola, and Cashmere Costumes, &c., &c.
“WANZER” Sewing Machines,
Superior to all others.
Vienna Exhibition, Two First Prize Medals were awarded to the Wanzer Sewing Machines.
Also the Only Grand Silver Medal M Diplomafrom the Society ofArts & Manufactures of Lower Austria.
“WANZER”
F. New FAMILY MACHINE,
with Patent Reversible Feed Motion, and all the Latest Improvements.
Families, Dress-making, and light Manufacturing Purposes.
Specially adapted for
£7:7:0.
“WANZER” D. HEAVY MACHINE, suitable
for Tailors, Outfitters, and Manufacturers of Heavy Goods.
£8 = 8:0.
“LITTLE
WANZER”
HAND
MACHINE
continues to rank first in its class, 500,000 having been sold.
£4:4:0.
Prospectus, Price Lists, and all information Free.
Offices: 4, GREAT PORTLAND STREET, LONDON, W.,
And 58, Boar Lane, Leeds.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
THE IRISH WAREHOUSE.
IRISH POPLINS.
The Largest Stock in the United Kingdom, including
all the New Colours for the Season. Our new
shade and make of Soft Finish Black Poplin,
is admittedly superior in appearance and durability
to the Richest Silks.
Manufactory, 7 and 8, Eustace Street, Dublin.
IRISH LINENS.
Rich Double Damask Table Linen, Sheet
ings, Towellings, and every article in HouseFurnishing Linens, of the best manufacture, and
at moderate prices. Also,
Irish Cambric Handkerchiefs, Real Bal
briggan Hosiery, and Irish Laces.
Patterns Post Free. Parcels Carriage Paid.
INGLIS & TINCKLER, 147, Regent Street, London.
DYER’S WATCHES,Best & Cheapest in the World.
Seasonable Presents—Special Reductions—Thirty per Cent. Saved.
Lowest Prices, Silver Watches.
Lowest Prices, Gold Watches.
Silver Open Face . ... 21s. each.
Lady’s Fashionable Gold . £2 4J. each.
Youth’s Crystal Watches . . 30J. 99
Lady’s Superior . . . • £3 G 99
*
Lady’s Elegant..................... 35J.
Gent’s Crystal Gold Dials
£3 18s. 99
99
Serviceable Hunters . . . 52J. 99
Superior Levers ..... £4 i8a 99
.
Superior Levers..................... 55A
Patent Keyless ..... £6 10s. 99
.
99
Aluminium Watches, 14.L 6d., i8l, 30J. and upwards.
Every Watch carefully Timed, Tested, and Warranted for 2, 3, and 5 years.
Every description of Clocks and Gold Jewellery kept in Stock.
Price Lists Free.
Orders safe per post.
Bankers: Union Bank of London.
DYER& SONS, Watch Manufacturers & Goldsmiths ,90, Regent St., London, W.
Offices and Workshops : 3, Great Vine Street, Regent Street.
Sewing Machines
of
Manufactory : Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland.
Every Description.
WHOLESALE
AND RETAIL.
THE MONARCH,
RECESSED TABLE,
£4 4 0.
£1 10 0.
work required to be done, and offer
this GUARANTEE to their Cus
It is absurdly claimed for almost
every Machine, of whatever descrip
tion, that it is superior to all others,
tomers : Any Machine sold by them
for all kinds of work.
may be
EXCHANGED,
SMITH & CO., having no inter
est in selling anyparticular Machine,
After One Month's trial, for
any other kind, without Charge
for Use.
are enabled to recommend impar
tially the one best suited for the
SMITH & CO., 30, Edgware Road, Hyde-Park,
(Corner of Seymour Street), and
4, CHARLES STREET, SOHO SQUARE.
�i
JON
DUAN.
Canto The First.
i.
HE blood of Duan’s race was very blue—
In indigo, indeed, an uncle dealt—
The Heralds’ College, too, had got a clue,
Pursuing which, the prouder members felt
The Duans were as old as any Jew,
Who had been asked by them to kindly melt
Certain acceptances, from time to time—
As done by Israel in every clime.
II.
The fluid in the Duans’ veins was mixed;
Not wholly Saxon, nor of Norman strain— •
For early tribes had not their dwellings fixed,
But wandered forth in search of grass and grain.
Much as, sweet reader, yesterday, thou picksed
Thy villa on the Thames, close to the train ;—To mind thy shop in London smoke; then rush
Into the country from the crowd and crush.
IV.
They searched thro’ Lubbock, his Primeval man
(Whose words weigh well, and far above his coin),
Hoping to find a record of the clan,
But couldn’t trace a single rib or loin
From which they might have come; so chose a branNew pedigree, which sought Jon’s folk to join
With one who came with Marie’s suite from France,
Marie the sweet, who led the men a dance.
v.
All know—a periphrase which means, how few—
’Mongst Marie’s amants stood French Chastelard,
Of whom ’tis saying nothing fresh or new,
That his unfortunate, or lucky, star
Brought her to love him whom she, after, slew;—
A mangled victim ’neath her loving Car.
But Bayard’s grandson felt, when he gained Mary,
Ecstatic bliss, which naught could raise or vary.
VI.
ill.
The Duans’ archives do not throw much light on
What rank they held, as Cave men, in the past;
But, as their modern way is just to fight on,
We may suppose they were the men to last;—
That age was not the one to form a Crichton,
Then were no feeds to speak of, but of mast;
And dinner orat’ry was not in vogue,
Words were so short that all was monologue.
Now, ’tis a very strange, tho’ truthful fact,
That some men, tho’ they’ve known the tip-top
dames,
Have not disdained with lowlier maids to act,
As though the Royal or Imperial flames
Had something in them which so much attacked
The nerves, that ’spite of the most loyal claims.
They’ve fell a-flirting with a “ Waiting Lady”— •
And thought it venial if the Queen was “fadey.”
B
�yON DUAN.
2
VII.
XII.
fis certain. Chastelard had no excuse
Of fadiness in Mary, to atone
For making eyes at others, but the deuce
Is in some men, for when they’re left alone,
They can’t contain themselves ; but on the loose
They get ; and enter the unfaithful zone,
In moment’ry unmindfulness of her
Who, did she know it, would kick up a stir.
She was a Marguerite, Bellanger to wit,
Who pleased the Third Napoleon for awhile,
By wiles well known, and for the old well fit—
These to describe won’t suit our English style ;
So, by your leave, we would them pretermit,
Altho’ naught pleases more than scenes of guile;
And, to speak truth—which is above and ’fore all—
France is, of all known lands, the most immoral!
VIII.
To Duan’s forefathers we would return ;
But must a moment keep you in the South,
To note where Austria’s Empress wished to learn
The English tongue from moustached, warlike
mouth.
Ah ! Francis Joseph, you with rage may burn,
But, if you won’t forsake the ways of youth,
Your charming wife, slim-waisted, full of grace,
Will make her game and start a steeple chase.
XIII.
til
Our gentleman from Dauphiny had seen
The Queen’s four Maries, and full often thought
Had Mary Stuart not his mistress been,
One of these dames d’honneur he would have
sought ;
For he did fancy one of them did lean
A little to his side, when he had brought,
Perchance, some heather from King Arthur’s Seat,
To please his Queen, whom he had come to meet.
IX.
And why is it, sw’eet woman, you incline
To listen to /zA tongue, and note his eye,
And love the fellow, when he isn’t thine ?
Is it because you like to make her cry,
In whose possession this same youth has lien ?
We fear it is so, and must call “Fie ! fie !”
Because, if we don’t, others will do’t, you know,
And we, as Jove, had better scold our Juno.
x.
B
Fîî
F
’Twas true enough ; one of the four was struck,
And Chastelard, the striker, had his way ;
So well it is to live in way of luck ;
And good such facts, for those who sing the lay—
For, if there wrere no doe to please the buck,
No “poor deluded,” nor “ deceiver gay”—
What would become of novelists and poets,
Tho’, for Afflatus’ sake, they drank up “Moet’s ”?
XT.
il
R
Have you not heard of Widow Eugénie,
Who, when a wife, quitting the Emperor,
Did from the Court of France instanter flee,
And scandal make, because a woman bore
A burden she should not ;—one of those filles
Who care for naught but naughtiness, and store
Of di’monds, coral, pearl, and rentes, or rolls
Of billets, notes, or cheques on Coutts or Bowles ?
XIV.
From Dan to Beersheba ’tis all the same :—
Jacob and Rachel; Sarah and the King ;
David, Bathsheba ; very much to blame
(She was a bad mark for the Psalmist’s sling);
The tale don’t change; ’tis only in the name :
’Tis not—thank God!—otir place the dirt to fling,
We leave such work to Beecher and his Church,
Where’s dirt enough all Brooklyn to besmirch.
xv.
We hope it’s now extremely clear to all
Where Duan’s people came from ; for, indeed,
We can’t get on without some facts to fall
Upon ; yet, now, some critic who shall read
This verse, may, if permitted, choose to call
Attention to the fact that our Jon’s breed
Is not legitimate, but bastard-born
Well, if it must be so,—we’ll own the corn.
XVI.
Our first love-making, that’s a great event,
Standing from out the flat shores of our life,
Like Devon sandstone, or chalk cliff in Kent;
But seldom ending in her being our wife,
Whose charms our green youth th’ unknown fire
had lent;
For boys of eighteen, in their first love-strife,
Find older women more omnipotent
Than younger demoiselles who blush and start,
Not having learned the ways of Cupid’s dart.
�JON DUAN.
3
XVII.
|
|
,
XXII.
Not more exempt than other white or black man,
Kalmuck, Caucasian, or wan d’ring Tartar,
Or Indian Red, or pig-tail China Jackman—
Each one for ever wanting some one’s “darter”—Jon felt a shock, and straight became a pack-man
With a love load, for which he gave in barter
That adoration pure, and worship truthful,
Which blasé men sneer down as “ very youthful.”
The hill is breasted, and the top is reached,
And fast down hill the line of hounds extends;
And to the yokel old, and boy just breeched,
Who stand beneath the hedge, just where it
bends,
It is a view superb; and ’twill be preached
That night, in slow Kent phrase, which greatly
tends
To help the talethat- “ ’twor a real bloomin’
Soight to see the hounds over plough a-roomin’.”
XVIII.
Though Duan often laughed at his first hit,
I
I
When harder grown, and much more up to snuff ;
Yet, when ’twas on, he felt the strong love-fit
Shake him with strong sensations, quite enough
To please and torture him, as he did sit
In admiration mute—the simple muff !—
Of sweet Maria, as she bent her head
Over her book or plate, or prayed, or fed.
XXIII.
Lady Maria is but gently moving,
She knows, the paces ; knows, too, the wire
fences;
And tho’ her temperament’s inclined to loving,
She’s found that common sense the topping sense
is;
So she reserves herself, but keeps improving
The place she has; but never once commences
To try her very best, till she’s persuaded
She must try other, charms, since youth’s are
faded.
XXIV.
XIX.
Like other women who have got to thirty,
She knew a little of the ways of men,
IAnd, just as happened to our Royal Bertie,
Duan was taught some things he didn’t ken
Before, and found the new-learned ways so “purty,”
That he became Maria’s slave, and ten
I Times more than many people thought was proper,
They riding went:—and once Jon came a
“cropper.”
In following foxes, she was just the same,
She was as cool at this as when a heart
Was startled by her eyes; or other game,
On which she’d set her mind, was in the mart;
N or cruel, nor selfish was she, but a dam.e
Ready on any jig or joust to start;
And loved that man who near at hand did lay,
To take her to the field or to the play.
xxv.
Now Duan suited her just to a “t,”
Except in this—he was a trifle young;
That didn’t matter for a vis-a-vis,
But in the hunting field, it might be flung
Into her face, by a dear, kind lady
(Thus Charity adorns the female tongue),
That she had brought her nephew out from Eton,
Where, probably, he had been lately beaten.
XXVI.
xx.
’Twas in a hunt down with the West Kent hounds,
Over the hills, from Horton to the right;
And tho’ the pack’s not good, and wood abounds,
Yet ’twas a pretty and exciting sight
To see the horsemen; glorious, too, the sounds
Of the ground-striking hoofs ; fierce, too, the light
She knew that Duan loved her, but she’d passed—
Like nearly all who are bon-ton, just now—■
Through such experiences in years amassed,
That she well knew the value of a vow
�4
JON DUAN.
Made by a youth to her who’s aging fast;—
She knew some day or other they would “ row.”
Were there not hidden in her books and drawers,
Portraits of lovers she had lost by scores ?
XXVII.
But if we slowly canter in this way,
Searching my Lady’s mind, the night will come,
And find our hunters, after a hard day,
Distant a weary twenty miles from home.
So that we catch Jon Duan, let us pray—
And, as it’s heavy going on wet loam,
We’ll spur our Pegasus with hopes of laurel;
And pass the field of horses, bay and sorrel.
XXVIII.
In the best families, accidents occur ;
And hunting accidents are never rare,—
Think of the chances : you may catch your spur,
Cannon your enemy, or throw your mare :,
In many such ways you may make a stir,
And at a county meeting gain a stare,
From some sweet creature, who, like Desdemona,
Loves hair-breadth ’scapes as well as Dea bona.
XXIX.
Duan’s last gallop was almost performed,
Although he’d no idea of what was coming ;
And, as veracious poets, well informed,
We should not merit praises, but a drumming
Out of the Laureate’s fort so late we stormed,
If we delayed from saying, that the numbing
Sensation Duan’s just experiencing
Were not due to ill riding, or bad fencing.
XXX.
For ’twas no fence he’d gone at, nor drop jump,
Nor anything that tries a horseman’s skill;
And tho’ some roarers had begun to pump,
Through having gone the pace that’s sure to kill
The duffers ; yet J on’s mare, a thorough trump,
Went steady, as an old ’un at a mill;
So we must tell you in the following strain,
Why Duan lay extended on the plain.
XXXI.
For him, as many others, ’twas a drain
That settled him ; a drain too much, in fact,
Which had been made to carry off the rain,
But sent our hero spinning—a worse act,
�JON DUAN.
Causing, perhaps, concussion of the brain ;
So sudden and so shocking the impact.
For Duan’s mare, alas, put her foot in it,
And Duan’s head came “ crack,” in half a minute.
5
That he the chase loved well as pill and blister—
Felt Duan’s pulse; and said, there’ll be no hearse
Wanted for him this bout, if common care
Is taken, but he’s bound to lose his hair.
XXXII.
Our hero lay there very much at rest;
The blood oozed from his temple, o’er his eye ;
And all his get-up, hat and coat and vest,
Was sadly soiled ; and some said he would die
Before assistance came ; which added zest
To the day’s sport; though some might haply cry,
When they did hear their favourite was killed,
Upon a field not warlike, but just tilled.
XXXVII.
He’d lost his fox, and now must lose his hair,
’Twas very hard ; at least it seemed hard lines ;
But, then, you see, he’d gained a something there
Which they knew not; for Providence combines
A set of compensations, and don’t spare
For lenience e’en to sinners’ faults and fines ;
Content if of good deeds she find a few—an’
There really was a lot of good in Duan.
XXXIII.
Not many stopped to see what could be done :
A hunt is not the place for sentiment ;
Those for’ard didn’t want to lose the fun,
And were on Reynard’s death much more intent,
Than caring for the life of any one
As human as themselves ; quite innocent
Of any motive, yet no doubt believing
The world would be improved by some men leaving.
XXXIV.
But we will do some justice while we may,—
And, place aux dames, my Lady gallops up
On her old grey, well warranted to stay
The longest run, and ready aye to sup
On his bran mash at close of hardest day ;
Welcomed at home by stable cat and pup,—■
Lady Maria joins the little group,
Nor lets, on seeing Jon, her courage droop.
XXXV.
Forth from her flask a little spirit pours
Into our hero’s mouth ; his poor pale lips
Reminding her of kisses by the scores
She’d had of them ; such as a woman sips,
Who’s fond of kissing, and, in fact, adores
The men who give them ; ’twas her ladyship’s
Delight, indeed ; and we repeat once more,
She’d plenty had from other men before.
xxxvi.
Duan’s white brow she bandaged like a Sister
Of Charity, or like a St. John’s nurse,
With her own handkerchief, while, to assist her,
A little sporting doctor—none the worse
XXXVIII.
Two “varmer’s” men upon a hurdle took him,
Gently as if he’d been their little child,
To a near cottage, nor at all they shook him ;
For little food had made their natures mild.
And Lady May not for an inch forsook him,
But on his handsome face, all-hoping, smiled.
It is quite true—if you’d a woman win,
Get weak or wounded, then you will “ wire in.”
XXXIX.
With more of tender feeling than she’d felt
For Duan all the time that he had courted her,
My Lady, self-controlled, unused to melt,
Smiling most sweetly just when things most
thwarted her,
Having the nature of the'happy Celt—
(Debrett and Burke of Irish blood reported
her)—
My Lady led the way for Duan’s entry,
And, as the yokels bore him in, stood sentry.
XL.
The cottage was a lovely little place,
Belonging to my lord, we mean not ours, but
Lady Maria’s lord, who had the grace,
Being a kind lord—blessed, too, with the
“Gower” strut—■
To be quite blind to the most obvious trace
Of ’Ria’s “goings on,” e’en in her bower shut;
Nor cared a jot for what was said by rumour,
As long as Lady M. kept in good humour.
�JON DUAN
XLI.
We hope we’re clear before our readers now—
We’ve had a deal of trouble with the rhyme ;
We’ve landed Duan, who will make his bow
As soon as may be, in his gaysome prime ;
Cured of his wound;—but, there, we don’t know how
His heart will feel; still, loving is no crime,
And we, with all our hearts, wish Duan joy,
Having become quite spooney on the boy.
XLII.
And sweet on him, my Lady came—Eheu !
’Tis ever so ; one gives the cheek to kiss,
The other kisses it: we know it, so do you :
Duan before his fall had felt the bliss
Of loving; now, somehow, he’d lost the cue,
Whilst Lady May had found how much she’d
miss
When Duan should depart; but in her cooings,
She never once deplored her present doings.
XLIII.
Is that a fact about remorse, we wonder ?
Is it the least true that men do repent
When youth and age lie many years asunder,
And all our brightness and our force are spent?—
Grieve men for youthful follies as a blunder ?—
Is sackcloth worn for salad merriment ?—
It may be so ; still we think, indigestion
Alone makes men say “Yes ” to such a question.
XLIV.
We’ve known a many various men in life,
High, Low, Jack, Game, all four, all sorts and
sizes ;
Some who’ve behaved like bricks in serious strife,
Some on the bench, some summon’d to th’ assizes,
One’s in the Church, one’s just divorced his wife,
And one’s a publisher, who advertises
What he declares is “ Beeton’s Annual New,”
Whilst B. asserts the statement isn’t true.
XLV.
Being inquisitive, that we might know
From diff’rent minds what each felt on this point,
We’ve asked the men above if it is so
With them, if they regretted any joint
�yON DUAN.
Proceedings in those sweet spring days, that go
So swift and are so precious, that anoint
With pungent memories all the years that follow,
When baldness comes, and teeth are growing
hollow.
XLVI.
Well, each one’s answer show’d the self-same thing,
Which was, that they’d enjoyed their youth-time
greatly,
And that the only trouble and real sting
Was, in some cases, that they’d grown too
stately-—(Which meant, too fat) that no new times could bring
The pleasures of the past ; — when Bridget,
“ nately,”
Would dance a jig, Janet the Highland Fling,
Rose fill the cup, and Alice ditties sing.
XLVII.
Ah ! dear old Béranger has caught the strain—
“ La jambe bien faite et le temps perduf
Never such honest verse we’ll see again ;
For, readers (this betwixt ourselves and you),
Humbug has on this land such strong chains lain,
We ne’er, with all our strength, can break them
through,
Until—oh ! happy day, arise ! arise !—
Truth makes Hypocrisy her lawful Prize.
XLVIII.
’Twas most important you should understand
Our feelings on the subject of Remorse,
Because the subject that we have in hand—
(That it’s objective, Bismarck would enforce)
Duan, the subject, is of that stout band
Who nothing but the natural, will endorse;
And, as we can’t be fighting our own hero,
We “ ditto” say, though Cant may weep, “Oh,
dear, oh ! ”
XLIX.
As Duan, soon, became a little better,
And his hurt temple had begun to heal ;
He learnt how much he was my Lady’s debtor,
And with his thanks, and more, soon made her
feel
How sweet caresses are ; and thinking, set her,
How grateful manhood is ; and set the seal
Of real fervour on the yielding wax,
Which, when not felt, makes loving limp and lax.
7
L.
These cottage days, alas, too quickly fled ;
And ever more my Lady treasured them;
For, though she gaily spent her time, and led,
In after life, the rout, nor sought to stem
Her later fancies, when Jon’s love was dead—
Yet, when they met, it needed all her phlegm
To seem as though she’d never cared about him,
And had but nursed, in order just to flout, him.
LI.
One day a maiden, urged by anguish keen,
Went down by the North Kent to Greenhithe
Station,
For in her country home she had just seen—
Amongst the other news of our great nation—■
Duan’s mishap described, and how he’d been
Thought dead. She, in a loving perturbation,
Did not clap spurs into her steed, as knights would,
But left by the first train which called at Briteswood.
LII.
Lady Maria had gone up to town,
To be at Guelpho’s fancy ball that night :
So, met the train which brought the damsel down.
We’ll not go in for telling the brave sight
At Marlborough House—but note the inquiring
frown
My Lady’s maid gave, as she asked “What
might
Miss want with Mister Jon-—-he’s very weak,
And doctor has left word he mustn’t speak?”
LIII.
Poor Letty Lethbridge, she was near to faint,
When the trained maid thus met her anxious
quest;
But love is strong in sinner and in saint,
And to see Jon she still would do her best:—
“ Is there no way to see him ?”—“ No, there ain’t,”
The Cockney said.—“ I won’t disturb his rest,”
Said pretty Letty,—“ Only just to see him;
Oh, won’t the doctor let me, if I fee him ?”
Liv.
“ Fee him, indeed ! If anyone could do it,
I am the party, although I dare not.
My Lady, on the spot, would make me rue it.”
“ Lady !—what lady ?/’ Letty gasped, all hot.
�JON DUAN.
8
“ Lady Maria ; if she only knew it,
She’d give up Coming K----- and all the lot;
My goodness me ! it puts me in a tremyor
Only to think of it! what a dilemyor 1 ”
LV.
Billings was yielding ; only just a little,
But’twas enough to give the Lethbridge hope,—
Not that my Lady’s maid did care a tittle
About my Lady’s anger : she could cope
With that; besides, she knew how very brittle
Was man’s love, and how soon and sharp it
broke;
And she had seen some symptoms of Jon’s tiring,
And thought 7us would go out, bar some new
firing.
LVI.
Letty began then, in a gracious way— r
She had her purse, too, in her open palm :—
“I want to see Jon Duan, and I pray
You do whate’er you can to bring me balm ;
And I will give you all I have, to-day,
If but my fears about him I may calm.
Let me but have one peep at him, sweet honey,
And you shall have—oh, lots and lots of money ! ”
lvii.
The sovereigns did it—Letty gave her purse,
And Billings took her where our hero lay,
Saying, “ You mustn’t make a bit of ‘ furse,’ *
Then I don’t mind how long you with him stay.”
And Letty, happy she was now his nurse,
Felt that her night had brightened into day,
Though, still, the jealous doubt would come to
bother,
Who was this lady, whom she longed to smother ?
LVIII.
Duan was dozing; men do, ill or well;
And nothing’s more enjoyable on earth,
Whether you’re visioning the last night’s belle
You danced with ; or when comes a total dearth
Of news and scandal. So that it befell
Letty did gaze, as Duan dozed. No berth
So pleasurable could anyone have given her—
To write down all her joy, ’twould take a scrivener.
LIX.
Duan, in turning lazily about,
Opened his peepers, and caught sight of something
Which, to his half-roused mind, did seem, no doubt,
A little strange ; however, like a dumb thing,
He stayed ; and baby-like, tried to make out
What ’twas before his eyes—a fee, fo, fum thing,
His doziness divined ;—soon, shape it takes,
And when it did so, quickly Duan wakes.
LX.
We’re not a Wilkie Collins—God be praised ’
Not that we don’t think involutions fine ;
We do, in fact; but don’t wish our brain crazed
To trace a tale in geometric line.
So don’t imagine you are to be mazed
Just after, or before, you’ve been to dine—
For ’twas indeed a simple, plain old thing
That Duan saw—a palpable gold ring.
LXI.
That plain gold rings resemble plain gold rings,
Must be, we think, a proposition simple—
It would not puzzle one of our old kings ;
Still, there is many a woman with a dimple,
Whose nerves are sensitive on such old things ;
And e’en that sister, who doth wear a wimple,
Is touched, maybe, when those smooth circlets
golden
Are seen on hands where they should not be holden.
lxh.
But as a cheese-mite knows another mite,
In that rich Stilton cheese you have in cut;
And as an oyster knows its pearl by sight,—
So Duan knew this ring from out a rut
Of rings ; and would have bet, e’en being “tight,”
He’d spot it in whatever light ’twas put;
For ’twas the one he’d put on Letty Lethbridge
One day at church, when they were down at
Fettridge.
LXIII.
Poor little Robson in that wondrous role
Of wand’ring Minstrel, which he really made,—
Unlike creations now, which most are “ stole,”—
When he did sing of Villikins’s jade,
Was wont to pause, as he his song did troll,
And, looking with that look demurely staid,
Would say, ’Tis not a comic song I’m singing—
So we—’Tis not an intrigue we’re beginning.
���JON DUAN.
LXIV.
There’s nothing on the cross, we do assure you,
No figure of the kind you’ll see in Spain ;—
We don’t invent bad stories to allure you,
We leave such things for Ouida to explain.
Duan’s a gentleman, and is to cure you
Of some crude notions as to future pain ;
Meanwhile, there’s something in the following
stanza,—
At least we’ll hope so, and say—Esperanza !
LXV.
Now for it; let us tell about the ring—
’Tis not the Book and Ring, remember that;
But just a story of a boy in spring,
Who gave his play and pew-mate, pink and fat,
This rounded circlet, whose romance we sing,
Causing amongst her fellows mirth and chat,
Whene’er they met at Manor House or Farm—■_
Now where, ye nasty nice ones, where’s the harm?
LXVI.
.
If you are disappointed, Tartuffe olden,
So much the better ; you have bought our poem,
Hoping for some things you’ll not find so golden—Or gilded, rather, as you hoped we’d show ’em—
You’ve bought J. D., and carefully it folden
In that same drawer with pictures where you
stow ’em ;
And now you’re done—we’re very glad to do you,
And if we could—you and your crew, we’d stew
you !
,
ii
You’ll always find he’s hard upon the pious,—
Who, if they could, would burn us, and then try us.
LXIX.
Sweet, simple Letty, she was very charming,
Such a good little thing, that all did love her ;
And as for anyone to think of harming
Her, ’twas impossible ; for those above her,
And those in rank below, who did the farming
Upon her father’s land, would ever cover her
With blessings for her kind and thoughtful ways,
And give her, what the parson wanted—praise.
LXX.
Duan had seen not much of London town,
Before he scented something dull and vapid,
And though he was too young, as yet, to frown
On those who set the pace a little rapid,
Yet, for all that, he often took a train down
To see the little maid he ne’er found sapid ;
Who, though, o’erjoyed to see her darling lover,
Took time before she could her wits recover.
LXXI.
If you know such a maiden, and are young,
Love her and bless her, keep your troth and
word ;
Not all the songs that poets ever sung,
Not all the sweetest trills from singing-bird,
Not Shelley’s lark, nor linked sweetness flung
By Swan of Avon,—sweetest sounds e’er heard;
Not all these, on a million others mounted,
Can claim an ear, when a maid’s tale’s recounted.
LXVI I.
But all this time we’ve purposely abstained
From peeping at Jon Duan and his Letty ;
UY know she’s thoroughly by spot unstained,
And think that looking on is very petty,
So is eavesdropping ; and if you are pained,
Good-hearted reader, kiss your own dear Betty ;
And you will know, for one thing, what they did,
Although we were not ’hind the curtains hid.
LXXII.
We’ve not a word to say for Duan’s flirting
With other women in his London life ;
He couldn’t be accused, ’tis true, of hurting
The sentiments so dear to Grundy’s wife,
His bonnes fortunes he never thought of blurting ;
No cuckold threatened him with shot or knife ;
No more discreet young fellow’s gone to Hades
In what concerned his doings with the ladies.
LXVIII.
Thanks to his nature fine, a well-bred man
Will reverence what is good and what is pure ;
He mayn’t believe what’s told of prophet Dan,
Nor many things of which the Pope’s cock-sure,
Yet will he carry out what he began ;
His love of truth for truth’s sake will endure ;
LXXIII.
My Lady knew that Duan was a leal lad,
But that he loved like Jeunesse loved the
L’Enclos,
A petite passion, which makes one feel mad
For a few weeks or months, but doesn’t often go
�JON DUAN.
12
Longer than that ; then one feels hard and steelclad
’Gainst her who might have nursed you in
your long clo’—
Old women can’t expect men’s love for ever,
Let them, of all wiles that they know, endeavour.
LXXIV.
It had all past—his heart was wholly L-etty’s ;
Just now at any rate, and he forgot
The hunting and the fall, for he had met his
First love, won in past years, whom not for dot
He loved ; for by the side of Lady Betty’s,
The Lethbridge lands were small and mort
gaged—not
Like neighbouring Lady B.’s, who owned the park,
But hadn’t quite the charms to please our spark.
LXXV.
The day had worn on ; Duan had been served
With all his usual fare, and Letty went
At times to see the walks and roads that curved
Around the cottage built on an ascent,
Commanding a grand view, which well deserved
The title of the prettiest scene in Kent—There down below, seen through its oaks and
beeches,
Stretched Father Thames down to the sea in
reaches.
LXXVI.
They’d spoken of old times, our youth and maid,
And smiled and laughed, and Letty nearly
cried
At the remembrance of a cruel thing said
By Duan once. She’d been, too, sorely tried,
When older girls made eyes at Jon ;•—afraid
That he might change, and take another bride.
But Duan’s just that “kinder sort o’ man,” you
see,
Who knows the sex as well as Ballantyne, Q.C.
lxxvh.
He might make blunders in the books he pub
lished,
Be an enthusiast for Rochefort’s Lanterne;
Be in a bargain with Barabbas vanquished
(Jon in mere trading was the wee-est bairn) ;
But with the women ne’er was Duan dubbed
“ dished ”—
As Derby dished the Whigs—but like Jules
Verne,
Takes Phileas round the world in eighty days,
Duan the women won ; he knew their ways.
LXXVIII.
He had a funny theory on this head,
Which may be worth reporting to the world
(If it is not, just think, then, ’twas not said).
Well, his assertion was, that hair which curled,
Bright eyes which shone (and weren’t like cod
fish dead),
Long arms that clasped as in the waltz they
twirled,
The lissom limb, the backbone straight, and
small feet,
Were manly charms which in most men don’t all
meet.
LXXIX.
And when they did,—and here you’ll see the
point,—
Women admired, and common men did hate
The lucky man who showed the shapely joint :
And in this life ’twas sure to be his fate
That all the sex that’s fair would him anoint
With sweetest unguents, morning, noon, or
late—
And so it worked, that men who’d luck with
women,
Had usually to count most males their foemen.
LXXX.
Poor Letty had been hovering round the question
As to the lady of whom Billings spoke ;
And she had often got as far as “Yes, Jon,
But tell me who?”—and then her courage
broke.
She was afraid, perhaps, of his digestion,
And more she feared that she might be awoke
To listen to some fearful revelation,
More shocking than poor Lady Dilke’s cremation.
LXXXI.
Well, and it came at last, and Duan felt it
A very awkward question to discuss ;
But, the bull taking by the horns, he dealt it
A blow which settled it without much fuss :
�JON DUAN.
He knew the girl’s soft heart, and so, to melt it,
He told her all about his absent “ nuss
Except a fact or two, by some suspected,
At which poor Letty might have felt dejected.
LXXXII.
But we have left Society some time,
And how will that great mart get on without us ?
To-day a hundred would commit a crime
To gain an entry—pray, will any doubt us ?—
To see the Coming I<------ ’s great pantomime
At Marlborough House; and, oh, how some
will flout us
Because we print—what some there dared to say—
“ We wonder if Lome’s mother-in-law will pay ? ”
lxxxhi.
A change of scene now comes ; and for a spell,
Whilst Duan’s getting happier every minute,
We go to town, and cab it to Pall Mall,
And see the world, and hear what fresh news’
in it;—
And there’s a story going, which, if no sell,
Bodes mischief; so we may as well begin it:—
Lady Maria, ’spite of phlegm and fashion,
Has gone into a fearful, towering passion.
13
She knew how useless ’twas her wit to try,
And ’gainst her Grace’s influence to fight;
So unto Duan’s arms she thought she’d fly,
And tell her sorrows to her youthful knight.
Alas ! her cup was soon to overflow,
And she was doomed to feel a harder blow.
LXXXVII.
A woman’s senses are extremely keen,
When she’s in love, and Letty heard some words
Spoken below, and ere the form was seen,
She knew, as know the little mother birds
When danger threatens—there must be a scene ;
And, as a warrior his armour girds,
So Duan’s present nurse her courage braces,
Nor shows of fear even the slightest traces.
LXXXVIII.
Having within us tender hearts and pity,
We feel grief for the elder woman’s case ;
We’re not like those promoters in the City,
Who laugh at victims of their schemings base;
We feel that Duan’s conduct’s not been pretty,
And that he don’t deserve an ounce of grace;
But, having said so in our own defence,
We’ll let the ladies show their skill of fence.
LXXXIX.
LXXXIV.
A Duchess, aged, one of Guelpho’s friends,
Met her at Madame Louise’s to-day ;
And—see how small a thing the sex offends—
Asked if her little boy went out to play.
Furious, on Duchess M. a frown she bends,
Retorting—“ Now, be careful what you say,
Or I shall tell that little tale of Bertie,
When he was but sixteen and you were thirty.”
LXXXV.
This shocked the Duchess very much, perforce ;
But, with the sang froid of a lady born,
She said, “You go to Marlborough House, of
course,
To-night ; you’ll be received just like poor
Lome :
You’ll see if Guelpho will my words endorse,
For all your life yourwords to me you’ll mourn.”
Then spoke to Madame Louise as to lace,
Without the least emotion in her face.
LXXXVI.
Lady Maria did not stay to buy
What she intended for the ball that night;
Duan sat up upon his sofa, thinking,
As on the stairs my Lady’s foot-fall fell,
Whoever got the best in the sharp pinking,
He could not come out of the contest well;
There was no way of skulking or of blinking ;
In fact, he felt quite sea-sick at the swell
Of varying emotions, which, like ocean’s,
Caused heavings tremulous and nauseous motions.
XC.
Entered, the practised woman of the world,
To tread the stage, and act a scene of life ;
Her look was thunder, scorn her pale lips curled,
A very Amazon, arrayed for strife ;
At Letty, epithets like javelins hurled,
Piercing the maiden’s bosom like a knife ;
Yet, past the understanding of our dull wit,
She said no word against the real culprit.
XCI.
Letty grew fierce, as Duan’s heart was wrung;
She, with the divination purely sexual,
Knew why the taunts at her alone were flung ;
And, though there’s no description that’s called
textual,
�-
14
'
JON DUAN.
Of every fierce and horrid phrase that stung ;
Yet, women-folk, though we, so writing, vex
you all,
Believe that if Jon had been absent, then,
The work would have been different for our pen.
xcn.
’Twas jealousy of Letty’s being there—
There, in the very room for Jon made nice,
By her (Maria’s) loving hands and care—
Proved, ’neath the smooth exterior, there was
vice—
Vice like you found in that neat chesnut mare,
Which, bucking freely, threw you, fairly, thrice :
Vesuvian slopes, which vines and verdure drape,
Hide furious fires which, one day, must escape.
xcm.
Letty, whose temper had been growing heated
Under the bellows of my lady’s rage,
Now moved from where Jon lately had been seated,
Just like a frigate going to engage :
“Madam, you have me in a manner treated
Quite unbecoming to your rank and age ;
I felt to Duan as to a dear brother,
And he tells me you’ve been to him a mother.
xciv.
“Why, therefore, Madam, anger should you show,
Because I came to see him, having read,
Altho’ the news had travelled very slow,
He’d had a fall, and had been left for dead ;
Why was I wrong in setting forth to know
If there was truth in what the papers said ?
Jon Duan is my own accepted lover,
Why should I from the world my true love cover ?
’
xcv.
Potent is truth, and potent, too, is candour—
The latter may be now and then excessive,
As in some lines of Walter Savage Landor ;
But there was nothing wrong, or too aggressive,
In Letty’s words ; for she was bound to stand or
Fall by faith in Duan—who, digressive
From virtuous paths, should be received with
more joy,
Than if he’d always been an honest, poor boy.
xcvi.
The moment came, and with it came the man ;
It was too much for Duan to rest longer;
So, gathering his strength, he thus began :
“ I would not wish in any way to wrong her,
Who’s been so kind to me ; and when I scan
The kindness of her ladyship, feel stronger
To declare I shall remain for life her debtor,
And that no woman could be kinder, better;
1
XCVII.
“ Still, and with shame I am obliged to own it,
However kindly Lady May has nursed me,
My loyalty is due, where I’ve not shown it,—
To Letty Lethbridge; for, cruel fate has
cursed me
With a weak nature—oh ! how I bemoan it—
Which has brought grief to you two, and
immersed me
In what I thoroughly deserve—a slough of des
pond—
’Twould serve me right if some one said a
horse-pond.”
XCVIII.
But it avails not to prolong the view
Of this unhappy meeting of the three ;
’Tis better to get each out of the stew
As best we can ; and Duan will agree
He’d rather be one of a Lascar crew
Under a Yankee “boss,” or “up a tree/’;
Or be in any sort of bad condition,
Than stay in that room, in his then position.
xcix.
So plucking up his courage and his strength,—
“ Lady Maria, I will take my leave,”
He said ; and saying, rose, erect, full length,—
“Miss Lethbridge,” turning to the girl, “I
grieve
That my misconduct should (here a parenthEsis occurred from failing breath)—I grieve
I have occasioned so much pain to friends—
I will do all I can to make amends.”
c.
And bowing “farewell” to her ladyship—
As, with a courtesy, Letty went out too,—
Duan, with faltering step and many a “ trip,”
Passed down the stairs, and then the door
went through,
Into the grounds, where to his trembling lip
Came from the beating heart, “ Thank God,
I do,
That that is over.” So do we sincerely ;
The printers, too, whose patience we’ve tried,
dearly.
�JON DUAN.
15
Canto The Second.
1.
E sing our Court—select, sedate, demure,
Bound in the virtuous chainsVictoria forges;
So good, so dull, so proper, and so pure,
And O ! so different from her Uncle George’s—
That “ first of gentlemen,” who, it seems sure,
Was fond of “life” and bacchanalian orgies ;
That blood relation of “ our kings to be,”
Who did not spell his “ quean” with double (i a ”
e.
II.
How great the change ! the courtly newsman’s pen
Has never now to rise above the level
Of commonplace particulars, save when
Victoria in her Highland home holds revel,
And dances with her Scotch dependents then,
As though she’d learned the castanets at Seville—■
N ot that with such vivacity we quarrel—
But why does she confine it to Balmoral ?
ill.
We wish our Queen would dance a little more,
Would follow Queen Elizabeth’s example;
And of her powers upon the dancing-floor
Would give us Englishmen, down south, a
sample.
That Scots alone are favoured makes us sore,
For surely London loyalty’s as ample :
And, with all deference, we think it silly
To dance a reel with gamekeeper or gillie.
IV.
How “ Good Queen Bess’’danced, history relates—•
You find it in her memoirs by Miss Aikin,
“ High and disposedly” she danced, as states
Quaint Sir James Melvil, who was somewhat
shaken
By what he saw ; and yet we find by dates
Her age then may at twenty-nine be taken—
A by no means too great age for a maiden
To dance, although with Queenly duties laden.
V.
And yet the people talked, and wagged their chins,
To hear the English Church’s head was danc
ing ;r
But now, when England’s Sovereign begins
To step it—vide note2—we’re not romancing—
�JON DUAN.
16
We’re rather glad, nor care a pair of pins,
Though she in years is certainly advancing ;
But, as we’ve said, its only right and fair,
Royal partners should be picked out with more care.
VI.
When, too, our virgin monarch ruled the land
(And, by the way, there’s doubt of her virginity),
She showed for certain nobles, great and grand,
A manifest and somewhat warm affinity;
And favourites ruled her Court, we understand,
And queenly heart as well, and the divinity
That hedges kings and queens—see Shakspeare’s
plays—
Was at a discount, rather, in those days.
VII.
Now quite another scene is being enacted
(Our Queen has morals far above suspicion),
And quite another way our Sovereign’s acted,
A way not wholly fitting her position ;—
For now the British public’s ear’s attracted
By circumstantial tales of the admission
Of menial Scotchmen to the royal favour ;—
This does not of the regal instinct savour.
VIII.
Cophetua loved a beggar-maid, ’tis true,
But that was passion, love has some excuse ;
But how excuse the Sovereign who can view
A set of stalwart gillies, sans the trews,
With what we call a preference undue ?
Not that our Lady has no right to choose,
But—wishing to be loyally obedient,—
We still assert such friendship’s not expedient.
IX.
If she’d have councillors, and friends, and guides,
Let her choose them ’mongst British gentlemen ;
And not select them from Scotch mountain-sides,
Nor pick them from the crofter’s smoky den ;
Nor trust the adventurers Germany provides,
Nor furnish tattle for the reckless pen
By efforts vain—the adage old and terse is —
To make the sow’s ears into silken purses.
Nor that she only hold high carnival .
When her Scotch servants marry; ’tis not fair
To us, who royal smiles are never rich in,
To find them lavished freely on her kitchen.
XI.
It may be pleasing, in a way, to hear
The luck of Ballater, and Braemar Glen;
How there our Sovereign for half the year
Retires from midst the haunts of Englishmen,
And spends her morning, dropping the sad tear,
And building Albert cairns on every Ben—
Then courts reaction in the afternoons,
By hearing Willie Blair play Scottish tunes.
XII.
Or taking tea in some dependent’s cottage,
Or seeing poor old widow Farquharson,
Or sharing some ’cute Highland woman’s pottage,
Or choosing for a gillie her stout son;—
But such things smack a “wee” too much of dotage,
To make us happy when we hear they’re done;
We want our Queen, in whom such duties rests,
To come and entertain her Royal guests.
XIII.
Come, if you please, Victoria, do not waste
Your valued time ’midst stalwart grooms' and
keepers,—
We dare not question your most royal taste,
Or we would add, cut off the “widow’s weepers,”—
Come back to us to do your duties, haste;
And leave old memories among the sleepers;
And if for quiet you still sometimes burn,
Let Ireland, long-neglected, have its turn.
XIV.
Nor make the Crathie church a raree-show,
To which the enterprising landlords run
Post-chaises, omnibuses, to and fro,
Crowded with tourists eager for the fun
Of scrambling for the places whence they know
A good view of their Sovereign may be won—
And, in a spirit less devout than jocular,
Their eyesight aid with Dolland’s binocular.
X.
xv.'
It is not seemly that the servants’ hall
Should form a Court, nor that the servants there
Should be the sole invités to a ball
Which the Queen graces with her presence rare ;
They turn their backs on altar and on preacher,
For the best pews with golden bribes they treat,
Regardless of the words of our great Teacher—
“ Make not My house a money-changer’s seat!’’—
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
DISCOUNT-THREEPENCE.
Books for Christmas ; Books for Easter;
In olden days, when Time was young,
To publish was a glorious trade ;
BOOKS for faster ; Books for feaster;
Though poets grumbled, poets sung,
Books for Shipping ; Books in Sets;
Books about our Household Pets;
And fortunes were most quickly made,
Books for Wholesale; Books for Retail;
By publishers, who never let
General Books ; and Books of detail;
Booksellers charge a penny less
Books for Children; BOOKS for Babies;
Than price resolved on ; or to fret
Them with remonstrance. You will guess
Books for Girls; and Books for Ladies;
*
Books with pretty Illustrations ;
Books on all the Foreign Nations;
That men like Stoneham could not live :
(Stoneham, of Seventy-nine, Cheapside),
Who discount has resolved to give,
And fight the Publishers beside.
For every shilling that you pay,
Returned are to you just three pence,
By Stoneham, bookseller; now say
If it does not seem common sense,
That if he can afford to sell
At threepence less than other men,
This very work, Jon Duan, well,
May be not all the same again.
Books for Prizes; Books for Presents ;
. Books for Princes; Books for Peasants ;
Books for Scholars ; Books for Schools ;
Books about Dame Nature’s rules ;
Books in binding gay or neat;
BOOKS all warranted complete ;
Annual Books and Magazines ;
BOOKS of Fine Arts fit for Queens ;
BOOKS about the search for gold;
BOOKS for all; nay, we are told
That—but you’ll think it is too bad—
He sells that shocking Siliad.
Nay more, we’ve heard some people say,
“ Stoneham has yet a Coming K----- .”
With Books for Young, and Books for Old;
We don’t believe it, these are libels ;
Books for Summer ; Books for cold ;
We know he has a Stock of Bibles.
�•SIIVMO SHilOOTVJLVO
th e I V O R L D
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AND NEW YEAR ’S GIFTS.
O N L Y E s ta b lis h m e n ts in
3d.
79,
IN
THE
S H IL L IN G .
CHEAPSIDE, AND BRANCHES.
D IS C O U N T
Christm as Cards, Valentines, Playing Cards,
B IB L E S , P R A Y E R B O O K S , C H U R C H S E R V IC E S ,
The
JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
�THE CENTRE AND RIGHT.—A “Coup de M‘Mahon.”
�i
�yON DUAN.
Forgetting God, they gaze up at his creature.
Your Majesty, this, surely, is not meet:-—•
Then they slip out as soon as they are able,
And make the tombstones serve as luncheon-table.
XVI.
O, stop this crying scandal, if you please,
Encourage not this sacrilege so shocking ;
Let not the tourists push, and rush, and squeeze,
Like London roughs to play-house gallery
flocking ;
Nor let next summer bring such scenes as these,
All that is sacred so completely mocking.
It can on no pretence be right and proper, a
House of God should be “ Her Majesty’s Opera!”
XVII.
What is there in stern Caledonia’s air
That makes our Sovereign forget her grief?
We wish profoundly she’d conceal her care
From English subject as from Scottish fief.
For we be loyal too, and cannot bear
The Gael should solely give our Queen relief—
That Highland pibrochs should her joys enhance,
Whilst we pipe on in vain to make her dance.
XVIII.
Surely would sing all England a Te Deum
If she could her beloved Queen persuade
To lock lor once and all the Mausoleum,
To leave in peace the dear, departed shade ;
Be less the égoïste, think less of “ meum,”
Save hard-worked ministers, and commerce aid,
By ending her seclusion ;—and to lean,
Being still a woman, to be more a Queen !
XIX.
We know her virtues—how she drives and walks,
And goes to church with charming regularity ;
We know her business tact—how well she talks
On politics ; we know her gracious charity
To German poverty—(’tis true, want stalks
In Osborne Cottages : why this disparity
We cannot say, though surely what is right
In Gotha, ’s ditto in the Isle of Wight).
xx.
We know, we say, how very pure our Queen is,
And what a manager ! and what a mother !
But, though all this so very plainly seen is,
We cannot quite our discontentment smother.
17
Her virtues we admire ;—but what we mean is,
Of two moves she should choose the one or
t’other :—
The one is—Coming out amongst the nation ;
The other—Going in for Abdication.
XXI.
’Tis give and take. If we continue loyal—
And we are so without the slightest doubt—We certainly expect our lady royal
Will keep a court, and not aye fret and pout,—
Water without a fire will cease to boil,
And loyalty unshone on may go out.
If shining on it is not in her line,
Then let the Son appear and have a shine !
XXII.
We do not pay our Sovereign to hide
In northern solitudes, however sweet;
We want to view her in her pomp and pride,
And cheer her in the park and in the street;
We want her in our midst and at our side,
To grace our triumphs and our joys complete.
It does not seem a dignified position
To put Great Britain’s sceptre in commission.
XXIII.
Our Royal Mistress, yet, should have her due,—
She did come up to town a bit last season;
May she, next year, again, that course pursue,
And longer stay—we trust this is not treason—
Indeed, we personally yield to few
In loyalty; and therein lies the reason
Why on her Gracious Majesty we call
To heed the handwriting upon the wall.
XXIV.
Well, as we’ve said, last season saw the Queen
In London; and, most marvellous to say,
Whilst she was ling’ring sadly on the scene,
She held a drawing-room herself one day:
And, naturally, with ardour very keen,
Our fairest rushed their compliments to pay.
Duan, of course, as in his bounden duty,
Was in attendance at the beck of beauty.
xxv.
He wish’d, sans doittefasX beauty had not beckon’d,
For drawing-rooms were not in Duan’s line,—
Most etiquette insuff’rable he reckon’d,
And hated going out to dance or fee;
c
�JON DUAN.
Nor could he tolerate a single second,
The social miseries that we incline
To call, good God! in their inane variety,
The usages of elegant society.
XXVI.
Despite which, to the “drawing-room” he went,
For beauty draws, we know, with single hairs,
(And paints with hares’ feet, we might add, if bent
On being cynical, authorial bears ;
But as to be so is not our intent,
Our muse to no such cruel length repairs,
But simply adds that our great hero’s knock
Was heard in Clarges Street at twelve o’clock).
XXVII.
Beauty was ready, in a low-necked dress,
That showed more shoulder, certainly, than sense;
And dragged behind a train in all the mess,
That might have served, at just the same expense,
To cover up a bust which, we confess,
Was fair to see, but might p’rhaps give offence
To leaner sisters and to envious tongues—•
N ot to forget the danger to her lungs.
XXVIII.
Beauty’s mamma, a Countess of four-score,
Showed even more of charms, though they were
bony ;
And with a dress, than Beauty’s even lower,
Displayed much skin, the hue of macaroni;
Whilst in a wig most palpable, she wore
Three ostrich plumes, — poor Duan gave a
groan, he
Felt tempted sore to get up an eruption
’Gainst going to Court with such bedecked cor
ruption.
XXIX.
What sight on God’s earth can be more disgusting
Than painted, powder’d, and made-up old age ?
Its scragginess on the beholder thrusting,
And fighting time with feeble, wrinkled rage ;
Covering with tinsel what has long been rusting,
And writing hideous lies upon life’s page.
Ruins, when left alone, are often grand,
But worthless if they feel the plasterer’s hand.
XXX.
But there’s no time to moralise like this,—
The carriage of the Countess waits below,
And offering his arm to ma’ and miss,
Our hero hands them in, and off they go
�JON DUAN.
To plunge into the yaw-yawning abyss,
And mingle with the never-ceasing flow
That fills the Mall and Bird-cage Walk, intent
To crowd and take the Social Sacrament.
XXXI.
Full soon the bloated coachman had to stop
His horses, as the carriage falls in line ;
And from the curious crowd begin to drop
Remarks that made Jon Duan much incline
Out of the door of the barouche to pop,
And visit them with punishment condign ;
Though all they said to put him in a passion
Was, “ I say, here’s an old ewe dressed lamb
fashion 1 ”
19
As ’twas, a rowel made her ankle bleed,
And scores of feet her long train trod upon,
Till, well-nigh fainting, and with terror dumb,
She almost wished that she had never come.
XXXVI.
Beauty’s mamma, a tried old dowager,
Made better progress, worked her skinny arms
In neighbouring sides, till they made way for her,
And op’ed a passage for her bony charms ;
She’d often pass’d the ordeal; so the stir
Filled her old crusty breast with no alarms :
Indeed, she must have been devoid of feeling,
As though her frame had undergone annealing.
XXXII.
XXXVII.
A tedious houi' went by : the carriage crawled
By slow degrees, and made its way by inches ;
The people chaff’d and cheer’d ; the p’licemen
bawled,
.But not a high-born dame or maid that flinches.
Nor would they, one of them, have been appall’d
Had all of Purgatory’s pains and pinches
To be passed through to gain St. James’s portal,
And courtesy low before a royal mortal!
Thus on they struggled, inch by inch, and stair
By stair ; now losing, now a little gaining ;
As though it were a life and death affair—
As though the goal to which they all were
straining
Were worth an endless lot of wear and tear,
And efforts manifold, and arduous training—
As though, indeed, this courtly p'resentation
Worked out their future and their full salvation.
XXXIII.
- At last the gate is gained where sentries stand,
Nor aim the inroad of the great to stay,
But grimly watch the fairest of the land
As they pass in to mix in the wild fray ;
To join the seething, surging, swaying band
That pushes on, its best respects to pay
To her, who for a whim—it can’t be malice—
Will use what our Jeames calls St. James’s “Palice.”
XXXIV.
And then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And hustling crowds, and symptoms of distress ;
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush’d at the sight of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden rents and sounds of woe,
As skirts were torn and trampled in the press ;
Till Beauty, who that day was first presented,
Thought all “Who’s Who” were certainly demented.
xxxv.
She clung to Duan’s arm, and there was need,
For like a wave the well-dressed mob surged on,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
Till she had been o’erwhelmed but for our Jon.
XXXVIII.
Still, ’tis no secret what they went to see,
A widow’d lady ; getting near three-score ;
Still mourning, in a costume “ ca.p”-d-ftU,
One dead some thirteen years ago and more.
An estimable lady as may be,
Yet looking on the whole thing as a bore.
Can we, if we dispassionately handle
The subject, say the game is worth the candle ?
XXXIX.
Duan thought not. If you the crown respect,
Go to the Tower and see the whole regalia,
It costs but sixpence ; or if you affect
The royal person, ’midst the penetralia
Of Tussaud’s wax-works we may soon detect
The waxen effigy ; and slobber daily a
Kiss or two upon the figure’s garments,
To show you are not democratic “varmints.”
XL.
But as to putting on absurd attire,
And running risks of damage and mishap,
Exposing corns and clothes to danger dire
To see a woman in a widow’s cap—
�JON DUAN.
20
George IV. As portrayed by the Tories.
Jon did not to such ecstasy aspire ;
In point of fact, he did not care a rap—
’Spite all the gushing of the penny journals—
To gaze at royalty sans its externals :
XLI.
But thousands do and thousands did that day,
Whose history, so far, has been related :
And as these rhymes must not go on for aye,
We think that Beauty long enough has waited
Upon the stairs ; we’ll take her from the fray,
And, with her pleasure all but dissipated,
We’ll pass her on, as Yankees put it, slickly,
And bring her to the presence-chamber quickly.
XLII.
Stay ! for thy tread is where a sovereign sits !
An Empire’s Queen is seated on that chair!
N or let a palsy overwhelm thy wits,
When thou perceiv’st she is not lonely there ; —
Nor sink into the earth ; since fate permits
Thine eyes to rest—if thou the sight canst bear—
On Princes and Princesses, fecund found,
In Guelphic lavishness arranged around.
XLIII.
See ! there is Albor’s eldest,—-language fails
To write the reverence his face inspires :
The sight of Coming K----- our colour pales,
Till loyalty lights up our facial fires.
God bless, by all means, Albert Prince of Wales!
For certainly His blessing he requires.
Though happily we long ago have sunk all
Fear that he’ll turn out like his gross great-uncle.
XLIV.
We do not mean the Duke of York, that cheat
■ Who, saving that of nature, paid no debts;
Nor Sussex, that nonentity complete,
Whose failings, fortunately, one forgets ;
Nor mean we Clarence, that buffoon effete
Whose reign each loyal Englishman regrets—
Rascal or madman, it is hard to class him :
See for yourselves in “Greville’s Memoirs ”/zzjjz'zzz.
XLV.
We mean that other brother foul and false,
That vulgar ruffian whom no oath restrained ;
*
That bloated sot, who when too fat to valse,
Was fit for nothing; that coarse king who’s gained
"Who’s your fat friend?”—Beau Brummel.
(From the Originals, published by Hone.)
* Daily News, Oct. 31, 1874.
�JON DUAN.
More obloquy from history’s assaults
Than any monarch who has o’er us reigned.
We would not visit harshly mere frivolity,
But where in George was one redeeming quality ?
XLVI.
He lied ; he swore ; he was obscene and lewd;
And rakish past e’en what’s a regal latitude ;
He broke his word; his duties he eschew’d ;
He understood not what was meant by gratitude;
The two great aims in life that he pursued
Were how to dress and howto strike an attitude—
Another king so mean and vile as he,
And England’s kingly race would cease to be.
2i
The coming Court will not be quite so dingy
As that o’er which his royal mamma has sway.
And though our notion may be very shocking,
We don’t like sovereigns who “make a stocking.”
LI.
Nor love we princes who have not large hearts—
Nor love we much the Duke of Edinburgh ;
He lives too late. A young man of his parts
Would well have represented a “ close” borough.
As ’tis, no thought incongruous ever starts
At finding him a Scotchmen’s duke, for thorough
Is the connection’twixt them, though ’tis troubling
To find that he’s not dubbed the Duke of Doubling.
LII.
XLVII.
He was an utter brute, a sceptred thing,
A vampire sucking out his country’s life ;
Eclectic in his vice, a compound king,
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife.
Better by far that time again should bring
A Henry, or a Charles, and plunge in strife
Our country, than that it should e’er disgorge
Another heartless, soulless wretch like George,
XLVIII.
Our Heir-apparent will not be like this —
He mayn’t be brilliant, but he is not brutal;
He may be simple, but it’s not amiss
If that is all he is : he will not suit all
Tastes and desires, but it is well, we wis—
Though our opinion here may meet refutal—
Since kings are now for us but gilded toys,
To have one who won’t make a fuss and noise.
XLIX.
Thank God ! the eldest son’s not like his sire,
A meddling, mean, and over-rated man;
A Bailiff on the throne we don’t require,
However neatly he may scheme and plan
To make a property’s return grow higher.
We can’t forget the way Albor began
His steward’s work ; with what a screwy touch he
Wrung increased revenue from Cornwall’s duchy.
L.
No one can say that our A. E. is stingy—
Indeed, his failing lies the other way ;
Yet, though he on his capital infringe, he
Spends his money in a British way.
A sailor should be generous and hearty ;
An English prince ’fore all should not be mean;
And whilst rememb’ring statements made ex parte
Must not be credited too much, we glean
That modern Athens’ duke, however smart he
Upon the fiddle plays, yet has not been
So wise as to despise all petty things,
And keep his scrapings for his fiddle-strings.
LIII.
We had a hope, being married, he’d improve—
He had a lot of money with his Mary,—
We’ll wish some generous impulses will move
Our new Princess, and that, like some good fairy,
She’ll lift her Alfred from his stingy groove,
And make him for the future very chary
Of any acts like those of him recorded,
Which are, to put it mildly, mean and sordid.
LIV.
It gives our enemies so good a handle
To chaff our institutions and our crown,
When princes make themselves a peg for scandal,
And furnish tittle-tattle for the town.
For they should clearly learn to firm withstand all
Queer deeds and words that tarnish their re
renown,
And those who’re near the Princess should advise
her
On no account let Alfred be a miser.
LV.
Nor let him show the instincts of a trader -,
Nor bargain with his friends in search of gain ;
But, that his actions never may degrade her,
Let him from City ways henceforth refrain.
�JON DUAN.
22
His star is now mQst surely in its nadir,
But there is time the zenith to regain ;
Then we will let the Malta business * slip,
And not remember his Australian trip.
LVI.
And whilst addressing Marie, we may add
We hope it is not true she made a fuss,
And summoned to her aid her royal dad,
Because a princess who’s most dear to us
Declined to listen to her foolish fad,
Or questions of precedence to discuss.
But if ’tis true, then Marie must take care
Lest she is called the little Russian Bear.LVII.
Our coming Monarch’s Consort’s loved most
dearly,
Loyal respect for her is most emphatic ;
And whosoever her attacks, is clearly
By no means well-advised or diplomatic ;
We’ll trust that Marie knew no better, merely
Having been bred in Russ ways autocratic.
Yet, for the future, if she’d keep her place,
She mustn’t show the Tartar, but learn grace.
LVIII.
But all this time the royal party waits—
Louise and Arthur, Uncle George and Lome ;
And pretty ’Trixy, who, if rumour states
The truth, will soon be to the altar borne.
See Christian, too, who doubtless stands and rates
His luck, that from his Fatherland he’s torn.
Poor fellow ! notice his dejected carriage—
s thinking of his morganatic marriage.
He’s thinking of the frazt he left behind him,
Of sauer-kraut perchance, and Lager beer ;
And wondering that the skein the Parcee wind him
Has guided him so comfortably here;
With such a kind mamma-in-law to find him
In pocket-money, and with lots a year
As ranger of an English park.—’Tis strange
How those dear Germans like our parks to range.t
* As boys say—Ask the “ Governor” tokell you the story,
Thumb-Nail Sketches
frcm
The Academy.
t “ I will be thy park, and thou shalt be my deer,”—
SHAKSPEARE's Venus and Adonis.
�JON DUAN.
23
LX.
LXV.
At home they starve, but here they live in clover ;
Our best positions are at their command :
Since Coburg-Gotha’s prince to us came over,
Legions of Deutchland’s princelings seek our
land ;
And Queenly eyes and ears swiftly discover
The hidden virtues of that German band.
But though we ’ve had experience of dozens,
There’s not much love lost for these German“ cozens.”
Too long our blushing Beauty’s been neglected,
It’s now her turn to figure on the scene.
For months a mistress has her steps directed,
That she herself may properly demean,
May backwards walk, and bow low, as expected
When subjects dare to pass before their Queen.
All natural instincts have to be dispersed,
When that play called “Society” ’s rehearsed.
LX I.
Society ! O what a hideous sham
Is veiled and masked beneath that specious
name !
Society ! its mission is to damn,
To curse, and blight; to burn with withering
flame
All that is worthiest in us—to cram
The world with polished hypocrites, who claim
To sin, of right—Society has said it—
And think their crimes are greatly to their credit!
A look of anger spreads o’er Kamdux’ face,
As though the Siliad^xQ just had read.
The officer would be in sorry case
Who now approached our army’s titled head ;
For Uncle George does not belie his race,
But swears and blusters—so the Siliad said--As though he had been one of those commanders
Who fought years since with Corporal Trim in
Flanders.
LXVI.
LXII.
His mind is very likely burdened now
With doubts about his army’s straps and buckles;
And care is seated on his massive brow,
Because he fears how military “ suckles ”
Will to his next new button-edict bow ;
Whilst many a line his Guelphic features puckles
As he decides he will, in any case,
Curtail the width of sergeant-majors’ lace.
LXIII.
And here our muse breaks off to sing All hail
Great army tailor ! and hail ! Prince Com
mander,
Thou burker of reforms, that needs must fail
Whilst statesmen to the Geòrgie wishes pander ;
Thou duke of details ! ’tis of no avail,
Except for rhyme, to call thee Alexander :—
For when thou sittest down to weep and falter,
Tis ’cause thou’st no more uniforms to alter.
LXIV.
Now, look at poor young Lome—his face averring
That, though a royal princess he has got,
He’s neither fish, nor joint, nor good red-herring,
Thanks to the special nature of his lot ;
Snubbed by the Court : the world beneath inferring
He’s now no part in it—he p’rhaps is not
So happy as he might be, and may rue
He ever played so very high for “ Loo.” •
LXVII.
What worships rank, and makes a god of gold ?
What turns fair women into painted frights ?
What tempts to vice and villainy untold ?
And claims frorii all of us its devilish rites ?
What prompts ambition, base and uncontrolled ?
What never on the side of mercy fights ?
What causes sin in horrible variety ?—
Mostly, the demon that we call Society.
LXVIII.
’Tis in obedience to its unwrit laws
We bow beneath the iron yoke of Fashion ;
In its stern edicts see the primal cause
Why we as sin treat every healthy passion—
Why we a daughter sell, without a pause,
As though she were a Georgian or Circassian—
Yet shudder when we meet a painted harlot,
And say, “ Thank God 1 ” that she is not our
Charlotte.
LX IX.
And what is Charlotte, then, in Heaven’s name ?
She did not love the fellow that she married ;
But he some hundred thousand pounds could claim,
And such a weapon could not well be parried.
*
* Although, be it observed, the weapon in question was
undoubtedly “blunt.”
�24
JON DUAN.
She sold herself for life.—Is’t not the same
As though the sale but brief possession carried ?
We think it worse—though Mother Church has
prayed
The sordid union may be fruitful made.
LXX.
And yet Society makes much of Charlotte,
And takes her to its bosom with delight,
Receives effusively the life-long harlot—But curses her who sins but for a night,
Expels her from its midst—her sins are scarlet,
And ne’er can be atoned for in its sight.
Thus serves two ends—the Social Evil nourishing,
And keeping the Divorce Court cause-list flourish
ing.
LXXI.
But it is vain of us to run a-tilt
Against Society with bitter verses,
Its fabric is by far too firmly built
To yield to them ; it only yields to purses.
We will not longer linger on its guilt,
Save to bestow upon it final curses,
And in the name of all that’s pure and holy,
Denounce it and its sinful doings wholly !
LXXII.
In Beauty’s name denounce it;—though but twenty,
She’d learn’d some of its lessons from her mother;
She’d learn’d to feign the dolce far niente,
And how her appetite to check and smother;
She’d learned to lace too tight—to use a plenty
Of toilet adjuncts : rouge, and many another
Such weighty preparation.—Gott in Himmel!
He’s much to answer for, has Monsieur Rimmel.
LXXIH.
She’d learn’d to flirt, and calmly to cast off
The man she’d loved, when he his money lost;
She had a lisp and an affected cough,
And valued things according to their cost.
She’d practised, too, the usual sneer and scoff,
And could not bear her slightest wishes cross’d •
In fact, although out of her teens but lately,
She had advanced in worldly knowledge greatly,
LXXIV.
Still, as we’ve said, ’twas her first drawing-room.
She’d been in mobs before at “drums” and dances,
But ne’er before this had it been her doom
To mix in such a mob as that which chances
*
�JON DUAN.
When Queen Victoria comes out from her gloom,
And, following out one of her widowed fancies,
Won’t hold receptions where there’s space to
spare,
But at St. James’s has a crush and scare.
LXXV.
’Twas well she had Jon Duan at her side
To whisper in her ear and make her brave;
“Now, go!” he said, when Beauty’s name was
cried;
And Beauty did go then, and by a shave
Just managed not to fall down, as she tried
To show the Queen she knew how to behave,
By walking backwards, when she’d courtesied low,
And had out at a distant door to go.
LXXVI.
Court etiquette of course must be maintained;
But, in the name of common sense and reason,
This “backwards” business long enough has
reigned ;
Such fooleries have long since had their season.
If subjects from such crab-like steps refrained,
Lese-majeste, wouldst call it, or high treason ?
Surely one can the Sovereign love and honour,
Although his back were sometimes turned upon
her.
LXXVII.
Poor Beauty had a very near escape,
For, as she from the presence retrograded,
A gouty General interposed his shape;
And had not watchful Duan once more aided,
His charge had fell into a pretty scrape.
As ’twas, the warrior’s steel her train invaded,
And, making in it quite a deep incision,
Writ ’mongst its folds much long and short division.
Lxxvni.
Still she escaped uninjured save in. dress,
And that was cause for some congratulation;
Though at that stage ’twas early to express
A sense of gratitude or exultation ;
For there was yet to come, we must confess,
The worst alarm, the greatest consternation.
To get in was a “caution ;” sans a doubt,
’Twas twenty times more trouble to get out!
25
LXXIX.
It was but quitting frying-pan for fire,
’Twas very “hot,” poor Beauty quickly found;
The crowd was worse; the temperature was higher;
And there were swords that hitched, and heels
that ground;—Patrician faces glared with anger dire,
Patricians strove like porkers in a pound ;
And many plainly muttered observations
Sounded extremely like'to execrations.
LXXX.
Two hours they-pushed and pressed from pen to
pen,
And there was nothing there to drink or eat;
A biscuit and a glass of wine would, then,
Have fetched a price we scarcely dare repeat,—
For tender girls were faint; and lusty men
For very hunger scarce could keep their feet.
Meantime, the Sovereign serenely rests
Upon her chair, nor troubles ’bout her guests.
LXXXI.
Thus Duan thought“’Tis inconsiderate, very ;
Either hold drawing-rooms where there is space,
Or give the weary guests a glass of sherry,
When they’ve to struggle so from place to place;
The cost would not be so extraordinary—
The boon would priceless be in many a case;
For it is apt both strong and weak to ‘ flummox,’
To push for several hours on empty stomachs !”
LXXXII.
Beauty, for instance, had no breakfast eaten,
Excitement took away her appetite ;—
By one o’clock she felt she was dead-beaten :
But there was not a chance of sup or bite.
At four, resignedly, she took her seat on
A chair our hero found, and fainted quite ;
And then for twenty minutes she’d to stay
Before her mother’s carriage stopped the way.
LXXXIII.
And what a scene she left !—of fainting girls,
And gasping duchesses, and sinking dames;
Confusion everywhere the people whirls,
’Midst hasty shouts and calling out of names ;
�26
JON DUAN.
And all the ground is strewn with scraps and curls,
And shreds of stuff and beads which no one claims,
Whilst England’s highest-born, with might and
main,
Fight like a gallery crowd at Drury Lane.
LXXXIV.
The morn beheld them full of lusty life,
In radiant toilets decked and proudly gay:
Four hours of pushing toil and crushing strife,
And who so tattered and so limp as they?
N ow rents are everywhere and rags are rife—
Destruction has succeeded to display ;
And wondrous costumes, “built” by foreign artistes,
Are wreck’d and ruined like the Bonapartists !
LXXXV.
Sweet Mistress, why let such a scandal be,
When thy fond subjects flock to see thy face ?
Thou wilt now to its reformation see,
And act as doth become thy royal race ;
For all that read this will with us agree,
That such a state of things is a disgrace.
And if your Highness won’t believe our rhymes,
We just refer you to last July’s “ Times D
LXXXVI.
That night, when Beauty had devoured her dinner,
And her mamma had filled up all her creases—
For, truth to tell, that very ancient sinner
Had almost literally been pulled to pieces—
Jon Duan, looking p’rhaps a little thinner,
Sits down, when casual conversation ceases,
At the piano, and with anger rising,
Performed the following piece of improvising.
Qty -Haul nf SSHtjrafita.
i.
The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her
hold,
And their costumes were gleaming with purple
and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the
sea,
As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.
¡QI
�27
JON DUAN.
2.
Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noontide was seen ;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked
and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
3For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and
vast,
Had rumpled and ruin’d and‘wreck’d as it pass’d ;
And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste,
As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.
4And there lay the feather and fan, side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride ;
And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.
5And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair;
And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were
there ;
1 The well-known exclamation of the Spanish Ambassador
to Elizabeth’s Court—“ I have seen the head of the English
Church dancing!”-—may be remembered. To his notion
there was something strikingly incongruous in the grave and
lawful governess of the Church stepping it merrily with the
favourite gentlemen of the Court. What would that Spanish
Ambassador have exclaimed had he witnessed the scene
detailed in the next note ? What should we think now of
Elizabeth if she had danced with a stable-help?
And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all
hush’d ;
Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of
the crush’d.
6.
And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,
And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale ;
And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the
scene,
That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.
LXXXVII.
Soon after, seeing Beauty was so weary,
Jon Duan press’d her hand and said “ Good
bye ! ”
And, fancying that his room would be too dreary,
He bade a hansom to far Fulham hie.
Why he should go down there we leave a query,
Lest some who read these lines should say
“Fie ! fle !”
Though from this hint we cannot well refrain,
That p’rhaps he wished to go to “ court” again.
2 Her Majesty gave a ball at Balmoral, on Friday. In
the course of the evening Her Majesty danced for the first
time since the death of the Prince Consort. She danced
with Prince Albert Victor and Prince George, sons of the
Prince of Wales, and afterwards took part in a reel with
John Brown, her attendant, and Donald Stewart, game
keeper.— The Leeds Weekly News, Saturday, June 6th, 1874.
�28
JON DUAN.
Canto The Third.
i.
There stands, or once stood, for on several pleas,
It’s most unsafe to use the present tense
In speaking of these paper argosies
That pirate daily all a lounger’s pence ;
And have to labour against heavy seas,
And sail, most of them, in a fog as dense
As any that rasps London lungs quite raw—
Then, go to pieces on the rocks of law :
II.
So there stood once—we’ll say once on a time—
A time when newspapers were not a spec,”
Consisting in the offering for a dime
Of seven murders, one rape, ditto wreck,
Critiques on the Academy, sublime,
The last accouchement of the Princess Teck,
Fashionable scandals, exits and arrivals—
All latest, news—picked from the morning rivals—
ill.
There stood, then, but a few doors from the Strand,
A dingy mansion, such as is best fitted
To shrine that fourth estate, which rules the land—
That is to say, outrageously pock-pitted
And tumble-down, with proofs of devil’s hand
On every door, with windows grimed and gritted,
And so clothed in old broad-sheets that it stood
For almanack to all the neighbourhood.
IV.
The reader has a character to lose—
Or one to sell; and characters are cheap
In offices of newspapers that choose
To rather scandalise than let one sleep ;
And therefore all concerning them is news ;
And being curious, you long to peep
At places where they scarify Disraeli,
Or tell Lord Salisbury his conduct’s scaly.
V.
A crowd of ragamuffins in a court,
Who wait for papers, playing pitch and toss ;
Cabmen and loafers ready at retort,
And generally talking of a “ ’oss ” ;
�JON DUAN.
A dribbling stream who 11 flimsily ” report,
And feel Sir Roger a tremendous loss ;
Surely a peeler—sometimes an M.P. ;
This is the usual mise en scene you see.
VI.
Within the temple, order of the sternest
Prevails, supported by a well-drilled staff.
Woe to thee, compos., if a pipe thou burnest I
Woe to thee, reader, if thou dar’st to laugh !
Here everybody must appear in earnest ;
They’re all half theologians here, and half
Teetotallers; their aim is strict propriety—They’re read in families of Quivering piety.
VII.
Respectability, you Juggernaut,
You fetish insular and insolent,
You’re everywhere ! the nation’s neck you’ve
caught
In one big noose—a white cravat; you’ve sent
Pecksniff to Parliament, and’gainst us wrought
The worst of ills—on humbugs ever bent ;
But never did we deem you so infernal
As when you set up your own daily journal.
VIII.
There are so many Mrs. Grundys preaching
A blind obedience to your nods and firmans ;
There are so many Mr. Podsnaps teaching
Your gospel to the French and Turks and Ger
mans—
Who’re all Bohemian vagrants and want breech
ing—
The stage and pulpit echo with your sermons—
A thing they never did for Dr. Paley—
Surely you’re not obliged to print them daily !
29
x.
The sheet in question, then, is widely read,
Chiefly by cabmen—and it’s not elating,
For when they’ve got that pure prose in their head,
They always sixpence ask, at least, for waiting.
Its politics are liberal, too, ’tis said,
Which means they’re radical with silver plating ;
But all sorts write in it, Rad, Whig, or Tory,
With any coloured ink, buff, blue, or gory.
XI.
Mong writers, printers, clerks, and advertisers,
All in a hurry and as grave as J ob,
Moved by a noble rage to print the Kaiser’s
Last ukase half an hour before the Globe—
For that’s true journalism, though paid disguisers
Essay with pompous phrase the truth to robe;—
Among these, then, Jon Duan passed ; his pocket
Bulged with MSS. ’twould take an hour to docket.
XII.
He went towards the pigeon-hole to which
The needle’s eye of Scripture is a fool—
That’s a mere figure to rebuke the rich—
Here poor and wealthy find their welcome cool;—
Why, Saint Augustine might step from his niche,
And knock, and they’d not offer him a stool,
Unless he’d cry “No Popery,” or would make
A speech or two supporting Miss Jex Blake.
XIII.
There was another way, and that Jon Duan
By chance alone and innocently took.
One gets a civil letter written to one
By some famed author of a Bill or book—
If it’s a woman—she must be a blue ’un ;
They’ll print the missive forthwith, and will look
Thankfully on you ; one of their anxieties
Is to seem popular with notorieties.
IX.
But we must bow, for we must read ;—a want
That makes us more dyspeptic than our sires,
And also favours an increase of cant;
For though to highest thought a man aspires,
He can’t be always reading Hume and Kant,
Nor Swinburne, nor the rest of the high-flyers.
The fire divine fatigues—one takes to tapers,
That is to say, one reads the daily papers.
XIV.
Up went Jon Duan’s lucky name, and soon
With beating heart and pulse his card he followed.
Downstairs the steam-press hummed its drowsy
tune,
Clerks passed in corridors, and urchins hollo’d;
He heard naught, but walked on as in a swoon,
Fancying somefree and fearlesspresencehallowed
�3°
F'
y ON DUAN.
The creaking floors, the wall’s perspiring dun
blank—
Spirit of Wilkes, Swift, Junius, Jerrold, Fonblanque.
xv.
I see a smile come to the reader’s eyes,
Which view, of course, all things thro’ micro
scopes,
And read between the lines of leaders—lies ;
The reader, naturally, “ knows the ropes ”
In these press matters : we apologise ;
But faith, our hero’s sadly young, and hopes
Love’s not all lust nor Liberty an ogress—And thinks—the simpleton—the press means pro
gress.
XVI.
Forgive him. You may hear how he was punished;
How soon the warm, quick blood oozed cooler,
calmer;
How women laughed at him, and men admonished;
How he grew deaf unto the illusive charmer,—
Was never grieved, delighted, nor astonished,
Dined, slept, walked, flirted in a suit of armour—
In short, so perfect got, you scarce could hit on
A prettier portrait of the ideal Briton.
XVII.
But now we have left him innocent and blushing—
Remembering those manuscripts, before
A door whereon, awe-struck, he read the crushing,
August, and gorgeous title : Editor !
He cleared his throat, pulled down his cuffs, and
pushing
With timid touches that Plutonian door,
Which, opening promptly, swung back with a
slam,—
He saw the great chief—eating bread and jam !
XVIII.
Jon Duan brought a note from Castelar,
One from Caprera, one from bold Bazaine ;—So he was well received. These heroes are
Acquaintances of value, for they deign
Write numerous letters on the Carlist war,
Peace Congresses, Courts Martial; and it’s plain
Each one’s a puff for which he thanks them deeply—
Besides, they serve to fill the paper cheaply.
XIX.
After Jon Duan had been sagely pumped,
Concerning all he’d seen in his excursions,
He mustered up some confidence, and plumped
Into the theme of literary exertions.
He said: “I am, Sir, what you may call—stumped”—
(The chief sighed at neologists’ perversions)—
I’ve loved, loafed, danced, drank, gambled, and
played polo ;
I’d try at Journalism—tho’ they say it’s so low !
XX.
“ I want to write—above all to be printed ;'
The modern mania burns within my breast.
I’ve some experience, as I just now hinted,
Perhaps ’twould give my articles a zest.
Would, now, this sonnet----- ” Here his listener
squinted
At a broadsheet a boy presented. “ Pest!”
Exclaimed the Editor ; “ the sub’s wits wander,
Tell him to put in ‘ Latest from Santander !’”
XXI.
Then, blandly turning round: “You mentioned
Verses!
Young man, you’re in a very vicious path.
They are among an Editor’s chief curses.
I have now—pray don’t whisper it in Gath—
Three spinsters who have met with sore reverses,
Ten Tuppers, seven Swinburnes, very wroth,
All writing daily and requesting answers
Concerning all their madrigals and “ stanzers.”
’
XXII.
Of course, Jon Duan said he’d naught in common
With humble rhymsters, who essay to climb
Parnassus in list slippers. He’d seen human
Nature almost in every phase and clime ;
And didn’t sing thé usual song of Woman
In Alexandrines, elephants of rhyme ;
He’d read a specimen—and really grew so
Pressing, at last the bland chief bade him do so.
iKaiuinmifclIe ^ruMjnmnre.
Her dress is high, and there’s nothing within.
Polished in Clapham, its pale flowers’ pick,
She is just twenty-one and spruce as a pin,—
Her head is the only thing she has thick.
�3i
JON DUAN.
A meagre bosom, and shoulder, and mind,
A meagre mouth, that will never miss
The tender touch it will never find—
The passionate pulse of a lover’s kiss.
The eyes speak no language, much less a soul ;
The brows are faint, and the forehead is spare,
And low and empty. Then over the whole
That fool’s straw crown of submissive hair.
O, happy the man with wrought-iron nerves,
Who shall say of this tempting morsel, “Mine”—
O treasure in pottery and preserves—
O Hebe, careful of gooseberry wine !
Has it a heart ? oh, arise and appeal,
Lost sisters, that famine and cold destroyed ;
Will you prick to pity the hearts that feel
For Magdalen less than Aurora Floyd?
Has it a mind ? Come, arise and unfold,
Redeemer, the lives to be raised at last !
Is there room for thought in the brains that hold
Kitchen and nursery sufficiently vast ?
And yet she shall be a woman in fine ;
Some one will worship her thimble and fan,
Some one grow drunk on her gooseberry wine ;
And she’ll find a husband—perhaps a man.
For fate will be good and provide one—meek,
And long, and good, and foolish, and flat,
A curate—immaculate, sour and sleek,
A Pillar of Grace with a Blanched Cravat !
And duly the two will endow their kind
With the old Clapham growth as spruce as a pin ;
Meagre in bosom, and shoulder, and mind,
Her horrible virtue sanctifies sin.
Mademoiselle Prudhomme will hamper and stay
The world’s march onwards—will gossip and
dress,
And sew, and suckle, and dine, and pray :
“Madonna Grundy have pity or bless ;”—•
Mademoiselle Prudhomme will simper and slay
“ Strong Minds,” with her poor little anodyne
wit ;
And flatter herself as she’s dying one day,
She’s a heart—while the sawdust leaks out of it.
XXIII.
This was a little piece of lyric flattery ;
For anyone not quite a savage knows
Our Editor’s renowned for milk and watery
Elegies on the sweeter sex’s woes.
He thought their masters too much given to battery
With fire-irons, doubled fists,and hobnailed shoes,
Which don’t, he said, reform domestic Tartars;—
At home, ’tis said, he suffers for the martyrs.
XXIV.
He said Jon Duan’s principles were proper ;
' He liked the matter and he liked the name ;
And then abruptly he applied a stopper
To all the poet’s rising hopes of fame.
“The fact is, such things are not worth a copper.
Your young enthusiasm I don’t blame;
But really you don’t think—it is too funny !—
You don’t think that this kind of thing’s worth
money!
XXV.
“ No man writes poetry to-day, unless
He’s leisure, and some hundreds sure a year—
Ev’n then he’ll often find that going to press,
Mean’s going to Queer Street, E.C.; and when
there
He’ll find the Registrar no whit the less
Severe, because he’s only paid too dear
For writing verse—and not for acting prose—
At St. John’s Wood with Miss or Madame Chose.
XXVI.
“ The Press, sir, is the modern channel flowing
To Pactolus : compress into a column
Your finest thought, your dreams most grand and
glowing ;
Frequent good clubs ; grow staid, and stout, and
solemn;
And, with a little cringing and kotowing,
Your fortune’s made. I don’t want to extol ’em,
But we’ve a few bards of imagination—
They’re now reporting a Great Conflagration.
XXVII.
“ We may not want bays, laurels, crowns, and
mitres ;
We’d do without some J.P.s and policemen ;
We’d do without some lawyers and some fighters—
The fools who bully, and the knaves who fleece
men;
�JON DUAN.
32
But, sir, this Age must have its ready writers—
Not too profound, but aiming to release men,
By aid of half a dozen library shelves,
From that dread task of thinking for themselves.”
XXVIII.
Humility, that worst of all good qualities—
And Heaven knows there’s plenty bad enough!—
Is common, but Jon Duan wouldn’t call it his.
He knew his intellect was of the stuff
That makes men feel above such vain frivolities;
He rhymed, it’s true ; but he was also tough
In logic, versed in art, a studious reader,
So he sat down and wrote a social leader.
XXIX.
You know the social leader—it’s designed
To please the ladies o’er the morning toast.
We’ve written them ourselves sometimes, and find
Wrecks, royal visits, and divorces, most
Apt to enthrall the lovely creatures’ mind.
A breach of promise isn’t bad ; you coast
Round naughty subjects, show an inch of stocking,
Observing all the while : How very shocking !
XXX.
We know the bits to quote to show your learning,
And those to prove your feeling or your humour ;
Swift, Hook, Hood, Smith, or Jerrold; the discerning
Reader will add the rest; Pepys, Evelyn,
Hume, or
Bacon, La Rochefoucauld—they all bear churning
In frothy paragraphs ; and one or two more
Make up a hodge-podge which, served after warm
ing,
People not yet at Earlswood call quite charming.
XXXI.
I think Jon Duan tried his ’prentice hand
At something more or less to do with Beer
(What hasn’t in this free and thirsty land ?),
He lashed tremendously, he had no fear ;
On highly moral grounds he took his stand,
And vigorously, with biting jest and jeer,
Spoke out about the publicans’ last grievance,
To be assuaged by brewers at St. Stephen’s.
XXXII.
Thumb-Nail Sketches from The Acade
iy.
II Highly commendable,” the chief observed ;
And mildly glowed the austere spectacles ;
“ From those great principles I’ve never swerved.
But this will never do—our paper sells—
�ADVERTISEMENTS.
JCXV
>
V
I
Old Furnival’s Distillery, Holborn, London.
E
K>
24*
*
I
I
i
co
5?
S’
�MAKER TO THE QUEEN
BIWETT’S
HOUSE, OFFICE, and
SHOP DIALS.
7/
\
KIGHT-DAY PIECES,
In Mahogany, Oak, or Rosewood
Cases, warranted for perfect time.
CASH
ilW BENNETT’S
BENNETT’S KEYLESS WATCHES^ fffMODEL WATCH^
NO KEY REQUIRED.
AIR-TIGHT, DAMP-TIGHT,
DUST-TIGHT.
Gs.
Gs.
f
Gs.
Silver ...
... 6 .... 8
10
Gold...................... 10 ... 12
u*
Persons who forward their Money may rely
on the best possible Watch by return.
Church, Turret,
.
and DrawingRailway, House, A,.
room Clonks.
. Is a combination of all
the recent improvements fori
performance, taste, and economy,
i
securing to the wearer
X
the indispensable
VX
comfort of perk
*
\.
feci time.
7
TO THE
Guineas.
A
EVERY WATCH IN THE LATEST STYLE
AND MOST CAREFULLY FINISHED.
Guineas.
SILVER.
GOW.
’
Superior London-made Lever Watches, Jewelled
Guineas.
Guineas.
12 to 20
5 to 10
in 4, 6, 8, or 10 holes ..........................................
5 to 10
10 to 20
7 to 12
3 to 5
Horizontal Escapement, Jewelled in 4, 6, or 8 holes
3 to 5
5 to 12
Keyless Half-Chronometers, Compensated for Variations of Temperature, t
adjusted in
Positions, Winding and Setting Hands without a Key, for Gentlemen,
».
in Gold, 30 to 40 Gs. ; in Silver, 16 to 25 Gs.
~
Ditto, for Ladies, with richly Engraved
Gold Cases and Dials, from 20 to 30 Gs.
\
^7
JOHN BENNETT
CLOCKS
< For the Dining-Room,
Carved MttsW Cases,
striking the Hours and
Half Hours, from £3.
For the Drawing-Room, in
Richly Gilt CaSSSs strik
ing the Hours ’ and Half.
Hours, from £5.
\
For Presentation, tn
'k Antique Bronze & Marble
.Cases, from £5 to £100. ■
is Enabled to offer
purchasers the most Exfcansi'.-o Stock in London,
comprising Clocks for the
Drawing, Dining Rooms,
and Presentation, of the
Highest Quality and
.
Newest Designs.
TO THE ADMIRALTY
PRINCIPAL-RAILWAY COMPANIES
GENTLEMEN’S.
GOLD.
SILVER.
�THE “ LEFT.”—A Coup-de-Main.
��JON DUAN.
33
Of muses, singing some old London rhyme ;
And then—and then we see the tribe of Levy
Entering their broughams with smug ostentation—
And, somehow, that arrests our inspiration.
(Of course I know your strictures are deserved)—■
Largely in cafés, taverns, and hotels ;
We have sent out poor Truth dress’d so succinctly,
She’s caught cold—that’s why she don’t speak
distinctly.”
XXXVIII.
XXXIII.
We drop back to the role of chronicler,
Following Jon Duan and his new-found,friend,
Maloy. That juvenile philosopher
Descanted freely on the aim and end
Of literature ; and glibly could refer
To several famous gentlemen who’ve penned
Verse, novels, essays, which we’ve all admired—
Not knowing how the authors were inspired.
Jon Duan, downcast and confused was standing,
Thinking he’d ne’er a leader read again,
His mind with notions new and strange expanding ;
When some one cried : “ Put in my news from
Spain.”
And bounding upstairs, bumped him on the landing,
A stranger, who’s—we may as well explain,
Mr. Maloy, a li special,” who makes free
To date from Irun, write in Bloomsbury.
xxxix.
Maloy was made to be an interviewer,
There was no Fleet Street curtain and no blind
He didn’t raise, and with some comments truer
Than tender, scarify the scribes behind.
Here rose a hiccough, there a hallelujah—
Not far from Shoe Lane once the two combined—
Here they declare the Ballot Act’s a sad law—
Here kid-glove Radicals haw-haw at Bradlaugh.
XXXIV.
There’s nothing like this odd kind of collision—
If one’s not seeking rhymes or lost one’s purse—
As introduction, it makes an incision
Into that Saxon cloak of pride we curse
But still will wear, through death, despair, division,
The Robe of Nessus, of Ovidian verse—
At least to-day it made Jon Duan enter
A friendship in which he soon found a Mentor.
XL.
xxxv.
Here, to the left, two-pennyworth of gall
Wars with two-pennyworth of gall and water,
One shrieking £‘ Yankee !” and the other “ Gaul!”
And threatening weekly libel suits and slaughter.
Flere lies poor Punch, a Taylor sews his pall,
While opposite there stands the brick and mortar
Palace of Truth, where, to instruct us, Stanley
Finds out the Nile, while Greenwood hunts at
Hanley.
Fleet Street, receive the writers’ salutation!
We never pass through tottering Temple Bar,
Without a feeling of profound elation
At the grand panorama stretched afar;
We take our hats off, and from Ludgate Station
See Genius coming, in triumphal car,
And with a flaming crest, and waving pinions,
Beating the boundaries of its own dominions.
XLI.
xxxvi.
Here’s the great factory where they puff the
Premier,
The Lords, the Bishops, Publicans and Princes ;
Only they’d make the soft-soap rather creamier,
Were it not that my Lord of Salisbury winces ;
Besides t’wards a new rival, rather dreamier,
Favour at times the Government evinces.
They sell though, still, from poppies of their growing,
The largest pennyworth of opium going.
We see the nation’s brain, its best lobe seething
In the strong throb and clamour of the road :
We see the legion of the teachers sheathing
Theirpensin monkish creed and Pecksniff’s code;
Tis here each high idea begins its breathing,
From here it takes its armed flight abroad —
To fall, a thunderbolt on thrones and steeples—
To fall, as manna, to the calling peoples.
XXXVII.
XLII.
Temple of Fame, all stained with dust and grime,
In air oft foul, in architecture heavy,
We freedom see and knowledge guard, sublime,
Thy low dark eaves ; and in thy courts a bevy
The best of chatterers is a scandal-monger ;
His pills are bitter, and he gilds a bit ;
And all men, though they smirk and say No, hunger
To have their famous neighbours’ windbags slit.
i
D
�aK
34
W' J
JON DUAN.
So laughed Jon Duan as Maloy grew stronger
In aphorisms—those stalactites of wit ;
And when they had dined en garçon at the
“ Mitre,”
Resolved he’d die, or be a well-known writer.
XLIII.
A writer—bravo ! The idea’s not new,
At least, it’s shared by all the Civil Service ;
The Bar, the Church, and in the Army, too,
It rages with the force of several scurvies ;
But, faith, the aim, with this unique reserve, is
As good as any British youths pursue—
It’s mostly, when a lad is fresh from school
A horse, champagne, Anonyma, or pool.
XLIV.
“ But what’s your special genius, talent, line—
Prose, verse,or ‘rhythmic Saxon,’ like dear Dixon ?
Wish you to scandalise, or mildly shine ?
Swinburne’s or Houghton’s, which renown d’you
fix on ?
Come, choose your mate among the tuneful Nine ;
There’s Tupper’s Twaddle, and Buchanan’s
Vixen ;
That Pale One, made O’Shaughnessy’s by mar
riage—
And Browning’s Blue, oft subject to miscarriage.
XLV.
“ There’s Bret Harte’s Yankee—though she does
say d----- n,
She’s quite the lady in her principles.
And what d’you say to Lockyer’s, a grande dame
Coiffée at moments à la cap and bells ?
There’s Tennyson’s would serve you like a lamb,
And teach you to ‘ring out wild bells,’ and knells,
Whene’er a German, corpulent and moral,
Expires, lies in, or marries, at Balmoral.
XLVI.
iC But maybe odder fancies make you moody—
Perhaps you’d write your novel, like your neigh
bours ;
Walk up—make your selection : There’s the goody,
The gamy, the idyllic, arduous labours
Which bring in millions—unto Mr. Mudie :
The military, full of oaths and sabres,
The hectic, allegoric, or the pastoral—
But only Jeafferson has time to master all.
�I
JON DUAN.
XLVII.
“ The eight vols. like George Eliot’s—there’s afield
Fresh, wide, and rich in fine food for the flail;
But pray wear spectacles ; it doesn’t yield
Unless you analyse each slug and snail;
And read theology in blocks congealed
From safes of Kant, Spinoza, Reid, and Bayle ;
Unless, too, you’ve a friend, and can wade through
his
Complete Edition of the Works of Lewes.
XLVIII.
“ I might suggest likewise those smaller spheres
Where several virgins, widows—even wives—•
But husbands hinder terribly, one hears—Are writing novels for their very lives.
Oh, if they’d do it in their uglier years—
. Ink’s a cosmetic when old age arrives ;
But no, the dears have scarce left pinafores,
.Before they’re knocking at Sam Tinsley’s doors.
XLIX.
“ And what astounding manuscripts they carry,
These innocents just fresh from Mangnall’s Ques
tions !
How very oddly all their heroines marry !
How very frequently the very best shuns
Her Lord and Master, for Tom, and Dick, and
Harry—•
Who’re always in the Guards, have good diges
tions,
Tawny moustaches, ‘ lean flanks ’ — charming
Satans,
Come up from Hell in kid gloves and mail
phaetons.
L.
“ Pardon, Miss Mulocch and Miss’Yonge—you’re
free
From any taint the moralist impure rates ;—
O, that your world were real, that we might be
All Lady Bountifuls and model curates,
Talking good grammar o’er eternal tea,
With one ambition—to reduce the'poor rates !
But fie ! Miss Braddon, Broughton, Ouida—you
Seduce us from the Band of Hope Review.
Li.
“Reade, Lawrance, Yates, and Holme Lee, Kings
ley, Grant,
Black the idyllic, Collins (Mortimer),
35
Collins, called Wilkie, Trollope, whom they vaunt
In proud Belgravia, and in Westminster;
Grave Farjeon, and E. Jenkins, who decant
The wine of Dickens in a cullender ;
And then there’s—but how dare you keep your hat
on ?■■—
That proud provincial Editor, Joe Hatton !
Lil.
passe et des meilleurs] ” Maloy concluded :
“ Fitzgerald, Oliphant, George Meredith,
Sell ; so perhaps they shouldn’t be excluded ;
Whyte Melville, Francillon, are men of pith ;
I also might have said that one or two did
Wonders to neutralize the brand of Smith;—■
But catalogues were ever an infliction—
E’en Homer’s ships—fai- lighter than our fiction.
LUI.
“ One’s born a woman ; one becomes a man.
Jon Duan, when you write, bear this in mind,
And interest the ladies if you can ;
For all the wide world over, womankind
Loves the same books ; male readers pry and
scan ;
Boys, young men, fogies, different authors find—
But schoolgirl, grandmamma, French, German'
Briton—
Show me the woman who don’t dote on Lytton.
LIV.
“But he’s their classic. You, the modern, must
Select your heroes and your heroines
From their own drawing-rooms, and then adjust
Your dolls in patch works made of all the sins ; •
Be roué, and disclose a bit of bust,
Raise Dolly Vardens o’er somç shapely shins ;
Suggest, but don’t be crude ; and don’t say Vice—
But hint your villain’s conduct isn’t nice.
LV.
“ And then, slang, croquet, champagne, clubs, and
horses ;
Plump painted c persons,’ who will bear the blame
For all misguided heroes’ evil courses;
Bad French, when sloven English is too tame ;
Danseuses and Guardsmen, Duchesses, divorces—
Mix up and spice—the elixir this, of fame
Of modern Balzacs-—of this pure and mighty
Age, that’s produced two publishers for ‘ Clytie.’ ”
�JON DUAN.
36
LVI.
Here poor Jon Duan rose and paid the bill.
“ But you must choose your set as well as style,”
Pursued Maloy, who, though not meaning ill,
Was apt to make his inch of talk a mile.
“ There is a spectacle hard by that will
Make plain my meaning in a little while.”
A few steps brought them to a—well, a “pub”—
(Rhyme’s a great leveller), and a liter’ry club.
LVII.
It is the Great Club of the Disappointed
And bald Bohemian mediocrities,
Who think the century is all disjointed,
Because they can’t direct it as they please ;
And so they choose to make their own Anointed,
Regardless of the outer world’s decrees ;
No matter how their idols it excoriates,
Here they’re all statesmen, M.P.s, R.A.s, Laureates.
LXI.
I want an Invocation, for the theme
Is one of that sublime and solemn kind
That ought to be approached with half a ream
Of “ Ohs ” addressed to deities, designed
To give us time to invent and get up steam,
And tune our fiddles ere we raise the blind—■
Also to make the publisher advance a
Pound or two more ’cause of the extra stanza.
LXII.
But really I find nothing to invoke.
Before the Great Apollo Club, the Muses
Shrink back, and blushes clothe them as a cloak ;
Venus, Diana, Jupiter refuses.
Priapus might do, but much finer folk
Retain his services ; one picks and chooses—
But, faith, the naughtiest gods in Lempriere,
Are quite surpassed in Hanoveria Square.
LVIII.
There’s Hack, their novelist; George Eliot quakes
When one of his Scotch pastorals appears ;
And Mr. Browning, too, ’tis said, “ sees snakes,”
When Carver, their own poet, drops the shears,
(The bard’s Sub-Editor—fate makes mistakes),
And in a magazine sheds lyric tears ;
Their Bowman, too, a wondrous name has got,
Though it does not appear what he has shot.
LIX.
They’ve publishers who print railway reports,
And so, of course, are guides to literature ;
They’ve journalists who do the County Courts,
And know the Times’ great guns, and tell you
who’re
The authors of the “ Coming K----- ”; all sorts
Of Lilliputians, empty and obscure,
Swell out here twice a week, and, lulled by shag,
Dream that they’re citizens of Brobdingnag.
LX.
“ That’s old Bohemia,” said Jon Duan’s guide,’
“ Impotent, gouty, full of age and spite ;
Let’s leave them o’er their whisky to decide
Browning’s a bubble, Morris is a mite,
And only Ashby Sterry opens wide
A window on the starry infinite.
Come westward — there’s Bohemia, young and
sunny,
With no gray hairs—and generally no money.”
LXIII.
So let the chaste Apollo Club be seen
Without vain dallying at the modest door;
Follow Jon Duan and Maloy between
Two rows of hats, and pictures, which all bore
The impress of free minds that scorned to screen
The beauties Nature meant us to adore :
Here they’d corrupt, such thin toilettes enwrap
’em,
The seminaries most select in Clapham.
LXIV.
Upstairs, a lively circle is fulfilling
The promise of the pictures—that’s to say,
Divesting truth of all the flounce and frilling,
That so disguise her in the present day;
And in our “ cleanly^ English tongue” * instilling
The subtle piquancy of Rabelais ;
They don’t mince words here—if they did they’d
hurry
To put in spice, and make the mincemeat—curry.
LXV.
Champagne and seltzer corks are popping gaily ;
It’s two o’clock ; the night has just begun ;
In pour the critics from the theatres, palely,
Suffering from Byron s or Burnand’s last pun.
* An idiom of the Daily Telegraph.
«
�JON DUAN.
Here comes Fred Bates, who dines with Viscounts
daily,
And hatches “high life” novels by the ton ;
Here’s the sleek Jew band leader, Knight — and
then,
One “ Gentleman who writes for Gentlemen.”
LXVI.
Smoke, and a rivulet of seltz. and brandy ;
A buzz of talk that oft becomes a roar ;
Impassive waiters setting glasses handy;
On settees, arm-chairs, lounging, some three
score
Tenors and poets, dramatists and dandy
Diplomatists and dilettanti ; four
Painters who’ve coloured nothing but a pipe,
Because the Royal Academy’s not ripe
LXVII.
For philosophic realism ; a common
Creature or two, who neither wrote nor drew,
And whom, therefore, the Club expects to summon
Up fierce enthusiasm for the men who do—
Clerks from the War Office, who love to strum on
Their red-tape lyres, and think they’re poets too ;
A Communist freed from Versailles inquisitors—
They make a point of showing him to visitors.
LXVIII.
There’s a broad line fire of buffoonery,
There are the single cracks of paradox;
Here, splutters from the whip of Irony ;
And cynicism’s icy ooze that mocks
■One moment, the last moment’s deity :—
An intellectual Babel, that oft shocks
At first the pious stranger, and confuses—
That’s how most of us cultivate the Muses.
LXIX.
Jon Duan promptly made himself at home.
He’d just such erudition as they prize
At the Apollo Club : he’d read Brantome,
Faublas, and Casanova—which supplies
A man with many anecdotes and some
Vices ; but here it served to make him rise
In favour with his friends, who won’t deny
Their library is very like a sty.
37
LXX.
As dawn approached, the conversation grew
More lyrical: they passed the loving cup ;
They felt all men were brothers—which is true—
All Cains and Abels ; and, like men who sup
In the small hours, they felt old songs steal through
The vapours of the wine, and struggle up
Unto the lips. So, finding they grew dreamy, a
Poet trolled this Carol of Bohemia.
S (¡Carol of Baljentta.
1.
Bohemians ! this our trade and rank, we drift
without an anchor,
All idle ’prentices who’ve broke Society’s inden
ture ;
Gil Blas, whose lives are voyages to some hazy
Salamanca;—
We’ll pit against your L. S. D. our motto : Per
adventure.
2.
The hostelries upon our way keep open house and
table;
And if e’en at the first relay, we find the money
short,
With muleteers of old romance we sup in barn or
stable,
And if the bread is black, the wine but vinegar
—qu? importe!
3Qu' importe the chasm and precipice, qu' importe
too, death and danger 1
We take the truant’s path in life, and there one
never slips.
If all the men we meet are foes, there’s not a girl a
stranger,
When one has Murger in the heart, and Musset
on the lips !
4O, green ways trodden hand in hand ! O sweet
things that mean nothing !
And Raphael’s fair sister, who makes vagrant
hearts beat louder.
Ah, for the golden spring of life! Ah, for the
autumn loathing !—
Raphael robs the traveller, Madonna’s plumes
are powder.
�JON DUAN.
38
5And russet comes upon the green ; we see the
roses’ canker ;
Lorenza’s little hands I hold have trenchant tips
and scar mine,
Gil Blas grows fat and falls asleep, half-way to
Salamanca ;
And Laura’s kisses are so sweet—they make
one’s moustache carmine !
LXXI.
As the last echoes into stillness sunk,
Jon Duan rose and bade adieu to Babel;
He’d seen and heard enough ; his ideal shrunk
Within him, and he felt his gods unstable ;
He left a famous poet very drunk,
Reciting bits from Pindar, on the table ;
And others, dry as wither’d leaves in Arden,
To finish up the night at Covent Garden.
LXXII.
These are the ordeals through which greenhorns
pass
Before they’re fit to form public opinion,
Or in romance to hold up a clear glass
To modern men and manners ; their dominion
Is reached by by-ways tortuous and crass,
Wherein one’s pure ambition moults its pinion,
And changes so in heart and aim and soul—
What was an eagle dwindles to poor poll.
LXXIII.
They set forth with their poems in their wallet,
And nothing much to speak of in their purse,
Thinking they’re going to wield Thor’s mighty
mallet,
And all the bubbles of the age disperse ;
Proud of their Mission, as the poor lads call it—
To mend the world in philosophic verse,
To speak out boldly, giving stout all-rounders,
From Vested Interests unto Pious Founders ;
LXXIV.
To laugh to scorn our wars of sacristies,
That set us flying at each other’s throats,
Because some curates like gay draperies,
Or rather higher collars to their coats :—
And then they bandy talk of11 heresies ”—
That’s what the beams denominate the motes,—
Set doctors arguing and lawyers fighting—
And, one good thing, set Mr. Gladstone writing ;
LXXV.
To tilt against—but who shall give the list
Of all the wrongs and ills that want redressing
In this sweet isle, where, if a sore exist,
Fourscore-year bishops say it’s a great blessing?
Who’ll count the reefs and rocks seen through the
mist,
Through which Pangloss, M.P., says we’re progressing ?
Who’ll count our paupers, plutocrats—none can
aver—
And oh! who’ll count the Royal House of Hanover?
LXXVI.
One thought that one could do it all, elated
With young dreams, when life’s morning star
its best shone;
Political economy we rated
Merely the art of sidling round the question :—
St. Giles’s hunger isn’t compensated
Or cured by Lord St. James’s indigestion :
And then we found blank looks on either hand—
St. Giles can’t read—St. James can’t understand.
LXXYII.
And all our wings fell from us, and we stumbled,
Crawled crablike, sneaked, and sidled with the
best;
iExalted Toole, Vance, H.R.H.S,—humbled
Your Arch’s, Bradlaughs, Odgers, and the rest;
We hung on to Fame’s chariot as it rumbled
Down Fleet Street—and from that day, were well
dressed,
And had a cheque-book—knew a peer who pities
Us scribes, and sat on several Club Committees.
LXXVIII.
An old, old tale : a lucky hero ours,
To have it all made plain before he started
On that road, which seems carpeted with flowers
To amateurs who’re young and simple hearted ;
He grieved at first, and, for a few brief hours,’
His eyes, because the scales had dropp’d off,
smarted;
But soon he hardened into crying, Bosh !—
Couleur da res#—that colour doesn’t wash !
LXXIX.
And he went in for all the browns and grays
Of stern reality, for perfect prose
�JON DUAN.
I;
I
In life, in literature, in aims, and ways:
He came to know the fact that no man goes
To market with an ingot: bread or bays,
Small change will buy the best that’s baked or
grows.
He sent his grand old idols to the mint—
And rich and godless, soon prepared to print
LXXX.
L
‘J
You’ve seen his progress in the magazines,
Reviews and Quarterlies ; his course is planned
After the best authorities, on means
Whereby to keep one’s name before the land :
To start with, his identity he screens,
Forthwith, a weekly says : “We understand
The paper in this month’s ‘True Blue,’ which
no one
Failed to remark, is written by Jon Duan.”
I
Or ere the paper’s printed : “ We’re informed
The 1 Unicorn’ for next month will contain
An essay by Jon Duan.” Thus he charmed
The public with reiterative strain,
Till simple outsiders grew quite alarmed
At the prodigious business of his brain ;
And he grew known so, he’d a near escape
From having his fine features limned by “Ape.”
1
LXXXI.
39
LXXXIV.
No bribes ! Thank Heaven, the English press is
pure •—
A model for all Europe, and a score tall
Yankees ! but sometimes salaries aren’t secure ;—
And sometimes even journalists are mortal;
Therefore a little dinner-card, when you’re
In want of praise, will open many a portal;—
I’d name.—if libel cases weren’t so brisk—
A dozen laurel wreaths that sprung from bisque.
'
LXXXV.
Laurels Jon Duan got, or substitutes
For what they called wreaths eighty years ago :
Success in our days yields more solid fruits
Than figurative chaplets—fruits that grow
Too quickly, maybe, and from rotten roots,
But still afford a pleasant meal or so.
And after all, to make a crop secure,
Don’t the best cultivators use manure ?
LXXXVI.
We don’t say that Jon Duan did ; he merely
Knew his age well, and catered for its taste.
It loves the portrait of its vices dearly,
Provided certain angles are effaced,
And certain details not described too clearly—
A photograph half libertine, half chaste,
That matrons smile at, and girls in their teens
Say prettily they can’t see what it means.
i
•
i
i
;
LXXXVII.
That is our “ social, psychologic ” fiction,
In which Grub Street takes vengeance car Bel
gravia,
Denouncing all its sins with feigned affliction
At having to describe the bad behaviour
Of titled folks—for there’s an interdiction
On vulgar crimes; we treat those that are caviar
Unto the general—pigeon-shooting, gaming,
Genteel polygamy—all won’t bear naming.
LXXXVIII.
LXXXII.
And to their country cousins Cockneys said :
“ Pray notice! look! he’s passing! that is he!
That noble presence—that inspired head—
Lit by the dawn of young celebrity—•
That is Jon Duan, following up the thread
Of his new serial for the 1 Busy Bee,’
Or gleaning bits of realism in the gutter,
That’s what makes his romance go down like
butter.”
And this Jon Duan painted to the life.
Ne’er was a better writer to portray
Thoroughbreds, cocottes, and post-nuptial strife,
And scenery in a pretty Mignard way;
To show how one makes love to a friend’s wife,
Or leads a virgin’s timid steps astray,—
*
j
i
.
;
i
|
�40
JON DUAN.
How to transgress the Ten Commandments daily,
Wear good coats well—and not end at the Old
Bailey.
LXXXIX.
He also touched on politics, and wrote
The usual anonymous report,
From Cloudland allegorical; we dote
On pamphlets of the Prince Florestan sort,
Putting them down to ten M.P.s of note,
F or lively satire is our statesmen’s forte.
Talk of the daily press, Mill, Grote—oh, fiddle !
The best loved flower of literature’s a riddle.
xc.
Reviews, translations, travels, essays, stories,
Liberal programmes, letters to the Times—
The record of his exploits would crack Glory’s
Trumpet, unused to praise this kind of crimes;
Each week the acid Athenaeum bore his
Name in some column, linked to prose or rhymes,
Which being largely advertised and often,
Made the most stony critic’s bosom soften.
xci.
N o evanescent Period was founded,
Or foundered, but he had his finger in it;
No Mirror crack’d, no Junius fell down dead,
No Torch illumed the country for a minute,
But in their columns his MS. abounded;
Eclecticism was his prevailing sin, it
Led him to promise prose to that transcendent
Modern press joke : The Daily Independent !
XCII.
That crowns a man’s career ; no further goes
The force of sane ambition. For the rest,
He’d all the wealth of privilege one owes
To having frequently in print express’d
Old thoughts about some older joys and woes '
He had his stalls for nothing, and the best
Place on first nights—a manager’s civility,
Which is the author’s patent of nobility.
XCIII.
He had the run of philosophic bars,
Where literature’s professors congregate,
With haply, some clean-shaven tragic stars,
And a few faithful servants of the State,
Who make enough to pay for their cigars,
By writing critiques for the press—a fate
So few sane men in our days seem
to
*
covet—
Thank God ! the Civil Service ain’t above it.
�JON DUAN.
XCIV.
The damsels who deign serve you with your beer
Are deeply versed in literature and art;
And oh! the things those virgins see and hear
Would rather make the goddess Grundy start.
It’s not improving always to sit near
Authors, who, if they don’t attack your heart,—
For they can’t touch it, though they’ve won some
laurels—
Do play the very devil with your morals.
xcv.
Wide as they range, a flavour of sour ink
Goes with them, from the City to the Strand,
And thence to Panton Street. Just watch them pink
A reputation with a master-hand ;
List to them squabbling, and observe them drink—
And then reflect, to-morrow all the land
Will only know which way the world’s inclining,
By what they all have put into their “ lining,”
XCVI.
Leave them. The Muse, poor jade, has had her fill
Of copy and of copy writers. Satis,
Even Jon Duan, though he’s prosperous, still
Cries now and then, when he sees what his fate
is—
To grind for ever in the same old mill
The same old thoughts, for evermore to mate his
Dreams with the need of publishers and editors—
Because the Ideal won’t appease one’s creditors.
XCVII.
Leave them, and leave Jon Duan for awhile,
One of their band, a brother—till one sees
A way that’s safe to say his prose is vile,
And his successes only plagiaries;
4i
You’ll meet them all to-morrow and you’ll smile
At their old jokes, weep o’er their elegies,
Admire them all in copy which encumbers
The New Year Annuals and the Christmas Numbers.
XCVIII.
We’ve seen Jon Duan through Grub Street, safe and
sound—
The passage isn’t always so secure :
Footpads are plenty, publishers abound—
Things which don’t tend to keep a young man
pure.
We’ve seen him fêted, published, bought and
crowned,
And shown at all Smith’s bookstalls : now he’s
sure
Of immortality—and, such is fame-—
Forty years hence, e’en Timbs won’t know his name.
XCIX.
’Tis the best way to leave a hero—great,
The friend of critics, prosperous and fat ;
Keeping his brougham, asked to civic fêtes,
And noble poets’ garden parties.—That
Is not invariably an author’s fate,
But we want an exception, for thereat
The amateurs take fire, write verse by scores—
And that’s the way to punish editors.
C.
And so he’s reached the glorious apogee ;
And success has no history ;—like Peace,
He’s at an altitude whereunto we
Can’t follow, for our wings are fixed with grease,
And in the sun’s red rays shake wofully :
But this will prove he’s found the golden fleece :
We leave him, with a set, refined and manly,
Talking of Gladstone’s pamphlet with Dean Stanley.
�42
JON DUAN.
Canto The Fourth.
i.
||||T‘ PAUL once had apartments with a
The street, you may remember, was called
Straight,—
But whether Peter lodged in such a manner,
The pens of the Apostles don’t relate:
We know he’d several blots upon his banner,
And that he now keeps guard at Heaven’s gate:
But as to what his social habits were,
The details we can find are very rare.
II.
Though we are bound our full belief to give
To that sad business about the Cock;
And though that other incident will live—
When he gave Ma'lchus such a sudden shock.—
Our information’s mostly negative
’Bout this Barjona, who was christened “Rock”;
Yet we’re inclined to think Pierre a hearty,
Hot-temper’d, bold, and fearless sort of party.
III.
He readily gave up his little all—
The fishing business p’rhaps was slow just then—
And, feeling he for preaching had a call,
He went forthwith to fish for souls of men.
The thought of leaving home did not appal,
.And that he gladly went’s no wonder, when,
Alike from Matthew, Mark, and Luke, we find
He must have left a mother-in-law behind!
IV.
However, let St. Peter have his due,
He was a faithful follower, on the whole;
Human, of course—so, equally, are you —
But he’d a loving and an ardent soul,
Which, after persecutions not a few,
Bore him in triumph to a martyr’s goal;
And left behind him an undying fame,
Heirship to which Rome’s Pope advances claim.
V.
Poor Peter ! It is monstrously unfair
That such a Church should take his name in
vain;
To say that he first filled the Papal chair
Must surely give him much post mortem pain.
�JON DUAN.
For not his worst detractor could declare
He e’er did aught the name of Pope to gain.
The lives of few of them will bear inspection;
For lust and blood most had a predilection.
VI.
And Peter’s free from that; he did not fill
His life with villainies the pen can’t write;
His name is not mixed up with crimes that chill;
With sins incestuous that the soul affright;
He did not torture, persecute, and kill,
And make his influence a cursing blight;—
When sinning most, he still might have the hope
He’d never sinned enough to be a Pope!
VII.
He ne’er his helpless fellow-creatures robbed,
To live in sensuality and ease;
He never schemed, and lied, and planned, and
jobbed,
In Heaven’s name, his mistresses to please;
His steps were not with guilty favourites mobbed,
He did not use the Church’s holy keys
The door to damned and devilish sins to ope,—
In short, St. Peter never was a Pope !
VIII.
He had no gold nor houses, tithes nor land,
He had no pictures, and no jewels nor plate;
He never bore a crozier in his hand,
He never put a mitre on his pate;
He simply followed Jesus Christ’s command,
Which so-called Christians have not done of
late;—
Oh! we would raise Hosannahs in our metre,
If pioús people were more like St. Peter.
IX.
We will not talk of Rome ; its annals black
Our pages would too deeply, darkly soil;
Upon the Vatican we’ll turn our back,
Lest indignation should too fiercely boil ;
Its fiendish crimes have reached a depth, alack !
T’wards which our feeble pen would vainly toil :
We will not dabble in the dirt of Rome,
We have enough to do to look at home.
x.
Each sect of Christians in numbers grows,
Who with the nomination are suffic’d;
43
Who are to what their Founder taught, fierce
foes,
Boasting a bastard creed, with errors spiced.
The Christians of the present day are those
Whose words and actions savour least of Christ,
And reckon but of very little count
The precepts of the Sermon on the Mount !
XI.
The English Church our serious thought bespeaks—
We write as friend to it, and not as foeman;
We write to save it from the trait’rous sneaks
Who, English-named, at heart are wholly Roman;
We write, unfettered, with a pen that seeks
Fair field from all, favour undue from no man ;
We write because a thousand blots besmear
Th’ escutcheon of the Church we hold so dear.
XII.
Blots of all kinds and colours, sorts and sizes—
Blots Evangelical and Ritualistic ;
Blots so pronounced that indignation rises ;
Blots hidden carefully in language mystic ;
Blots publicly exhibited as prizes ;
Blots to all usefulness antagonistic—
Blots so diffuse, in fact, that without doubt
They threaten soon to blot the Church right out.
XIII.
Our hero knew that some such blots existed,
For he’d an uncle who’d been Bishop made;
The reason being that he for years persisted
In giving to the Tory party aid.
Though how it was such services could be twisted
To show a fitness for the Bishop grade,
We’ve tried to find out, but we’ve tried in vain—
Perhaps Lord Shaftesbury could this explain.
XIV.
Jon’s Bishop-uncle was a portly man,
With well-filled waistcoat, and a port-wine nose;
Who, since to be a vicar he began,
Had never seen his watch-seals or his toes ;
Who, knowing life to be at best a span,
Resolved to eat good dinners to its close ;
And giving thanks each day to God the giver,
O’erfed himself, and took those pills called liver.
�44
JON DUAN.
XV.
It did not seem, save as an awful warning,
He thought of the directions Christ had given ;
His Purse was large; he search’d the Times each
morning,
That he might see how well his Scrip had thriven
Was far from bed-accommodation scorning,
And never walked it, when he could be driven.
And if the meek in heart alone are bless’d,
He must for cursing long have been assessed.
XVI.
He hunger’d and he thirsted, it is true—
But not for Righteousness—it is most clear.
He mourn’d—but that was merely ’cause he knew
A neighbouring Bishop had more pounds a year;
He laid up earthly treasures not a few,
But of the moth and rust he had no fear;
And whilst of meat and drink he took much
thought,
Consider’d not the lilies as he ought.
XVII.
In sooth, Jon Duan could not find a trait
In which the Bishop followed the Great Master;
. His diocese brought ^15 a day,
And he contriv’d to make a fortune faster
Than money-changers, for he’d a’cute way
Of speculating that ne’er met disaster ;—■
And as his will proved, later, it is gammon
To think one cannot worship God and Mammon.
XVIII.
Of course he something did his pay to earn:
He wrote a bitter book against Dissent ;
And once a year, in May, his soul would burn,
Because the Hindoo had no Testament ;
And to the House of Lords his feet would turn,
If by his aid reforms he could prevent :
And he’d some trouble, too, in duly giving
To all his reverend relatives a living !
XIX.
He has in Ember * weeks to lay his hands
Upon the candidates for ordination ;
In his be-puffed lawn sleeves, and linen bands,
He ’mongst the ladies makes no small sensation ;
* It is not singular perhaps that Ember week is prolific in
“ sticks."
�JON DUAN.
And periodically his lordship stands
To consummate the rite of confirmation,
Which, being an Epicure, he finds not easy,
For as a rule the children’s heads are greasy.
45
Our 36fi£f)rrp)5'.
Meantime, whilst this good man in wealth is rolling,
His slaving curates scarce get bread to eat;
As he his soul with choice old wine’s consoling
(Fit follower of the Apostles’ feet !),
They, as their wretched stipend they are doling
(The Bishop in three months spends more in
meat),
Must recollect, although it seems odd, rather,
That he, in God, is their Right Reverend Father.
1.
Who follow Christ with humble feet,
And rarely have enough to eat,
Who “ Misereres ” oft repeat ?—Our Bishops.
2.
Who, like the fishermen of old,
Care not for house, nor lands, nor gold,
But boldly brave the damp and cold ?—Our Bishops.
3Who preach the gospel to the poor,
And nurse the sick, and teach the boor —
Who faithful to the end endure ?—
Our Bishops.
4Who give up all for Jesus’ sake,
And no thought for the morrow take,
But daily sacrifices make ?—
Our Bishops.
5And who count everything a loss
Except their Lord and Master’s cross,
And reckon riches as but dross ?—
Our Bishops.
xx.
And shame to say, this pillar of the Church
Is the severest landlord in the county ;
Woe to the tenant, who, left in the lurch,
Is not quite ready with the right amount; he
Gets no mercy, for the strictest search
Reveals no instance of this Bishop’s bounty—
Bounty, indeed, ne’er enters in his plans,
Except it is that Bounty called Queen Anne’s !
XXI.
XXII.
XXIV.
How very strange it is that Mr. Miall
Won’t let a state of things like this alone !
For him to say the Church is on its trial
Is but mere foolery, we all must own ;
The Bench of Bishops cannot fail to smile,—The Church they grace is steadfast as the
♦
throne,—•
“ Ged rid of us indeed, what nonsense ! Zounds 1
We cost each year two hundred thousand pounds !w
Thus Duan sings as he one night is dining
With his good Bishop-uncle tête à tête ;
What time the prelate’s nose is redly shining,
And brightly gleams his bald and polished pate.
He does not speak, they had some time been
wining,
Yet on his face is satisfaction great ;
And when his nephew the decanter passes,
They toast the Bench of Bishops in full glasses.
XXIII.
Let’s leave the reverend Epicure to fuddle,
Of many bishop-types he is but one ;
And who can wonder at the Church’s muddle,
When half a dozen ways its leaders run ?
When some are smeared with Babylonish ruddle,
And some are steeped in Evangelic dun;
When Broad and High Church meet in battle
shocks,
And Low Church pelts the pair of them with
Rocks.
xxv.
The Bishops ! What a volume in a word !
Our hearts beat quicker at the very sound ;
Get rid of them, indeed !—it’s too absurd.
Shame on the men who such a scheme pro
pound!
Oh ! can it be that they have never heard
How in good works the Bishops all abound ?
Let Science, Art, and Learning pass away,
But leave us Bishops to crown Coming K----- .
�JON DUAN.
XXVI.
Meantime, whilst High and Narrow, Low and
Broad,
And Deep (the Deep are those who get the prizes)
All fight together, for the praise of God,
The thought in some few people’s minds arises,
Why any longer they the land defraud,
And common-sense most certainly advises
That if their zeal for fighting’s so intense,
They ought to combat at their own expense.
XXVII.
For who takes interest in their petty quarrels ?
Who cares for what they wear or how they stan
Let the big babies have their bells and corals,
And play the fool ; but men the right demand
To say these “posers ” shall not teach us morals,
Nor be upheld by law throughout the land.
,
’Tis time, indeed, the Church to roughly handle,
And stop what has become a crying scandal.
XXVIII.
When Christian Bishops do but bark and bite
In silly speeches and in unread books ;
When shepherds leave their flocks in sorry plight,
And lay about them with their pastoral crooks ;
When Congress breaks up in a smart, free fight,
The state of things delay no longer brooks,
But every day makes the impression stronger—
We should support the Church’s wars no longer.
XXIX.
Nor must we in our midst still go on breeding
A set of priests both pestilent and prying;
Who, on our daughters’ superstition feeding,
The strongest bonds of home-love are untying;
At whose attacks morality is bleeding,
And Englishwomen’s honour lies a-dying—
Who are reviving, with zeal retrogressional,
The grievous scandals of the old confessional.
XXX.
&
These fellows are the worst;—not half so bad
The Calvinists who say we must be damned,
Nor those who go at times revival mad,
And glory in conversions that are shamm’d ;
Nor those who, Spurgeon apeing, think to add
To their renown by getting churches cramm’d,
Nor think how much they let religion down
By posturing weekly as a pulpit clown.
nwaiwwnitffic-i;
�JON DUAN.
XXXI.
A truce, though—we are getting very prosy,
And quite forgetting our long-suffering hero. .
For the long sermon to atone, suppose he
Appear at once and dance a gay bolero,
Or sing a ditty, amorous and rosy,
To bring our readers’ spirits up from zero—
Or stay, what’s better still, let us prevail
On him to tell a Ritualistic tale.
San ©uatt’tf
A STORY OF THE CONFESSIONAL.
I.
Know ye the place where they press and they
hurtle,
And do daring deeds for greed and for gain,
Where the mellow milk-punch and the green-fatted
turtle
Now mildly digest, and now madden with pain ?
Know ye the land of Stone and of Vine,
Where mayors ever banquet and aidermen dine ;
Where Emma was wooed, and Abbott laid low,
And they fly paper kites and big bubbles blow ;
Where Gold is a god unassail’d in his might,
And neck-ties are loosened when stocks get too
tight ?
If this district you know—it is E.C. to guess,
And you go up a street which the Hebrews possess,
And turn to the right,—why, then, for a wager,
You come to the Church of St. Wackslite the Major;
And list, as o’er noises that constantly swell,
Comes the soul-stirring sound of its evensong bell.
2'.
Robed in the vestments of the East,
Apparell’d as becomes a priest,
Awaiting his sacristan’s knock,
The Reverend Hippolytus Stock
Sat musing in his vestry chair.
Deep thought was in his pasty face,
His tonsured head was racked with care:—
A smell of spirits filled the place—
(Terrestrial spirits such as we
Call mystic’ly Brett’s O. D. V.)
His crafty soul, well skill’d to hide,
The guilty secrets kept inside, *
Could smoothe not from his furrow’d brow
The anxious lines that seared it now.
3’Twas strange what troubled him, he had
All things that Ritualists make glad:
Embroider’d banners, silken flags,
And velvet Offertory Bags :
Two Utrecht Altar-cloths with lace,
Font Jugs and Buckets in their place.
Of Candlesticks a wondrous pair,
A Chalice Veil of texture rare.
Rich Dossals in the chancel hang ;
From Carven Desks the choir-boys sang ;
The Pavement was encaustic tiles ;
The Fauld Stools of the latest styles.
Even the Hat-suspenders show’d
The latest ritualistic mode ;
His Maniples were fair and white ;
His Sacramental Spoons a sight;
The Chancel nothing could surpass,
The Altar-rails were polish’d brass ;
Assorted Crosses every where,
Assist the congregation’s prayer ;
Indeed, though it involved some loss,
The Napkins were cut on the cross ;
*
He’d Cutters for the sacred bread ;
And from an Eagle lectern read;
The Pews were new, the Windows stained,—
In short, no single want remained,
Suggested by religious pride,
Which had not promptly been supplied.
So ’twas no use to go again
To Cox and Sons in Maiden Lane.—
Yet still those reverend features bore
The anxious look we’ve named before.
4The knock was heard, a form appear’d,
A black, lank form with copious beard—
“ Three minutes, and the bell will cease.”
Then, Hippolytus, “ Hold thy pe^ce !
Has the communion plate been clean’d?”
The lank one acquiescence lean’d—
“ Three boys,” he said, “ have work’d for hours,
Gard’s Plate Cloth capitally scours,
I never saw it look so bright,
You will feel proud of it to-night.”
“ And has that sack of incense come ?”
The lank one, save for “ Yes,” was dumb.
* A friend who thinks all Ritualists are vipers,
These napkins christens Ritualistic Wipers. ”
47
�48
JON DUAN.
“ Incense is up again, beware !
The Acolytes must take more care.
They burn too much of it at nights.”
And here the black form silence brake—
“ O, Sir, concerning those wax lights :
Wicks says he will a discount make
On thirty pounds for ready cash.”
The vicar smiled, he was not rash,
And merely murmuring softly, “ Thirty ? ”
Continued in a louder tone,
“Joseph, that I. H. S. is dirty,
See by a sister it is scrubbed,
And have my pocket-service rubbed.
And say to Mrs. Sniggs, it’s bosh !
That Alb did not come from the wash.
And now, enough of worldly cares,
Lead on the way to evening prayers ! ”
5St. Wackslite’s filled with floods of light,
’Tis celebration high to-night.
The organ peals, the people kneels.
The “ supers ” first their banners bear,
The vergers with their wands are there,
The choristers march two by two,
The Acolytes their duties do.
And as their censers high are sway’d,
They would a sweet perfume have made,
Had not the incense been of late
Cheap, truly,—but adulterate.
Lay brothers in due sequence walk,
The assistant-priests behind them stalk.
Last comes in robes which rainbows mock
The Reverend Hippolytus Stock ;
And round the church in order slow,
They with triumphal music go.
But by the door a son of sin,
A writer in the rabid Rock,
Has managed early to slip in—
’Tis his to cause a sudden shock.
For in a tone so full and clear
That everyone cannot but hear,
His voice he raises and recites
These lines, and not a line but bites :—
dje
of Rrintr.
i.
“ The aisles of Rome ! the aisles of Rome 1
Where burning censers oft are swung,
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
lôppëTpictürësôfalpine scenery
“As studies of some of the most sublime aspects of the Upper Alpine World, these Pictures have never
been surpassed for power and fidelity combined.”—Times.
On View Daily
at the
CONDUIT STREET GALLERY EXHIBITION, 9, Conduit Street, W.
Open Daily from IO a.m. until Dusk.
THE ONLY PRIZE MEDAL, PARIS, 1867.
a
rOh?
lo|ra
Admission Is.
FLEET’S
gw
.
Uniter tljc ^atrnnas? of
M I N E R A L
o
*
R
tije prince of UVCMä.
WATERS,
Specially Preparedfor Home and Foreign Consumption.
IMPORTERS OF FOREIGN NATURAL MINERAL WATERS.
Price List on Application.
Manufactory : 161 to 171, East Street, Walworth, London, S,E.
A
In the Press.
Library Edition.
Price
ion.
6<Z
THE IDYLLS OF THE COMING K
COMPRISING
The
Coming
K------ .
The Siliad
-
Jon Duan -
-
With a New Lay (Gaeleth and
Loonette),
With a New Book (Jove Deceived
by a Message from a Goddess.
With a New Canto.
A Few Copies to be had of
T H E
COMING
Apply to the Authors, 15, Wine Office Court.
K----
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
ULSTER HOUSE, 38, Conduit Street, W.
p'HE LUXURY & PRACTICAL UTILITY
QF AUTUMN & WINTER COSTUMES.
JJMIFORM SUITS for LADIES and GENTLEMEN.
ULSTER
TRAVELLING COATS,
With all the Latest Improvements,
301-. to 130J.
Ditto, lined with Fur, 15 to 75 guineas.
ULSTER
COUNTRY & TOURING SUITS A®
ULSTER SEASIDE SUITS.
DITTO SUITS, 6o.v. to oo.r
MORNING SUITS, 7os. to iooj
FROCK DITTO SUITS, So,, to ° 201
FROCK and DRESS SUITS, 8oj. to 1301-.
LADIES' DEPARTMENT
J^ADIES’ CLOTH SUITS and JACKETS. — Among the
Ready for immediate use, or made to order at a few hours’
notice,
From Soft, Pliable Materials, specially Manufactured and
Waterproofed for both Ladies and Gentlemen.
„
novelties, foi-the present season which Mr. B en rAM^Jrf Ulster
House, Conduit Street, has prepared for his lady custoaMHL we mav
more especially call attention to one which most of A™ers, we
KE S» “ f
Measurement Required ; Size of Breast and Waist, and
the Height.
TTLSTER HOUSE,
CONDUIT STREET. — It were
Vy superfluous, of course, to point out that this well-known establish
ment of Mr. benjamin s contains at all seasons every variety of the
newest and most approved description of apparel, suitable both for
gentlemen and the gentler sex. But certain of his novelties deserve
special mention. Among the latest wonders of the tailor’s art, as here
practised,„is the Universal,” which may well be described as i{no end
of a coat.
The cloth is all wool, soft, warm, and waterproof—the last
epithet applies to all the cloths used here. It is furnished with a large
hood, has numerous and capacious pockets, and is provided likewise
with a gun-flap, which may be taken off when no longer needed. It is
equally adapted for riding, driving, or walking, and is so built that the
wearer when on horseback may, by a skilful arrangement of straps and
buttons, convert Jt into both coat and leggings. For this purpose the
skl?11S m three pieces, the centre one of which can be turned up inside,
while the two outer ones fasten round the legs below the knee, leaving
ample room for the play of those limbs. It is scarcely possible to
imagine a class of coat more suitable for the sportsman. Another
novelty is a new kind of shooting coat with expanding pleats, so
arranged that, no matter how placed, the body and arms enjoy perfect
freedom of action. It looks like an improved Norfolk jacket, and is
made to fit the. figure admirably, so that it is sightly as well as useful.
Another, and indeed the latest, of Mr. Benjamin’s novelties, is the
Kink suit, intended for ladies, chiefly when skating, but available also
for rough cross-country walking. This comprises an underskirt or petti
coat ; an overskirt, opening both back and front ; a jacket fitting tight
behind, but pleated in front ; a pair of gaiters, and a hat to match. It
forms, indeed, a complete outer costume, and we should judge it
would stand rough wear admirably. Above this may also be worn an
over-jacket, with muff to match, when the intensity of the cold makes
such additions desirable.
Other habits, polonaises, ladies’ Ulsters,
with hood and cape—so contrived that the wearer may detach them if
she chooses—and jackets with, if required, a skirt long enough for
riding, and that may be looped up and formed into a pannier for
walking All these coats and costumes can be made in such different
materials as homespuns, cheviots, &c., and of a thickness suitable
either to our temperate climate, or the severer cold of a Russian or
Canadian winter. We are not prepared to say if the garment known of
ail men as an Upper Benjamin is indebted for its name to the proprietor
of Ulster House, but certainly those who need such an article might do
worse than test Mr. Benjamin’s skill and ingenuity as a builder of coats.
L,and and Water, Nov. 21st, 1874.
ULSTER COVERT COATS, 45s. to 70s”
'pHE DRAG DRIVING and RIDING COAT.
'pHE AUTUMN UPPER COAT.
H
*
pE
IMPROVED INVERNESS, with Belt, &c.
’
T TLSTER STALKING or UNIVERSAL COATS, with
Movable Cape, Hood, and Pocket Gun Flaps, 70s. to 100s.
WINTER OVERCOATS, 35s. to 100s.
TTLSTER and HIGHLAND
PLEATED SUITS for
SHOOTING and FISHING.
‘^^’ITH BREEKS, Knicks, or Pants, 70J. to 905.
ITH all the LATEST IMPROVEMENTS, including
W Pocket Gun Flaps and Cartridge Belt
JpiGHLAND KILT SUITS.
which then takes fho nlan 3 ?se^u s.kirt> longer than the one] below,
„ ? 1 -J ta^es the place of a petticoat; on the principle of the verv
*
useful riding habit introduced by this firm some Time sfoce which bv
ohfeaSawaeikhiv <leimrthanCe’
reqU1fred’ can be transformed’into skirte
ot a walking length—a great boon for travelling.
Now that tailorfittfoVcImh1indr hS° much th<? fashi?n: Iadies wil1 find the exquisitely
particularly1 tem^^V“15 anl Jackets made by Mr' **
jamin
PJrtlcuIariy tempting. The same firm has a speciality for well-cut
for h ThSieSa°f
grey cloth Wlth velvet revers, and pockets as well as
jackets Vku±terS/n tktraVClling C,l0aks’ and every variety oOadies?
former years fnd
°ther
?°ths are StiI1 as much "v°™ « in
pan^in/thete art
now exclusively trimmed with fur; and Kcom?r yln» these are muffs of the same material edged with fur Ulster
House has made a name for itself in the matter of Children^ Uhtos
beenCso muchfo
^7
be
the leatber Petticoats wlgXhave
ceen so much m request of late.—Oct. 3 rst, 1874
THERTrTrTdING HABITj^r^rto^/yTT:--------------
"pHE WATERPROOF SPENCER, 35.f. to 45j.
'T'HE ULSTER and HIGHLAND PLEATED & KILTED
DRESSES, 703 to 100^.
.
*
THE TAILORS' IMPROVED POLONAISE, 70X to
9oa
IVTEW POLONAISE WALKING DRESS.—That index
fatigable caterer for the ladies, Mr. Benjamin, of Ulster House,
Conduit Street, is again in the field with an Improved Polonaise Walking
Dress. Though in view of the recent torrid weather it seems almost
out of place to speak of dresses made of woollen materials at all, yet it
is not always May, and even in spring and summer the chilly and damp
days of our changeable climate often, make a woollen dress of light
colour and stylish make at the same time seasonable and comfortable.
Both these qualifications can be united in the new polonaise suit which
has been brought under our notice. It is composed of a double-breasted
polonaise, with a very artistically draped pannier tunic, to be worn over
a plain skint of the same material as the polonaise, both being finished
off with several rows of stitching at the edge. To these may be added
if desired, a double-breasted jacket for out-door wear in wet or cold
weather. The series of garments are put and made up with the neat
ness and accuracy of workmanship which we have always found to be
the characteristics of Mr. Benjamin’s confections for ladies; neither
has he forgotten to add the many convenient pockets hitherto reserved
for the use of the sterner sex. To suit all requirements in the way of
make of material and colour, Mr. Benjamin shows an extremely large
assortment of homespuns, cheviots, and tweeds, manufactured of every
imaginable tint, ranging from Oxford grey to the lightest stone colour,
¿nd including the heather, granite, and yellow shades so much worn at
the present time. Some vicuna cloth in this collection, made from un
dyed wool of the animal, whence it takes its name, is very effective
from its pale golden, tint; while the softness of its texture makes it
most suitable fordraping into these polonaise tunics.-Queen, May 2,1874.
T ADIES’
ULSTER
TRAVELLING
COATS,
from
42s. to roos.
RADIES’ UNIVERSAL CLOAKS,
y^ITH MOVABLE CAPE and HOOD, 50X. to
8oj.
U’LSTER RIDING and HUNTING HABITS, yor. to
iooj.
LSTER WALKING and TRAVELLING DRESSES,
703'. to 1003
.
*
AT ULSTER HOUSE, No. 38, Conduit Street, W
�3
THE “ BUSKIN.”—A Tragedy Tracing.
—------------------------------- :-------------------------------------------- i, i
J
1
��JON DUAN.
49
Where saints are worshipp’d ’neath the dome,
Where banners sway and mass is sung—<
In Papal Sees these aisles have place,
But English churches they disgrace.
II.
“ The vestments, many-hued and quaint,
The alb, the stole, the hood, the cope,
The prayers to Virgin and to saint—
These are for them who serve the Pope :
Shame ! that such mummeries besmirch
The ritual of the English Church!
ill.
“ I took the train to Farringdon,
From Farringdon I walked due E.;
And musing there an hour alone,
I scarce could think such things could be.
At Smithfield—scene of martyrs slain—
I could not deem they died in vain.
IV.
u And is it so ? and can it be,
My country ? Is what we deplore
Aught but a phase of idiocy ?
Is England Protestant no more?
Is she led captive by a man—
The dotard of the Vatican ?
V.
“ Must we but weep o’er days more blest ?
Must we but blush ?—Our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our martyred dead !
Of all the hundreds grant but three
To fight anew Mackonochie.”
This while had all around been dazed,
And no one tried his tongue to stay ;
The choristers had ceased, amazed,
The organ did no longer play.
But soon a sense of wrong return’d,
And scores of eager fingers burn’d
To turn the ribald traitor out;
And there arose a shaming shout,
And several vergers for him made;
Still he no sign of fear betrayed.
In truth, so full of zeal was he,
Another verse he did begin,
But, promptly fetched, P.C. 9 E.
Appears, and forthwith “runs him in.”
E
�5o
The organ then peals forth once more,
And the processional is o’er.
6.
The three assistant priests await
The signal to officiate,
And bide till ’tis their vicar’s will
To dance the usual quadrille.
Then, when he joins their little band,
And all before the altar stand,
They face the east, they face the west,
They face the ways that please them best ;
They scuffle quickly dos-à-dos,
And through gymnastic motions go ;
They turn to corners, do the chain,
Kneel down, get up, and kneel again ;
The vicar, plainly as can be,
Makes an exemplary M.C.
Each tangled move he regulates,
And juggles with the cups and plates—
No slip, no stumble, not a fault ;
Though he is near two-score and fat,
He could have turned a somersault,
This Ritualistic acrobat.
Nay, it obtains among his friends,
And is in Low Church circles said,
That Hippolytus soon intends
To celebrate “upon his head !”
7The organ plays its final note,
The church is wrapp’d in silent gloom,
A dreamy stillness seems to float,
The vicar seeks his robing-room.
One duty now remains for him,
’Tis the Confessional to seek,
Where burns the waxen taper dim,
And hear the heart-thoughts of the weak.
And, as he goes, he murmurs low,
“ Yes ! she will come, for she was there !”
And in his eyes hot passions glow,
As sits he in his oaken chair.
And now, one parts the curtains red,
And kneels, and bows a guilty head,
With many a tale of sin and woe ;
Still others come, and kneel,.and go—
Escaping thus, they think, the ban
Shed o’er them by this wicked man.
x
His eyes still peer with anxious care,
He mutters, “ Surely she was there !”
JON DUAN.
Then fiendish lustre fills his eyes,
And colour to his pale cheeks flies,
For down the aisle, in the light so dim,
A female form comes straight to him,
And he knows by the hat with the sea-gull’s wing,
And the cuirass cut in the latest fashion,
That those faintly-falling footsteps bring
The woman he loves with a guilty passion.
8.
Thoughts of the past rush through his brain,
Thoughts rapturous, yet link’d with pain,
Of the sweet face when first she came
His spiritual aid to claim—
Of her soft arms, in meekness bending
Across her maiden’s budding breast;
Of those soft arms anon extending
To clasp the hands of him who blest.
O she was fair ! her eyes were blue,
Her hair was golden, as spun sunbeams are ;
Her cheeks had robbed the rosebuds of their hue,
Her voice was music coming from afar ;
And she, suspecting naught, was full of trust—
Trust, confidence and innocence inspire ;
Whilst he look’d on her lovely form and bust,
And vow’d to win her to his fierce desire.
Yes, she was fair as first of womankind,
When in her virgin innocence first smiling ;
And he, with cruel purpose in his mind,
Was wily as the serpent; her beguiling
With holy words and hypocritic speeches,
Such as the Ritualistic manual teaches.
.
Too many times she came, and he
Plied her with subtle Jesuitry;
Poison’d her mind and soil’d her heart
With all his cunning, priestly art;
Dealing his every venomed stroke
From underneath religion’s cloak,
Till, counting her within his power,
He hailed th’ approach of triumph’s hour,
And, as her frail form meets his sight,
He plans her fall that very night.
9In silence bow’d the virgin’s head ;
As if her eyes were fill’d with tears,
That stifled feeling dared not shed—
As if o’ercome by maiden’s fears.
�51
JON DUAN.
“ My daughter ! ” quoth the wicked priest,
il Your face lift up, tell me, at least,
What ghostly trouble rives your soul—
God gives me power to make it whole.”
And, as he spoke, behind her head
He closely drew the curtains red ;
But still no word her silence broke,
Her presence sighs alone bespoke.
“ My daughter ! ” thus the priest again,
“Your studied reticence is vain.”
His lips bent forward near her ear,
“ Come, cast away your foolish fear ;
Confess the sins that on you press—
Confess to me, sweet girl, confess ! ”
Save heavier sighs, no answer came,
The vicar’s breath came quicklier, then—
“ Dear Alice !”—for he knew her name—
Burst forth that villain amongst men,
I quite forget my own distress
In telling you I love you well,—
So well, that all the pains of Hell
I’d bear for one long, close caress.”
No movement yet. “ O, Alice, make
Some answer, lest my heart should break.
I am your priest, I know your heart;
Alice, I will not from you part.
I’ve sworn to be a celibate,
And marriage vows are not for me ;
But holy love and passion great
A mingled fate for us decree.
I claim you, who shall dare say nay,
Or tear you from my arms away?
Come, darling, we are all alone,
One hour will all past pain atone ;
Come, let no longer aught divide—
Come, darling, be the Church’s bride 1 ”
10.
All suddenly the female form arose,
And as the vicar stretched his arms to seize her,
A manly fist dash’d right into his nose,
A crushing blow, call’d vulgarly a “ sneezer ”;
And whilst he felt all nose and strange surprise,
The fist work’d piston-like just twice or thrice,
And bunged up straightway were his sunken eyes,
And then his throat^was seized as in a vice.
Whilst, as his breath was being shaken out,
And he felt he would very quickly smother—
Then, just before he fainted, came a shout,
Of “Alice could not come! but I’m her brother!”
i
11.
The Reverend Hippolytus Stock
Was kept for several weeks in bed ;
It was a very sudden shock,
And very copiously he bled.
He suffered very dreadful pain,
His mental torture was still greater ;
His nose will ne’er be straight again,—
Let’s hope his notions will be straighter !
XXXII.
Thus told, or would, or could, or should have told
Our hero Duan, in tolerable rhyme,
The story of the Ritualist, so sold,
A precious product of this popish time.
Such men o’er wives and daughters get a hold,
Combining snake-like venom with its slime.—
J on knew the details well; he was no other
Than the revenging metamorphosed brother,
XXXIII.
He’d seen his sister mope for weeks and weeks,.
And grow more melancholy every day ;
He half suspected Ritualistic freaks,
Knowing her inclinations went that way.
At last, her fullest confidence he seeks,
And learns enough to fill him with dismay ;
Then warns her promptly of her wily foe,
And lays the stratagem of which you know.
XXXIV.
When all his sister’s clothes he had put on,
And sought from paint and tweezers artful aid,
No casual glance could have detected Jon,
He looked so very like a pretty maid ;
And with long tresses his head pinn’d upon,
A perfect transformation was display’d.
In fact, to Alice, for the parson’s liking,
He show’d resemblance very much too striking t
XXXV.
'
Exuno disce omnes / ’Tis a saying
We cannot well too strongly bear in mind—
Beware the clergymen at Popery playing,
The set to priestly arrogance inclined ;
They are, at best, beguiling and betraying
The sacred ties around our hearts entwined.
Husbands and Brothers ! stamp out like small-pox,
Virus that breeds in the Confession-box.
b
'
;
’
!
f
�52
' JON DUAN.
Canto The Fifth.
i.
ELL is a city (very) much like London ”—
The words are Shelley’s, reader, not our
own—If it be so, then there’s no lack of Pun done
Down in that place where Satan has his throne.
Nor would the hardened sinner be quite undone,
Were he sent there for sinning to atone.
In fact, the Ranters would not make us cry,
If we’d to go to London when we die.
i
I
;
j
II.
Of course there are two sides to every question,
There’s not a medal has not its obverse—
Good dinners have their following indigestion,
And London has its bad side and its worse;
But, if we choose the good side and the rest shun,
Who can our somewhat natural choice asperse ?
If Duan chose what he thought best, with zest,
’Tis not for us to say—Bad was his best.
1
III.
■
For all these things are matters of opinion—
And one man’s poison is another’s meat;
We’re not to say a man’s the Devil’s minion,
Because no creed he happens to repeat;
Or doom to flames eternal, a Socinian,
Because One God to him is all complete.
All men have power to choose—by which we mean,
There are such things as moral fat and lean.
IV.
The fat suits one, the lean may suit another ;
And why should we, against our will, eat fat,
Or force the lean on an unwilling brother,
Who thinks it fit to only feed the cat ?
And if a man will eat nor one, nor t’other,
He surely is best judge what he is at—
No man’s a right to, wholly or in part,
Prescribe his brother’s moral dinner carte.
v-
Wherefore, we say, we will not raise our voice
To say what Duan chose as best was bad;
He, certainly, did not repent his choice,
And very rarely was he hipp’d or sad ;
Au contraire,—in his youth he did rejoice,
And who are we that he should not be glad ?
He slept well, drank well, ate well, and his dinners
Digested admirably for a sinner’s.
.
1
*
■
|
f
■
'
|
■
�JON DUAN.
53
VI.
XI.
And, by-the-by, what is a sinner, pray ?
“ A man who sins.” Then, prithee, what is sin ?
Let rival sect’ries have on this their say,
And each a different answer will begin.
Which is confusing, and would cause delay,
The fact being, we have to look within.
What use are dogmas, doctrines,myths,and creeds?
A man’s own heart supplies the truth he needs.
Think what he went through ! Flow he’d to observe
A code of laws unwritten, but Draconic,
Which make life all straight lines without a curve—
And so conservative and non-Byronic,
That he who from their ruling dares to swerve
Is punished with severity Masonic—
The eternal laws of Fashion’s legislature,
Being ever urged ’gainst those who go for Nature.
VII.
But these digressions cannot be allow’d,
Or we shall never tell how Duan fared ;
Whilst seeking pleasure in the London crowd—
How he was pleas’d and flatter’d, trick’d and
snared—
But, thanks to his good heart and lineage proud,
Was yet from every degradation spared.
And how he lived, and went a killing pace,
With polished footsteps and a finished grace.
VIII.
No wonder Duan was a favourite,
Or that his handsome person was admired ;
That he was rather spoilt, if not so quite,
And that no end of passions he inspired.
It was indeed a trial by no means light
When he from ’mongst the “ upper ten” retired ;
And all Society was rather riled
When he took refuge in Bohemia’s wild.
IX.
For, he was such a pet, his mirror’s frame
(He had a suite of rooms in Piccadilly)
Was studded with the cards with which the game
Of good Society is played. ’Tis silly
How one admits a piece of pasteboard’s claim,
And has to do its bidding “willy-nilly,”
And dine and dance, and dawdle without measure,
Because it is Society’s good pleasure.
x.
No other mistress could be so severe,
Or bully man so much, or so afflict him,
As Duan found when, in his twentieth year,
He to her tyranny became a victim;
And served her until, from exhaustion sheer,
He well-nigh wished Society had kick’d him,
Or that, still better, he had kick’d Society,
And gone in for Bohemian variety.
........ "«■■I«'
XII.
Duan soon found he had to dress by rule ;
His own sartorial taste did not avail; or
Could he help the idea he was a fool
When he had audiences of his tailor.
Scorn mixed with pity filled the face of Poole
As he, as though he had been Duan’s jailer,
To his directions turned a deaf ear, utter,
And passed him on, unheeded, to the cutter.
XIII.
In vain Jon Duan very mildly states,
He thinks that pattern and this cut will suit him;
The cutter coolly for his silence waits,
Nor deigns to take the trouble to refute him;
But, standing sternly to “ Le Coupeur” plates,
Seems as a forward youngster to compute him,
And simply says, as though to save all fuss—
“ Gents usually leave such things to us !”
XIV.
We know what that means; for, ’tis no small
matter.
Why do we wear to-day the “chimney-pot”?
Because we leave our head-gear to our hatter,
And not because one useful point it’s got.
Why not the old delusive notion scatter,
And have a hat not heavy, hard, and hot ?—
(That last line, we may make especial mention,
Is worth the Cockney’s serious attention.)
XV.
Think of the modern boot, and then say whether
Such pedal torture must perforce be borne.
Why not encase our feet in untann’d leather,
And say farewell to blister and to corn ?
Let boots and bunions pass away together,
’Mid universal ecstasy and scorn !
We are but pilgrims, yet, can’t there be made
A single “Progress” without “Bunyan’s” aid?
�JON DUAN.
54
XVI.
Must we be always abject slaves, in fact,
And martyrs to the taste of those who dress us ?
Bear meekly all that Fashion does enact
(She clothes poor woman in a shirt of Nessus !),
And stand, and, like the tailors’ dummies, act,
Whilst into trussed-up blocks our snips com
press us ?
Free Land ! Free Love !—these two cries just now
press :
Well, add a third, and clamour for Free Dress !
XVII.
Again, digression ! Duan meekly wore
The clothes his first-class tailors kindly made
him;
Bought Hoby’s boots, by Lincoln’s “stove-pipe”
swore;
And did his hair as Mr. Truefitt bade him:
Had collars, gloves, and useless things galore,
All which helped in Society to aid him—
And warmly welcomed by Patricia’s host,
His name was daily in the Morning Post.
XVIII.
Here could be seen—who doubts the Morning
Post ?
Its articles are like the Thirty-nine—
How often Duan with a noble host
Would, with more victims, “greatly daring,
dine I”
And wonder that, with such parade and boast,
There was so little food, and such bad wine;
And ask himself, with natural surprise,
If noble hosts fed hunger through the eyes ?
Dined, too, with Lord Cinqfoil, in Blankley Square,
Who is another of these curious mixtures;
Who has a name and reputation glorious,
Yet takes his neighbours’ spoons in way notorious.
XXI.
He put his legs ’neath Lord Maecenas’ table,
Who’s so much money and so little mind,
Whose sensuality smacks of the stable,
Though he to Art and Music seems inclined.
He fed with Viscount Quicksot, and was able,
From after-dinner confidence, to find
The strongest reason why this peer should press
To rescue pretty nurse-girls in distress.
XXII.
He dined at Lambeth Palace with the saints,
He dined at Richmond (often) with a sinner;
He found that nearly every lady paints,
And laces far too tight to eat her dinner.
Hidden, in upper circles, he found taints,
’Neath a disguise that daily waxes thinner.
And that for morals ’tis a very queer age,
And more especially amongst the Peerage.
XXIII.
Yes, ’neath the very dull and placid level,
He found the morals of high life but lame;
Beneath its mask of etiquette, the Devil
Promoting scandals that we dare not name.
We’ll leave th’ exposé to some future Gre ville,
Nor hurt the fame of any high-born dame —
Though, truth to tell, despite our Sovereign Lady,
Society’s repute was ne’er more shady.
XXIV.
XIX.
He dined with Omnium’s Duke, that titled rake,
Who keeps a private house of assignation;
Whose agents, from the West End, nightly take,
Fresh damsels for his Grace’s delectation;
Who, publicly, such efforts seems to make
For wicked London’s moral reformation;
And, as becomes his dignified position,
Is liberal patron of the “ Midnight Mission.”
XX.
He dined with Earl Tartuffe, who takes the chair,
When Vice requires his periodic strictures;
And when he dined, saw his collection rare
Of obscene pamphlets and indecent pictures.
The air is full of scandals of divorces,
The smoking-rooms of Pall Mall reek with
rumour ;
And if we trace it to its various sources,
’Tis not, we find, a freak of spite of humour.
No ; everywhere demoralizing force is
Right hard at work ; and in a very few more
Years, if there is no change, our upper crust
Will crumble up, destroyed—its lust in dust.
XXV.
At Brookes’s, Prince’s, at the “Rag” or Raleigh,
Wherever Duan went, by night or day,
The conversation turned, methodically,
Upon patrician damsels gone astray ;
:
�JON DUAN.
55
And scarce an anecdote or witty sally,
But took a woman’s character away.
Titled transgressions seemed the only fashion;
And joys, unblessed by Church, the ruling passion.
XXVI.
But on the surface, as has been expressed,
Society was placid as before,
And called, and rode, and drove, and 11 drummed,”
and dressed,
As though it had at heart no cancerous sore;
And Duan, being so much in request,
Full often entered its portentous door,
And, with a Spartan heroism, danced,
Or tea’d at five o’clock with air entranced.
XXVII.
He went to many a hostess’s “At home”—
Where everybody is so much abroad—
Through crammed-up halls and salons doomed to
roam,
Where, ’spite the heat, the etiquette’s not thaw’d;
Up crowded staircases he slowly clomb,
Hustled and pushed, and trodden on and
claw’d.—
Such inconvenience much too great a price is
To pay for cold weak tea and lukewarm ices.
XXVIII.
Or e’en to hear the last new baritone,
Or shake the hand of the receiving Duchess,
Or see the Heir-apparent to the Throne,
Trotted round proudly in her eager clutches;
Or catch some flirting matron all alone,
And make a future assignation; much is
This last in vogue ; it is not hard to chouse
The husbands, specially if in the “ House.”
XXIX.
They go, dear innocents! and sit and snore,
And vote to order in St. Stephen’s Chapel ;
Nor dream that gallant captains haunt their door,
And Princes with their wives’ fair virtue
grapple ;
And—well, our womankind are as of yore, 1
They have not changed since Eve devoured
the apple,—
But, ’twould be “rough” on Hannen, past all
doubt,
If half the husbands found their spouses out.
�56
yON DUAN.
XXX.
All her reputed pleasures he had tasted,
And found them, oft repeated, apt to pall
Upon his palate ; he no longer hasted
To get an invite for the Prince’s ball,
And thought the hours were altogether wasted
He spent in evening routs and morning call ;
And even found, in time, to care one fails
’Bout meeting Him of Cambridge or of Wales.
XXXI.
Whilst his friends’ husbands, not to be outdone,
Kept pretty, painted cages in “ The Wood ” ;
With pretty birdies in them, full of fun,
And often in a rather naughty mood ;—
Thus is it that the double trick is done.
(To speak such facts is, as we know, tabooed ;
But we, spite Mrs. Grundy’s interfering,
Intend to strip off modern life’s veneering.)
He tired of Dudley’s china and his pictures ;
Nor cared for Pender’s most elaborate “ feeds”;
He wearied of those Chiswick Garden mixtures,
Where names so heterogeneous one reads.
He shunned, at last, all Lady Devonshire’s
“ fixtures,”
And feared the Waldegravian "friendlyleads.”
And, as a child a powder or a pill dreads,
Shirked Art at Mr. Hope’s and Lady Mildred’s.
XXXII.
,
■
xxxv.
It is not strange that, since our women marry
For riches and position, name and fame,
They seek for love elsewhere, and quickly carry
A fierce flirtation on with some old " flame,”
And freely yield to Dick, or Tom, or Harry,
The pleasant leisure-hours their lords should
claim.
And Duan found, when once well in the swim,
His friends’ wives made too many calls on him.
XXXVII.
XXXVI.
;
;
)
,
i
It’s very thin, you scratch the Politician,
And find that he’s a hungerer for place ;
The great Philanthropist—he makes admission
His motives would his character disgrace ;
The Bishop—and he mourns that his position
Does not admit that he should go the pace—
Removes from yon Prude’s face her veil, so thin,
And, with a leer, she’ll lure you into sin.
XXXIII.
-
,
i
i
:
Pull off the Church’s gown, and she will stand
A greedy tyrant, gorged with guilt and gold ;
Take from Justitia’s eyes the blinding band,
And see her wink as truth is bought and sold ;
The mask from Thespis snatch with sudden hand,
And then in every London stage behold
A mart for painted women, and an aid
To padded Cyprians to ply their trade.
The Hamiltonian Hall no more he seeks,
Nor treads the corridors of Leveson Gower;
The tableaux vivants down at Mrs. Freke’s
Raise no excitement in him as of yore ;
He did not go to Grosvenor House for weeks,
And never darkened Bentinck’s ducal door.
In fact, the more he saw, and heard, and knew,
Did la crème de la crème seem but “ sky-blue.”
XXXVIII.
And even intrigues grew great bores at last,
For they, too, savoured strongly of De Brett ;
And, also, when a girl was more than fast,
Her sin was fenced about with etiquette
To such extent that Duan was aghast
At an hypocrisy unequalled yet ;
And longing for an unrestrain’d variety,
Vow’d he would have the sins jzz/zj' the society.
■
' XXXIV.
XXXIX.
i
Pull—no, please don’t, on reconsideration !
Our hero’s patient, but to keep him waiting,
While we indulge in moral observation,
Is calculated to be irritating.
Besides, we have some further information
To give you of his later doings, dating
From those days when both wiser grown and older,
He gave Society the frigid shoulder.
So he to the " ten thousand ” bade adieu,
And said ‘‘Good-bye” to "Prince’s” and its
rink—
(" Prince’s ” is too select for most of you,
But there are warmish corners there, we think),
And with regret he said " Farewell ” to few
Of those who’d given him their meat and
drink :
i
i
�y'ON DUAN-.
57
For as the average modern dinner goes,
’Tis a fit torture not for friends but foes.
XL.
He also turned upon Mayfair his back,
And wholly left Belgravia in the lurch ;
Gladly he gave Tyburnia the "sack,”
In vain did Kensingtonia for him search ;
He sailed completely on another tack,
And gave up leaving cards or going to church—
Sins of omission in the topmost zone,
Which no committed virtues can condone.
XLI.
So now behold Jon Duan set quite free
To suck the sweets from every London flower ;
More like a butterfly, perhaps, than bee—•
For he did not improve the shining hour.
And had you chance and money, then we’d see
If you, good reader, would own virtue’s power.
For though the truth, sweet innocents, may hurt
you,
Necessity’s a powerful aid to virtue.
XLII.
Flow often acrid women virtue boast,
Of which a trial would be a new sensation !
So, all the goody-goody priggish host,
Are prigs perforce—they follow their vocation,
It is no credit to a senseless post,
Because it does not fall into temptation ;
Nor do we crown an icicle with laurels
Because it hasn’t thawn into soft morals.
XLIII.
Therefore, our hero we don’t mean to censure
For having, what in slang is called his "fling” ;
He had to bear the sequel of his venture,
And Nature is the goddess that we sing !—
For he who breaks her laws, or tries to wrench
her
Rules, so well balanc’d, naturally will bring—
Sure as contempt has fallen on Bazaine—
Just retribution and deserved disdain.
XLIV.
This granted, without any more preamble,
Duan may start upon his search for pleasure ;
We’ll try to only chronicle his scramble,
And not to moralize in every measure ;
�JON DUAN.
58
But if again we into preaching ramble,
And weary out your patience and your leisure,—
Why, blame the metre !—which, of all we know,
Most tempts one from the beaten track to go.
XLV.
The public pleasures of our wondrous city
Are not so plentiful as one would think,
Thanks to the sapient licensing committee,
Who from the very thought of dancing shrink.
The Alhambra’s spoiled—it is a shame and pity;
The Holborn’s given up to meat and drink,
And nothing could be just now so forlorn
As passing a long evening at Cremorne ! ~
XLVI.
’Twas not in this direction Duan found
The pleasure that he sought. He went, ’tis
true,
The usual dull and soul-depressing round,
And raked and rioted till all was blue ;
He trod, of course, the old familiar ground,
And liked it not a whit more than did you,
When you—consule Planco—’woke with pain,
And cursed the women and the vile champagne.
XLVI I.
He went to the Alhambra, found it dirty,
With “ Ichabod ’’.writ large upon its walls.
He sought the “ Duke’s ” about eleven thirty,
And wandered listlessly through Argyle’s Halls ;
SawTottie, Lottie, Dottie, Mottie, Gertie,—
And liquors stood responsive to their calls ;
Thinking the openly conducted traffic
Was far more Cityish in its tone than Sapphic.
XLVIII.
He lounged about the Haymarket, and smoked ;
And felt quite sad amidst its scenes and sights ;
He haunted bars, and with their Hebes joked,
He “ finished” at Kate H.’s, several nights ;
He saw, God knows ! a mass of misery, cloak’d
With ghastly gaiety, beneath the lights,
Until the hideous visions made his soul burn,
And sent him virtuously back to Holborn.
XLIX.
For he had taken Chambers in Gray’s Inn,
Since he had cut the West End so completely .
And had a laundress smelling much of gin,
Who could do nothing noiselessly or neatly.
’Twas here his other life he did begin,
In rooms whose look-out, chosen most dis
creetly,
Show’d those old elms, each one of them a big
tree,—
And here he sinned ’neath his own vine and fig
tree.
L.
If walls had ears !—the notion is not new—
You’d like to hear Jon Duan’s tell their tale.
And still, the same old notion to pursue,
If chairs and sofas talked, we would avail
Us of their confidences, also ; you
May be quite sure that, were they writ, the
sale'
Of these poor rhymes, then, would be more
immense,
Though hypocritiq cries rose more intense.
LI.
As ’tis, we’d Figaro want to tabulate
For us a list of all Jon Duan’s loves ;
To catalogue his cartes, each with its date,
And give the history of the flowers and gloves,
And snipp’d-off tresses, which in numbers great
From time to time into his drawer he shoves.
But, failing that, here is a peg to hang
A little song upon, that once he sang.
Qty ¿Hath nf (Clapljam.
Maid of Clapham ! ere I part,
Tell me if thou hast a heart!
For, so padded is thy breast,
I begin to doubt the rest!
Tell me now before I go—
Apr 0ov aXX p.a.Se viropvu ?
Are those tresses thickly twined,
Only hair-pinned on behind ?
Is thy blush which roses mocks,
Bought at three-and-six per box?
Tell me, for I ask in woe—
Apr 6ov aXX p.a.5e vvopvu> ?
�59
JON DUAN.
'
3And those lips I seem to taste,
Are they pink with cherry-paste ?
Gladly I’d the notion scout,
But do those white teeth take out ?
Answer me, it is not so—
But to improve, he managed to secure
This model’s services—nor did it vex
Her, when, with face and voice alike demure,
He called her the most lovely of her sex,
And pleading but poor skill to paint her beauty,
Yet many times a week essayed the duty.
Apr Gov aXX /¿a.8e virbpvQi ?
4Maid of Clapham! come, no larks !
For thy shoulders leave white marks—
Tell me ! quickly tell to me
What is really real in thee !
Tell me, or at once I go—
Apr Gov aXX /mSc vjropvco ?
LII.
His taste for girls was certainly eclectic,
He loved the dark ones even as the fair ;
He liked complexions pale, complexions hectic,
He liked black tresses, he liked golden hair,
And ne’er got amatorily dyspeptic—
Which is a state of heart by no means rare ;
But managed by the means detailed above,
To never be completely out of love.
LUI.
Gussie was dark, a perfect gipsy she,
With sloe-black eyes, of raven hair an ocean ;
With lips so red, they well might tempt the bee,
And full of many a quaint artistic notion,—
She was an artist’s model, you could see
It was so in her graceful, flowing motion.
It must, we think, be a most pleasing duty
To draw and paint the curves' of female beauty.
LIV.
The girl had sat for many a well-known painter,
Before her path across Jon Duan’s came ;
As beggar-girl, as sinner, and as saint, her
Pretty face oft peeped from out a frame.
In ’73 no picture could be quainter
Than that—it bore a rising painter’s name—
Which represented her in grandma’s bonnet—
We recollect that it called forth a sonnet.
LV.
Now Jon was no great artist, that was sure,—
Not much he’d ever drawn but bills and
cheques,
LVI.
Nor did he weary of his occupation,
For she was very jolly in her style ;
Full of artistic chatter, animation
In every look, and word, and frown, and smile.
And she could play—a great consideration
To have a girl who thus your time can while ;
And take a hand at whist, and play it, too—
A thing not one girl in ten-score can do.
LVI I.
And naturally she was very skilful
In falling into stock artistic poses ;
A little petulant, sometimes, and wilful—
Que voulez-vous ? Without a thorn no rose is.
A “model” girl is very often still full
Of that old Adam which the Church, you
know, says
Is in us all ; and which, as we’re advised,
Means all our hearts are old (Me) Adamized.
LVIII.
Be this as’t may. In time Miss Gussie went,
And fair-haired Looie reigned in her stead ;
Whilst Duan seemed by no means discontent---Having escaped the plate flung at his head
By the retiring beauty ;—nor gave vent
To vain regrets, nor wished that he were dead.
Instead of this, his spirits seemed to rally,
As he cried, “ L’Art est mort, so, Vive le Ballet!”
LIX.
For Loo was in the ballet at the Strand,
And thus possess’d that halo of romance
Which footlights ever throw on all who stand
Before them, let them act, or sing, or dance.—
It even spreads a little o’er the band—
Nay, we a weak-kneed fellow knew by chance,
Who was a very bad and drunken “super,”
’Cause his admirers treated him to “ cooper.”
�JON DUAN.
6o
LX.
Looie was in the foremost row, a token
She danced with more than average ability :
And many a stallite’s heart no doubt she’d
broken
With her plump legs and marvellous agility.
But when our hero once to her had spoken,
The intimacy grew with great facility.
And as he knew the critics, and had means,
Jon Duan spent much time behind the scenes,
LXI.
And waited for his charmer many nights,
And hung about what ‘‘Yanks” call the
“ theater ” ;
Supped to the full on Thespian delights ;
But p’rhaps his feeling of delight was greater
When she rehearsed new dances in her tights,
He being her only critic and spectator.
Had he been good, he should have tried to stop
her,
But, then, it is so nice to be improper.
And then dismiss them with a curt good-bye,
As though they’d been so many Brighton flymen ?
No 1 if our hero had the right way fix’d on,
Then what becomes of married life at Brixton—•
LXV.
At Peckham, Clapham, Islington, and Walworth,
At Ball’s Pond, Pentonville, and Kentish Town ?
Surely these homes of misery you’ll call worth
The great rewards that virtue always crown.
Jon Duan’s wicked life is naught at all worth,
And he and all like him must be put down.
He’s happy, truly, but his joy’s unstable—
Most married ones are always miserable.
LXVI.
Sewing-machines and cooks on trial we get,
And horses we may try before we buy ;
And ev’n if afterwards we should regret
Our bargains, we can sometimes off them cry;—
But matrimonial bargains, don’t forget,
Last till one of the parties chance to die.
’Twas knowing if he married, ’twas for life,
Made Duan hesitate to take a wife.
LXII.
“ Man’s a phenomenon, one knows not what,
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure :
’Tis pity, though, in this sublime world, that
Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure.”
Which lines are Byron’s. You will find them pat,
If you look up Don Juan when you’ve leisure.
If sin’s unpleasant, as the churches din so,
Then, why the dickens is it that we sin so ?
LXVII.
’Twas very wrong of him, of course, to do so :
Men ought from marriage never thus to shrink ;
For is it not ordained ?—Jon Duan knew so,
And yet stood lingering at the altar’s brink.
He thought that he the life-long step might rue ; so
Do others; and there are some men who think
Hannan would hear less charging and denial
If we could take our spouses upon trial.
LXIII.
Is it unpleasant ?—that’s the awkward question—
And many sinners answer with a “ No !”
Jon Duan, when he had no indigestion,
Thought it was most decidedly not so ;
That if you pick your sins, and all the rest shun,
You may most pleasantly through this world go.
Which shows us plainly, ’spite his great vitality,
How very cold and dead was his morality.
LXVI 11.
On trial, indeed ! Why, not one in ten thousand
Women would e’er be wed on such a term ;
For rare’s the one who does not break her vows,
and
Show very quickly that she has the germ
Of mutiny within her, and makes rows, and
Most speedily her husband’s fears confirm.
If married life were terminable at will,
How many would next week be married still ?
LXIV.
How else could he have dared to thus defy
The ethics of society and Hymen ;
And half a dozen amoratas try,
Just like as many tarts bought of a pieman,
LXIX.
How long our young friend loved the ballet
dancer
We do not mean to tell, nor shall we add
�61
JON DUAN.
More details of his charmers; ’twould not answer
To waste so much space on what is so bad.
No ! let us shun the subject like a cancer,
’Twould only make us and our readers sad.
We will, instead, with their permission, fit a
Small song in here—Jon sung it with his zither.
1.
O, pocket edition of Phryne !
Your robe is bewitchingly Greek ;
O, kiss me, my charmer most tiny—
I mean on my mouth, not my cheek.
Come, sit on my knee and be jolly—
The classical’s now out of date—
And let us toast passion and folly—
For you are not marble, thank fate !
2.
What! haven’t you heard of her story,
And how all her judges she won,
By suddenly showing her glory
Of beauty, which warmed like the sun?
Yes, that was in Cecrops’ fair city,
And we are ’neath London’s green trees—
But, Tiny, you’re awfully pretty,
And I’ll be your judge, if you please.
LXX.
Love is an ailment dangerously zymotic—
’Twould be no use for us to here deplore
That Duan’s song has savour so erotic—
No ! we will leave him on his second-floor,
Puffing the weed the doctors call narcotic,
And with his eyes fixed keenly on his door—
Whom he expects it’s not for us to say,
It isn't his old laundress, any way.
LXXI.
What are the Mission people all about,
That to Gray’s Inn they do not send a preacher?
Why to Ashanti and Fiji go out,
And leave unvisited by tract or teacher
The district where the foolish fling and flaunt,
And sink the Christian too much in the creature ?
Call back ! say we, the men from Timbuctoo,
There’s better work at home for them to do.
�62
JON DUAN.
LXXII.
We mean to start a Mission of our own,
To preach the Testament in Grosvenor Square;
And when the funds sufficiently have grown,
We’ll ^end a Missionary to Mayfair ;
And we’ll leave large-type leaflets on the throne,
And preach in Pall Mall in the open air :
In time, too, we’ll endeavour to arrange
A set of sermons for the Stock Exchange.
LXXIII.
The texts used there shall be, “ Thou shalt not
steal,”
And Lying lips are an abomination” ; *
All the discourses should most plainly deal
With paper frauds and bubble speculation.
How sweet to make a cheating broker kneel
In penitent and tearful agitation I
Surely a London broker on his knees
Is worth a score of Christianised Burmese.
LXXIV.
What could be grander than a “ Bull ” in tears,
Or a “ Bear ” giving up all he possesses ?
How pleasant to the missionary’s ears
When some McEwen his dark deed confesses,
And promises repentance ! when the jeers
Of jobbers cease ; and all the Mission presses.
Spread the glad news that, as they’re just advised,
Fifteen stockbrokers were last night baptized.
Let fear and trembling come upon thee now,
For closer than a leech McDougal sticketh ;—
Let consternation sit upon thy brow
When thought of ‘Emma,’ thy profuse heart
pricketh, —
Nor glory in thy riches—house or arable-—
But recollect the rich fool in the parable ! ”
LXXVII.
The “ upper ten ” there parlous state should see;
There should be preaching at the Carlton Club ;
A Boanerges should the preacher be,
With words and will Aristos’ sin to drub.
And Lazarus should come from penury,
And hold forth in the ‘‘ Row,” upon a tub.
Whilst some great light—the “toppest” of topsawyers—
Should the New Testament proclaim to lawyers.
LXXVIII.
The publishers, too, must not be forgotten,
Since great above all others is their need ;
For Paternoster Row is getting rotten,
And worships but one God, and that is
“ Greed.”
To lie, cheat, cozen, and to cringe and cotton,
Is now the publisher’s adopted creed ;
They’r.e grasping, greedy, vulgar, and omni
vorous,—
From publishers, we pray, Good Lord deliver us!
LXXIX.
LXXV.
Oh ! what a noble work the news to spread
Amongst the streets and alleys of the City ;
To tell the heathens there what has been said
Of those who have no principle or pity :
To pour denunciation on their head,
And wake up Lothbury with a pious ditty ;
And oh ! how eagerly we yearn and pant
To send a special missionary to Grant 1
LXXVI.
And this should be his message—“ Albert! thou
Of whom ’tis said, ‘ He waxeth fat and kicketh,’
* The.se passages are evidently not included in the " Scrip
ture ” in use in Capel Court ; though we suppose it is
generally known there that “ Barabbas was a publisher.”
We have heard of the “Thieves’ Litany,” maybe there is
such a volume in existence as the “ Stockbrokers’ Bible."
Our readers perhaps by this time will be ready,
To pray to be delivered from us ;—
Our Pegasus, in fact, had got his head, he
Often bites his bit, and bolts off thus.
But now we promise that his pace we’ll steady,
And, without any further fume or fuss,
To Duan we’ll return, though, since we started,
He very likely has to bed departed.
LXXX.
There let us leave him—for ’tis doubtless best
To “ring down” whilst we set the next new
scene on—■
Leaning, it may be, on a maiden’s breast,—
Happy the man’s who’s such a place to lean on !
For certain he’s caressing or caress’d :—
But it is two a.m.; and we have been on
Rhythmical duty since we dined at eight :
We’ll put the light out—it is getting late.
�JON DUAN.
63
Canto The Sixth.
I.
U Grand Hotel, Paris, the 10th November—
Dear Boy,—The stage is going to the
deuce,
The kiosques, naked, and there’s not an ember
Of fiery France alive. It is no use
To seek the Imperial Paris we remember,
Dear Venus Meretrix of cities, loose
But lovely, and beloved—of Saxon tourists,
Who when abroad are not such rigid purists.
II.
“ School atlases still tell us it’s called Paris,
They talk French still, a little, in its walls—
Though nasal North American less rare is ;
There still are cafes, and the naughty balls ;
The Boulevards—though they’re widowed of Gus
Harris,
Are not precisely hung with shrouds and palls ;
Crowds, not more virtuous and not more solemn,
Still saunter past the new-erected Column.
III.
THE BRI 1JSH ' DRAMATIST.
11 Still in the Palais Royal, yellow covers,
Abhorred by strict mammas in England, beg
Attention to their tales of loves and lovers,
Crammed full of wholesome nurture as an egg—
Still, at street crossings, prurient Saxon rovers
Look shocked at some faint soupçon of a leg,
Disclosed by vicious sylph or luring modiste,
Loose-principled—but very tightly bodiced.
IV.
11 But the sweet home of British drama—that is
A thing to seek as Schliemann seeks for TroyHome of the Capouls, Schneiders, Faures, and
Pattis,
Who take our millions, and who give us joy—
The birthplace of all persona dramatis
That e’er amused since Taylor was a boy,
Where is it ?—where’s the generous Providence
Whence all of us draw plots, and fame, and pence ?
v.
“ Where’s the great reservoir of milk and water
Which Oxenford’s keen pen was wont to tap,
Before that horrid Madame Angot’s daughter
Had made the pure old five-acts seem like pap ?
�JON DUAN.
64
■
Those old ‘grandes machines] full of fire and
slaughter,
And doeskin boots, that soothed one’s evening
nap,
Where are they ?—Ah ! they have left this drear
and pallid day
To Walter Scott, improved by Andrew Halliday.
VI.
“ The Vaudeville, preposterous and broad,
Where heroes in check suits could damn a bit,
And into bed get, while the house guffawed—
And those brave poker-scenes that made ^us
split—
The singing chambermaids who weren’t outlawed 1
By chaste dress circles that like Gilbert’s wit—The gay old farce, loud, jovial, coarse, and fat—
Hasn’t disastrous Sedan left us that ?
VII.
“It hasn’t, I assure you—not a line.
I’ve tried the Variétés and Palais Royal,
But though our H.R.H.’s tastes incline
To that snug house—and though I’m strictly
loyal—
I can’t find the old salt ; defeats refine,
And theatres here have grown so very coy all,
They have not one poor smile for “ adaptators ”—
Those eunuchs who all yearn to look like paters.
VIII.
“ As poor Brooks said—‘ There’s nothing in the
papers,’
And I remark there’s nothing on the stage—
The old familiar bony legs cut capers,
Their owners in the old intrigues engage
Before the usual crowd of languid gapers,
Kept silent by the sanctity of age.
Lemaître and Bernhardt still pass round the hat,
Léonide’s still lean, and Celine’s still fat.
X.
“ The Demi-monde won’t do : it is enticing,
I own—but no ; it really will not do,
E’en though we made it seemlier by splicing
A roué and a courtezan or two,
According to the English way of icing
French fancies, found red-hot and deemed too
true ;
And even then, when we have changed the visors,
There’s always that prude Piggott with the scissors.
XI.
“Always those scissors ! Halévy might yield
A thing or two, and Meilhac’s not quite dried ;
But what can a poor devil do when sealed
To that old haggard Spiritual bride,
The Censorship? Its maimed limbs scarcely healed,
On to the stage your poor piece takes a stride,
And halts half-way, then with a limp crawls out—
Forthose official shears are worse than gout.
XII.
“I think we must encourage ‘native talent’—
That’s how we’ll make our poverty seem grand,
And not at all enforced by the repellant
Airs of our French originals. Your hand
Put into those deep drawers, where all the gallant
And unplayed amateurs, a numerous band,
Have left the ashes of their simple hopes—Those MSS. that no one ever opes.
XIII.
“ Perhaps you’ll find a pearl of rarest price,
Or rubbish written by a lord, which will
Do quite as well ; the public aren’t too nice
When a peer condescends to hold a quill.
Give it to Byron—he’ll put in the spice.
But as for here—my verdict still is : nil !
There’s not a piece to steal, so we must do one
Ourselves. Ta, ta, old boy; till—Jon Duan.”
i
XIV.
IX.
“ And there you have the worst of the collapse
Of our dear famous factory of plays.
Now, what is to be done ? We’re tired of traps,
And care no more to see blue-fire ablaze
Around three-score old ladies, who want caps
And snuff to comfort their declining days.
Poor Comedy, the Comedy of Sheridan,
Is done—and Mrs. Bancroft echoes : Very done.
One doesn’t always call a manager
Old boy, or write as lengthily as this.
Some, one should call “ My Lord,” one “ Reverend
Sir,”
And many a “Mrs.” more correctly “Miss !”
But fame, thank Heaven, ’s a glorious leveller,
And straight inducts you into that great bliss
Of penetrating the most awful portals,
And treating even managers as mortals.
i
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
SAMPSON
SHIRT
& CO.,
TAI LORS.
SOLE MAKERS OF THE
SURPLICE SHIRT.
INDIAN
SHIRTS,
7s. 6d. to 10s. 6d.
Made from a soft longcloth, and suitable
for India wear.
LONGCLOTH SHIRTS, Military Fronts,
5s. 6d. to 6s. 6d.
1
Orders from Abroad carefully executed.
India Flannel Shirts, ioj. 6d. to 14^. 6/7.
Cashmere or Silk, i6j. 6d. to 18^. 6d.
Best French Printed, 8y. 6d. to 9^. 6/7.
Saratta Gauze Cotton Shirts, 8j. 6d. gs. 6d.
Dress Shirts, Night Shirts,
Front Studs, Links, Collar Studs, &c.
Sampson and Co. invite special attention to their SURPLICE SHIRTS, as being peculiarlyadapted in their shape for India. Outfit orders can be executed at the shortest notice, as all Shirts and
Collars are made on their own premises. Gentlemen returning from India would find a large and well
assorted Stock to select from. Great attention is bestowed upon the Shrinking of Flannels.
A REGISTER KEPT OF ALL SHIRTS MADE TO MEASURE.
Detailed Outfit List and Self-measurement Cards sent on Application.
India Gauze Vests and Drawers.
Fine Merino and Cotton Half-Hose.
Fine Pure Woollen Hosiery.
Rugs, Plaids, Austrian Blankets.
Waterproof Goods, Ground Sheets.
Regulation Overland Trunks, Cabin Bags
TAILORING DEPARTMENT.
Coloured or White Flannel Suits, 455-, to 55
.
*
India Tweed Suits, 555-. to 755-.
Brown Holland or Drill Suits, 355-. to 55^
White Drill Trousers, 13^ 6/7. to i8i. 6/7.
Patrol Jackets, 25^. to 45J.
Dress Suits. Frock or Morning Coats
Dressing Robes. Lounge Suits.
Overcoats. Riding Belt Drawers.
GLOVES SEWN WITH THREAD FOR INDIA WEAR.
SAMPSON & CO., India and Colonial Outfitters,
130, OXFORD STREET, Near HoUes Street, London, W.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
TO THE READERS OF JON DUAN.
We reprint from The Times, of Not. 2.6th, the Report
re Ward v. Beeton, in order that the purchasers and readers
of Jon Duan may have a correct version of the question
raised between Mr. Beeton and his Publishers. We should
no trepeat this notice were it not for the rumours which have
been freely circulated that Jon XTunn would not be published.
Even coercion has been used to prevent certain tradesmen
lending us their valuable assistance in the production of the
New Annual.
The Public and the Trade are now in the position of
being our judges, and we shall rest satisfied with the verdict
which may be accorded us.
■• ■
• <;
From “The Times,” Nov. 26, 1874.
{Before Vice-Chancellor Sir R.
Malins.)
Ward v. Beeton (“Beeton’s Christmas Annual”).
This was a motion on behalf of the plaintiffs, Messrs.
Ward and Lock, the publishers, for an injunction to restrain
the defendant, Mr. S. O. Beeton, from publishing or circu
lating any advertisements or letters representing that he
was interested or concerned in any annual book or publica
tion other than “Beeton’s Christmas Annual,” published
by .the _ plaintiffs, or that the defendant’s connexion with
the plaintiffs’ firm was terminated, or that the use of the
defendant’s name by the plaintiffs for the purposes of their
“Beeton’s Christmas Annual” was improper or un
authorized. According to the statements contained in the
bill, the defendant was in business on his own account as a
publisher down to the year 1866, and among the publica
tions of which he was the proprietor was “ Beeton’s Christ
mas Annual,” now in its 15th year. In 1866 the plaintiffs pur
chased the copyrights and business property of the defendant,
and in September of that year an agreement was entered
into between the plaintiffs and the defendant, by which it
was provided, among other things, that the defendant was to
devote himself to the development of the plaintiffs’ busi
ness and not to be interested in any other business without
their consent; that the plaintiffs were to have the use of
the defendant’s name for the purposes of their present and
future publications, and that the defendant should not
permit the use of his name for any other publication with
out their consent; and the defendant was to be remu
nerated by a salary which was at first to consist of a fixed
annual sum, and was subsequently to be equivalent to a
fourth share of the profits of the plaintiffs’ business. Under
this agreement “Beeton’s Christmas Annual” was pub
lished by the plaintiffs with the assistance of the defendant
down to and including Christmas last. In the year 1872
the annual consisted of a production called “The Coming
K----- .” It waspublished, however, as the plaintiffs alleged,
without their having seen the MSS., and, as it con
tained passages which they considered were open to grave
objections, they refused to print or publish a second edition
of it. In 1873 the annual consisted of a publication called
“The Siliad,” which was written By the same author as
“The Coming K----- .” In July last the plaintiffs applied
to the defendant to prepare the volume of the annual for
Christmas next, but desired that its character and contents
might differ from those of “ The Siliad,” with which they
were dissatisfied ; the defendant, however, “neglected to
prepare or assist in preparing the same.” In October last th
plaintiffs heard that the defendant was engaged in prepar
ing another annual in opposition to theirs. A correspondence
ensued, in which the plaintiffs gave the defendant notice
that they would maintain their rights, and required him to
make proper arrangements for the production _ of the
annual, while the defendant denied that he was in fault,
and alleged that the plaintiffs- had rejected the production
he had proposed, which was to be by the authors of “The
Coming K----- ,” and that those gentlemen had then made
their own arrangements for publishing their work. The
plaintiffs then made arrangements with one of the authors of
“The Siliad ” for the annual of 1874, and announced it by
advertisements in the newspapers,under the titleof “Beeton’s
Christmas Annual for 1874, 15th season.” T he title of the
coming annual is “The Fijiad.” The defendant then caused
advertisements to be inserted in the Standard, Athenceum,
and other newspapers, addressed to booksellers, advertisers,
and the public, stating that he had no hand in the annual
announced by the plaintiffs; that he devised long ago
his usual annual in collaboration with the authors of “The
Coming K.----- ” and “The Siliad;” that the title of the
annual now in the press was “Jon Duan;” that it was
written by the authors of “The Coming K----- ” and “ The
Siliad,” and would not be published by the plaintiffs,
but by another publisher. Under these circumstances the
present bill was filed yesterday, and in pursuance of leave
then obtained the motion for injunction was made this
morning. The defendant did not appear; and upon an
affidavit that service of the notice of motion had been
effected upon him before five o’clock yesterday afternoon at
his country residence, an order was made by the Court for
an injunction in terms of the motion, extending until the
hearing of the cause.
London: WELDON & CO., 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.
�■■■■
��JON DUAN.
XV.
The person whom. Jon Duan thus addressed
Had an odd mania—general with his class—
For novelties, without which Spring’s no zest
In managerial eyes : he’d fix his glass,
Perceive the world with April-green new-dressed,
And only think: the Spring’s turned up the gas,
We’ve done Burnand—for fear of a reversal,
It’s time to put Bob Reece into rehearsal.
67
XX.
But, following the ancient pure tradition
Of English art to borrow from the French,
Jon Duan had set out upon a mission,
To see what Paris drama one could wrench.
Into a Saxon shape, by clever scission
Of evil branches, which emit a stench
We breathe with rapture at the “ Delass. Com.,”
But call a pestilential death at home.
XXI.
XVI.
He’d got Jon Duan this year—a rare catch,
That bothered Buckstone sorely, and made
Bateman
Talk privately of bowie-knives ; a batch
Of critics—his club-fellows—all elate, man
The yards of paper barks, where they keep watch
On actors, ready to call Irving great man,
And Neville, stickor quite the other way :
It just depends on what their rivals say.
XVII.
Hollingshead hides his head; the craft looks sour,
From classic Surrey to coquettish Court.
It’s such a glorious thing to get the flower .
’ Of a young author’s mind, whom wide report
Proclaims the sovereign genius of the hour,
And when the stale Byronic stream runs short—
Which even that perpetual fountain may,
When Gilbert’s proper, and “ Old Sailors” pay.
And seeing there was nothing that could give
The Insular adapter a fair chance
To catch the rare French nectar in a sieve—
For that’s the way we get our sustenance,
Who don’t know French, go to the play—and live 1— ’
Jon Duan shook the sterile dust of France
From off his feet, and reappeared in town,
Resolved to bring out three acts of his own.
XXII.
Then in a dim and dusty room, somewhere
Near Covent Garden, a dull chamber, smelling
Of orange-peel and gas, the native air
Of Thespis, there ensued long talk, which
dwelling
On things theatrical, would make the hair
Of stage-struck youths stand upright—so repelhng,
Hard and materialistic as a Hun’s,
The manager who’s looking for long “ runs.”
XXIII.
XVIII.
You managers, when wearied—as you weary
The public—of the tight dramatic ring
That writes eulogious notices, and dreary
Dramas, alternately, from Spring to Spring,
Don’t dare too much—and don’t revive Dundreary,
But simply ask a man whom critics sing,
And at whose feet the publishers all grovel,
To dialogue you his last prurient novel.
'
XIX.
!
There is your man. He’s been well advertised,
Which saves a lot of posting and of puffs ;
You know the papers where his copy’s prized,
And which, therefore, are sure not to be rough
On his new venture. Then a book, disguised
In five acts, with a new name’s just the stuff
To run two hundred nights ; we all adore
Hearing the jokes we’ve read a month before.
“ I have told you so : I’d much prefer a bouffe,
A bouffe of thorough native growth: d’you see ?
Something that we can say affords a proof
Wit and song ain’t a French monopoly.
Something that shows at times the cloven hoof—
Of Meilhac, great in impropriety,
But sentimental chiefly—even sad,
A Tennysonian pastoral gone mad.
XXIV.
“ There’d be a part for Cecil—heavy father,
Eccentric, muddle-headed: that’s his line.
We must give little Lou a lift—I’m rather
Spoony on little Lou; besides, she’ll shine,
If you but give her a catch-song to gather
The plaudits of the gods with. There’s a mine
Worth working—there’s ten thousand pounds in
that—
And, by-the-by, give Isabel some fat.
�JON DUAN.
XXV.
j
Ci Lord D----- insists upon it: Bella must
Have three good scenes, at least, in which to drop
Her h’s—or the old boy will entrust
His love and money to a rival shop.
There’s Belamour, too, who will not be thrust
Into a minor part; he’ll want a sop,
Because of those fine legs of his^ on which
He counts to catch a “relict” old and rich.
XXVI.
<c As for the rest, we’ll have a galaxy
Of stars seduced by gold from lesser spheres:
Cox, Terry, Toole, Brough, and the rest; you’ll see
We’ll do the thing superbly----- Now, my dears 1”
(This to two pleasing damsels who’d made free
To push the door ajar, and stood all ears,
And those all red, regarding the uncertain
And ghostly region called Behind the Curtain.)
XXVII.
The postulants, for such they were, of course,
Were average growths of English womanhood,
Sprung from the same poor petty tradesman source,
Not capable of much ill or much good ;
But conscious of some appetite perforce
Restrained, the which in their weak natures stood
For mind, ambition, heart—some simple needs
Of love, champagne, fine dresses, and good feeds.
XXVIII.
We all know, though decorum keeps us mute,
How shop-girl, servant wench, and seamstress
feel,
When pretty broughams of world-wide repute
Bear sinning sisters by on rapid wheel,
And Regent Street’s battalions, in pursuit
Of night-bound swell, flash by them, down at heel
And threadbare, thinking—not: how shocking !—
oh no—
But simply of their labouring lives : Cui bono ?
XXIX.
Cui bono, having learnt one’s catechism
And making shirts for close on ninepence each ?
Cui bono, all this vulgar heroism
That only serves to make a parson preach
About our pure examples ? Egotism,
That’s what you pay—the moral that you teach ;
Vice has its brougham, Virtue its foul alley—
This is the reason why girls join the Ballet.
�JON DUAN.
69
r—
XXX.
The first one of the two who spoke had passed
The Rubicon, and left false shame behind her ;
Her bonnet might have been a whit less fast,
Her speech a bit more modest and refined ; her
Red hands bulged from Jouvin’s gloves. She cast
A side-leer at Jon Duan rather kinder
Than their acquaintance warranted, and said
She knew the business ; she’d already played.
XXXI.
“ At the East End Imperial Bower of Song,
I used to sing ‘The Chick-a-Leary Bloke,’
With breakdown, all complete. ’Twas rather
strong—
The beaks refused the licence. But I’ve spoke
To----- (here she whispered earnestly and long)
He’ll come down handsomely: just one small
joke,
And then a dance. What! fifty pounds!—Well,
then,
You’ll throw a speech in for another ten.”
XXXII.
“ It’s sixty pounds; no salary at first.”
And then the manager turned round: “And
you ?”
The second humble applicant was cursed
With knowledge of her own defects, and drew
Back as he spoke. Then feebly from her burst:
“ I heard you wanted figurantes who knew
Something of music, prepossessing—Oh,
I want to know, sir, if I’m like to do 1”
XXXIII.
Jon Duan pitied; but his friend looked stern.
This one had no Protector and no past.
She couldn’t pay, and might expect to earn
Her living—the pretension of her caste,
Who in each yawning trap and slide discern
Mines where all women’s treasures are amassed—
Diamonds, Bond Street dresses, silks and sashes,
And tall Nonentities with blond moustaches.
XXXIV.
“Young woman, you may do; I don’t object
To trying you: just bring your ‘props’ next
week----- ■”
“ Props ?”----- “ That’s your shoes and tights; but
recollect,
You’re never likely to do more than speak
Ten words, and show—your ankles. We expect
Our ladies to wear costumes new and chic,
Which they provide—with some gems of pure
water----The salary? It’s five pounds ten per quarter.
XXXV.
“ You couldn’t live on that ? Of course you can’t.
Did you expect it ?— Where have you been
taught ?—
A brougham’s at the door : its occupant
Gets one pound ten a week—and she’s just
bought
A pair of bays—which proves she’s not in want.
No, no, young woman, salaries are nought—
Our treasurer don’t count ; you’ll find far finer—
A millionaire—a dotard—or a minor.
XXXVI.
“ All of them do it : it’s the modern plan
Of getting up a pretty ballet cheap ;
And since the public don’t like Sheridan—
Except as Amy—and since we can’t keep
Ladies—most of them of enormous space—
In silken robes and satin shoes ; we leap
At amateurs with protégées, whose rage
It is to see their darlings on the stage.”
XXXVII.
Then they went back to business, and talked over
Which points Odell should make,which speeches
Stoyle ;
If Wyndham or Lal. Brough should do the lover,
Say with Laverne or Farren as a foil.
And whether Miss A.’s part was not above her,
Or Miss B. meet Miss C. without a broil.—
In short, the heavy talk, the prime First Cause
Of plays received with rapturous applause.
XXXVIII.
Jon Duan gave in to the bouffe idea,
His hopes resigning of regenerating
The public taste. He gazed, and could but see a
Vast Amphitheatre, its lungs inflating
With one loud universal Ave Dea,
Madonna Cascade of our own creating,
Gross, gaudy goddess of our fleshly charlatan
’ Period, with tinsel wings and robes of tarlatan.
xxxix.
That is the cry, the Ideal----- Oh, Rare Ben,
See what they’ve made of your old jovial muse !
�70
JON DUAN.
Enter, great Shade, no matter where or when,
The bill of fare’s the same—you cannot choose.
It’s an Aquarium—and once again
Fifty familiar naked backs one views—
Then naked breasts, legs, naked arms with wings
Of gauze—innumerable naked things !
XL.
The footlights glow on thin arms, twisted knees,
Lean shoulders rising, fleshy chins that drop;
Oh for the awful busts’ concavities !
Oh for the busts that don’t know where to stop.
They smirk, and grin, and ogle at their ease,
But one thinks vaguely of a butcher’s shop
Lit up on Saturdays—one hears the cry,
A cry they all might echo : “ Come, buy, buy ! ”
XLI.
a
M
0K
I
N (r
Ah, one divines how, mute, the song-nymphs flee,
And Watteau’s muse drops down themagic brush
Before that swollen, restless, muddy sea
Of shapeless flesh, pink with a painted blush ;
Those meagre shoulder-blades that don’t agree,
Those overflowing waists that corsets crush,
Those poor old calves, for twice a hundred nights
Entombed with pain in cherry-coloured tights.
XLII.
A sprite, long, lean, and languid as a worm,
A sprite that trails a cotton-velvet cloak,
Carols a topic song, with not a germ
Of tune or sense in it. Ay, Ben, they croak—
These mounds of chignons-false and flesh-infirm—
Dreary distortions of thy Attic joke,
With tripping feet and leering eyes, and shifty,
As if they weren’t all grandmammas of fifty !
XLIII.
Oh Byron, Farnie, oh Burnand, and Reece,
Maybe your consciences are very full,
For you’ve committed many a dreary piece;
But oh, we’d hold your grievous sinnings null
If you had not—Heaven send your souls release !—
You—and some thousand bales of cotton-wool—
Produced, to torture your long-suffering patrons,
That bevy of obese and padded matrons !
XLIV.
But Goldie, Cibber, Knowles, whene’er we pray
For one gleam of your wit or poesy;
When with the jingle of Lecocq, and bray
Of Offenbach distraught, we make a plea
�7*
JON DUAN.
For Tobin or for Coleman—for the gay
Old glorious peal of laughter, frank and free—
Bah ! cry the lessees—Helicon !—a treat!—
Sir—what the public dotes upon is Meat!
XLV.
And faith, they get it, calves and necks, huge
boulders
Smeared with cold-cream, and bismuth, and
ceruse;
Not much heart anywhere, but such fine shoulders !
Not much art, but such bright metallic hues !
Fat Aphrodites—born for their beholders
From froth of champagne-cup—upon their cruise
To spoil our gilded youth, dupe hoary age,
Making a bagnio of the British stage.
XLVI.
Jon Duan passed some agonizing weeks,
Conning Joe Miller and his Lempriere •,
Laying the strata of burlesque in streaks
Of slang and puns; also refusing fair
Touters for parts, with badly painted cheeks,
And insolently red and oily hair;
Who pet one—till you don’t know where to get to—
That is the worst of writing a libretto.
XLVII.
The paragraph, which, to the Era carried,
The world tells that you’re “on” a bouffe,
wakes up
Three hundred ladies, who have found life arid,
Because they never dine, and seldom sup,
And who begin to pester you : if married,
With gall they fill your matrimonial cup ;
If single—well, of course they will not hurt you—
Only their friendship don’t conduce to virtue !
XLIX.
The formula’s quite simple : all depends
On an anachronism, the more absurd
The better. Take a monarch and his friends
From Livy—Roman—for they’re much preferred,
The Grecian’s quite used up except for bends—
Send them to Prince’s, and pretend they’ve heard
Of Gladstone’s pamphlets, Arnim’s case, whatever
You choose, provided that you’re not too clever.
L.
Talent will kill. Leave actors to invent
Whatever gags they can; they’ll find a number,
Not too refined, about each day’s event,
At those dramatic “ publics ” which encumber
The lanes of Covent Garden. If they’re spent,
And find the audience somewhat prone to
slumber,
A wink, grimace, a slang phrase—clownish acting—
That stirs your patrons up—they’re not exacting.
LI.
They have broad backs, and not too lively brains;
They’ll bear whatever burdens you impose ;
So that the playbill says it entertains,
Don’t think of them—they’ll never hiss nor doze,
Provided you leave room for Herve’s strains,
And give them a perspective of pink hose
From back to footlights, in bright buoyant
masses—
Before six hundred levelled opera-glasses.
LIL
Jon Duan at his writing-table, strewn
With delicately scented little notes—
All begging him, as a tremendous boon,
To lengthen parts and shorten petticoats—
Wrote feverishly; and, humming o’er a tune,
Beside him lounged his partner—who devotes
His life to writing can-can and fandango—
Waiting for his hour and his Madame Angot.
XLVIII.
LIII.
As for the writing—that’s the easiest part—
So easy, that if it the public guessed,
They’d never pay to see Burnand, but start
A theatre themselves—perhaps the best.
A plot—who listens ?—Dialogue—it’s smart
If loose : for ladies, have them much undressed,
Have two French mimics, lime-light, vulgar jokes,
Danseuses like Sara, villains like Fred Yokes.
“ I must have that new song to-morrow—that
About the second-class—four lines of six,
And two of four for chorus. You’ve been flat
Of late; redeem yourself this time, and mix
The Old Hundredth up with Herve’s pit-a-pat,
Or any other of their Paris tricks.”
The maestro grumbled—then, remembering
Gluck’s works at home—said he had just the thing.
�JON DUAN.
LIV.
“ Have you heard anything from Piggott ?” said he,
After a pause, in which Jon Duan’s quill
Ran fiercely. 11 I’m afraid our chance is shady,
Unless you drop those jokes he’s taken ill.”
J ust then the servant came, and said a lady
Wanted Jon Duan, and the maestro, still
Humming, went, leaving the field free to fair
Miss Constance Smith—Fitz-Fulke by nom de
guerre.
LV.
The sweetest little creature man has ever
Paid modiste’s bills for; clouds of breezy curls
Blowing about her face, from such a clever
And daring poem of a hat. She furls
Her veil, and, drugging one—and spreading fever—
Fever of love and longing, round her whirls
A wind of subtle scents, corrupt and vicious—
Monstrous—exaggerated—and delicious 1
LVI.
Wine-scarlet was her mouth—a flower of blood—
A flower fed by the dew of many kisses ;
And her eyes, fathomless, made one’s heart thud,
Though nought lay in their violet-grey abysses;
She was a creature, on the whole, who could
Give man a vast variety of blisses—
The bliss of wooing, quarrelling, and playing—
With one monotonous—the bliss of paying 1
LVII.
And yet she doesn’t merit all the stones
Austere and portly ladies, who “ sit under”
Good parsons, are prepared to fling : she owns
Some fervent, heavenly impulses, that sunder
Those venal lips, and break out in meek moans.
Not less sincere than Pharisaic thunder,
About her sinfulness—whence fall, at times,
Prayers not less pure because they follow rhymes.
LVIII.
It is a little bosom full of eddies
And counter-eddies, gusts, and whirls of whimsy
That turn, re-turn her, till her pretty head is
A chaos of conflicting thoughts, and swims,
A labyrinth through which no man can thread his
Way—for she shifts and turns, and tacks and
trims
So wildly, that Jon Duan’s lighter, gayer
Poem—composed much later—must portray her.
�h
t
‘
JON DUAN.
^atnt CHltnetm.
i
I’d give—the bliss she’s given me—to perceive
What moves her most—Caprice or Charity.
Turn her glove back—just where it meets the
sleeve—
You smell involved incense, and patchouli.
I
1
2.
The march of music up long aisles, the dirges,
Ormolu censers, waxen saints and lights,
Move the frail facile heart, albeit she merges
Devoutest days in Saturnalian nights.
'
■
j
;i
J
!
!
i
73
-------------- ---
1 '
3‘
I’d have you watch her as she bends alone
In some prim pew, her mouth composed, hands
crossed—
Fancying, vaguely, the priest’s monotone
Is something like Faure’s lower notes in Faust.
4She seeks salvation with the beautiful,
Loves David’s psalms—no less than Swinburne’s
sonnets—
Respects the Follet like a papal bull,
And holds we’re saved by perfect faith—and
bonnets.
5Her mode of charity includes a ball;
And such her pity of each pauper claimant—
Watching her waltz, one deems she’s given all—Even like St. Martin—more than half her raiment.
6
9For though one lose the fabled fox’s quiet
When the good grapes to low lips’ level fall ;
She seems more fit for mankind’s daily diet—
“ And she might like one really, after all.”
IO.
Like one ! to her guitar’s erotic thrum
She sets the preacher’s precept: love all men;
And founds her plea for pardon on muli-um—
Et multos—amavi—like Magdalen.
11.
She makes a dainty mouth of doubt; her fan
Rebukes that soft Parisian purr: Je t’aime !
But she loves you—well, even as she can—
A month or two—and then forgets your name.
12.
Forgets it all—till one day when her vapours
Dispose to prayer the two months’ devotee,
And in the glow of Ritualistic tapers,
She finds a love not in her breviary.
LIX.
Aye, she was Moliere’s heroine,..the jade !—
“ I am Miss Constance Fitzfulke.” Duan bowed.
“ They call me Rattlesnake.” “Who’s they?” he
said;
And felt, somehow, girls should not be allowed
To make eyes of the enticing kind she made.
“ They ? — Why the fellows —- all of them—a
crowd,
De Lacy, Pierpoint, Charlie Lisle—you know,”
“ I understand—you’re not what one calls—slow !”
LX.
When she comes begging for a fund or mission,
Jew, Greek, Voltairian, weak or very wise,
You give your obolus—with shamed contrition,
When Heaven returns it threefold, through her
eyes.
7And when you’ve watched Saint Cdlimfene receding,
Veiled like a Quakeress in coif of grey,
The recollection of her tender pleading
Makes you admire Lord Ripon, for the day.
il Slow—not a bit, I’m fast as an express—■
Upon the Midland—and as dangerous.
One of those dolls all you men die to dress,
So that your wives may safely copy us ;
You’ve got a part for me—now come, confess—
You have one : something nice and frivolous,
None of your high art that thins all the houses
Of managers with tragic girls and spouses.
8.
Nor that same evening, when she quits the cloister.
Is the antithesis of her bare breast
Aught than a drop of acid with one’s oyster'—
The peppery pod that gives the dish a zest.
“ You’ll hear me sing; you’ll see me dance : I
flatter
Myself in both I’ll rather startle you.
You see we vagabond ne’er-do-wells scatter
The old traditions to the winds. We’re new,
LXI.
�74
JON DUAN.
And young, and—well, not hideous.” Staring at
her,
Jon Duan, with conviction murmured : “ True.’
u We ’ve seen life off the stage; while your old
shoppy
Damsels know nought beyond a prompter’s copy.
LXII.
“ Our boudoirs, which are little Royal Exchanges,
Afford a curious study of mankind ;
Roam as you like, from Tiber to the Ganges,
And not a better point of sight you’ll find.
But the pure player’s vision seldom ranges
Beyond—say that small spy-hole in the blind,
Through which we peer to see if he is in
His stall; if 1 paper5 ’s in the house—or 1 tin.’
LXIII.
“ Therefore my play will be original,
I’ll be myself upon the boards—a thing
The critic always sees—and ever shall,
Till players are cultivated, and don’t spring,
Like lichens, from the vestiges of all
Professions they have failed in ; covering
Gown, surplice, red coat that’s grown limp and
dangles,
With tragic robes or acrobatic spangles.”
LXIV.
Oh, wiser than the serpent—and much harder
Than any stone, becomes the lovely woman
Who looks on London streets as a vast larder—
A Hounslow Heath where she can stop and do
man
Out of his purse and life. Good fortunes guard her,
As though the one dear creature, frankly human,
In our sick century, whose jaundiced face is
Veiled, and who sespeech one endless periphrase is.
LXV.
Is ’t vile—the Demi monde'?—Why, sale and
barter
In noble drawing-rooms, are just the same,—
The dot, the face, the hoary lecher’s garter,
The father’s money, and the mother’s shame.
Let trousseaux rain, let diamonds of pure water
Deck the dear well-bred maid who’s made her
game !—
Arrange for monsieur’s mistress, madame’s car
riage—
You parody a vile Haymarket marriage.
�JON DUAN.
75
LXXI.
LXVI.
“Your part, my princess ? Oh, it is the best
That even Rachel ever undertook.
The scene: Green Woods, that would make
Telbin’s breast
Grow hot with envy, a small shady nook
That doesn’t smell of paint—The Prettiest
Woman in the World, A Man, whose look
Indicates spooniness beyond disguises—
Discovered talking as the curtain rises.
The wicked Demi monde !—well, is your monde
So whole and sound and healthy ? Are your
wives
Much better than “the others,” and less fond
Of princes, lions, lead they purer lives ?
And is the Social Evil far beyond
Your pinchbeck imitation ? If it thrives,
Is it because it’s honester and franker,
And don’t put so much cold cream on the canker ?
LXXII.
LXVII.
“ The dialogue’s poetic nonsense, Wills
Would give his ears to equal; the bye-play
Is charming ; not all Robertson’s best quills
Could sketch out ‘ business ’ half as sweet
and gay :
The kisses are on flesh and blood that thrills —
Not the light, cold contact of Eau des Fees,
With the best rouge, laid on by feet of hares,
To hide—the feet of crows from searching stares.
We never held Jon Duan an example
Of virtue, such as one finds in the Peerage—
Which teems, of course, with many a brilliant
sample
Of godliness—above all in the sere age,
When man’s ability to sin aint ample—
But lots of genteel Josephs will, I fear, rage
(And wish they’d had a chance with the “ beguil-ah”,)
On hearing how he gave in to Dalilah.
LXXIII.
“ The Time—the Present. Costume—rich enough
To show the wearers are of decent station,
And have a little leisure left for love.
The Plot—ah, ’tis the airiest creation
That ever bard—strong-voiced or silent—wove ;
The simple plot that’s pleased each age and
nation
From Adam’s day to Darwin’s, though the latter,
Thanks unto Gilbert, finds the story flatter.
lxviii.
He fell; where is the man who never fell
At beck of like fair fingers, at th’ invite
Of such a Syren, such a Satan’s belle ?—
He’d be indeed a pure Arthurian knight,
Unlike the Marlborough Club men in Pall Mall.
Jon Duan perished—we may’nt think him right,
Though even blood and iron do give in
To beauty decked out with the Wage of Sin------
LXXIV.
LXIX.
“ The Piece is Love—The Plot, it is love-making.
It’s had a run of some six thousand years.
Come, let us put it in rehearsal, taking
The stage alone, and keeping it. Our ears
Weren’t made for prompter’s whispers !” But
she, shaking
That sunny head of hers, said she had fears
About her memory—was he sure that he'd do ?—
And was that quite a good lever de rideau ?
Which isn’t a bad salary on the whole,
As wages go in these degenerate days ;
When violet powder is less dear than coal;—
At least we know that several pairs of bays
Are kept on those same wages, which a shoal
Of Jew promoters, bankers, lordlings, pays,
Without reflecting on that heinous libel
About the Wage, they might find in the Bible.
LXX.
LXXV.
Jon Duan, fascinated, just declared
The giving of a lady’s part depended
Upon Miss Constance Fitzfulke—and he stared
Quite rudely at the opulent and splendid figure
Before him. But, by no means scared,
With coquetry and prudence subtly blended,
She said his demonstrations touched her heart—
But she would rather like to know her part.
It might come afterwards—as final farce,
For farce it must be—she’s nought, if not funny;
But a too quick denouement often mars
An author’s best piece—and, above all, one he
Has planned so hastily. Profits are sparse,
When one commences with so little money.
She’d see—a little later on—and her
Eyes said that day he’d be the Manager!
|
�JON DUAN.
LXXVI.
“ Well, though we’re very full, I think I’ve found
A small part, that will fit you like a glove,
In my ‘^Eneas,’ a burlesque that’s bound
To beat ‘ Ixion.’ ” " You’re a perfect love !—
But what’s the dress?” “Oh, Roman robes.”
She frowned.
"‘Robes,’ that sounds bad. Don’t Roman
swells approve
Of tights ?” " Well, don’t obey us to the letter,
Wear what you like-—perhaps the less the better.
i
I
LXXVII.
“We’ve got EumidiaJohnson to play Dido.
You’ll have a scene with her.”—“A scene with
Miss
Eumidia Johnson !”—and Miss Constance cried :
" Oh,
You are a darling—Come now—there’s a
kiss!”—
“ She enters speaking to a village guide, who
Stays in the wings—Then Dido utters this :
* Is this the road to Sicily ? ’ The wight
Responds : ‘Just past the cabstand, to your right.’
lxxviii.
‘‘You’ll play the village lass.”—"Well, what
comes next ? ”
"Next—why there’s nothing.” "What! I
don’t appear
At all ! ”—and Miss Fitzfulke looked rather
vexed,—
“Of course not.” “Then why do you make
me wear
A costume ? ”—The librettist said the text
Of his engagement stipulated there
Should be, in smallest details, a sublime
Aud true historic picture of the time.
LXXIX.
"Besides, you’re sure to make Eumidia furious,
She hates a pretty colleague worse than sin ;
And then the Stalls are sure to be most curious
To know who’s Miss Fitzfulke, who ne’er
comes in ;—
A mystery is not at all injurious
When figurantes, who would ‘ see life,’ begin ;
It whets the appetite of wealthy sinners
Seeking their vis-à-vis for Richmond dinners.”
LXXX.
So it was settled. Heaven knows what pact
Between the pair was furthermore concluded.
L
�JON DUAN
One can’t say always how one’s heroes act,
And we’re quite ignorant of what these two
did ;
But there’s one positive and patent fact,
Miss Constance Fitzfulke’s name henceforth
obtruded
Itself in bills, which said her part would be as
Julia in the new Bouffe—“ Pious ?Eneas.”
77 K
in.
The dahlias bleus in courts of Spanish castles,
And, where it’s shady,
The merle blanc chanting,
And floating robes, and feathers, fringe and tassels
That frame the lady
One’s always wanting.
IV.
How sweet are memories of the thin white bodies,
When, sooner or later
Two puffs dismiss them ;
And what love grows for vague lips of the goddess
When the creator
Can never kiss them !
LXXXI.
We know the link between them was soon broken,
That he forgot—and she would not forgive ;—
The usual end of light vows rashly spoken—
The usual end of immortelles we weave
Into a passing fancy’s foolish token.
The Love goes out, and-—well, the lovers live,
And, turning o’er some old creased yellow letter,
He cannot, for his life, tell where he met her.
V.
Ah, those clouds aid the preachers’ exhortations
With apt examples
Of hope’s fruitions,
And breed, in time, that comfortable patience
Which mutely tramples
On vain ambitions.
lxxxii.
One lives—with just another cause for saying
Hard things against the sex which, from our
nurses
Unto our widows, lives but for betraying.
One lives—to vent a few dramatic curses
Upon their heads, and, for our pain’s allaying,
To smoke more pipes, and write more doleful
verses,
Such as Jon Duan wrote in the dyspeptic
Tone of the Jilted who would seem a Sceptic.
VI.
The goddess grows amorphous in the fusion
Of fumes, and none deign
To mend or drape her—
Hence, stoic smokers draw the trite conclusion
That most things mundane
Must end in vapour.
©amtaS.
'
:
VII.
And in the place of peace, and praise, and laurel,
A bay-wrecked boat sees,
From which in deep tone,
Comes o’er the water’s waste—the Master’s moral
Of M<xtcu6t77s
i.
Tell me I’m weary ; say of Pride—it cowers ;
Of love—it bored me ;
Of faith—dove broke it ;
But add, the world’s a weed worth all its flowers,
And fate afford me
The time to smoke it.
MaraiirijTWi'
LXXXIII.
II.
1
They who pretend that this last joy, disabled
From pleasing, duly
Will leave you lonely,
Know not how fortune’s wizard-wand has labelled
The fairy Thule
“For smokers only ;”
|
A first night at the Pandemonium. All
The facade is ablaze. Electric light
Streams from the fronting houses on a wall,
Bearing in letters, half a yard in height:
“Pious .¿Eneas ; or, the Roman Fall,”—
With a few witticisms just as bright
( Vide the theatre columns of the Times'),
Filched from the bills of ancient pantomimes.
�JON DUAN.
y8
LXXXIV.
Cabs are Echeloned in adjoining streets ;
The first-night clan has mustered in full force :
The critics, who’ve got pocketfuls of sheets
Of ready-made abuse or praise, of course ;
Some actors—first nights are their special treats—
An actress, yearning for that strange divorce
Which hangs fire—not because her lord don’t
doubt her,
But just because he’d get no parts without her.
LXXXV.
There’s the small German banker come to see
If this thing threatens his majestic place
As millionaire, supporting two or three
Flourishing houses—not from any base
Desire of pelf, but just to win the key
Of a few dressing-rooms, to know a brace
Of low comedians—and perhaps arrive at
A knowledge of how authors look in private.
LXXXVI.
There’s Rhadamanthus of the Thunderer,
Who generally, to prime himself, dines freely ;
There’s Papa Levy, breathing nard and myrrh
Proffered by Freddy Arnold—styled the Mealy
Gusher—his fond and faithful thurifer.
There’s Sala—with that one jocose and steely
Orb levelled at Hain Friswell like a pistol—•
A fierce carbuncle glowing at a crystal.
LXXXVII.
There’s bland E. Blanchard, with the sleek curled
locks,
There’s the white head that gives the Athenaum
Those pure and classic notices; there flocks
The Civil Service legion—You should see ’em
Passing pretentiously from box to box,
Chanting Anathema, or a Te Deum,
According to their hearers’ love or spite,
For, or against, the author of the night.
LXXXVIII.
And nameless crowds fill up the stalls ; a hum
Subdued goes down the critics’ own first row;
Dawdling Guy Livingstones are stricken dumb
By their profound anxiety to know
Whether Amanda, Lou or Nell will “ come
Out strong ”—or make dear friends'and rivals
crow :
And one by one the detrimentals rise,
And saunter off to see how the ground lies.
LXXXIX.
The secret of this theatre’s success
They know. You pass behind the boxes, thread
Some corridors and galleries that grow less
Thronged as you push on, save by some wellbred
Patrons profound of drama and the Press •
They bribe the latter, by the first are bled ;
You come across a small door where officials
Demand of you your name and her initials.
XC.
And you descend a Dantesque staircase, filled
With that foul feverish air of the coulisse,
Into a world where all essay to build,
Apparently a Babel, not a piece.
At every step you take you’re nearly killed
By carpenters ; by call-boys—cackling geese—■
And men who’re shifting temples, wings, and
drops,
Or handing Grecian goddesses their “props.”
XCI.
Only the maestro is self-possessed
In this great madhouse, set on fire by night—
That’s tHb comparison that suits it best ;—
He, humming shreds of opera airs, makes
light
Of each defect, because all his hopes rest
Upon his music, which will set all right ;
Jon Duan, being a novice at the trade,
Though not less vain, was rather more afraid.
xcn.
He gave the worst directions, quite forgetting
The most important ; he strode to and fro
From prompter to stage manager, upsetting
The watering pots, with which the dust’s laid
low,
When all the scene-shifters have finished “ setting,”
He felt a subtle fever stealing thro’
Him—“Author ! ” heard, and hisses, madly
mingled,
’Twas like champagne drunk through his ears,
which tingled.
xeni.
“ Lend me your rouge.”—“ Miss Amy’s borrowed
it.”
‘‘The hairdresser!”—“He’s occupied.”—
“ I’m in
»
-J
�1 »"
■
I
JON DUAN.
The second scene.”—“I’m in the first!”—“A
chit! ”
“A minx!”—“Oh, dresser, take care with
that pin ! ”
“ Dresser—I’m sure my shoulder-straps will
split.”—
That is the usual last moment’s din—
Traversed by call-boy’s cries, tenor’s objections,
Mechanics’ oaths, and author’s last directions.
XCIV.
Then Dido came down from her dressing-room.
Her maid held up her train—she strode
superb
In sheeny satin—dazzling, with a bloom
From Rimmel’s on that face—that neck you
curb
But with a diamond necklace. Vague perfume,
Distilled from many a rare and precious herb,
Enveloped her—as some ethereal presence,
To which all present made profound obeisance.
xcv.
The maestro bore her poodle, and her fan
Was carried by the manager. She knew
Her power, the jade ! and calmly her gaze ran
Around the stage.
“That chair will never
do”—
And it was changed. “ That drop’s too high ”—
a man
Was straightway sent to lower it—they flew,
They bowed, they, cringed, and felt it a great
honour—
1 Hadn’t they spent ten thousand pounds upon her ?
XCVI.
Then the bell rings—that tinkle which the
hearts
Of authors echo with re-tingling force.
The curtain rises, and the public starts
Quick to its feet, and in a moment’s hoarse
With hailing the fair favourite—from all parts
Bouquets rain down upon her, hurled of course,
79
By hands that have held her’s—and left, too,
there,
Not a few fortunes poets would call fair.
xcvn.
And the applause ne’er ceased, for no one heard
A line, but saw legs after legs succeed
Each other, caper and poussette. No word
Was wanted. All who’ve come have what they
need—
Plenty of lime-light, music, and a herd
Of puppets, pink, and finest of their breed :
That’s why the papers next day chronicled
The piece as one in which France was excelled.
xcvin.
Oh, those encores—those bravoes, how they make
One’s bosom bound, one’s vanity brim o’er.
The modest bounds of reticence we break,
Only behind our inmost chamber’s door—
Where, it is true, a rich revenge we take
For the feigned meekness of an hour before—
But on a first night it’s legitimate
To say, as well as feel convinced, you’re great.
XCIX.
But o’er Jon Duan’s brow a shade would come,
E’en while Queen Dido ran off, flushed with
praise,
And said he was “a perfect treasure.” Some
Dim struggling recollections of the plays
He’d hoped to write—ere this indecent dumb
Show of fine legs—plays, worthy of old days,
And which do one more honour in one’s desk,
Perhaps, than many a popular burlesque.
c.
And so, when Dido and jEneas had
Been called on thrice, he answered to the shout
For “Author ! Author !” with a face half sad,
Half cynical; as, gazing round about,
He saw what philtres made the public mad,
And why they hissed not those fat women out—
And in his heart he thanked, the while he made
his
Bow, the dear friends of all his “ leading ladies.”
�.8o
JON DUAN.
Canto The Seventh.
i.
EARY of London and of London ways,
The glare and glitter of the London nights,
And very weary also of the days,
Which once could minister such rare delights,
Duan, who erst had written many lays
Praising the hundred pleasant sounds and sights
Of this great hive of very busy bees,
Resolved to quit the town and take his ease.
II.
He sometimes liked, although in Fashion’s season,
To bid farewell to sun-dried London streets ;
He could not, nor could we, afford a reason,
To every stupid questioner one meets
Who pries about, as'if suspecting treason,
To find out why the pulse so languid beats,
Or why we seek the hillside, sea, or river,—
And puts it down to a disordered liver.
in.
So Duan turned to fields and pastures new,
Taking a ticket'for the Midland line;
For on the pleasant shores full" well he knew
He might find scenes to soften and refine;
And thinking much about the same, he grew
Almost poetic—till he w ished to dine ;
And then he roused from fancy’s meditation,
And looked in Bradshaw for the stopping station.
IV.
He crossed the border, and at once he felt
A keenness and a rawness in the air ;
A fume of oats and cock-a-leekie smelt,
Heard mingled sounds of blasphemy and prayer;
And saw that on the people’s faces dwelt
A hard and bony Calvinistic stare,
Which seemed to express it] was a Scot’s life
labour
To skin a flint and damn outright his- neighbour.
v.
O, Caledonia ! very stern and wild,
And only dear to those who travel through you ;
The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child,
But you do not believe such nonsense, do you?
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
GARD & C O.’S
SELF-CLEANING-
CHEMICAL IN A BOX, PRICE ONE CLOTHS.
PLATE SHILLING.
THREE CLOTHS
Directions for Use:
After washing the plate with soap and water and carefully removing all grease, dry and simply rub the plate
with the Plate Cloth instead of chamois leather. Instantly a splendid polish will be upon the surface of the
plate. No plate-paste or powder whatever is required, because the cloth is chemically prepared and is quite
sufficient alone to polish the plate. It is equally effective for Gold and Silver, Jewellery, &c. If the soap called
Gard’s Sapoline is used, instead of the usual soap, the plate need only be polished once a week with the Plate
Cloths, effecting a saving both in time and cloths.
Each Plate Cloth will clean from 150 to 200 large and small pieces of plate, reckoning from the ordinary
tea-spoon to the tea-pot, or from 450 to 600 pieces at the cost of One Shilling.
After the cloths have been used for plate, they will clean Brass, Tins, &c., and finally, will serve as dusters.
SELF-CLEANING
BRASS & STEEL POLISHING CLOTHS.
They will keep a brilliant polish on all metals save gold and silver, for which the Brass and Steel Cloths
should not be used. It will be found that, by the regular use of these cloths, all the domestic metals can be
kept bright with infinitely little labour, amounting, in fact, to scarcely more than the ordinary rubbing with a
duster. Thus, the steel of grates and fenders, brass stair-rods, door-plates of either metal, brass-rods, shop
fronts, harness-mounts, bits, stirrups, &c., may always be kept in good order.
Note.—These cloths are not intended to remove rust from iron or steel, or an old long-standing tarnish on
brass, tin, &c. Whatever material is used to remove this has too much “ cut ” in it to leave a high polish
although the highest burnish may be restored by the subsequent use of these cloths.
Directions for Use.—Keep the cloth once or twice doubled while using, and briskly rub the article you
are polishing. If brass is slightly tarnished, sprinkle a little water on the corner of the cloth and remove the
tarnish, then finish with the dry. part of the cloth. No wash-leathers nor anything else are required or should
be used.
•
------------------------------------ ——
Prepared by GARD & CO., Dunstable, Beds.
Three Cloths in a Box, Price ONE SHILLING.
London Depot: 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, E.C.
LONDON WHOLESALE AGENTS. '
Barclay & Sons, 95, Farringdon Street.
Hartee & Co., 101,102, & 103, Upper Thames: William Mather, 14, Bath Street, Newgate
Burgoyne, Burbridges, & Co., x6, Coleman St
Street.
Street.
" ■ °
Bliss & Co., 13 and 13, Sun Street, Finsbury.
G. Kent & Co., xx, Great Marlborough Street. x.xnvv, Son, & Thompson, i, Little Britain.
Maw, vu-., vc xnvmroviN, 1, IvLllie nruam.
Lynch & Co., 171, Aldersgate Street.
171 XT---------- 00 ons, 37, Newgate Street.
Crowden & Garrod, Falcon Square.
F. Newbery &.S
H. Edwards, 38, Old Change.
Matthew & Son, xo6, Upper Thames Street.
J. Sanger & Sons, 150 and 252, Oxford Street.
Sold by all the principal Drapers, Ironmongers, Chemists, Fancy Stationers, and Brushmakers, and to be had at all Bazaars.
AGENTS IN THE SUBURBS.
Bayswater............ T. H.
Squire, 4, Wellington Terrace.
..............J. Hawes & Son, 105, Queen’s Road.
Brixton................ B. Little & Co., near the Church.
Brompton ............ George Hammond, 173, Brompton Road.
Camberwell ........ H. C. Davis.
Chalk Farm Road S. Mousley and E. Nicholas.
Chelsea ............... W. Aston, Sloane Square.
Clayham............... Langford & Co.
,,
Rise .... F. Stone.
Clapton (Upper) .. A. Jenki-nson, Wood St.; J. Barker, Hill St.
Clayton ............... Varley, Mount Pleasant Road.
,,
Croydon............... Redgrove & Bowder.
Enfield ............... E. Mann.
Finchley............... E. J. Daniells.
Hackney............... Stiff & Son, 171, Mare Street.
„
.................. H. Rawlings, 406, Mare Street.
Hammersmith .... Foster, 107, King St.; Williams, near the Gate.
Highgate ............ R. James, High Street.
Holloway ........ T. Condron ; Coote & Symons.
„
.............. E. A. Hussey, 187, Seven Sisters Road.
,,
.............. P. Barefoot, 136, Upper Street.
Hornsey Rise .... H. Browne; E. Coldrey.
Islington ............ J. Plumber, 230, Upper Street.
Kennington ........ C. Savage, 2x6, Park Road.
Kensington ........ J. Barker & Co.; Seaman, Little, & Co.
Knightsbridge .... G. C. Lewis & Sons.
Richmond............ W. F. Reynolds; J. G. Pierce.
St. John’s Wood .. Keeble, io, King’s College Road.
Tottenham) Lower) H. Woodcock.
Westbourne Grove W. Whiteley ; Edw. Cox.
Winchmere Hill .. H. Austin.
Wood Green........ W. B. Edwards.
AGENTS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Andover ............ Hawkins & Clarke.
Birmingham .... Powell & Co., Bullring.
Belfast............... R. Patterson & Co.
„
..................... David Mitchell.
Bournemouth .... T. F. Short.
Brighton ............The Supply Association.
Cheltenham........ A. Jack.
Clevedon ..............J. R. Lovegrove.
Colchester........ H. Joslen.
Exmouth............J. Plimsoll.
Glasgow ........ Graham & Son.
Gravesend........... M. H. Bevan.
Hastings ............ R. Spencer.
................ Liddeard & Co.
,,
Hartleyool ........ J. Stonehouse.
Henley-on-Thames A. W. Pescud.
,,
,,
Lee (Kent) ......
Leeds..................
Liverpool............
McBean Bros.
White & Sons.
Wm. Smeeton.
Heintz & Co.
Paisley...............
Slough ...............
Southampton ....
Margate ............
Manchester........
Oxford...............
Plymouth............
Watford............
Winchester........
McArthur.
H. Groveney.
H. B. Kent.
M. Byles.
Wm. Mather.
Gill & Co.
Popham, Radford. & Co
W. Wise.
Carter, Son, & Co.
Wisbech.......... Rhdin & Sons.
FOREIGN DEPOTS.
Amsterdam ........ Y. H. Redeke, S.S. 35, Singel.
Berlin.................... Rudolph Hertzog.
Hamburgh............ P. F. Wendt, No. 20, Grimm.
Milan.................. I. Hartmann, No. 2, Via Carlo Porta.
Odessa.................. Thbod. Bribntana.
Paris ................... F. Ampenot, 92, Rue Richelieu.
Philadelphia, U.S. Rhoads & Harris, 406, Commerce Street.
St. Petersburgh.... W. Douque, 26, Grande.
Vienna ............... Jelinek & Mose, 4, Kollnerhofgrasse.
�yON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS^
DR. ROOKE’S
ANTI-LANCET.
All who wish to preserve health, and thus prolong
life, should read Dr. Rooke’s “Anti-Lancet ; or, HandyGuide to Domestic Medicine,” which can be had
GRATIS from any Chemist, or POST FREE from
Dr. ROOKE, Scarborough.
Concerning this book, which contains 168 pages, the
late eminent author, Sheridan Knowles, observed “ It will be an incalculable boon to every person who
can read and think.”
CROSBY’S
BALSAMIC
COUGH ELIXIR
Is specially recommended by several eminent Physicians, and
by Dr. Rooke, Scarborough, Author of the “ Aati-Laneet,
**
It has been used with the most signal success for Asthma,
Bronchitis,Consumption,Coughs, Influenza,Consumptive Night
sweats, Spitting of Blood, Shortness of Breath, and all affec
tions of the Throat and Chest.
Sold in Bottles, at ij. gd., 45. 6d., and 115. each, by all
respectable Chemists ; and Wholesale by JAMES M. CROSBY,
Chemist, Scarborough.
!3" Invalids should read Crosby’s Prize Treatise on
‘‘Diseases of the Lungs and Air-Vessels," a copy of
which can be had Gratis of all Chemists.
SIGHT IS THE GREATEST GEM OF NATURE.
THE CUKES THIS LIQUID IS EFFECTING EVERY DAY ARE MARVELLOUS!
Dimness, aged, weak, watery, sore, bloodshot, kells, cataracts, specks, colds, inflamed, near-sight, over-worked, and
every disease of the Eye can be cured in a few dressings.
THOUSANDS OF TESTIMONIALS. Some of the most Wonderful Cures ever witnessed of
Men, Women, and Children, some who had been in Hospitals and under the best Medical Men of the Day.
Can be obtained thtough any Chemist in Bottles at is. gd., 4s. 6d., and 1 is. each; or from the Proprietorsfor Two Stamps extra.
Prepared only by JOHN EDE, Snowball Villa, Birchfield, Birmingham.
COLLIER & SON'S CHOCOLATE POWDER, Is. per lb
TO THE EXHIBITIONS
OF 1871.2 «I
Of this Inimitable
Chocolate
CHOCOLATE
Powder
were given away at the Exhibition, 1862. Hundreds of
thousands are now using it, finding it unequalled. We
respectfully solicit a trial; feeling assured that you will continue to use it.
It is strongly recommended by the Faculty, strengthening the weakly and
invigorating the healthy. One Cup, or Twenty, made in One Minute, with boil
ing water only, milk or sugar not being necessary.
CHOCOLATE
TESTIMONIALS.
"James Collier & Son have patented a Chocolate Powder, which for flavour, digestibility, and
facility of preparation, equal« any with which we have hitherto met. The very moderate price charged
per lb. puts this useful preparation within the reach of all classes of the commuMity.”—The Hemao/athic
World.
“ Is deservedly preferred to almost any other by those who have used it.**— Va.de Mecum.
" It is particularly easy of digestion by the most delicate.’’—Press and St. James' s Chronisle.
Prepared by J. COLLIER & SON, Manufacturers of all kinds of Prepared Ooooa and
Chocolate, French, Eating, Fancy Chocolates, Chocolate Cremes, &c.
Purveyors of Mustard to the International Exhibitions, iZ’jl -2, 3, and 4.
Sold by Geocew, Chemiats, and Oilmen, loose is. per lb., er in I lb. square tins, I a, 4Z each.
COMMERCIAL STEAM MILLS,
LONDON.
�I"
I
THE “ SOCK.”—A Comedy Company.
��JON DUAN,
What Scotchman is there that would not be riled,
If he was bound for life to stick close to you ?
No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor,
You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.
VI.
0, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles ;
O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and
Cant,—
Of lofty mountains and of very high hills,
Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant;
0 Land which Dr. Johnson foully libels,
To sound thy praises does our hero pant;
And to relate how, from engagements freed,
He calmly vegetated north of Tweed.
VII.
He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat,
And thought the modern Athens a fine city;
Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street,
And wished the lassies could have been more
pretty—
With smaller bones, and less decided feet;
He found the cabmen insolent, though witty ;
The Castle "did,” and, ere he slept, had been on
The Carlton’Hill and seen the new Parthenon.
VIII.
The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though,
’Twas like being in a city of the dead ;
With solemn steps, and faces full of woe,
The people to their kirks and chapels sped,
Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms,
and so
Went home again with Puritanic tread;
Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening
glooms,
Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms.
IX.
All, outward form—it is the old, old story :
The Pharisee his presence still discloses:—
They go to church, they give to God the glory ;
They roll their eyes, and snuffle through their
noses;
Tow’rds other sinners hold views sternly gory,
And are great sticklers for the law of Moses.
Then go home, shut their doors, and, as a body,
Go in for secret sins and too much “ toddy.”
81
�82
JON DUAN.
x.
But westward was the cry, and Duan went
To Balloch Pier, and steamed up Lomond’s
loch ;
And felt inclined for silent sentiment ;* —
But tourists crowded round him in a flock,
And vulgarised the scenery, and lent
A disenchantment to the view ; ’tis shock
ing how they can a fellow-traveller worry,
And bore him with th'eir manners and their
“ Murray.”
XI.
They “ do ” their nature as they would a sum,
And rule off scenery like so much cash :
They quote their guide-books, or they would be
dumb :
A waterfall to them is but a splash ;
A mountain but so many feet;—they come,
And go, and see that nature does not clash
With dinner. And take home as travel’s fruit
An empty purse and worn-out tourist-suit.
XII.
Soon Duan fled the beaten track, nor rested
Till, fortunate, he chanced upon a village
From tourist-locusts free, and uninfested
By Highland landlords who the traveller
pillage—•
A spot with towering mountain-walls invested,
And given up to pasturage and tillage,
Whilst in the distance, dimly, through a crevice,
You saw the summit of cloud-capp’d Ben Nevis.
XIII.
Here Duan stayed, and fished—there was a burn ;
And flirted—for of course there was a lass
there ;
Tried Gaelic epithets of love to learn ;
Climbed every mountain, and explored each
pass there,
And set himself, in philosophic turn,
To study the condition of the mass there ;
And found they lived, chiefly on milk and porridge,
In hovels where we wouldn’t store up forage.
XIV.
Hovels of mud and peat, with plots of ground
Just large enough to grow their owner’s oats ;
A cow, a lank, lean sheep or two he found, i
Some long-legged fowls, and p’rhaps a pair of
goats :
�JON DUAN.
------- —...
—~—.-------------------- ,------------------- ----
Inside, nor roofs, nor walls, nor windows sound—
They’re worse than huts of Sclaves, or Czechs,
or Croats :
So lives, and will live, till lairds’ hearts grow
softer,
That remnant of the feudal days, the crofter.
xv.
He pays but little rent, but even then
Body and soul he scarce can keep together:
His wife and daughters have to work like men,
Subsistence hangs on such a fragile tether;
And when the snow comes drifting up the glen,
God knows how they survive the wintry weather.
We fuss about the happy South Sea Islanders,
But have no thought for these half-starving
Highlanders.
XVI.
He walked through tracts of country—countless
acres,—
White men ejected that red-deer may live ;
And let to rich and purse-proud sugar-bakers,
Who care not what the rent is that they give ;
Nor that they have been desolation-makers,—
To use a very mild appelative—
And when he saw these forests so extensive,
Those Highland deer, thought he, were too ex
pensive.
XVII.
Sport is a proper thing enough—we are
No weak and sickly sentimentalists ;
But what is sport ? For very, very far
The definitions differ : one insists
It’s battue-shooting; then, a butcher, bar
None, is the greatest sportsman that exists—
He’s slaughtering always ; not a lord whose study
It is to make big bags, is half as bloody.
XVIII.
A slaughter-house would be a new delight
For high-born ladies who “ warm corners visit,5’
And relish pigeon-shooting—’twould excite
Fresh joys to see a pig stuck, and to quiz it
As it dies slowly with a squeal of fright ;
For if they like the killing so, why is it
They draw the line at pigeon or at pheasant ?—
To see big beasts killed would be still more
pleasant.
83
�84
JON DUAN.
XIX.
But to our muttons, that is, to our deer—
Stalking the stag is proper sport, we grant ;
But British sport should never interfere
With British people’s welfare—if we can’t
Hunt deer unless a country-side’s made drear
And desolate,—why, then it’s clear, we shan’t
Be acting properly to make a waste
To suit a few rich sportsmen’s vulgar taste.
xx.
John Duan heard sad tales of men being turned
From ’neath their treasured and ancestral roof;
And sheep by thousands could be kept, he learn’d,
Where now, save for the deer, there roams no
hoof ;—
He look’d on ruin’d homes, and his heart burned
With indignation, as he saw fresh proof
Of how the man, with money in his hand,
Can rough-shod ride o’er all the privileged land.
*
XXI.
And he came back to England, his heart burning
To tell his story in the Daily News ;
Resolved to stay this very general turning
Of fertile land to desert : but his views
Met with but faint encouragement ;—discerning
I® Men thought him right : but, just then, to amuse
The public, there came up a new sensation—Sir Henry Thompson’s paper on Cremation.
XXII.
So, up in Scotland there are, still, evictions,
And still all else gives way to sport a»d game :
No matter how severe are the inflictions
On harmless people : still it is the same.
There must be deer and grouse ; and soon in
fictions
Alone will live the Highlander’s proud name.
Perish the people, and whate’er would war
With rich and selfish pleasures—Vive le Sport !
* It is worthy of record that a’ Scotch nobleman, whose
large estate is, by dint of wholesale evictions and purposed
neglect, being turned into deer-forests—called forests, seem
ingly, because they do not contain a single tree—has been
able, by the exercise of his lordly will, to prevent the post
office telegraph-wires passing over a part of his property,
where, for the convenience of hundreds of isolated people, it
would have been especially useful. His lordship's most
urgent argument against the wires was that they would
frighten his grouse ! The wires have accordingly made a
détour, and his lordship's unfortunate tenants are left prac
tically cut off from the world, to get ill, and get well again,
as best they can, and to die without being able to make a
sign. Meanwhile, the grouse are not frightened—which is,
of course, a great blessing.
�JON DUAN.
Canto The Eighth.
1.
iHss^gji FRAGRANT odour of the choicest weeds,
A hum of voices, pitched in high-born tones ;
A score of fellows, some of our best breeds,
The Heir-apparent to the British throne ;
Soft-footed flunkeys tending to their needs—
The vintage in request, to-night, is Beaune—
Luxurious lounging-chairs, well-stuffed settees,
An air of lavishness, and taste, and ease.
II.
The walls are covered with a set of frames
Containing all the members limned by “ Ape”;
The loungers bear our most illustrious names,
At which the outside public gasp and gape.
That is a duke’s son who just now exclaims—
“ Avaunt, ye ‘ World’ly and unholy shape ! ”
And he who enters, being the “ shape ” he means,
Is little Labby, fresh from City scenes.
III.
There is more chatter: — “ How are ‘Anglo's'
now ?”—
“Were you at Prince’s
Isn’t Amy stunning ? ”—
“ The bets are off.”—“.She waltzes like a cow.”—
“ It’s Somerset is making all the running.”—
“Churchill’s on guard.”—“ 0, yes, a devilish
row! ”—
“ It’s in the World?—“ I say, Wales, Yorke is
punning.”—
“The framjous muff!”—“By Jove! an awful
joke!”—
Such are the words that penetrate the smoke.
IV.
Guelpho is beaming, as he always beams,
And listening to Jon Duan’s latest “ tips”;
Upon a sofa Wodecot lies and dreams
Of other hearts, and Nellie’s charming lips ;
The air with pretty little scandals teems,
Of men’s mistakes and pretty women’s slips.
What looked you for within the sacred portals ?—
The Guelpho Clubmen, after all, are mortals.
V.
;
Again the noiseless door swings open wide,
And Coachington is with a loud roar greeted.
85
1 Is Bromley still by Bow? ” a witling cried,
Before the new arrival could be seated;
But he—he had sat down by Guelpho’s side—
Said, “ I bought this outside,” and then repeated,
From a broadsheet of ballads, ’midst much
laughter,
The “ Coster’s Carol ” you’ll find following after.
•
'GIjc Cms'trr’ja Garni.
1.
I may be rough an’ like 0’ that,
But I ain’t no bloomin’ fool;
An’ I’m rather up to what is what,
Though I never goed to school.
I know my way about a bit,
An’ this is what I say :—■
That it’s those as does the business
As ought to get the pay !
2.
I ain’t no grudge agen the Queen,
Leastways, that is, no spite ;
But I helps to keep her, so I mean
To ax for what’s my right:—
An’ as she won’t come out at all,
It’s not no ’arm to say,
That if she don’t do the business,
Why, she shouldn’t get the pay.
*
0
She’s livin’ on the cheap, I’m told.
An’ puttin’ lots away—
Some gets like that when they is old—
But what I want’s fair play !
Let Wictoria get her pension,
An’ up in Scotland stay—
But let them as do her business,
Be the ones to get most pay.
4I think as ’ow her eldest son
’As got a hopen ’art;
I likes his looks, myself, for one,
An’ I alius takes his part.
And then there’s Alexandrar,
She’s a proper sort, I say ;
Them’s the two as do the business,
An’ they ought to get the pay.
•
�JON DUAN.
86
5.
There ain’t to me the slightest doubt
(An’ no hoffence I means)—•
’Tis the moke as draws the truck about,
As ought to get most greens.
We do not starve the old ’uns,
But we give much less to they—
’Tis the ones as do the business
As ought to have the pay«
>
6.
I pay my whack for queen or king,
Like them o’ ’igher birth ;
An’ ’taint a werry wicked thing
To want my money’s worth :
An’ if I’m discontented,
’Tis only ’cause I say—
That the coves as does the business .
Ought to get the bloomin’ pay.
• 7So let the Queen her ways pursoo,
An’ I for one won’t weep ;
An’ all the idle Jarmints, too,
As I helps for to keep.
But what I ’ope ain’t treason,
Is boldly for to say
That the Prince and Alexandrar
Ought to get their mother’s pay.
VI.
“ What impudence 1 ” they cry, and yet they laugh,
And Duan says, “ The logic isn’t bad :
A lot of truth is sometimes mixed with chaff.
And, by-the-by, if’t please you, I will add
A parody I’ve made : on its behalf
I claim your leniency.” Then he gave tongue,
And in his rich, ripe voice these verses sung :—
€I)at (Germans 3)£h>.
London, 18'74.
Which I wish to remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks far from vain,
The Germany Jew is peculiar,
Which the same I’m about to explain.
Eim Gott was his name ;
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same,
He was wonderful “ fly,”
But his watch-chain was vulgar and massive,
And his manner was dapper and spry.
It’s two years come the time,
Since the mine first came out;
Which in language sublime
It was puffed all about:—
But if there’s a mine called Miss Emma
I’m beginning to werry much doubt.
Which there was a small game
And Eim Gott had a hand
In promoting ! The same
He did well understand
But he sat at Miss Emma’s board-table,
With a smile that was child-like and bland.
Yet the shares they were “ bulled,”
In a way that I grieve,
And the public was fooled,
Which Eim Gott, I believe,
Sold 22,000 Miss Emmas,
And the same with intent to deceive.
And the tricks that were played’
By that Germany Jew,
And the pounds that he made
Are quite well known to you.
But the way that he flooded Miss Emma
Is a “watering” of shares that is new.
Which it woke up MacD------ ,
And his words were but few.
For he said, “ Can this be ? ”
And he whistled a “ Whew !”
“ We are ruined by German-Jew swindlers”!—
And he went for that Germany J ew.
In the trial that ensued
I did not take a hand ;
But the Court was quite filled
With the fi-nancing band,
And Eim Gott was “ had ” with hard labour,
For the games he did well understand.
Which is why I remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks far from vain.
The Germany Jew was peculiar,—
But he won’t soon be at it again.
�JON DUAN.
VII.
The verdict was “ Not bad ! ” and then the chat
Turned on the Mordaunt Trial and Vert-Vert
case :—
“ The plaintiff’s 1 Fairlie ’ beaten,” Jon said ; at
Which witticism there was a grimace ;
Next, little Labby, who till then had sat
Quite quietly, said, at Fred Bates’s place
He’d seen a skit, he quite forgot to bring it,
But knew the words, and if they liked, he’d sing it.
“ 3E
im'tlj (grant.”
“ I was with Grant----- ” the stranger said ;
Said McDougal, 11 Say no more,
But come you in—I have much to ask—
And please to shut the door.”
“ I was with Grant----- ” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,—
You have seen him sit at the Emma board ?
Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.
“ What said my Albert—my Baron brave,
Of the great financing corps ?
I warrant he bore him scurvily
’Midst the interruption’s roar ! ”
“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then ;
“ But, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant----- ” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said McDougal; “but tell me more.
“ He’s presented another square 1—I see,
You’d smooth the tidings o’er—
Or started, perchance, more Water works
On the Mediterranean shore ?
“ Or made the Credit Foncier pay,
Or floated a mine with ore ?
Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away
From his home in Kensington Gore !”
“ I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,
“ And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant—Ulysses, I mean—
In the great American war.”
End
87
Then McDougal spake him never a word,
But beat, with his fist, full sore
The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,
In the great American war.
VIII.
Then City men they most severely “ slated”—
Chiefly the banking German Jew variety.
How is it, Landford asked, cads, aggravated
As they, have wriggled into good society ?
And some one said their path to it is plated,
And looked at Guelpho with assumed anxiety.
But Guelpho, ever genial, smiled and said,
“ Suppose we have some loo (unlimited).”
IX.
But Duan wouldn’t play, but said he’d read
Some of the proofs of his new work instead ;
At which there was a loud outcry, indeed,
And soda corks assailed our hero’s head,
Until he promised he would not proceed.
“ And, by the way, J on,” Beersford said, “ I read
That Lord and Dock’s new Annual was out.”
Jon shrugged his shoulders, “ Yes,” he said, “no
doubt,
X.
“ Very much out indeed ; 4t seems to me
That Beeton’s statement was not far from true,
For from internal evidence I see
He could have had naught with their book to do.
I know him, and whatever he may be,
He is not vulgar ; knows a thing or two ;
Has brains, in fact, and has not got to grovel
In worn-out notions, but goes in for novel.”
XI.
And now for loo the cry was raised again,
And there’s a general movement towards the
door;
And humming as he went the coster’s strain,
Duan, with Guelpho, sought the second-floor.
Said Coming K----- , “ Come, Duan, please refrain;
Such sentiments, you know, I must deplore.”
But Duan—“ It’s done ; we’ve put it to the nation—
We’ve gone in for an Early Abdication !”
OF J on
Duan.
�88
SPINNINGS IN TOWN
Spinnings in Town.
•
i.
Although unversed in lays and ways Byronic,
And of Don Juan not a line have read,
Although I’ve never touched the lyre Ionic,
And even nursery-rhymes in prose have said,
Yet for a change I’ll try the gentle Tonic
Of verses, that must be with kindness read,
And, being counselled by some good advisers,
Will journey, too—but to see advertisers.
II.
For I have heard a murmur of fair sights,
All to be seen within gay London town,
Of robes delicious, bonnets gay as sprites,
Cuirasses braided, and jet-spangled gown.
Inventions useful, such as give delight
To all good housewives (those that do not frown
At novelty, or, when they’re asked to try it,
Say, “ It looks very nice, but I shan’t buy it.”)
hi.
Not for such churlish souls, I sing the news—
Not for the women who don’t care for dress ;
Our sex’s armour ne’er did I refuse,
And, without mauvaise honte, I will confess
That, when I’m asked of two new gowns to choose,
I do not take the one which costs the less,
Unless ’tis prettier far ; and then I say,
“ Admire your sposds moderation, pray !”
IV.
I am a Silkworm, spinner by profession,
And make long yarns from very slender case,
I love new things and pretty—this confession
Alone should give me absolution’s grace
From all who read my lines and my digression,
Which I can’t really help—words grow apace—
For I could write whole volumes on a feather,
If I had not to put the rhymes together.
v.
Man’s dress is of man’s life a thing apart:
To Poole or Melton he with calmness goes ;
But woman’s toilette lies so near her heart,
That ’tis with doubts, and fears, and many throes
�BY THE i1ILK WORM.
!
'
’
!
i
In visiting the rounds of shop and mart,
That she selects a ribbon or a rose.
Her fate in life doth oft depend, I ween,
If she be struck with just that shade of green.
VI.
Beauteous Hibernia ! (Britons, do not frown
At rhapsodies from one who owes her much)
What could one do without a poplin gown,
Whose folds take graceful form from every
touch ?
These lips have never pressed the Blarney
11 stone ”—
No flattery ’tis to speak of fabrics such
As are produced in Inglis-Tinckler factory—
Oh dear me! all these rhymes are so refractory.
VII.
To Ireland, too, we owe a great invention ;
For warmth and comfort in the wintry cold,
The Ulster Coat is just the thing to mention,
For driving to the covert, or be rolled
In, for the morning train, or Great Extension
Line Terminus, within its cosy fold,
N or snow nor wet shall harm you, if but ye
Buy Ulster Coats alone of John McGee.
X.
And for yourselves, who to the coverts go,
In dog-cart neat, oft in the pouring rain,
The Ulster Deer-Stalker’s a coat that so
Will keep you dry, and save rheumatic pain.
It useful is in travelling, to and fro
The country station, and must prove a gain.
’Tis so becoming to a figure tall !
In fact, it suits all mankind, great and small.
XI.
Where to begin, and whither wend my way !
Shall I to Atkinson or Jay first go?
Look at Black Silk Costumes sold cheap by Jay;
Or view chairs, tables, carpets, row by row ;
Inspect the “ Brussels, five-and-two,” or say,
“ Prices of furniture I wish to know ; ”
Look at the mirrors, view the marquet’rie,
Gaze at the inlaid work, or wander free ?
XII.
Through gall’ries large, and through saloons light,
vast,
I cast a hasty glance on either hand,
Rich carvings chaste, cretonnes so bright, and
fast
Colours.
VIII.
Say what you will about furs in cold weather,
Sing of the warmth of seal skin as you please,
’Gainst cold, or ice, or snow, or all together,
Give me the Ulster Overcoat of frieze !
Useful in Autumn, driving the heather;
Safeguard in Winter against cough or sneeze ;
But, as they imitate the Ulster Coat,
See that the maker’s name (McGee) you note.
*
IX.
Ladies’ Costumes, and Suits of Irish stuff,
Windermere lining, soft, of every shade,
Cuirasses matelasse see enough
To turn the head of either wife or maid.
I think no woman born could ever “huff”
If in such lovely garments but arrayed,
So, Fathers, Husbands, Brothers, try to find
If Ladies’ Ulster Coats” won’t suit your
womankind.
* John G. McGee and Co., Belfast, Ireland.
89
I note enough to deck the land
With CURTAINS, COVERS, that will surely last
When Time has ta’en the pencil from this hand,
Which strives to give a notion (somewhat faint)
Of furniture that would tempt e’en a saint.
XIII.
Talk of Temptation ! just call in at Jay’s !
The London Mourning Warehouses, I
mean,
In Regent Street ; ’tis crowded on fine days
With the élite of London, and the Queen
Has patronised the house, and without lèseMajesté, I may mention she has seen
Such crêpe of English and of foreign make,
That from no other house she will it take.
XIV.
Yet at the present moment ’tis not crêpe,
But SILK COSTUMES that I would bid all see
(Six pounds sixteen !) of the last cut and shape
The best Parisian models ! flowing free,
--------------- - ----------------------------._____ .___________ _t
�SPINNINGS IN TOWN
90
The graceful folds from dainty bows escape,
Harmonious corsages with the skirts agree;
See what a change French politics have made—
Silks cost just double when they Nap. obeyed ! J
XV.
Then there’s another Jay, whose house full well
Both English maids and New York matrons
know ;
“ The best store out for lingerie, du tell,”
’Tis near unto the mourning warehouse, so
You can’t mistake the maison Samuel
Jay, of high renown for brides’ trousseaux,
Infants’ layettes, and morning toilettes cozy
(For my part, I like cashmere, blue or rosy).
XVI.
Those who do mourn, or wish to compliment
Acquaintances, connections, or their friends,
Who do not care to see much money spent
(For crape turns brown, and ravels at the ends),
Should get the Albert Crape, an excellent
Crape, good to look at; it intends
To be the only crape used ; GOOD and cheap—
Considerations strong for those who weep.
XVII.
Being close by, what hinders me to visit
The Wanzer Company, Great Portland
Street ?—
The Little Wanzer, a machine exquisite—
With such a lockstitch, sewing is a treat;
It works away on any stuff, nor is it
One of those kind whose stitching is not neat ;
Though small, it sews as well as Wanzer D,
Or Wanzer F—“ machine for family.”
XVIII.
Why trouble we to stitch by midnight taper,
New cuffs and collars for our future wear,
When we can buy our lingerie of PAPER,
Each day put on a parure, white and fair?
Collars,which keep their stiffness ’spite of vapour,
Cuffs fit for maid and matron debonair.
Collars and CUFFS, shirt-fronts for gentleman—
These are in Holborn sold, by Edward Tann.
xix.
Holborn the High, number three hundred eight,
There one can buy all kinds of paper things,—
Japanese curtains, ws&jupons for state
Occasions, ’broidered all in wheels and rings.
The paper well doth ’broidery simulate,
’Tis raised and open; then the’re blinds and
strings,
Of paper all, most curious to view—
Think of the saving in the washing, too !
xx.
How difficult it is to find out rhymes
For Vose’s Portable Annihilator,
Which gardens waters, fires checks betimes !
Or Loysel’s Hydrostatic Percolator
For making coffee in,—oh Christmas chimes !
I can’t find any rhyme except Equator,
And that means naught: I want the world to
know it,
They’re made at Birmingham by Griffiths,
Browett.
xxi.
Respite is near, or surely I’d be undone;
’Tis one o’clock, and time to have some lunch.
Where shall I turn ? Of course unto the London,
Where, in the Ladies’ Room, we find Fim,
Punch,
To while the time we spend on things so mundane
(As well as other papers), while we munch
Good things, and menus gay and cartes unravel,
Learn that the restaurant is kept by Reed and
Cavell.
xxii.
The London Restaurant is famed for dinners,
(The London is in Fleet Street, by the way,
Close unto Temple Bar); too good for sinners,
By far the dinner that is set each day.
I took my lads there when not out of “ pinners,”
The first time that they ever saw a play.
When children go to see the Pantomime,
’Tis at The London they should stop and dine.
XXIII.
The SKATING SUITS for ladies next claim my
Attention, for the weather’s very cold;
�91
BY THE SILKWORM.
These suits are useful both for wet and dry
Weather, and draped are in graceful fold,
Shorter or longer, looped up low or high,
Forming jupons by means of ribbons’ hold ;—
And these costumes, accompanied by muff
To match, and edged with fur, are warm enough
XXIV.
To keep each joliefrileuse free from harm,
E’en in Siberia’s frozen climate drear;
Where everlasting snows keep endless calm,
And toes are nipped up in a way that here
We cannot comprehend, nor guess what charm
Keeps men alive, far from all they hold dear—
I’m sure that I should die could I not meet
A friend and go to shop in Conduit Street.
xxv.
Where, by the bye, ladies will always find,
At Benjamin’s, cloth habits to their taste ;
And will discover, if they have a mind,
Most useful pleated skirts, in which a waist
(That’s pretty in itself) looks most refined,
And tapers from the folds, if neatly laced.
Dear dames, if you will give my words fair weight,
Call in Conduit Street at Number Thirty-eight.
xxvi.
But if indeed, you will “Take my Advice,”
As well as all “Things that you ought to
KNOW,”
You’ll go for Diaries and books so nice
Unto James Blackwood’s, Paternoster
Row,
Where information’s given in a trice,
On Pocket Books and Diaries, and so
Cheap are these works that there is no excuse
Left, if these diaries you do not use.
xxviii.
Auriferous visions on my eyeballs strike—
No imitation, it must be real gold,
This jewell’ry made by the Brothers Pyke ;
Yet ’tis but Abyssinian, we are told;
How difficult to credit! It’s so like
To eighteen carat that we’re often “ sold.”
As for pickpockets, I have heard that they
Have left off stealing chains, finding they may
XXIX.
No profit get from Gold that is AS good
As the real, veritable Simon Pure ;
So, honest turn these rogues, once understood
Among their set, that profits come no more.—
With Abyssinian gold to clasp one’s hood,
We safely stand at Covent Garden’s door;
For many a thief has got in sad disgrace
For gold made by The Pykes in Ely Place.
xxx.
To wear with Abyssinian Golden chain,
A cheap and good watch you will get of Dyer,
At Number Ninety, Regent Street; remain
Till you have seen the watches you require,
Superior Levers, patent keyless—gain,
These watches don’t, or lose ; at prices higher
You may have watches, but not better see
Than Dyer’s Watches, Clocks, and Jewellery.
xxxi.
Oh, for the pen of Byron, or such a wight
Who could help a poor rhymster in a fix I
How can I e’er explain that Mr. Hight
’s invented a Revolving Cipher Disc.
Easy to execute by day or night,
Yet difficult to solve or to unmix
The cipher, and from all suspicion clear ;
Essentials held by Bacon and Napier.
XXVII.
But wherefore ask for clever Cooking Book,
If open fires are seen where’er one roves,
Or why on coloured illustrations look,
If that we can’t have Solar cooking Stoves;
Oh! joyful news for housewives and for cooks !—
Portable, too, fancy a stove that moves
Easily ! Yet these stoves are to be seen
At Bishopsgate Street Within, at Brown and
Green.
-
XXXII.
To rest awhile from “ciphering” my brain,
I turn to Pictures of fair Scenery—
The Upper Alpine World—again, again,
These visions fair by Loppe I would see :
They’re shown in Conduit Street; and I would fain
Return unto that lovely gallery—
Pictures by Loppe please me so, I’m willing
For six days in the week to pay my shilling.
�92
SPINNINGS IN TOWN
XXXIII.
A shilling is a pretty little sum,
And with three halfpence added, we can get
Almost each PlLL that’s made ; let’s count them ;
come
And see if the long list I do know yet—
I ought to, for the press is never dumb
Upon the merits of the whole, round set;
Thinking with Thackeray, that we shall find
A favourite pill with each “ well-ordered mind.”
XXXIV.
First, Grains of Health must stand, because
they’re new
And TASTELESS, being COATED o’er with PEARL,
I think they’re Dr. Ridge’s ; ’tis he who
Gives us digestive biscuits fit for girl,
Or infant delicate ; truth, there are few
Dyspeptics who don’t take them. Where’s the
churl
Who will not try, to ease life’s many ills,
A single remedy, say Roberts’ Pills.
XXXV.
Page Woodcock, too, has made a wondrous name
For curing every ill that you may mention ;
While Brodie’s cures (miraculous) the same
For Corns and Bunions :—it wasmy intention
To name Clarke’s Blood Mixture, of which
the fame
Is well established ; but I must my pen shun,
If I go on like this : I really feel
My hair turns grey while rhyming—where’s LaTREILLE ?
XXXVI.
Restoring and producing all one’s hair
Within short time and on the baldest place :
“ Waiting for copy ! ” is the cry, so there,
I cannot mention half I would, with grace :—
Wright’s Pilosagine, Eade’s Pills for pain
in face—
And yet I think ’twould really be a scandal
If I omit the Hair Restorer : Sandell.
xxxvii.
For New Year’s Offering, and for Christmas Box,
Rowland’s Odonto, and Macassar Oil,
With Rowlands’ Kalydor, which really mocks
Youth’s bloom, removing trace of time and toil.
For Jewel-Safes and thief-detecting locks
Try Chubb, his patent safes will always foil
Both fire and thief, do with them all they can—■
A first-rate present for a gentleman !
XXXVIII.
While for the ladies, surely you can’t err,
To buy for them a Whight and Mann Ma
chine,
For hand or foot, indeed this will please her,
Whom you denominate your household Oueen :
But as some women dearly love to stir
Abroad to choose their presents, then I ween,
You will do well to take her some morn,
To buy a new machine in famed Holborri.
XXXIX.
In Charles Street, number four, you’ll find
that Smith
And Co. have of MACHINES a various stock;
There you can test machines and see the pith
Of all their varied workings—chain and lock.
’ Oh, for the pen of Owen Meredith,
That I no more with such bad rhymes need shock
Your feelings ; but, remember, while you’re there,
To look at Weir’s machines, also in Soho
Square.
XL.
Taking one’s teeth out is a painful thing; —
We don’t much like this parting with our bones;—
But what if PAINLESS DENTISTRY I sing,
Which all mankind can have from Mr. JONES?
Of all the new inventions ’tis the king.
Imagine teeth out, minus all the groans !
We’ll turn to other subjects, if you please,
A GUINEA BUNCH of TWENTY-FIVE ROSE TREES.
XLI.
This is a Christmas-box for those who love
Their gardens; and George Cooling’s nursery,
Bath,
Roses supplies in quantities above
This number at a cheaper rate : he hath
�93
BY THE SILKWORM.
Collections good, as many prizes prove,
Taken for roses for the bed or path.
Another swift transition if you please,
Go to H. Webber for your Christmas cheese.
xlii.
With cheese we want good wine; and, as the short
Old-fashioned phrase is, “ Good wine needs no
bush,”
So I name simply Hedges-Butler’s PORT,
Sure that when you your chair backward do push
The vintage will not upon you retort
With sudden seizure or with gouty rush.
In fact, I’m told you may drink many pledges
In wine that’s bought of Butler and of Hedges.
xliii.
How can I possibly find rhymes to fit
The MAGNETICON, Or SYCHNOPHYLAX ;
Even our well-beloved Ozokerit
Candles, which do so much resemble wax,
Not easy are to verse on ; I will quit
These subjects, and try if Opoponax,
Sweetest of perfumes, will not yield me any.
Oh, yes ! here’s one—Piesse’s Frangipanni.
XLIV.
Piesse and Lubin an oasis make,
All in the foggy air of New Bond Street;
At number two, their resting place they take,
Filling surroundings with their odours sweet.
LlGN Aloes, Turkish pastiles for your sake,
Oh, English maids, to make your charms com
plete.
Ladies, indeed, you will have cause to bless
The labours skilled of Lubin and Piesse.
xlv.
No space is left of Bragg’s Carbon to speak,
Or mention Stevenson’s new firewood ;
To praise Slack’s spoons and forks would take
a week,
Or Crosby’s Elixir for cough so good ;
Magnetine (Darlow’s patent for the weak),
Or Barnard’s pretty novelties in wood ;
The “ Eastern Condiment ” for our cold mutton,
And Green and Cadbury’s the very button.
xlvi.
MOSES and SON require an annual quite
Unto themselves to simply name their stock ;
OetzmAnn’s carpets all the world delight,
And scraps for SCREENS are sold by Jam&s Lock
Chocolat Menier is the thing for night
And morning meals. You can physicians mock
If you but take—indeed I am not maline—
A daily draught of the Pyretic Saline.
xlvii.
Who can explain why Stoneham, of Cheapside,
Should of EACH SHILLING SPENT, THREEPENCE
RETURN
Unto the buyer? and in fact has tried,
By this means, custom to his till to turn ;
Succeeded, too : hath not the public hied
To him, and “come” like butter in a churn.
Pour moi, I feel so very, very cross,
When in a crowd, that threepence gained is
loss.
XL VIII.
Fleet’s Mineral Waters next demand a word ;
Dietz and Co. have lamps not to be slighted—
Where these burn grumbling tones are never
heard—
The largest room by Paragon’s well lighted.
There are so many, that ’tis quite absurd,
With Asser-Sherwin’s bags I am delighted ;
Their wedding presents and their writing
cases
Will bring a blush of joy to merry faces.
XLIX.
In dear old Shakespeare I have often read
Of 44 bourne from which no traveller returns,”
And an idea will come into my head,
Just think of never leaving Addley Bourne’s,
Renowned for trousseaux and for cradle-beds,
Infants’ layettes—fair robes de chambre—one
learns
Such trimmings, sees such treasures—willy, nilly,
We can’t keep long away from Piccadilly.
�SPINNINGS IN TOWN.
94
L.
A change comes o’er the spirit of my dream,
Where I have often stood I seem to stand,
Sweet odours on my aching senses stream—
I’m opposite to Rimmel in the Strand,
Whose kindly influence on our homes doth beam,
And fills with joy each child’s heart in the land,
Where we behold his Christmas novelties,
His perfumed almanacs, and such things as
these:
LI.
The robin, and the toys for Christmas trees,
The Comic Almanac and fan bouquet,
Delicious scents and perfumes that do seize
Upon the weary brain :—restore the gay
And cheerful tone, and give the headache ease.
All these we owe to him, who holdeth sway
O’er all sweet scents ! Ye perfumed sachets tell
This great magician’s name! It is—it is—Rimmel !
LII.
And now my pen from weary hand doth fall,
And with humility I lay aside
A task which p’raps some spinners might appal;
But pleasant has it been to me to glide
From one to other subject, touching all
With kindly hand, and what doth me betide
At critic’s pen I care not, for the rest
I’ve done,comme toujours, just my “level best.”
The Silkworm.
MYRA, late Editress of BEETONS “ YOUNG ENGLISHWOMAN."
MYRA’S LETTERS on DRESS & FASHION.
In Illustrated Wrapper.
Containing Sixteen Pages, Large Quarto, size of the London Journal, Bow Bells, Qh’c.
PRICE TWOPENCE, MONTHLY.
PROPOSE to issue, every month, beginning next
February, a Journal for Ladies, which shall contain Instruc
tions and Advice in connection with Dress and Fashion.
Several different departments will be necessary to make this
Journal useful to the thousands of Ladies whom I hope to have
as Subscribers or Correspondents. >
Original Articles from Paris, contributed by Madame
Goubaud, will appear, from which a knowledge will be gained
of the newest Materials and coming Modes.
Mademoiselle Agnes Verboom, long a Contributor to Mr.
Beeton’S Fashion Journals here, and to the leading Lady’s
Paper in America, will write a Monthly Letter on the Changes in
Fashion.
Diagrams, full-sized, for cutting out all kinds of Articles of
Dress, will be issued every month ; and frequently Paper Models
themselves will be issued with Myra’s Journal.
From the Grand Magasin du Louvre, the first house in Paris,
I shall receive bulletins of their latest Purchases, and accounts
of what is most in vogue in the Capital of Fashion.
For my. personal writing, I shall continue the same plan
which I originated, under the name of Myra, in Mr. Beeton’s
“Young Englishwoman.” Mr. Beeton no longer edits that
Journal, and Myra's Letters will not appear there in future.
My Letters there were so successful, and the Advice I was
able to give seemed so prized by my Correspondents, that I
believe I shall be doing some service by devoting the whole
space of a Monthly Journal to the subjects of Taste and
Economy in Dress, and the Alteration of Dress.
I shall, therefore, every month, answer all Correspondents
who seek information upon
I
WHAT DRESSES TO WEAR
. AND
HOW TO ALTER DRESSES.
I will pay the most careful attention to any Letters sent me,
so that I may answer enquiries with the closest and most exact
details ; and whilst giving Instructions as .to the best Style of
Dress and the Alteration of Dress, I shall be anxious to state
what is not to be done, aS well as what is to be done, in the
important matter of the Toilette.
Letters from Correspondents received by me not later than
the 20th of the month- will be answered in the next Myra’S
Journal. But all enquiries should be made of me, as much as
possible, at the beginning of the month, so as to give me ample
time to obtain and prepare particular information on any knotty
point.
A Free Exchange, gratis, and open to all who have Articles
to dispose of, or barter for others, will be opened in Myra's
Journal. The Addresses of Exchangers must be printed, in
order to have the benefit of the Free Exchange. Addresses,
however, can be entered upon the payment of One Shilling in
postage stamps, to defray necessary expenses. Rules in con
nection with the Exchange will be found in Myra’s Journal.
Some Ladies, on certain occasions, are anxious to receive
immediately information as to what is the proper kind of Dress
to Wear, or how to Alter the Dresses that they have. To serve
these Ladies, I will state in writing, by return of post, what is
the best course for them to take. When questions are thus
asked for, to be answered by post, enquiries must be accom
panied by twelve postage stamps, for expenses of various kinds
which will naturally be incurred
All Communications to be addressed to Myra, care of Weldon & Co., 15, Wine Office Court, London, E.C.
J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 17», ST. JOHN STRBST, LONDON, E.C.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
ix
INDIGESTION !
INDIGESTION!!
J
MORSON’S PREPARATIONS OF PEPSINE.
See Name on Label.
Highly Recommended by the Medical Profession.
Sold in Bottles as Wine, at 35., 5L, and 9J.; Lozenges, zs. 6d. and 4s. 6d.-, Globules, 2j., 3^. 6d., and 6s. 6d.;
and Powder in 1 oz. bottles, at 5-1. each, by all Chemists and the Manufacturers,
T. MORSON & SON, Southampton Row, Russell Square, London.
WHOLESALE & RETAIL MANUFACTURING 8TA TIONERS,
192, Fleet Street, and 1 & 2, Chancery Lane, London.
The Sole Proprietors
and
Manufacturers of
the
VELLUM WOVE CLUB-HOUSE NOTE PAPER,
Which combines a perfectly smooth surface with total freedom from grease.
Relief Stamping reduced to is. per ioo.
Illuminating and Die Sinking done by the Best Artists.
.ZVb Charge for Plain Stamping.
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AND NEW YEAR’S GIFTS,
An immense variety, suitable for every Age and every Class.
HOUSEHOLD, OFFICE, COMMERCIAL, AND LEGAL STATIONERY,
,
Supplied 20 per cent, lower than any other House in the Trade.
192, FLEET STREET, AND 1 & 2, CHANCERY LANE, E.C.
Established 1841.
FUNERAL REFORM.
'pHE LONDON NECROPOLIS COMPANY,
"
*
■
as the Originators of the Funeral Reform, have
published a small Pamphlet explanatory' of their system,
which is simple, unostentatious, and inexpensive. It can be
had gratis, or will be sent by post, upon application.
Chief Office, 2, Lancaster Place, Strand, W.C.
SOLID THIRST-QUENCHERS,
Or Effervescing Lozenges,
. Relieve the most intense Thirst, at the same time
obviating the frequent desire for taking fluids. Price ij. •
by Post, u. 2d.
' ’
W. T. OOOPEE, Patentee, 26, Oxford Street, London.
EFFERVESCING
ASTRINGENT VOICE LOZENGE.
CRAINS OF HEALTH (Registered).—A Pearl Coated
1 • *.PlLRiT??iiessi A certdin Cure for Indigestion, Bilious and Liver Com
plaints. Of all Chemists, at ij. 4«?. and ar. gd, per box.
Used with the greatest success by Mdlle. Tietjens,
Madame Marie Roze, and other distinguished Operatic
Artistes. Do not produce dryness. Do not contain any
irritant. Impart a most agreeable odour to the breath. Are
perfectly harmless.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
x
FOR BREAKFAST.
GRAND
MEDAL AT THE
VIENNA
EXHIBITION.
LOWEST PRICES. ~
" Patterns can be forwarded to the
Country free.
FIRST-CLASS DRAPERY.
LOWEST PRICES.
FIRST-CLASS SILKS.
LOWEST PRICES.
Patterns Post Free.
FIRST-CLASS FURNITURE.
LOWEST PRICES.
An Illustrated Price List Post Free.
ents can have the full advantageof Lowest London Prices by writing for Patterns, which will
be forwarded Post Free.
T. VENABLES & SONS, 103, 104, & 105, WHITECHAPEL,
And 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, & 16, COMMERCIAL STREET, LONDON, E.
Postal Address : T. Venables & Sons, 103, Whitechapel, London, E.
A CHEERFUL HOME
SECURED BY USING
“THE WINDOW BLIND OF THE PERIOD.”
This Blind has obtained an unimpeachable reputation for
Elegance, Durability, and Economy in Window Space. It
adorn.., enecrs, ul jeautifies the Palaces of the Nobility and
the Mansions of the Gentry in all parts of the World.
It Fixes
in
Less than Half the Space of a Wood Blind.
SEE IT AT ONCE.
Send for a Sample Lath, Price Lisi, and Testimonials, which
■will be forwarded free on application to the Patentees.
HODKINSON & CLARKE,
Who. are the only Corrugated Metallic Window Blind Manufacturers in
the World. Best House for all kinds of Sun Blinds.
Canada Works, Small Heath, Birmingham,
And 2, Chiswell Street, Finsbury Square, London, E.C.
THE ROYAL GALVANIC BATH,
55, Marylebone Road, N.W., close to Baker Street Station.
These celebrated Galvanic Baths have been proved to be wonderfully
efficacious, both as Hygienic and Curative Agents. They are soothing,
tonic, and invigorating in their action, and have a specific effect upon
all disorders of the nervous and muscular systems. They can be applied
without pain or shock, and be adjusted with the greatest nicety to suit
age, sex, and constitution.
TARIFF OF PRICES.
Subscription for 12 First-Class Bath Tickets .......... ,£4 45.
Single Galvanic Bath....................................................
85.
The Baths are open daily from 9 to 6 (Sundays excepted).
x^xiE OF WIGHT.
RECOMMENDED BY EMINENT PHYSICIANS.
HOPGOOD & CO.’S
NUTRITIVE & SEDATIVE CREAM
FOR THE HAIR, HAS THE TESTIMONY OF
Eminent Physicians to its “ surprising ” and “ unfailing success.”
In Bottles at 1/6, 2/-, 2/6, 3/6, 5/-, 6/6, and 11/- each.
(~)UT on the Waters, Ocean, River, or Lake; in Steamer,
Ship, Yacht, Yawl, Boat, Canoe, or other craft.
Wherever
self-help is a condition, THE PORTABLE KITCHENERS,
supplied at No 11, Oxford Street, obtain for the possessor in all
culinary operations ample and speedy Services.
Breakfast or Tea,
with Eggs and Bacon, Chops, Kidney, Sausage, &c., &c., for one-to
three'or four persons, in Ten to Twenty Minutes. Dinner for ditto in
Tweljve to Thirty Minutes. Fire, without fuel ! No dirt! No nuisance !
Available in Cabin or on Deck, on River Bank, in Railway Carriage, on
Tour, Excursion, or Picnic; in Sanctum, Office, Chamber, Study,
Boudoir, or Mountain top. Anywhere and instantly, under any circum
stances. Price for one person, complete, 5s.; for two, ys. 6d.; for three,
105. 6d. to 13s. 6d.; for four, 185. 6d., 21s., or 255. 6d.
Failure or disappointment absolutely unknown.
Also THE POCKET KITCHENER, now familiarised all the
world over, 35. gd. Also, THE COMRADE COOKING STOVE,
for Home Service, for Jungle, Backwoods, Bush, Prairie, Gold or Dia
mond Fields, &c., &c., los. fid. Ditto, in Japanned Case (occupying less
space than a hat-box), with fifteen to twenty-five utensils, 175. fd. to 255.6^.
Invented and sold Export, Wholesale, and Retail, by
THOMAS GRE VILLE POTTER, Stella Lamp Depot,
Full of Instructions about Seeds and Plants, with Parti
culars of everything relating to Gardening.
Price Is., Post Free.
No 11, Oxford Street, near “The Oxford.”
Send for Catalogtie, interesting as a Novel.
HOOPER & CO, Couent Garden, London.
�gp—-------- ---------—-
�JON DUAN AD VERTISEMENTS.
xii
DARLOW & CO.’S
Original Patent, 1866.
IMPROVED PATENT FLEXIBLE
MAGNETIC APPLIANCES.
The ever-increasing success of Messrs. DARLOW & CO.’S MAGNETIC
Appliances during the past EIGHT YEARS, is evidence of their apprecia—------ ~ Improved Patent 1873
tion by the public, and the testimony of gentlemen of the highest standing in
medical Profession is that MAGNETINE far surpasses all other inventions of a similar character for curative purposes.
mISnETINE is unique ata PERFECTLY FLEXIBLE MAGNET. It is an entirely original indention oiJlL^rs.
DARI OW &CO improved by them on their previous invention patented in 1866, and possessing qualities which cannot
be found in any other magnetic substance. It is soft, light, and durable-entirely elastic, perfectly flexible through
out, and permanently magnetic.___________ _
______ _
________ _____
arlow
D
& co.’s
TES TIMON I A L .
magnetine appliances
are now freely recommended by some of the most emi
From Garth Wilkinson, Esq., M.D., M.R.C.S.E.
nent in the medical profession, from the established fact of their
76, Wimpole Street, Cavendish square, London, W.
power to afford both relief and cure to the exhausted nervous W. Darlow, Esq.
F.
March 17, 1874. _
system; also in Incipient Paralysis and Consumption,
Sir,—I am able to certify that I have used your Magnetic
Loss of Brain and Nerve power, and in cases of
Appliances pretty largely in my practice, and that in personal
convenience to my patients they are unexceptionable, and far
GOUT and RHEUMATISM, SPINAL, LIVER,
superior to any other inventions of the kind which I have
KIDNEY, LUNG, THROAT, and CHEST
employed ; and that of their efficacy, their positive powers, I
COMPLAINTS, GENERAL DEBILITY, INDI
have no doubt. I have found them useful in constipation, in
GESTION, HERNIA, SCIATICA. NEURALGIA,
abdominal congestion, in neuralgia, and in many cases involving
BRONCHITIS, and OTHER FORMS of NERV
weakness of the spine, and of the great organs of the abdomen.
OUS and RHEUMATIC AFFECTIONS.
In the public interest I wish you to use my unqualified testimony
The adaptation of these appliances is so simple that a child
in favour of your Magnetic Appliances.
can use them ; and so gentle, soothing, and vitalising is their
I remain, yours faithfully,
action, that they can be placed on the most delicate invalid
Garth Wilkinson, M.D., M.R.C.S.E.
without fear of inconvenience.
_____ __________
DARLOW & CO., 435, WEST STRAND, LONDON, W.C.,
Nearly opposite Charing Cross Station, three doors east of the Lowther Arcade.
Descriptive Pamphlets pest free.}
_____________________ [Illustrated Price Lists fastfree.
“BREATHES THERE A MAN.”—Scott.
OUT AND RHEUMATISM.—The excruciating
pain of Gout or Rheumatism is quickly relieved,and cured
in a few days by that celebrated Medicine, BLAIR'S GOUT
AND RHEUMATIC PILLS. They require no restraint of
diet or confinement during their use, and are certain to prevent
the disease attacking any vital part.
Sold at it.
and 2s. gd. per Box by all Medicine Vendors.
G
T
FRAM PTON’S^PILlToF^HEALTH.
HIS excellent Family Medicine is the most
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“To have moustaches would be grand;”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As o’er the paper he hath turned,
And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned
If such there be, go, mark him well,
And in his ears the good news tell:
PILOSAGINE has gained a name,
All who have tried it own its fame ;
While thousands prove its great renown
By the moustaches they have grown,
Whiskers and beards on many a face
Their origin to it can trace.
It contains neither oil nor grease,
And now, forsooth, our rhyme must cease.
But what, you ask, is the expense?
’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence.
Wright and Co., Pilosagine Manufactory, Hull.
effective remedy for indigestion, bilious and liver, com
plaints, sick headache, loss of appetite, drowsiness, giddiness,
spasms, and all disorders of the stomach and bowels ; and, where
an occasional aperient is required, nothing can be better adapted.
For Females these Pills are truly excellent, removing all
obstructions, the distressing headache so very prevalent with the
AA7HISKERS, MOUSTACHES, &c., guaranteed by
sex, depression of spirits, dulness of sight, nervous affections,
VV
PILOSAGINE.
Price is. (>d., of all Chemists (by post
blotches, pimples, and sallowness of the skin, and give a healthy
18 stamps), a liquid free from oil and grease. Before purchasing any
bloom to the complexion.
preparation send add ress for Testimonials and Treatise (gratis). Whole
sale : Sanger & Son s, London; Lofthouse & Saltmer, Hull.
Sold by all Medicine Vendors, price ts. Vfd. and 2s. gd. per Box.
WRIGHT & CO., Filosagine Manufactory, Hull.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE
the original and only
genuine
Considered by the Faculty one of the greatest discoveries of the century.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE is the best remedy known for Coughs,
Consumption, Bronchitis, and Asthma.
,,
,
,
,
,
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE effectually checks and arrests those too
often fatal diseases-Diphtheria, Fever, Croup, and Ague.
.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE acts like a charm in Diarrhoea, and is
the only specific in Cholera and Dysentery.
FREEMAN'S CHLORODYNE effectually cuts short all attacks of
Epilepsy, Hysteria, Palpitation, and Spasms.
..................
FREEMAN'S CHLORODYNE is the only palliative in Neuralgia,
Rheumatism, Gout. Cancer, Tooth-ache, Meningitis, &c.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE rapidly relieves pain from whatever
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE allays the irritation of Fever, soothes
the system under exhausting diseases, and gives quiet and refreshing sleep.
IMPORTANT Caution.—Four Chancery Suits terminated in favour of FREE
MAN'S ORIGINAL Chlorodyne. Lord Chancellor Selborne, Lord Justice James,
Lord Tustice Mellish, and Vice-Chancellor Sir W. Page Wood (now Lord HatherIey) all decided in its favour, and against the proprietors of J. Collis Browne s, con
demning their conduct, and ordering them to pay all costs of the suit»
Sold by ait Chemists, in Bottles at is. fd.; 2 oz., 2s. gd.; 4 oz., 4s. 6d.;
10 oz., ui.; and 20 oz., 20s. each.
CAUTION. —Beware of Piracy, Spurious Imitations, and Fraud.
GOOD for the cure of WIND on the STOMACH,
GOOD for the cure of INDIGESTION.
GOOD for the cure of SICK HEADACHE,
GOOD for the cure of HEARTBURN.
GOOD for the cure of BILIOUSNESS,
GOOD for the cure of LIVER COMPLAINT.
JU
GOOD for all COMPLAINTS arising from a disordered
state of the STOMACH, BOWELS, or LIVER.
Sold by all Medicine Vendors, in Boxes, at ij. ifid.,
2s. gd., and 4s. 6d. each ; or, free for 14, 33, or 54
from PAGE D. WOODCOCK, “Lincoln House, St.
Faith’s, Norwich.
��JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
xiv
JOHN STEVEN, Bookseller,
~
304, STRAND, W.G., Opposite St. Mary’s Church;
AND
28, Booksellers’ Row, and 11, Hotel Buildings, Strand.
BOOKS IN EVERYZLASS^OF LITERATURE:
General, School, Classical, and Foreign,.
An immense variety, at liberal Discount Terms.
SCREENS.
SCRAPS FOR SCREENS & SCRAP-BOOKS.
A LARGE COLLECTION OF COLOURED
A SCRAPS, BORDERS, &c., FOR SCREENS. Sug
Flowers, Figures, Fruit, Birds, and Landscapesin, great
variety, from II per sheet• i doz. assorted, iol 6d.; or in
rolls 2Il, 42L, 63L
gestions offered as to arrangement of Subjects.
Screens made to Order, Varnished,
or
Repaired.
The Cheapest House, with the greatest variety of
Chromos, Engravings,
Coloured Lithographs.
WILLIAM BARNARD, 119, Edgware Road., London.
WHITE WOOD ARTICLES,
PICTURE FRAMES OF EVERY DESCRIPTION,
For Painting, Fern-printing, and Decalcomanie.
At the Lowest Prices.
JAMES W. LOCK,Dealer in Works of Art,&o.
Hand-Screens, Book-Covers ; Glove, Knitting, and Hand
kerchief Boxes; Paper-Knives, Fans, &c. Priced List on
Application.
14, Booksellers’ Row, Strand, London.
WILLIAM BARNARD, 119, Edgware Road, London.
VALENTINES! VALENTINES!!
The Largest Valentine Manufacturers in the World.
THE NEW BALL-ROOM, CHRISTMAS, AND VALENTINE FANS,
“ Registered.” Just Published (highly Perfumed), price 6d., per post, id.
The Largest Manufacturers in the World of Christmas Stationery, &c.
LONDON LACE PAPER AND VALENTINE COMPANY.
J. T. WOOD & CO., 278, 279, & 280, Strand.
Manufactory, Clare Court.
THINGS YOU
OUGHT TO
KNOW
CLEARLY EX
PLAINED Containing Thing’s Social, Personal, Profitable, Scientific, Sta
tistical, Curious, and Useful. By ONE WHO KNOWS. With a copious Index
and Diagrams. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2J". 6d, (Post free).
TAKE MY ADVICE.
1
A Book for Every Home, giving complete
and trustworthy Information on everything pertaining to Daily Life. Crown
8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 360 pp. Fifteenth Thousand, zs., wrapper printed in
colours ; or in cloth, 2X.
(Post free).
THE ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN, an
Oxford Freshman. By CUTHBERT BEDE, B.A. Hundreds of Illustra
tions by th 1 Author, noth Thousand 3-r., or 31-. 6d. in cloth (Post free).
London: JAMES BLACKWOOD & CO., 8, Lovell’s Court, Paternoster Row.
BLACKWOOD’S DIARIES, 1875.
BLACKWOOD’S SHILLING SCRIBBLING DIARY, Seven
Days on each page, interleaved with Blotting Paper, ij., fcap. folio. Size
13 Dy inches.
*• The best and cheapest of its kind ”—Civil Service Gazette.
BLACKWOOD’S THREE-DA Y DIARY. Three Days on each
page. Price ij. 6t/. Size 13 by 8j inches. With Blotting, 2j.
BLACKWOOD’S POCKET-BOOK AND DIARY, for Ladies,
Gentlemen, and National, u. each, in leather. Special Information. .¿Don't
take any substitute, if offered.
London: JAMES BLACKWOOD & CO., 8, Lovell's Court, Paternoster Row.
A few Copies to be had of
“THE COMING K----- and “THE SILIAD.”
Apply to the Publishers of “Jon Duan,” 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.
�uced by Gillotype process. J
Tom *T‘wl.tu^jT-^Bimeat, I
tell you,” saidthe Giant.
[Ageuf, A. Maxon.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
xvi
I
AT H AM'SSHK I
-,
POLYTCCH NI C ^AMUSEMENTS. !
ARE THE BEST PRESENTS FOR YOUTH.
They combine Science with Play, Knowledge with Amusement, and afford end
less Pastime for Holidays and Evenings.
A Choice Selection of Novelties suitable for the above
occasions.
Statham’s Box of Chemical Magic contains materials and direc
tions for performing 50 and 100 instructive Experiments, ix., ss. 6d.; by post,
u. 2d., 2s. gd.
Statham’s Youth’s Chemical Cabinets, with Book of Experiments,
6s., 8s., 11s., and 15X. 6d.
Statham’s Student’s Chemical Cabinets, for studying Chemistry,
Analysing, Experimenting, &c., 2ix., 3U 6d., 42s, 63X., 84X., aiox.
Agent for Joseph Rodgers ’ & Sons celebrated Outlery.
Statham’s “ First Steps in Chemistry,” containing 145 Experimeats, 6d. ; by post, 7<Z.
Statham’s “ Panopticon ” (or see everything). No. i., 25$.; No. 2.
E. N. PEARCE, (from 77, Cornhill)
Albert Buildings, Queen Victoria St., E.C.
Statham's Electrical Sets, 42X., 6gx ,
105J.
Electrotype Sets, ys. 6d., xos. 6d.t 21s.,
42s.
Youth's Microscopes, xos. 6d., 21s., 42s.
Student's Microscopes, 63X., 105X., 210X.
Geological Cabinets, jr. 6d., js. (td., 25J.
Conjurer s Cabinets, js. 6d., 15X., 21s.
Model Steam Engines,
Ci., iox. 6d.,
2ix., 42J.
Magic Lanterns, with 12 Slides, ys. 6d.,
10s. 6d., 21j., &c.
Printing Press (with type, ink &c.), 6s. 6d.t 8x., i2X., 14$. 6d.ix6s.i 24X.
Sendfor Illustrated Catalogue of above and numberless other
EDUCATIONAL TOYS, SCIENTIFIC MODELS, GAMES, &c.
(Near Mansion House Station.)
W. STATHAM, no%, Strand, London.
BARTHOLOMEW & FLETCHER,
217 & 219, TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.
DRAWING ROOM SUITES
.
. From IO Guineas to £50.
DININGROOM SUITES
12
„
to £80.
BED ROOM SUITES
....,,
8
„to 1OO.
Estimates Free. Every Article Guaranteed.
GENERAL
HOUSE
FURNISHERS.
HEALTH'!
STRENGTH 1 !
ENERGY ! ! 1
PEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC.
HOLLOWAY’SPILLS
pEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC Purifies and enriches the Blood.
Sir SAMUEL BAKER,
fo Ms work on the Sources of the Nile, says:—
“ I ordered my dragoman Mahomet to inform the Faky that I was
“ a doctor, and that I had the best medicines at the service of the
** sick, with advice gratis. In a short time I had many applicants,
“ to whom I served out a quantity of Holloway’s Pills. These are
“ most useful to an explorer, as, possessing unmistakable purgative
“ properties, they create an undeniable effect upon the patient, which
“ satisfies him of their value.”
This fine Medicine cures all disorders of the Liver,
Stomach, Kidneys and Bowels, is a Great PURIFIER
of the BLOOD, and wonderfully efficacious in aU
ailments incidental to Females. In WEAKNESS and
DEBILITY, a powerful invigorator of the system.
EPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC Strengthens the Nerves and
Muscular System._______________________ _
EPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC Promotes Appetite and Improves
Digestion.__________________________ _
EPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TON IC Animates the Spirits and Mental
Faculties.
___
PEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC, in Scrofula, Wasting Diseases,
Neuralgia, Sciatica, Indigestion, Flatulence, Weakness of the Chest and
Respiratory Organs, Ague, Fevers of all kinds. ______________________________ __
PEPPER’S" QUININE AN D~IRON TON IC, for Delicate Females and weakly,
ailing Children.
________
PEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC thoroughly Recruits the General
Bodily Health.
Is sold by Chemists everywhere, in capsuled bottles, 45. 6d. and us.,and in stone
jars, 225. each. For protection be sure the Name, Address, and Trade Mark of
JOHN PEPPER, «87, Tottenham Court Road, London, is on the Label. Any
Chemist will procure it to order, but do not be prevailed on to try any other com
pound.
_
_________________________________________________ .
LOCKYER’S SULPHUR HAIR RESTORER will completely restore, in a
few days, grey hair to its original colour, without injury. The Hair Restorer
is the best ever offered for sale; thoroughly cleanses the head from scurf, and
causes the growth o< rew hair. It is soid everywhere by Chemists and HairDressers, in Targe bottles, at is. 6d. each.
Important Notice to all who wish to preserve “Jon Duan.”
A
HANDSOME
COVER
FOR
BINDING
THIS
ANNUAL,
Specially designed, in cloth and gold, is now ready, price 2s., postage free, and may be had through
any Bookseller, or of the Publisher, Weldon & Co., 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, E.C._________ __
ANTIQUEPOINLaNDHONITON LACE.
BY
MRS. TREADWIN.
"Contains full and clear directions on Lace Making, Lace Joining, and Lace Cleaning.”
PRICE
lOs. 6d.
MRS. TREA.DWIN, 5, Cathedral Yard, Exeter.
��xviii
yON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
A BEAUTIFUL SET OF TEETH.
JOHN GOSN ELL & CO.’S
o
c-t
O
W
s
b
Q>
b
Q
O
02
K
*
ir
t“1
&
Q
O
SQ
>3
>3
N
b
b
Thames St., London
I
THE
MAGNETICON,
PATENTED.
WETTON’S Patent Magnetic Belts, Lung Invigorators, Chest Protectors, Throat Pro
tectors, Spine Bands, Anklets, Wristlets, Knee Caps, Friction Gloves, &c. &c., for
Liver, Kidney, Spinal, and Chest Complaints, and all forms of Nervous and Rheumatic
Afflictions.
The Appliances, which are made up of light comfortable materials, such as flannel, silk, merino, and velvet, are powerfully
Magnetic, and supply gentle and continuous currents of ELECTRICITY, withoutthe aid of batteries, chains, or acids. They are
worn oyer the under-clothing, require no preparation, give no shocks, and generate no sores. Little or no sensation is experienced,
unless it be the glow of returning health ; and experience has proved that the Appliances may be worn with much benefit and perfect
safety by infants or the most delicate invalids. Prices, jr. to 50J.
Those whose names are appended have kindly consented to aillow the same to be published, as a guarantee of the genuineness
of '‘THE MAGNETICON.” Their reasons for testifying to the great curative properties of "THE MAGNETICON " are
derived either from their own experience or from their knowledge of the benefits which others have received.
The Dowager Lady Palmer, Dorney House, Windsor.
The Rev. R. A. Knox, M.A., Rector of Shobrooke, Devon.
C. R. Woodford, Esq., M.D., Marlborough House, Ventnor.
Charles Lowder, Esq., M.D., Lansdowne House, Ryde.
The Rev. A. Morton Brown, LL.D., Minister of the Congregational
Church, Cheltenham.
Thos. J. Cottle, Esq., M.R.C.S., L.S. A., Pulteney Villa, Cheltenham.
E. P. Bulkeley, Esq., Strathdum, Cheltenham.
I._S. Aplin, Merchant, Yeovil.
Lieut.-Col. C. W. Hodson, 25, Priory Street, Cheltenham.
The Rev. J. Wilkinson, Stanwell House, Ventnor.
Henry Hopkins, Esq., Ph.D., M.A., F.C.P., formerly Principal of
Sumner Hill School, Birmingham, and Author of several Educationa
Works, 14, Belvedere, Bath,
The Rev. R. Williamson, The Manse, Waltham Abbey.
Mr. C. S. M. Lockhart, M.B.A.A., Author of the “ Centenary Me
morial of Sir Walter Scott.”
The Rev. J. B. Talbot, Secretary and Founder of “The Princess
Louise Home,” Woodhouse, Wanstead.
Arthur S. Mbdwin, Esq., 28, George Street, Euston Square, London.
Mrs. Ginevkr, Kingsdown Orphan Home, 12, Kingsdown Road, Upper
Holloway, London.
For additional nc les see Pamphlet.
WETTON & CO., 9, Upper Baker Street, Portman Square, London.
A 48-page Illustrated Pamphlet, containing numerous Testimonials, a Lecture on Magnetism and Health by Professor HAGARTY,
and full particulars of " THE MAGNETICON,” may be had on application, or will be forwarded post free.
_ A copy of ‘ The Magnetic Review: a Record of Curative Electric Science and Journal of Health, published by Wetton and Co., 9, Upper Baker Street, will also be forwarded post free.
�yCw WAN ADV£RTIS£M£NTS.
Tom Thumb,—“When the
ife? h>ega^ tQ|ff^|
�yON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
MURDOCH &*CO.,
WW I®’ Laurence Pountney Hill, Cannon St, f
Late of 115, Cannon Street,
LONDON, E.C.
Works ; Larbert, N.B.
is
HS THE
LIVINGSTONE
RANGE.
(Stove and Name Registered}.
CAN BE PLACED IN A FIRE-PLACE.
CAN BE PLACED IN FRONT OF A FIRE-PLACE.
CAN BE PLACED AWAY FROM A FIRE-PLACE.
No. 6 will standin a 2 ft. 10 in. opening.
”7
,,
3 n 2 >»
,,
>> 8
_>>
3 >> 6,,
,,
Height of Range, 2 ft.
The “LIVINGSTONE RANGE” has been constructed to meet
a want widely felt. It embraces all the best points of English Open
Ranges and Fire-Places, without their faults. A Large Hot
Plate is available for general cookery, and an Oven soconstructed that
it will bake bread or pastry, and also roast meat as sweetly and
Size of Oven in Inches.
12 hiah
THOROUGHLY AS IF DONE IN FRONT OF A FIRE.
A good frontage,
No. 6. 12 wide.
12 deep.
k ■
however, is secured to the fire itself. It can be closed in by a door,
>> 7- 14
14 >,
*
”
which, when let down, forms a shelf or stand, and then fowls, small joints
„ 8. 16 „
16 „
” ”
of meat, steaks, fish, &c., can be roasted or broiled.
The HOT-WATER SUPPLY has been well considered and provided for in constructing this stove, “ boilers being usually a source of
great discomfort, expense, and danger in English Homes.” The Water Cistern is made of copper, tinned inside, or else of malleable iron, gal
vanized ; and as it stands above, as well as below, the level of the hot plate, it affords proportionately a larger quantity of hot water than
any other stove, range, or kitchener in use. The water is heated by a very safe and simple plan, which is patented, and only to be had with
these stoves. The cistern can be easily taken out and replaced, made self-supplying, and the water can be used for culinary purposes, never
BEING “RUSTY.”
No BRICKWORK SETTING is required or these Stoves, and they are equally good in action, whether placed in or away from a fire
place. A smoky chimney is perfectly overcome by their use.
The CONSUMPTION OF COAL is wonderfully small, from the excellence of the construction of the “ Livingstone,” and the judicious
arrangements of fire-place and flues. Means are used to prevent the escape of heat from the stove, and thus the full value is taken out of the pro
ducts of combustion. We make the deliberate statement that the Economy in Fuel is such that, ¡fused daily, the whole cost of the Stove can
be saved in twelve months at the normal price of Coal in London, or in nine months at the 1873-4 prices. Wood and Peat are ex'•ellent for heating these stoves, and for most kinds of cooking, Coke may be solely used. Dust is avoided, as the ashes fall into a secured pan.
Fire-bricks, with which each Stove is provided, can be easily renewed when needed. The same remark applies to any part of the stove
which from use or accident may need replacing.
For further particulars of this and other Cooking and Heating Stoves, address MURDOCH & CO., as above.
NEWTONS
QUININE, RHUBARB, & DANDELION PILLS,
(Prepared from the Recipe of
an
Eminent Physician),
A Simple but Effectual Remedy for Indigestion, Stomach,
and Liver Complaints.
The properties of Quinine and Rhubarb in stomachic affections are too well known to require any comment, and the
medicinal virtues of Dandelion have long been held in high, estimation by the faculty for all disorders of the Liver. By a
peculiar process of extraction and condensation, the active properties of these valuable Medicines have been carefully com
bined in the form of Pills, in which will be found a certain remedy for Indigestion, all Stomach Complaints, Sluggish Liver,
Constipation of the Bowels, Headache, Giddiness, Loss of Appetite, Pains in the Chest, Fullness after Eating, Depression
of Spirits, Disturbed Sleep, and as a Renovator to the Nervous System invaluable. These purifying Vegetable Pills may
be taken lay persons of all ages, in all conditions, and by both sexes. Their action, though gentle, is effectual in removing
all impurities from the blood and system, gradually compelling the bowels and various functions of the body to act in a
regular and spontaneous manner; and as a general Family Aperient they are much preferred to any other medicine.
Sold in Boxes, with Directions, at I J. I%<7. and 2s. gd.; or sent, Post Free, for 15 and 30 Stamps.
Every Sufferer is earnestly invited to try their wonderful efficacy.
Barclay & Sons are the London Agents, and all Chemists.
prepared solely by
J. W. NEWTON, M.P.S., Family Chemist,Salisbury.
Ask your Chemist to obtain the above, if not in stock.
�JtON DUAN A DIE/UWEEM ENTS.
xxi
�xxii
JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
'4>ceneral
PATENT
furnishing coy'
OZOKERIT
NEHWiïi
CANDLES.
; ~Wx4JrtriztÎvg"Rg a.cfrb
-ALL.PT^e.AV^Tx-cTVg^a^^9>Sout'h/a-Ttvp fro tv S.E \ S frra/nd/7
All Sizes, Sold. Everywhere.
CHOICE ROSE TREES.
Ask for the
'T'HE Amateur’s GUINEA BUNDLE of ROSE TREES
“LYCHNOPHYLAX,”
contains 25 of the choicest-named kinds in cultivation, all extra
large plants, especially selected for villa gardens. Carriage and packing
free on receipt of P.O.O. for/i is-.; or twelve choice kinds as sample
for 105. (id. Full particulars of other cheap collections post free.
GEORGE COOLING, The Nurseries, Bath.
Or Candle Guard (Patented).
Sold Everywhere. J. C. & J. FIELD, London.
The above make very suitable Christmas Gifts.
“ Inventions to delight the taste.”—Shakspere.
THE “EASTERFlOHDIMENT
“ The greatest aid. to Digestion known to man.”
This delicious Condiment should be eaten with all Meals.
Is. and. Is. 6d. per Jar.
THE “ EASTERN ” SAUCE OR RELISH,
KECISTIS5O
THE
THE
THE
THE
“EASTERN”
“EASTERN”
“EASTERN”
“EASTERN”
Prepared in conjunction with the celebrated Condiment,
is pronounced unequalled for flavour, richness, and price.
6d., ij., and 15. 6d. per bottle.
.k*
MUSTARD. Ready Mixed. Most Economical.
BAKING POWDER. No Penny Packet in the World can touch it.
CUSTARD POWDER. A Penny Packet equal to two eggs and a half.
_____ ----CURRY POWDER. The Great Baboo’s original, improved.
88
SS
«EClSTtR*»
These preparations are all most care
fully compounded, are highly recom
mended, and much approved by all
classes.
To be had of all Family Grocers.
JONES, PALMER, & CO., “Eastern” Works, Tabernacle Walk, Finsbury.
FACTORS.
from
^TURKISH PASTILS^
/ 7 Through all my travels few things as- '
tonished me more than seeing the Beauties
of the Harem sfnoking the Stamboul. After
smoking, a sweet aromatic Pastil is used,
which imparts an odour of flowers to the
breath. I have never.seen these Pastils but
once in Europe; it was at Piesse & Lubin’s
' CBz"' ” -Lady W. Montague.
\ Ladies who admire a “ Breath of Flowers”
1 take aPastil night anf
/q
*
Ì (S' every flower that
breathes a fragrance
LIGN-ALOE. OPOPONAX.
LOVE-AMONG-THE-ROSES.
FRANGI PANNI
TO BE OBTAINED OF ALL
'tv.
Perfumers and
THOUSAND OTHERS.
case,
5ond St J
RITING, BOOKKEEPING, &c.—Persons of
W
Steuen’s Model Cutters, Schooners,
any age, however bad their Writing, may in Eight Easy
Lessons acquire permanently an elegant and flowing style of Brigs, Screzi) and Paddle Boats?, propelled by Steam or
Penmanship, adapted either to Professional pursuits or Private Clock-work.
Correspondence ; Bookkeeping by Double Entry, as practised in
Steven’s Model Fittings for Ships and
the Government, Banking, and Mercantile Offices ; Arithmetic,
Shorthand, &c. Apply to Mr. W. Smart, at his sole Institution, Boats. Blocks, Deadeyes, Wheels, Skylights, Com
panions, Flags, &c.
97B, Quadrant, Regent Street.
Agent to the West of England Fire and Life
Steuen’s Model Steam Engines, Loco
Insurance Company.
IMPORTANT TO
LADIES AND
GENTLEMEN.—
C. A. can confidently recommend, as a most strictly honest person, and one
whom she and her friends have dealt with for many years, Mrs.
COCKREM, 1, Queen Street, Barnstaple, North Devon, who gives the
greatest value for all sorts of Ladies’. Gentlemen’s, and Children’s
Cast Ï-EFT-OFF WEARING APPAREL of every description. Officers
*
Uniforms, Misfits, Jewellery, Court Suits, Furs, Outfits, Old Lace,
nff
Underclothing, Boots, Household Linen, and every description of
miscellaneous property, in however large or small quantities, or in good
ninth nc or inferior condition, purchased for Cash at the utmost value. The
viuuueb. strictest honour is observed in remitting, per return, the full value, by
cheque or P.O.O., for all parcels. The expense of Carriage borne by
X
motive, Marine, Vertical and Horizontal;
Saw and Bench.
Steuen’s
Model
Parts
of
Circular
Engines,
Cylinders, Pumps, Steam and, Water Gauges, SafetyValves, Eccentrics, Taps, &c.
STE VEN’S MODEL DOCKYARD, 22, Aidgate, London.
Catalogues, 3 Stamps.
Chemical Chests, Magic-Lanterns, Floor Skates, Balloons, arc.
�W
ADVERTISEMENT S.
Reduced ly Gdloty/e/roccss.~\
, *
The Golden Ass.—The King went to consult an old Druid.
Uta—vol; ttk~
'
ji .
WTW
_
>-*g
�J ON DÜAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
XXIV
“ FIRES INSTANTLY LIGHTED: ” GREAT SAVING of TIME to SERVANTS.
By STEVENSON'S
PATENT FIREWOOD,
Entirely superseding Bundle Wood, requiring no paper, adapted for
any grate, and not affected- by Damp.
SOLD BY ALL OILMEN AND GROCERS.
Extensively Patronised in the House of Peers, University of Cambridge,
among the Nobility, Gentry, Principal Hotels, Club Houses, &c.
500, in Tenon. and Suburbs,
12S. fxi.
Directions.—Place small coal and cinders in grate, then the Patent Fire
wood wheel or square (dipped side down), cover over with coal, and light
the centre with a match.________________________
M, STEVENSON & 00., Sole Patentees and Manufacturers,
18, Wharf Road, City Road.
OETZMANN & CO.,
67, 69, 71, & 73, Hampstead Road,
Near Tottenham Court Road, London.
CARPETS, FURNITURE,
BEDDING, DRAPERY,
FURNISHING IRONMONGERY,
CHINA, GLASS, &c., &c.
A Descriptive Catalogue {the best Furnishing Guide
extant}, post free on application.
HEDGES AND BUTLER
Invite attention to the following WINES and SPIRITS:—
Good Sherry, Pale or Gold.............
20s. 244. 304. 36s. 424. per doz.
Very choice Sherry .........................
484. 544. 604. 724. per doz.
Port, of various ages.........................
24s. 304. 364, 424-. 484. per doz.
Good Claret........................................
144. 184. 204. 244. per doz.
Choice De.-sert Clarets.....................
304. 364. 424. 484. È04. per doz.
Sparkling Champagne .....................
3 4. 424. 484. ¿04. 784. per doz.
Hock and Moselle............................. 244. 304. 364. 424. 484. 604. per doz.
Old Pa'e Brandy .............................
444. 484. 604. 724. 844. per doz.
Fine Old Irish and Scotch Whisky..
424. 484. per doz.
Wines in Wood.
Callon.
Octave.
Otr. Cask.
Hhd.
Pale Sherry ................
94. ini.
£6 5 0 £12 0 O
Good Sherry................. . 114. id.
15 10 0
8 0 Q
3°
Choice Sherry ............
i-js. 6d.
II IQ O
22 IO
44
Old Sherry................... . 23J. 6d.
29 0 O
14 15 O
57
20 O G
Good Port..................... 14s. 6d.
IO
5 O
39
Old Port.......................... 20s. 6d.
27 G O
13 15 O
53
Old Pale Brandy.......... 21s. 24J. 30$. 36^. per imperial gallon.
IO
10
10
0
0
©
0
G
O
O
©
•
Price Lists of all other Wines, &*c, on application to
HEDGES & BUTLER, 155, Regent Street, London,
30 and 74, King’s Road, Brighton.
RIMMEL’S PERFUMED ALMA
VOSE’8 PATENT HYDROPULT,
NAC for 1875 (the Hours), beautifully Illu
minated, Id., by post for 7 stamps.
RIMMEL’S NEW COMIC ALMANAC
(Signs of the Zodiac), 14., by post for 13 stamps.
RIMMEL’S CHRISTMAS BOUQUET,
changing into a Fan, 14. 6<f., by post 19 stamps.
RIMMEL’S FANCY ARTICLES for Christ
mas Presents and New Year’s Gifts in endless
variety. List on Application.
RIMMEL, Perfumer, 96, Strand ; 128, Regent
Street ; and 24, Cornhill, London.
A PORTABLE FIRE ANNIHILATOR.
The best article ever invented for Watering Gardens, &c.;
weighs but 81bs., and will throw water 50 feet.
LOYSEL’S PATENT HYDROSTATIC
TEA & COFFEE PERCOLATORS.
These Urns are elegant inform, are the most efficient ones
yet introduced, and effect a saving of 50 per cent. The
Times newspaper remarks :—“ M. Loysel’s hydrostatic
machine for making tea or coffee is justly considered as one
of the most complete inventions of its kind.”
Sold by all respectable Ironmongers.
Manufacturers:
More than 200,000 now i use.
GRIFFITHS & BROWETT, Birmingham.
12, Moorgate Street, London ; and 25, Boulevard Magenta, Paris,
WISS FAIRY ORGANS, 2.S., ^s., and 55-. each.
Patented in Europe and America. Four Gold Medals
awarded for excellence. Each Instrument is constructed to play
a variety of modern airs, sacred, operatic, dance, and song,
perfect in tone and of marvellous power. Carriage free for
Stamps, or P. O. O. at above prices. Numerous copies of fully
directed Testimonials post free. Address J acques.Baum, &Co.,
Kingston Works, Sparkbrook, Birmingham.
S
DUNN &ISLANDICUS, OR ’S
HEWETT
“LICHEN
ICELAND MOSS COCOA,'’
(registered),
In i-lb., ilb., ani 1-lb. Packets, at Is. 4d. per lb.
In Tin Canisters at Is. 6d. lb.
Strongly recommended by the Faculty in all cases of Debility, Indigestion, Consumption and all Pulmonary
and Chest Diseases.
<fI have carefully examined, both Microscopically and Chenrcally, the preparation of ICELAND MOSS and COCOA,
made by Messrs. DUNN & HEWITT. I find it to be carefully manufactured with ingredients of the first quality.
“The combination ofTCELAND MOSS and COCOA forms a valuable article of diet, suited equally fcr the Robust and
’ 1 _
i
’’
for Invalids, especially those whose digestion is HHpwwwL It is very nutritious, of easy digestibility, and it possesses, moreover, tonic properties.
impaired.
(Signed) “ARTHUR HILL HASSALL, M.D.,”
, .
TRADE MARK.
Analyst of the Lancet Sanitary Commission, Author of the Refort of the Lancet Commission j of
“Food and its Adulterations \ “ “ Adulterations Detected ** and other VForks»
PENTONVILLE,
LONDON.
�XXV
JJjMMfc,. Al _
- U— —1
JM»
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
xxvi
DIETZ & CO
15
to
LONDON,
21, Carter Lane,
I, Sermon Lane,
and
Exporters of the celebrated
Inventors, Manufacturers, and
LAMPS
PARAGON
HURRICANE LANTERNS,
COOKING & HEATING STOVES
BURNING KEROSENE
OR PARAFFIN.
UNRIVALLED FOR
Over 5000 Patterns of
TABLE LAMPS, HALL LAMPS,
SIMPLICITY,
SAFETY,
Chandeliers, Erackets,
Billiard Lamps, Street Lamps,
LIBRARY LAMPS,
LANTERNS, STOVES, &c.
Pitferl until
J. illeCl V1UU
Our Famous
¿the climax
AND ABSOLUTE FREEDOM
FROM SMOEE,
SMELL, and DANGER.
a
M
a
g A, fl a
JSL Jg
i
*a.
BURNERS,
t-AS
JUa
Which give a magnificent white and steady Light, equal to 25, 20, 14, and II
Candles, at the cost of l-4th, l-5th, l-6th, and l-7th of a Penny per Hour.
J1
_Jj
fegwnnngÿ
BRILLIANCY,
Church Lamps, Ship Lamps,
Our HURRICANE LANTERNS are absolutely windproof and safe ; simple in consr.-action, and give a splendid
■white and steady light. They
are the most serviceable Lan
terns for use in Stables, Farms,
Gardens, Boats, Cellars, &c.
0
Economy, Durability,
BiE.TZ.&.C”.
Our CLIMAX COOKING
and HEATING STOVES, in
six sizes, will be found ex
tremely useful in every house
hold, being always ready for
use, and saving time and
money, coals, trouble of light
ing fire, dust, and refuse.
BLACK SILK COSTUMES,
Parisian Models.
Owing to the Reduced Price of manufactured French Silk, Messrs. Jay are happy to announce they
sell good and Fashionable Black Silk Costumes at ^6 i6l 6d. each.
J A Y S’,
THE LONDON GENERAL MOURNING WAREHOUSE,
243, 245, 247, 249, 251, Regent Street, W.
WHITE,
EDWARD
(FROM DENT’S,)
Manufacturer of Chronometers, Watches and Clocks, Gold Chains, Lockets, &c.,
Of best quality only and moderate price. »
PRIZE MEDALLIST AT LONDON, DUBLIN, AND PARIS EXHIBITIONS,
For “ Excellence of Workmanship, Taste, and Sfttll.”
20, COCKSPUR STREET, LONDON, S.W.
Sold
by
All Drapers.
Ask for “THE VERY BUTTON.”—Shakespeare.
GREEN
&
CADBURY’S
PATENT
2-HOLE
LINEN
BUTTONS.
And see that you get them, as inferior kinds are often substitutedfor the sake of extra profits.
“ ‘ The Very Button ’ is a capital button for use and wear.”—The Young Englishwoman.
CHUBB’S
ATENT FIRE AND THIEF RESISTING
^ur?4FES’
LftlCHE.S.
PATENT DETECTOR LOCKS AND
Illustrated Price Lists Post Free.
CHUBB & SON,
57, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD, E.C.,
68, ST. JAMES'S STREET, S.W.
Manchester, Liverpool,
and
AND
Wolverhampton.
EHPI WT01 HWZX, HEBF BLEI ORZPT YGZB.
TflVE POUNDS REWARD to anyone able to decipher
X
the above, written by HIGHT’S REVOLVING CIPHER DISC.
Very useful for Telegrams, Postal Cards, and Love-letter, or any private
writing. Quickly and easily written. The only absolutely undiscoverable system of Cryptography. T« be had, with full Instructions, of all
Stationers, or of the Publishers,
WALMESLEY & CO., 384, City Road, E.C.
Post free for 14 Stamps.
�JON D'JAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
Reduced by allotype/recess.]
Blue Beard.—* *
xxvir
[Agent, A.. MexAe
�xxviii
JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
DR. ROBERTS’
POOR MAN’S FRIEND!
THE COMING GREAT TRIAL
By the Public in 1875.
Is confidently recommended to the Public as an unfailing remedy
for Wounds of every description, Burns, Scalds, Chilblains, Scorbutic
Eruptions, Sore and Inflamed Eyes, &c.
Sold in Pots, is. i\d., is. gd., xis., and 22s. each.
DR. ROBERTS’
PILULJE ANTISGROPHULJE,
Or Alterative Pills,
For Scrofula, Leprosy,
and all Skin Diseases.
Proved by Sixty Years’ experience to be one of the best Alterative
Medicines ever offered to the Public. They may be taken at all times,
without confinement or change of diet. Sold in Boxes, ij. i%<Z., is. gd.,
4s. 6d., 11s., and 22s. each.
Sold by the Proprietors, BEACH & BABNICOTT, Bridport.
And by all respec'able Medicine Vendors.
OU shall well and truly try—
APPROVED
Y MANN’Smay quickly go ! MED’CINE buy,
That your ills
Take, and health will shortly flow ;
Colds and Iiooping-conghs will flee.
Read the bills and you will see
>
Nothing with it can compare.
“ Nice!” the children all declare.
Young and old its glories tell;
Both did take, and now are well.
True the evidence that stands
On the bills throughout all lands,
This, the public verdict, give—
“ Take, oh sickly one, and live ! ”
Sixteen affidavits before the Sussex Magistrates prove MANN’S
APPROVED MEDICINE to be the GREAT RESTORATIVE TO
HEALTH for Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Influenza, Convulsive Fits, and
Consumptions. Sold by all Chemists, who will obtain it for you if not
in stock, at is.
, is. 6d., and 4s. 6d. per bottle. Be not persuaded
to take any other remedy._________________
Proprietor, THOMAS MANN, Horsham, Sussex.
QOUT, RHEUMATISM, LUMBAGO, &c.
JNSTANT RELIEF AND RAPID CURE.
A S professionally certified, have saved the lives of many when
11. all other nourishment has failed. In cases of Cholera Infantum, Dysentery,
Chronic Diarrhoea, Dyspepsia, Prostration of the System, and General Debility, Dr.
RIDGE’S Digestive Biscuits will be found particularly beneficial in co-opera
tion with medical treatment, as a perfectly safe, nourishing, and strengthening diet
In Canisters, ix. each, by post ^d. extra.—Dr. RlDGE & CO., Kingsland, London,
and of Chemists and Grocers.
IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.
CAN D'ELL’S HAIR RESTORER,
,...
O the certain Cure for Dandriff and Baldness,
and the only reliable and harmless preparation
for restoring grey hair to its original colour.
Sold by all Chemists, in bottles, is. and 3s. 6d.
UADE’S GOUT AND RHEUMATIC PILLS,
the safest and most effectual cure for Gout, Rheumatism,
Rheumatic Gout, Lumbago, Sciatica, Pains in the Head,
Face, and Limbs. They require neither confinement nor
alteration of diet, and in no case can their effects be injurious.
Prepared only by GEORGE EADE, 72, Goswell
Road, London, and Sold by all Chemists, in Bottles at
or Three in One, 2s. gd.
Ij.
Do not be persuaded to have any other kind.
®ott'es sent cafr>aSe free-
S.O.SANDELL,Sole Manufacturer,Yeovil.
Ask for Fade's Celebrated Gout and Rheumatic Pills.
DR. HAYWARD'S NEW DISCOVERY,THE TREATMENT & MODE OF CURE.
HOW TO USE SUCCESSFULLY, WITH SAFETY AND CERTAINTY,
In all cases of Weakness, Lou) Spirits, Indigestion, Rheumatism, Loss of Nerve Power, Functional Ailments, Despondency,
Langour, Exhaustion, Muscular Debility, arising from various excesses, Loss of Strength, Appetite, &=c., &>c.
WITHOUT MEDICINE.
THE NEW MODE re-animates and revives the failing functions of Life, and thus imparts Energy
and fresh Vitality to the Exhausted and Debilitated Constitution, and may fairly be termed the Fountain of Health
THE LOCAL AND NERVINE TREATMENT imparts tone and vigour to the Nervous
System, and possesses highly re-animating properties ; its inflrence on the secretions and functions is speedily manifested; and
in all cases of Debility, Nervousness, Depression, Palpitation of the Heart, Trembling in the Limbs, Pains in the Back, &c.,
resulting from over-taxed energies of body or mind, &c.
Full Printed Instructions, with Pamphlets and Diagrams, for Invalids, post-free, Six stamps,
(From Sole Inventor and Patentee,)
DR. HAYWARD, M.R.C.S., L.S.A., 14, York Street, Portman Square, London, W.
N.B. For Qualifications, vide “ Medical Register."
OPA AAA REWARD.—The above sum
50 O kJ ■ LJ kJ kJ having during the last twelve years been
received on the sale of LATREILLE’S
invention for the production of WHISKERS and MOUSTACHIOS and curing BALDNESS, it may fairly be called the
reward of merit, as the article is universally acknowledged to be
the only producer of hair. Full particulars, with Testimonials
and Opinions of the Press, sent free to any person addressing
John Latreille, Walworth.
DRCAPLIN’S ELE TRO-CHEMICAL BATHS.
NEW WORKS BY DR. SMITH.
Just Published, 104 pages, Free by Post Two Stamps.
UIDE TO HEALTH -, or, Prescriptions and
Instructions for the Cure of Nervous Exhaustion.
By
Henry Smith, M.D. (Jena), Author of the “ Volunteers’
G
Manual.” This work gives Instructions for Strengthening the
Human Body. How to Regain Health and Secure Long Life.
Prescriptions for the Cure of Debilitating Diseases, Indigestion,
Mental Depression, Prostration, Timidity, &c., resulting from
Loss of Nerve Power. Testimonials, Treatment, &c.
“ In this Work the Doctor gives ‘ Advice as to the Choice of a Phy
sician ;’ ‘ What to Eat, Drink, and Avoid ;’ ‘ Health: how to Procure it,
and other subjects of interest to man as well as woman.”--6’zzwa'izj'
Times, May 4, 1873.
Also by the same Author,
For the Cure of Paralysis, Rheumatism, Gout, Nervous
Third Thousand. Post free in an envelope, 13 stamps,
Affections, axd many kinds of Chronic Diseases.
WOMAN : Her Duties, Relations, and Position.
Prospectuses and Testimonials free by post, on application to
N.B. A Special Edition, beautifully Illustrated by
the Secretary, The Electro-Chemical Bath Institution, i Engravings on Wood. Cloth gilt, One Shilling.
��XXX
DUAN ADVERTISEMENI S.
TRAVELLING
WEDDING PRESENTS.
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
WRITING-OASES.
NEW YEAR’S PRESENTS.
ASSER & SHERWIN, 80 and 81, Strand, W.C.; and 69, Oxford Street, W., London.
MRS. SAMUEL JAY,
LADIES’ OUTFITTER,
Address.
} 259, Regent Circus, Oxford Streep 259.
SPECIALITY FOR THE WINTER MONTHS.
THE ARAGON
MORNING
ROBE,
In. French Cashmere, Richly Ornamented in Soutache-Broderie.
COMPLETE SUITS OF WASHED AND GOT-UP UNDER-CLOTHING READY FOR IMMEDIATE USE.
Guinea Flannel Dressing Gozvns, Dressing Jackets, Bodices, Fichus, and Embroidered Flannel Petticoats.
Infants’ Layettes.—Marriage Trousseaux.—Good Materials.-—Tasteful Trimmings.—Dainty Stitches.
MRS.
‘ABYSSINIAN GOLD JEWELLERY’
SAMUEL JAY.
LIONEL & ALFRED PYKE’S.
‘ABYSSINIAN GOLD JEWELLERY ’
Is now worn by Ladies to avoid
IS THE ONLY IMITA
the risk of losing their “ Real
TION which cannot be detected
Sold Jewellery,” the Imitation
from “Real Gold Jewellery,”
•REGISTEREDbeing so perfect, detection need
possessing qualities so long
not befeared. It received a Prize
needed and desired in Imitation
Medal for its superiority over
Gold Jewellery, viz. :—supe
all other Imitation Jewellery.
APPEARANCE
Catalogues, with Press Opinions,
riority of finish, elegance of
forwardedpostfree on applica
design, solidity, and durability. T 018 Garat
qOLD tion.
Sole Manufacturers,
JEWELLERY.WM
I. & A. PYKE, 32, Ely Place, Holborn.
Retail Depots : 153, Cheapside,
I53A> Cheapside; 68, Fleet Street,
E. C. ; and at the Royal Polytechnic,
Regent Street, W.
MEDAL
TRADE-MARK.
18 JO.
Sole Manufacturers.
L. & A. PYKE, 32, Ely Place, Holbom.
Retail Depots : 153, Cheapside,
153A, Cheapside ; 68, Fleet Street,
E. C.; and at the Royal Polytechnic,
Regent Street, W.
Medical Testimony states that, unquestionably no remedy exists which is so certain in its effects.
_
ASTHMA,
WINTER COUGH,
DIFFICULTY OF BREATHING,
TRADE MARK alike yield to its influence. One Lozenge alone gives the sufferer relief. Many remedies are sold that contain Morphia,
....
. , , Opium, or violent drugs, but KEATING’S COUGH LOZENGES are composed only of the purest simple drugs and the
most delicate m health may use them with perfect confidence. KEATING’S COUGH LOZENGES are prepared by Thomas Keating St
Paul s Churchyard, and sold by all Chemists, in Boxes, is. i-RZ. and 2s. gd. each.
’
KEATING’S CHILDREN’S WORM TABLETS.
A PURELY VEGETABLE SWEETMEAT, both in apnearance and taste, furnishing a most agreeable method of administering the onlv
certain remedy for INTESTINAL or THREAD WORMS, itis a perfectly safe and mild preparation, and is especially adapted for Children.
bold by all Druggists, in Tins, is. ijrf. and 2s. gd. eacn. Put up in small boxes “specially ” for post, which will be forwarded on receipt of
15 stamps.
*
THOMAS KEATING, St. Paul’s Churchyard, London.
�JON DUAN AD UEDTISEMENDS.
XXXI
�JON DUAN AD VE r. riSEMENTS.
xxxii
DO NOT LET fOUR CHILD DIE.
FENNING’S CHILDREN’S POWDERS PREVENT CONVULSIONS,
Are Cooling and Soothing.
M •
W a)
FENNINGS’CHILDREN’S POWDERS
For Children Cutting their Teeth, to prevent Convulsions.
Sold in Stamped Boxes at ij. x^d. and qj. gd. (great saving), with full Directions. Sent post free for 15 stamps.
Direct to Alfred Fennings, West Cowes, I. W.
1-1 w
Q
Read FENNINGS’ EVERY MOTHER’S BOOK, sent post free for 8 stamps.
REMEMBER LAMPLOUGH’S
PYRETIC SALINE
AND HAVE IT IN YOUR HOUSES.
It is most invigorating, vitalising, and refreshing. Gives instant relief in Headaches, Sea or Bilious Sickness, and quickly cures the worst form of
Eruptive or Skin Complaints. The various diseases arising from Climatic Causes, Constipation, the Liver, or Blood Impurities, Inoculation, the
Results of Breathing Air Infected with Fever, Measles, or SMALLPOX, are frequently prevented, and these diseases cured by its use. Any
person who has already Smallpox should take it, and be kept in a cool and darkened room to prevent its leaving any trace on the features.
The numerous statements and letters relating to its marvellous effect, as a positive cure in TYPHUS, SCARLET FEVER, SMALL
POX, and other BLOOD POISONS, are most remarkable, and are painfully suggestive of great neglect, whenever the PYRETIC
SALINE is not employed in these diseases.
“ It furnishes the blood with its lost Saline constituents."—Dr. Morgan, M'.D., &c.
The late Dr. Turley states in his letters and lectures:—“ I found it act as a specific in the worst form of Scarlet Fever, NO OTHER
Medicine being given. ’ ’
Caution.—The great reputation of this remedy having called forth spurious imitations, whose only merit is a transposition of the words of
my label and wrappers, without any of the health-restoring properties, it is needful to observe my Name and Trade Mark, as above, on a buffcoloured Wrapper, without which the Saline cannot be genuine.
Sold by all Chemists and the Maker, in patent glass-stoppered Bottles, at 2s. (>d., 4>r. i>d., Ilf.. and 2U. each.
H. LAMPLOUGH, 113, Holborn Hill, London, E.C.
“Magna est veritas, et prævalebit.”
THE MIRACULOUS CURE
For Corns and Bunions.
BRODIE’S CELEBRATED REMEDY.
This Preparation,
which, from its wonder
ful efficacy, has been
named the “ Miraculous
Cure,” is rapidly becom
ing the most popular one
of the day; it is quite
Painless in its operation,
and will remove the
most obstinate Corns.
ft is earnestly recom
mended to all sufferers.
Sold in Packets is.
each, by all the principal
the miraculous cure Chemists in England.
If your Chemist does
not keep it, you can obtain it direct from the Manufactory and Depot,
485, Oxford Street, London, or by Post for 14 Stamps.
"
:
OROIDE GOLD JEWELLERY (Registered).
SCARF RINGS and PINS, in New Designs of great Beauty,
Y~TIEESE.—CHEDDAR, CHESHIRE, SOMERSET,
and WILTSHIRE, the produce of some of the Choicest Dairies,
in constant supply.
AMERICAN CHEESE are relatively cheap, and very pleasing in
quality this season.
Buyers are requested to inspect the produce of some of the Finest
United States Dairy and Fancy qualities of Factory Cheese now
arriving, in splendid condition.
HENRY WEBBER, Cheese and Bacon Factor, 17, Long Lanb ,
West Smithfield,
three Doors East of Metropolitan Market.
FINE CHEESE FOR CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
SEND FOR ONE ON TRIAL.
WEIR’S GLOBE SEWING MACHINE, Suit
able for Dressmakers. Reduced price, ,£2 as., Com
plete.
WEIR’S
55s.
SEWING
MACHINE,
for
Families, improved and Patented (Prize Medals),
works by Hand or Foot, the most simple Sewing
Machine in the world.
Guaranteed to do every
kind of work.
Weik’S New Patent Lockstitch Machine, "THE
ZEPHYR,” price £443-., Complete, works by Hand
or Foot. The most perfect and simple Lock-Stitch
Machine. One month’s free trial. Easy terms of payment. Carriage paid to
any Railway Station. Illustrated Prospectus and Patterns of Work, Pose Frit.
■TAMFIS G. WEIR, 2, Carlisle St.,Soho Square, London.
TWO TEASPOONFULS of NEWTON'S CELEBRATED
I
BALM OF LICORICE, Coltsfoot, Honey, and Horehound, instantly
RELIEVES COUGHS, Colds, Bronchitis, Asthma, Whooping Cough, and all
post free, y. ALBERT CHAINS, in best Finish, and perfectly Undistinguishable from 18 carat gold, 7J. 6d. LOCKETS, handsomely Engraved, 4J 6J.,.Obstructions of the Throat, Chest, and Lungs. For Children invaluable No
.
*
home should be without it. In Bottles ir. t\d. and as. gd. Proprietor, J. W.
and 7J. 6<Z. Post Free. Illustrated Price Lists and Opinions of the Press
NEWTON, Chemist and M.P.S., Salisbury; BARCLAY & SONS, London; and
free per Postall Chemists.
C. C. ROWE, 53, All Saints’ Road, Westbourne Park, London, W.
MW
i
The best article for Cleaning and Polishing Silver, Electro Plate, Plate Glass, Marble, &c. Produces an immediate, brilliant, and
lasting polish. Tablets, 6a. each.
Prepared expressly for the Patent Knife Cleaning Machines, India Rubber and Buff Leather Knife Boards. Knives -- eafh
--_ constantly
«leaned with it have a brilliant polish, equal to new cutlery. Sold m Packets, 3d. each ; and in Tins, 6d„ is., 2s. 6d., and 45. eacn.
Prevent friction in cleaning and injury to the knife. Price from is. 6ff. each. OAKEY’S WELLINGTON KNIFE POLISH should
be used with the boards. Sold Everywhere, by Grocers, Ironmongers, Brushmakers, Oilmen, Chemists, &c.
Wholesale ■ JOHN Q A KEV & SONS, Manufacturers of Emery, Emery Cloth, Black Lead, Cabinet Glass Paper, &c.
Wellington Emery
and
Black Lead Mills, Westminster Bridge Road, London, S.E.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Jon Duan: a twofold journey with manifold purposes by the authors of "The Coming K---" and "The Siliad"
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: vi, [2], 94, ix-xxxii p. : ill. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Advertisements throughout the text and on numbered pages at the beginning and end.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Weldon & Co.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1874
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5455
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Periodicals
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Jon Duan: a twofold journey with manifold purposes by the authors of "The Coming K---" and "The Siliad"), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/e36aa6bf6c2df870addda27677fb48ca.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=prhQlmZzFDw8ShrqlhP8QNuWzo67CyZ-bP4B478l1d4wK6RweK-PAdBq7bHec5gge2XpMYmxgbB32Zo0zEhiXvDYpnEryYjVKa0n5UrJt9Qtnon4WT6HPL%7EKW00HGJrmnhpqLJbhQFQgxoQBmpfYH2XibeJdxeavjg17miSxNDtcFdL8wOq4VnOSzESTfnESUpPE3u%7EUpn8bLdL0u5HmlysZWQwFtqinrl0%7E1NrzYRmXGmny7bGxu5kkDtXc8iOqESTa5PzfRlNzLjJ5CPXjHNYEBR%7E9u8O1vNQAlxJkjT-yfltWlV%7E-VZ%7EkEwPl4oRV%7EMW6uJ8yaMwtnSjtc-vRSg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
dce0f9d47910e75c5b33fe295d08c800
PDF Text
Text
1870.]
Rossetti,
the
Painter and Poet.
found questions are introduced and
handled, and its suggestiveness of pro
found thinking and vast learning, “ Lo
95
thair ” stands alone worthy, in the realms
of English fiction, to be named along
side of “ Wilhelm Meister.”
ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET.
The utmost efforts of English thought
and imagination, aided by assiduous
study of all precedent art, have not yet
succeeded in establishing an art which
merits the appellation of a school, or
which, indeed, displays amongst its
promoters a character which shall serve
to link its individuals into any coher
ence worthy of classification. Sporadic
cases of artistic excellence continually
occur, but leave no more effect on the
art-production of the country than if
they had been of foreign birth and sym
pathy ; and no artist has yet succeeded
in making a pupil, much less a school.
As, therefore, with the exception of
Turner, no man of remarkable power
had appeared in the first half of the
nineteenth century, the beginning of
the second half showed, on the whole,
the most pitifully hopeless state of ar
tistic development which any country,
with serious pretensions, has ever show
ed. In figure-painting, Leslie, painter
of pretty women and drawing-room
comedy, had the highest pretension to
genius, while around him flourished a
multitude of painters of low genre, fus
tian history, and pose plastique, with
here and there a man of real purpose,
but struggling against the most absolute
want of appreciation and sympathy,
either on the part of the profession or
the public. In technical qualities and
in use of the experience of other times
and nations, an English Exhibition of
1849, was the most laughable gathering
of misapplied brains which could be
found in any country.
Out of this degradation must come
reformation, and, in 1849, three young
reformers in art found themselves face
to face with the English public on the
question of artistic reform. These were
the chiefs of the so-called pre-Raphaelite
movement — Dante G. Rossetti, J. E.
Millais, and W. Holman Hunt—Rossetti
being the chief, of the chiefs, and an
Italian, Millais of French descent, and
only Hunt, the lesser of the three, an
Englishman.
The three reformers, like-minded in
their disgust for the inanity of the pros
perous art of the day, had yet no com
mon ideal, nor was there any intention
of organizing a school. The title long
since known of “ Pre-Raphaelite Broth
erhood ” being applied by the followers
who soon gathered around them, and
who, as is generally the case with disci
ples, began to organize on the less im
portant characteristics of the movement,
and the term soon became applied to
all minute realization of detail, though
that was not the element which gave
character to the reform, but rather de
fiance of all thoughtless, conventional
representation of nature, Rossetti differ
ing widely in his ideal from his co-reformers, and the body of their follow
ers adopted a diverging path, which has
left him alone in the peculiar excellen
cies, as in the aims, of his art.
As is always the case in men of so
peculiar and so consummate an art—
Rossetti had slight hold on the English
public, and, having always held general
opinion in contempt, he has never, since
1850, been a contributor to the exhibi
tions, so that even more than with Tur
ner—his only intellectual peer in the
English art of this century—his rank is
the award of the profession and the
learned few. Nor can he be classified.
No school has shown any thing like
him, and, like Turner, he has no fol
lower. Italian by blood, English com
monplace-ism had no root in his intel
lect, while the tone of English life lift
ed him above the slavishness which
seems to paralyse art in Italy. The
father, an Italian political refugee and
�96
Putnam’s Magazine.
poet, carried his passion for liberty and
poetry into exile, and gave his son the
name and worship of the great Tuscan,
and a nature in which his own mysti
cism and originality, and the exuberant
sensuousness of his nation, mingled
with the earnest religious nature of his
wife (of mixed English and Italian race),
and the sound, high-toned morality of
an admirable English education. Cir
cumstances more favorable for the de
velopment of an exceptionally indi
vidual artistic character could hardly
have been combined. Rossetti is at
once mystical, imaginative, individual,
and intense; a colorist of the few great
est ; designer at once weird, and of re
markable range of subject and sympa
thy ; devotional, humanitarian, satiric,
and actual, and, by turns, mediaeval and
modern; now approaching the religious
intensity of the early Italian, now sati
rizing a vice of to-day with a realism
quite his own, and again painting
images of sensuous beauty with a pas
sionate fulness and purity which no
other painter has ever rendered. His
most remarkable gift is what, in the in
completeness of artistic nomenclature,
I must call spontaneity of composition
—that imaginative faculty by which the
completeness and coherence of a pic
torial composition are preserved from
the beginning, so that, to its least de
tail, the picture bears the impress of
having been painted from a complete
conception. At times weird, at others
grotesque, and again full of pathos, his
pictures almost invariably possess this
most precious quality of composition,
in which Leys alone, of modern paint
ers, is to be compared with him.
Like all great colorists, Rossetti makes
of color a means of expression, and
only, in a lesser degree, of representa
tion. Color is to him an art in itself,
and the harmonies of his pictures are
rather like sad strains of some perfect
Eastern music, always pure and wellsought in tint, but with chords that
have the quality of those most precious
of fabrics—the Persian and Indian—
something steals in always which is not
of the seen or of earthly tones, a passage
[July,
which touches the eye as a minor strain
does the ear, with a passionate sugges
tion of something lost, and which, mated
with his earnest and spiritual tone of
thought, gives to his art, for those who
know and appreciate it fully, an interest
which certain morbid qualities, born of
the over-intense and brooding imagina
tion, and even certain deficiencies in
power of expression, only make more
deep.
Amongst modem painters he is the
most poetic; and, in his early life,
painting and poetry seem to have dis
puted the bent of his mind, and some
early poems laid the foundation of a
school of poetry, just as his early pic
tures laid those of a school of art (if
even this be worthy to be called a
school). In a volume of poems just
published there is a sonnet on one of
his earliest designs, which, doubtless,
expresses the creed of art of the reform.
It is called “ St. Luke the Painter,” and
represented St. Luke preaching and
showing pictures of the Virgin and
Christ.
Give honor unto Luke Evangelist;
Eor he it was (the aged legends say)
Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist
Of devious symbols: but soon, having wist
How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day
Are symbols also in some deeper way,
She looked through these to God, and was God’s
priest.
And if, past noon, her toil began to irk,
And she sought talismans, and turned in vain
To soulless self-reflections of man’s skill;
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again,
Ere the night confeth, and she may not work.
Rossetti’s indifference to public opin
ion was the same for picture or poem,
for he only exhibited twice, and only
two or three of his poems have been
printed; but, as the former worked a
reform amongst the painters, the latter
gave a bent to some of the coming po
ets, and the authors of the Earthly Para
dise and Atalanta in Calydon, owe to
Rossetti the direction of their thoughts.
I remember seeing, in the exhibition,
Rossetti’s first exhibited picture. The
subject was “ Mary’s Girlhood.” It rep
resented an interior, with the Virgin
/
�1870.]
Rossetti,
the
Painter and Poet.
Mary sitting by her mother’s side and
embroidering from nature a lily, while
an angel-child waters the flower which
she copies. His sister Christina, the
poetess, and her mother, were the models
from whom he painted Mary and her
mother, and the picture, full of intense
feeling and mystic significance, was, for
the painters, the picture of the exhibi
tion (the long extinct “ National Insti
tution”). It is commemorated in the
volumes of poems by a sonnet with the
same title.
This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect
God’s virgin. Gone is a great 'while, and she
Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee.
Unto God’s will she,brought devout respect,
Profound simplicity of intellect,
And supreme patience. Prom her mother’s
knee
Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity ;
Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect.
So held she through her girlhood; as it were
An angel-watered lily, that near God
Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home
She woke in her white bed, and had no fear
At all, yet wept till sunshine, and felt
Because the fulness of the time was come.
He exhibited again, in 1850, an An
nunciation, well remembered amongst
artists as “ the white picture,” both the
angel and Mary being robed in white,
in a white-walled room, the only masses
of color being their hair, which was au
burn. This was his last contribution
to any exhibition, his disregard of pub
lic approbation growing with the evi
dence that appeared every day of the
hold his works had taken on the artis
tic and intellectual part of the public,
so that to-day he is preeminently the
painter of the painters and poets, as the
character of the poetry stamps him the
poet of the painters. Scarcely a note
has he struck in his poems which has
not its corresponding expression in his
painting; and poem sometimes turns
to a picture, and a picture sometimes
reproduces itself as a poem.
Amongst the most important of the
poems thus involved is one which, con
ceived in the old catholic spirit, Ros
setti has illustrated by a series of pic
tures and drawings, designed in the
same tone. It is the “ Ave,” a hymn to
the Virgin. It is full of the most ad
1
97
mirable word-painting, and follows the
life of the Virgin from the annunciation
to the assumption. The opening pic
ture of the annunciation is in the spirit
of his early art as the whole poem is of
his early thought.
Mind’st thou not (when June’s heavy breath
Warmed the long days in Nazareth),
That eve thou didst go forth to give
Thy flowers some drink that they might live
One faint night more amid the sands I
Far off the trees were as pale wands
Against the fervid sky : the sea
Sighed further off eternally,
As human sorrow sighs in sleep.
Then suddenly the awe grew deep,
As of a day to which all days
Were footsteps in God’s secret ways:
Until a folding sense, like prayer
Which is, as God is, everywhere,
Gathered about thee; and a voice
Spake to thee without any noise,
Being of the silence:—“ Hail 1 ’’ it said,
“ Thou that art highly favored ;
The Lord is with thee here and now,
Blessed among all women thou 1 ”
Another more purely imaginative and
intensely pathetic picture, is of the life
of Mary in the house of John, after
Christ’s death. It represents the inte
rior of the house of John, with a win
dow- showing a twilight view of Jeru
salem. Against the faint distance cut
the window-bars, forming a cross, at the
intersection of which hangs a lamp
which Mary had risen to trim and light,
having left her spinning, while John,
who has been writing, and holds his
tablets still on his knees, strikes a light
with a flint and steel for Mary to use.
Above the window hangs a net. The
passage which is illustrated by it is one
of the finest of the poem.
Mind’st thou not (when the twilight gone
Left darkness in the house of John)
Between the naked window-bars
That spacious vigil of the stars!
For thou, a watcher even as they,
Wouldst rise from where throughout the day
Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor;
And, finding the fixed terms endure
Of day and night which never brought
Sounds of His coming chariot,
Wouldst lift, through cloud-waste unexplor’d,
Those eyes which said, “ How long, O Lord 1 ”
Then that disciple whom He loved,
Well heeding, haply would be moved
To ask thy blessing in His name;
And that one thought in both, the same
Though silent, then would clasp ye round
To weep together—tears long bound—
Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow.
�A A
98
Putnam’s Magazine.
The poem called the Blessed Damozel was one of those which were pub
lished in an art-magazine, conducted by
the literary confreres of the reformers
in art, and amongst the younger Eng
lish poets of the day was the key of a
new poetic tendency. The writer of
these lines has heard the author of the
Earthly Paradise avow that the Blessed
Damozel turned his mind to writing
poetry. It is one of the more passionate,
and, at the same time, pictorial, of all
Rossetti’s poems, and full of the mystic
religious sense in which all the new
school began their work with symbolic
accessories, as though it had been in
tended for illustration.
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL.
The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of heaven ;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even ;
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift,
For service meetly worn ;
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseemed she scarce had been a day
One of God’s choristers ;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.
(To one, it is ten years of years.
. . . Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o’er me—her hair
Fell all about my face. . . .
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)
##****
“ I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come,” she said.
“ Have I not prayed in heaven ?—on earth,
Hord, Hord, has he not pray’d ?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ?
And shall I feel afraid ’
“ We two,” she said, “ will seek the groves
Where the lady Mary is,
******
“ He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:
Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak.
[July,
“ Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles :
And angels meeting us shall sing
To their citherns and citoles.
“There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me:—
Only to live as once on earth
With Bove,—only to be,
As then awhile, for ever now
Together, I and he.”
She gazed and listened and then said,
Bess sad of speech than mild,—
“ All this is when he comes.” She ceased.
The light thrilled towards her, fill’d
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres :
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)
The influence of the study of Dante
has been always perceptible in all the
work of our painter-poet. The Vita
Nuova has been an inexhaustible mine of
picture-subject, and the poem, “ Dante
at Verona,” one of the longest in the
book, is also one of the most earnestly
felt, and sympathetic. The Divina
Commedia has furnished him only one
picture, or rather triptych, from the
story of Francesca di Rimini. In this
the poets are in the central division;
“ The Kiss,” on the right, full of the
most intense passion, and the ghosts on
the left, pale, dreamy, but dressed as in
“ The Kiss,” and floating through an
atmosphere filled with little flames, fall
ing like rain. In dealing with material
like this, of course a large measure of
conventionalism is to be allowed in the
treatment, and Rossetti never hesitates
in employing all that his subject de
mands, so that the Dante designs are,
for the most part, at once mystic and
typical in conception and treatment.
An important picture of “ The Vision
of Dante on the Day of Beatrice’s Death,”
is most thoroughly studied and realized;
two of the heads of Beatrice, and the
lady who holds the veil over her at her
head, are studied from two of the most
celebrated beauties of London. Love
leads Dante into the room, where the
�1870.]
Rossetti, the Paintee
body lies, the floor of which is strewn
with poppies, and kisses the dead face,
in token of the final union—the spiritual
kiss which death, the new life, permits
to love.
In anQther vein the painter employs
a degree of realization which represents
faculties of a very different nature. In
a picture which he calls Hesterna Rosa
—“yesterday’s rose”—two courtesans,
with their lovers, are finishing a carouse
in a tent, while the day is breaking out
ride. One of them, debauched to utter
degradation, riots in her shame and
drunkenness, while the other, unused
yet to her fallen state, turns, in awaking
shame, from her companions. The men
are throwing dice—the lover of the
shame-faced girl, a low, ruffianly sharp
er, bites his mistress’ finger abstractedly
as he waits for the throw of his adver
sary. A little girl, an attendant, holds
a lute up to her ear and touches the
strings, listening to the vibration in
sheer indifference to the bacchanals, her
purity making the one bright point in
the drama, while a monkey—type of
all uncleanness—sits at the other side
scratching himself in idleness.
Through the opening of the tent is
seen the dawn through the orchard
trees, mingling with the lamp-light.
One, and perhaps the most powerful,
cause of the deep hold which Rossetti,
as painter and poet, has obtained on his
contemporary painters and poets, is the
intense subjectivity of his genius, which,
while it gives to sympathetic apprecia
tion an inexhaustible and inexplicable
charm, to those who have no sympathy
with his idiosyncrasy gives only an im
pression of involved phantasy and far
fetched symbolism. Yet not even Dante
himself was more legitimately to this
manner born. Not even Titian or Tur
ner, or the painter of the fragment of
Pita, was more involuntarily and uncon
trollably subjective than their fellowcountryman Rossetti. Types evolved
from his own nature run through all
his work, and his ideals of beauty have
a sisterly likeness which no one can fail
to recognize, and which renders it im
possible for him to render certain types
and
Poet.
of character with satisfaction or com
plete success. It was the Rossetti type
of face and figure which, caricatured
and exaggerated in ignorant enthusiasm
by the followers of the painter, gave rise
to the singular and certainly most un
lovely ideal of the minor pre-Raphaelites—an ideal in which physical beauty
was absolutely set at nought in the
search of significance and the evi
dence of passion. Even in his portraits
Rossetti fails, unless the subject inclines
more or less to the type which he re
flects.
This demands more than external
beauty, be it ever so exquisite, and is
only absolutely content with a certain
gravity and intensity of character, deep,
inscrutable, sphinx-like, or still more
when these characteristics go with the
expression of intense and restrained
passion. Of this type the portrait of
Mrs. Morris, wife of the author of the
Earthly Paradise, is one of the most
perfectly realized expressions. It repre
sents a face of remarkable perfectness
of proportion and nobility of intellec
tual character, but with a depth of
meaning, half-told, questioning eyes
and mute lips, which make it, once
seen, never to be forgotten; and, paint
ed with a wealth of color and complete
ness of power, unequalled by any mod
ern work, so far as I know. It is one of
those portraits which, like Raphael’s
Julius Second, Titian’s “ Bella Donna,”
and other singularly understood and
rendered heads of almost all the great
masters of portraiture, remain, perhaps,
the highest expression of the painter’s
qualities.
A remarkable design of Rossetti’s is
the Mary Magdalene at the House of
Simon the Pharisee. She is passing the
house at the head of a festal procession,
crowned with flowers, and accompanied
by her lover, when she sees Christ
through the open door, and, tearing off
the garlands, pushes her way into the
chamber, against the efforts of the lover
and one of her female companions. Far
up the street may be seen the baccha
nals, singing, waving their garlands and
playing on musical instruments as they
x
�100
Putnam’s Magazine.
[July,
In “ The Portrait,” again—a poem
come, and they stop, in amused surprise,
at the eccentricity of Mary, who with full of sad and passionate color and pic
her two immediate companions occupy torial quality—it is the portrait of his
the centre of the composition. The dead love he monodizes. His love had
head of Christ appears through the been told, in “ a dim, deep wood,” and
window at the right, below which, out to commemorate it he paintg the por
side, a vine climbs up on the wall, and trait.
a deer nibbles at it.
Next day the memories of these things,
The whole picture, except the grave,
Like leaves through which a bird has flown,
Still vibrated with Love’s warm wings;
passionate, and touching face of Mary,
Till I must make them all my own
turned to Christ, without any heed to
And paint this picture. So, ’twixt ease
the companions who hold her feet and
Of talk and sweet long silences,
She stood among the plants in bloom
knees to prevent her entering, and the
At windows of a summer room,
responding face of Christ, who turns
To feign the shadow of the trees.
towards her as he sits at the table, is
And as I wrought, while all above
full of gayety and merriment; but the
And all around was fragrant air,
head of Mary, which is pictorially the
In the sick burthen of my love
It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there
key-note of it, gives to the ensemble
Beat like a heart among the leaves.
the pathetic tone which almost all of
O heart that never beats nor heaves,
Rossetti’s pictures have, and which seem
In that one darkness lying still,
* What now to thee my love’s great will
to be the characteristic of his nature, for
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves 1
scarcely one of his poems is conceived
******
in any other feeling than one approachHere with her face doth memory sit
ing to sadness, so that, to those who
Meanwhile, and wait the day’s decline,
have not seen his painting, his poetry
Till other eyes shall look from it,
Eyes of the spirit’s Talestine,
will give the clear idea of his individu
Even than the old gaze tenderer:
ality in art. In one of the most exqui
While hopes and aims long lost with her
Stand round her image side by side,
site of his love-poems, “ The Stream’s
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
Secret,” he demands of the stream what
About the Holy Sepulchre.
message it bears from his mistress, and,
rehearsing the growth of their passion
But enough, both of picture and
to himself and the inexorable wave, he poem, to convey such idea as a brief
comes, at last, to find that death alone article may, of one of the most singu
can reply to his question.
larly gifted and imaginative artists the
world has ever seen, and whose unique
Ah, by another wave,
power, had it been supplemented by the
On other airs, the hour must come,
Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home.
training of such a school as that of
Between the lips of the low cave,
Venice, would have placed him at the
Against that night the lapping waters lav
head of painters of human passion.
And the dark lips are dumb.
Trained under the eye of a Veronese,
But there Love’s self doth stand,
his work would have gained in solidity
And with Life’s weary wings far-flown,
And with Death’s eyes that make the water moan,
and drawing; and, may-be, with a pub
Gathers the water in his hand:
lic capable of fully appreciating his
And they that drink know nought of sky or land
genius, he might have painted less de
But only love alone.
fiantly of its opinion. His dramatic
0 soul-sequestered face
power is not fully conveyed in any of
Bar off,—0 were that night but now!
So even beside that stream even I and thou
his poems except the “ Last Confession,”
Through thirsting lips should draw Love’s grace, which gives no idea of the versatility
And in the zone of that supreme embrace
with which he depicts passion’s rang
Bind aching breast and brow.
ing from the besotted huts of a Borgia
O water whispering
to the ecstatic exaltation of a Magda
Still through the dark into mine ears,—
As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers ?—
lene, or the serenity of a Madonna. As
Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring,
painter or poet, human passion and hu
Wan water, wandering water weltering,
man sorrow are the only themes which
This hidden tide of tears.
�A Disenchanted Republican.
1870.1
101
occupy his feeling ; and, though his pas- able, and he is often careless whether his
sion sometimes passes the conventional picture is understood or not. He car
ism’of art, and his grief becomes mor ries his indifference to mere physical
bid, as,'in his pictures, the subjectivity beauty to such a degree as often to make
of his treatment sometimes makes his his faces ugly, in the seeking, for intense
work almost a riddle to the unlearned ; expression, and, in the action of his fig
there is no affectation and no willing ures, passes the limits of the natural as
weakness, as there is no unconscientious well as graceful, to obtain force. But,
trifling with his art, but his tendency, with all his defects and peculiarities,
on the contrary, is to neglect those he stands to-day, in general artistic
means of success which would make power, first amongst the painters of
his art much more widely felt and valu England.
A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN.
LETTEE FEOM A GEEMAN TRAVELLER
New York, 1869.
Mon cher Ami :
Do you remember standing with me,
years ago, on a beautiful point of land,
and gazing on the mountains and the
sea ? How vast and exhilarating was
the view, what picturesque grandeur
and novel evidences of human thrift
and science in the valley-dwellings, old
churches, and careering sails ; while, at
our feet, washed up by the tide, garb
age, and bits of wreck, made the details
around such a crude and dreary contrast
to the scene beyond and above.
Thus, my friend, is it here. When I
think of the myriads who, in Europe,
had no hope or prospect but drudgery
and indigence, who, in the lands of the
great West as farmers, and in the cities
as mechanics, have attained competence,
often wealth; and whose children are
now educated, prosperous, and, best of
all, progressive, citizens of this great Re
public; when I see how free is the
scope, how sure the harvest reaped by
intelligence, industry, and temperance,
in this land, I feel heart and brain ex
panded and vivified with gratified hu
man sympathies and limitless aspira
tion.
Yon may wonder at my including
temperance as a condition of success:
it is because intemperance is still the
curse of the country; and, upon inves
tigation, I find that smartness and tem
perance, combined, have been and are
the means whereby the poor and ambi
tious have risen to social influence, wide
activity, and political or professional
honor.
But when, drawing in both thought
and vision from the broad scenes, from
the human generalization, I look criti
cally at what is going on immediately
around me, often—to use a phrase of
the native pioneer author—“ hope dark
ness into anxiety, anxiety into dread,
and dread into despair; ” for this very
smartness — a favorite and significant
term—is often unscrupulous; this very
temperance cold-blooded; and this very
success unsoftened by sentiment, un
elevated by aspiration, unredeemed by
beneficence.
The devotion to wealth, as such, the
temporizing with fraud, the triumph of
impudence, the material standard and
style of life, make me look back upon
the homely ways, the genial content,
the cultured repose so often found in
the Old World, with a kind of regretful
admiration. And yet it is just and
rational to bear constantly in mind the
fact that here every thing comes to the
surface; no polished absolutism guards
from view the latent corruption; no
system of espionage and censorship, of
police and military despotism, keeps the
outside fair, while private rights and
public virtue are mined for destruction ;
�102
Putnam’s Magazine.
all is exposed and discussed; and the
good and evil elements of society, poli
tics, opinion, trade, speculation, pastime,
and crime, have free play and frank ex
position. But, you will ask, how is it
with regard to the intellectual.life in its
higher phase ? What are the tenden
cies and triumphs of the mind, apart
from the sphere of fashion, of com
merce, of civic duty ? My answer is,
audacious; no other word so well ex
presses the animus of the would-be
thinkers of the land. They despise pre
cedents, ignore discipline, contemn the
past; they serve up ideas as old as
Plato, as familiar to scholars as Mon
taigne, in new-fangled sentences, and
delude themselves and their disciples
with the pretence of originality. They
espouse an opinion, a cause, a theory,
and make capital thereof on the ros
trum and through the press, without a
particle of philosophic insight or moral
consistency; in education, in religion,
in what they call culture, with an ego
tism that is at once melancholy and
ridiculous, they maintain “ what is new
but not true, and what is true but not
new,” and, with a complacent hardihood
that repudiates the laws of humanity,
the pure and primal sentiments that lie
at the basis of civilization and the con
stitution of man and woman. Without
reverence there is no insight; without
sympathy there is no truth ; all is bold,
self-asserting, conceited, unscrupulous,
and, in the last analysis, vulgar; but
there is, in all this perversion of har
monious intellectual life and complete
intellectual equipment, what takes with
the half-informed — sensationalism, the
love of letters, and speculative thought.
Closely studied, the cause of this incon
gruous development may be found in a
certain lack of moral sensibility, which
instinctively guards from paradox on
the one hand and guides to truth on the
other. It is, as you well know, essential
to artistic perception; and those of
American writers and thinkers, who
have the sense and sentiment of art, like
Irving and Bryant, Hawthorne and
Longfellow, have been thereby protect
ed from the reckless vagaries and the
[July,
mental effrontery which, under the plea
of reform, of free thought, of progress,
profanes the modest instincts of human
ity, and desecrates the beautiful and the
true in the interest of an eager, intoler
ant vanity.
While Mammon is widely worshipped,
and Faith widely degraded, bright, be
nign exceptions to this pagan spirit
“give us pause.” I have never met
more choice and charming illustrations
of mental integrity, truth to personal
conviction, heroic fidelity in legitimate
individual development, than among
the free and faithful citizens of this
Republic; but they are unappreciated,
except by the few who intimately know
them; their influence is limited, and
they are unambitious, as are all human
beings who live intrinsically from with
in, and not conventionally from with
out. And, with all the deference to
and passion for money, there never was
a commercial city in the world where
so much is given in charity, where so
many rich men habitually devote a not
inconsiderable portion of their income
to the relief of distress, or where the
response to appeals for aid in any hu
mane or patriotic cause is more fre
quent, prompt, and generous than in
this same badly-governed, money-get
ting, and money-spending city of New
York.
After all, perhaps, I must confess that
the disappointment experienced grows
out of extravagant anticipations. The
American theory of government, the
equality of citizens, the character of
the early patriots, the absence of rank,
kingcraft, and a terrible disparity of
condition, had long endeared the coun
try to me and mine; but the behavior
of the people in the civil war, their
cheerful self-sacrifice, their patient de
votion, their contented return to pri
vate life from the army and the field,
their unparalleled triumph and magna
nimity, had raised affection into admi
ration ; I longed to tread so illustrious
a land, to greet so noble a race, and to
fraternize with such brave, wise, and
true men. With the returning tide of
peace, of course, habits of gain and
�1870.]
A Disenchanted Republican.
luxury were resumed in. the populous
centres, and the inevitable demoraliza
tion of war left its traces ; the sal
ient divisions between the patriotic
and the disloyal, the martyrs and the
mercenaries, which kept compact and
imposing the army of noble and true
citizens during the struggle, when it
ceased, were obliterated, and society be
came more heterogeneous than ever, its
manifestations less characteristic, its su
perficial traits more, and its talent and
virtue less, apparent. Hence the Amer
ica of my fond imagination seemed for
ever vanished ; and, only by patient ob
servation and fortunate rencontres, have
I gradually learned to discriminate and
recognize the soul of good in things
evil.
No, my friend, I will not expose Wil
helmina to the precocious development,
the premature self-assertion, incident to
this social atmosphere. I daily see
girls, in their teens, with all the airs
and much of the way of thinking of
old women of the world—confident,
vain, self-indulgent, and, withal, ~blasé.
True, the exceptions are charming. I
find them chiefly among families in
moderate circumstances, but of good
connection, wherein the daughters have
been reared in active, wholesome, and
responsible duties — had, in short, to
contribute, directly or indirectly, to
their own support. With intellectual
tastes and a religious education, this
discipline in a land where the sex is
held in respect,—these young women
are noble, pure, brave, and conscien
tious, as well as aspiring and intelligent.
I have seen many such in the Normal
schools, engaged in clerical work in the
departments at Washington, and by the
firesides of the inland towns, or in the
most thoroughly respectable and least
fashionable households of this metropo
lis. But one is disenchanted, not only
of his ideal of womanhood, but of the
most homely and humble domestic illu
sions, by the sight of crowds of gaylydressed females, with huge greasy mass
es of hair on the back of their heads,
and no modest shield to their brazen
brows, draggling their long silken trains
103
through the dirt of Broadway, or crush
ing, like half-inflated balloons, their am
ple skirts through a densely-packed
omnibus. The triumph of extravagant
luxury may be seen, at certain seasons,
at what looks like a palace—a huge,
lofty marble building, in the principal
thoroughfare of this city; it is not a
royal residence, nor a gallery of art, nor
a college—it is a drygoods shop. Im
agine a thousand women there con
vened, an army of clerks showing pat
terns, measuring off goods, or rushing
to and fro with change and orders.
Every one of these females is dressed in
silk ; at least one half, if attired accord
ing to their means and station, would
wear calico or homespun; perhaps an
eighth out of the whole number of hus
bands to these shopping wives are either
bankrupt or at work in Wall-street, with
fear and trembling, risking their all to
supply the enormous current expenses
of their families, whereof half relate to
female dress. Carry the inference from
these facts a little further; of course,
the daughters marry for an establish
ment, look abroad for enjoyment; byand-by go to Europe, ostensibly to edu
cate their children (leaving papa to his
club and counting-room), but really to
gossip at Dresden, flirt at Rome, or shop
in Paris.
I have been surprised to find so many
underbred men in society; but this is
explained by the fact that so many who,
in youth, have enjoyed few means of
culture and no social training, in their
prime have made a fortune, and are able
to give dinners, and send their children
to fashionable schools. Hence a sin
gular incongruity in manners, ranging
from the most refined to the most in
tolerable in the same salon, or among
the same class and circle. Remissness
in answering notes, off-hand verbal in
vitations to strangers without a prelimi
nary call, forcing personal topics into
conversation, stuffing unceremoniously
at receptions, free and easy bearing to
wards ladies, lounging, staring, asking
impertinent questions, pushing into no
tice, intruding on the talk and privacy
of others—in a word, an utter absence
�104
Putnam’s Magazine.
of delicacy and consideration is mani
fest in a sphere where you will, at the
same time, recognize the highest type,
both of character and breeding, in both
sexes. This crude juxtaposition star
tles a European ; but he is still more as
tonished after hearing a man’s conduct
stigmatized, and his character annihi
lated at the club ; to encounter the in
dividual thus condemned an accepted
guest of the men who denounce him.
In a word, there seems no social dis
crimination; one’s pleasure in choice
society is constantly spoiled by the
presence of those reeking with the es
sential oil of vulgarity, of foreign ad
venturers without any credentials, and
who succeed in effecting an entrée upon
the most fallacious grounds. It is one
of the most remarkable of social phe
nomena here, that even cultivated and
scrupulously honorable men and high
bred women are so patient under social
inflictions, so thoughtless in social rela
tions ; not that they compromise their
characters—they only degrade their hos
pitality. Exclusiveness is, indeed, the
opposite of republican principle ; but
that refers to discrepancies of rank, of
birth, and of fortune ; exclusiveness
based on character, on culture, on the
tone and traits of the individual, is and
should be the guarantee of social vir
tue, refinement, and self-respect.
And yet, my friend, inconsistent as it
may seem, I really think there never
was a country where every man’s and
woman’s true worth and claims are bet
ter tested than this. I mean that when
you turn from the fete or the fashion of
the hour, and discuss character with the
sensible people you happen to know,
they invariably pierce the sham, recog
nize the true, and justly estimate legiti
mate claims. Sooner or later, in this
free land, where the faculties are so
keenly exercised, the scope for talent so
wide ; where all kinds of people come
together, and there is a chance for every
one,—what there is of original power, of
integrity, of kindness, of cunning, of
genius, of rascality, and of faith in a
human being, finds development, comes
to the surface, and turns the balance
[July,
of public opinion by social analysis.
There is an instinctive sagacity and
sense of justice in the popular mind.
If there was one confident idea I en
tertained in regard to this country, be
fore coming here, it was that I should
find plenty of space. I expected an
infinity of room. I said to myself,
those straggling unwalled cities devour
suburban vicinage so easily—have so
much room to spread ; I had heard of
the Capital’s “ magnificent distances,”
and dreamed of the boundless prairies
and the vastness of the continent. The
same impression existed in regard to all
social and economic arrangements ;
“ there,” I said to myself, “ I shall ex
pand at will ; every thing is new, un
bounded, open, large, and free.” Well,
thus far, I have found it just the reverse.
Assigned a lofty and diminutive bed
chamber at the hotels—having to stand
up in the horse-cars, because all the
seats are occupied—finding my friends’
pews full—not having elbow-room at
the table d'hôte—tired of waiting for
my turn to look at the paper at club
and reading-room—being told the new
novel is “ out ” at the library—standing
in a line at the theatre box-office for an
hour, to be told all the good places are
taken—receiving hasty notes from edit
ors that my article had been in type but
that their columns were oversupplied—
pressed to the wall at parties—jostled
in Broadway and Wall-street—rushed
upon at ferry-boat piers—interrupted in
quiet talks—my neighbor, at dinner, ab
stracted by observation of a distant
guest—I never, in my life, had such a
painful consciousness of being de trop,
in the way, insignificant, overlooked,
and crowded out, as here ; and I have to
go, every now and then, to the country
to breathe freely and realize my own in
dividuality and independence.
The security of life and property is
altogether inadequate here. Consult a
file of newspapers and you will find that
massacres by rail, burglaries, murders,
and conflagrations are more numerous,
make less impression, and are less guard
ed against and atoned for, by process
of law, than in any other civilized land.
�1870.]
A Disenchanted Republican.
These characteristics are, however, very
unequally distributed. You must con
tinually bear in mind that the facts I
state, and the inferences thence drawn,
often have but a local application.
Thus, familiar with the admirable mu
nicipal system whereby so many towns
in Europe rose to power and prosperity
of old, and with the civic sagacity and
rectitude of the founders of this Repub
lic, who, in colonial times, disciplined
the people to self-goveniment, through
the free and faithful administration of
local affairs—I was the more disconcert
ed at the awful abuses and patent frauds
of the so-called government of this com
mercial metropolis of the United States.
In New England you find the munici
pal system carried to perfection, unper
verted, and effective,. In Vermont it
exists in elevated simplicity and honor ;
but in the large cities, owing to a larger
influx of foreigners, so many of whom
are poor and ignorant, it is degraded.
You naturally ask, Why do not the
honest and intelligent citizens produce
a reform in what so nearly concerns both
their reputation and their welfare ? My
answer is, partly through indifference
and partly through fear, added to utter
want of faith in the practicability of
success. There is a timidity native to
riches ; the large estate-holders desire
to conciliate the robber ; they deem it
more safe to succumb than oppose ; they
lack moral courage ; hence the social
compromises I have noted, and hence,
too, the ominous civic pusillanimity.
Care is the bane of conscientious life
here ; I mean that, when a man or wom
an is upright and bent upon duty, the
performance thereof is hampered and
made irksome by the state of society
and the circumstances of the people.
Thus, in affairs when an honest man is
associated with directors, trustees, or
other corporate representatives, he is
sure to be revolted by unscrupulous do
ings or shameful neglect ; he has to
fight for what is just in the manage
ment, or withdraw in disgust therefrom.
So a young man, who is wise enough to
eschew alcoholic stimulants and games
of hazard, has need of rare moral courvol. vi.—7
105
age, or is forced to avoid the compan
ionship of his reckless comrades. And,
worst of all, a woman with a sentiment
of family obligation, a principle of
household duty, cannot regulate the
servants, see to the providing of the
table, the order and pleasantness of
home-life, without a vigilance, a sacri
fice of time, and an anxiety which takes
the bloom from her cheek and plants a
wrinkle on her brow. The lack of welltrained and contented “help,”—as the
domestic servants are ironically called
—the great expense of living, and the
absence of that machinery which, once
set up with judgment, goes on so regu
larly in our Old World domiciles—are
among the causes of weariness and care
in the average female life of this coun
try, in a manner and to a degree un
known in Europe, where leisure and re
pose are easily secured by competence
and tact.
I do not wonder that so many of the
best-bred and most intelligent Ameri
can girls prefer army and navy officers
or diplomats for husbands to the “ danc
ing men ” they meet in society, usually
vapid-, if not dissipated ; whereas the
education for the army, navy, and diplo
macy, or the culture attained by the
discipline thereof, where there is a par
ticle of sense or character, insures a cer
tain amount of manliness and knowl
edge, such as are indispensable to a
clever and refined woman in a life-com
panion. The two classes I pity most
here are the very old and the very
young ; the former, because they are
shamefully neglected, and the latter,
because they are perverted. You see a
gentleman of the old school snubbed
by Young America ; a venerable wom
an unattended to in a corner, while
rude and complaisant girls push to the
front rank ; and you see children, who
ought to be kept in the fields or the
nursery, fashionably arrayed and hold
ing levées, or dancing the German, with
all the extravagance of toilettes and
consciousness of manner, that distin
guish their elders, and a zest infinitely
more solemn. It is painful to see age
thus unprivileged and unhonored, and
�106
Putnam’s Magazine.
childhood thus profaned : a conserva
tive is, in vulgar parlance, an old fogy ; a
retired worthy, however eminent, is a
“ fossil ; ” precocity in manner, mind,
and aspect, is encouraged ; the mature
and complete, the finished and the
formed, are exceptional; crudity and
pretension are in the ascendant.
One of my most cherished puiposes,
as you know, was to utilize my studies
as a publicist, and my experience as a
republican philosopher, through the
press of this free land. In this design
I have met with signal discouragement.
While a few men, who have thought
fully investigated the most imminent
problems in modern political and social
life, have listened to my views with the
most sympathetic attention, and have
recognized the importance of the facts
of the past which I have so long labor
ed to bring forward as practical illus
trations of the present—those who con
trol the press of these States, by virtue
of proprietorship, avoid all but imme
diate topics of public interest, declaring
their exclusive discussion essential to
the prosperity of their vocation, and
failing to appreciate both historic par
allels and philosophic comments. I
have been surprised to note how soon
even men of academic culture yield to
the vulgar standard of the immediate,
and ignore the vast inspiration of hu
manity and truth as developed in the
career of the race and the salient facts
of historic civilization. Nor is this all.
With few exceptions, popular journal
ism and speech here is based upon the
sensational element — not upon senti
ment or reflection. It is difficult to se
cure attention, except through a bizarre
style or melodramatic incident ; the
grotesque forms of American humor,
seeking, by violation of orthography or
ingenious slang, to catch the eye of
readers or the ear of audiences, indicate
the extremes to which these sensational
experiments are carried. Nothing makes
a newspaper sell like prurient details of
crime, audacious personal attacks, or ex
travagant inventions. A calm, thought
ful discussion, however wise, original,
and sincere, gains comparatively little
[July,
sympathy; a profound criticism, a forci
ble but finished essay, an individual,
earnest, and graceful utterance of the
choicest experience, or the most charac
teristic feeling, seem to be lost in the
noisy material atmosphere of life in Ame
rica. I find the best thinkers, the most
loyal students, the most aspiring and ge
nial minds, singularly isolated. I have
come upon them accidentally, not in what
is called society; I have marvelled to
perceive how little they are known, even
to familiar acquaintances; for there is no
esprit du corps in letters or philosophy
here ; few have the leisure to do justice
to what is most auspicious in their fel
lows ; few take a hearty interest in the
intellectual efforts or idiosyncrasies of
their best endowed comrades; each
seems bent seemingly on personal ob
jects ; there is no “ division of the
records of the mind; ” people are too
busy, too self-absorbed to sympathize
with what is highest and most indi
vidual in character ; all my most intelli
gent and, I may say, most agreeable
friends complain of this isolation. It
may sometimes strengthen, but it more
frequently narrows and chills. A sin
gular and most unpropitious selfishness
belongs to many of the cleverest men
and women I have met in America; au
thorship and art seem often merce
nary or egotistic, instead of soulful pur
suits; they seem to divide instead of
fusing society; on the one hand are the
fashionable and the wealthy, many of
them pleasant and charitable, but un
aspiring and material; on the other,
poor scholars, professors, litterateurs—
too many of the latter Bohemians; and,
although these two classes sometimes
come together, it is usually in a conven
tional way—without any real sympathy
or disinterested recognition.
But it is not merely in the negative
defect of repudiating the calm, finished,
and considerate discussion of vital sub
jects or aesthetic principles, that the
American press and current literature
disappoint me; the abuses of journal
ism are flagrant. I have been disgust
ed, beyond expression, at the vulgarity
of its tone and the recklessness of its
�1870.]
A Disenchanted Republican.
slanders. During my brief sojourn I
have read the most infamous charges
and the most scurrilous tirades against
the most irreproachable and eminent
citizens, from the Chief Magistrate to
the modest litterateur ; and, when I have
wondered at the apathy exhibited, I
have been answered by a shrug or a
laugh. The fact is, there is no redress
for these vile abuses but resort to per
sonal violence; the law of libel is prac
tically a nullity, so expensive is the pro
cess and uncertain the result; an elect
ive judiciary—one of the most fatal
changes in the constitution of the state
—has created a class of corrupt judges.
To expect justice in cases of slander, is
vain. Unfortunately, there is not a suf
ficient social organization to apply suc
cessfully the punishment of ostracism;
and a set of improvident, irresponsible
writers are usually employed to do the
blackguardism ; so that, with a few no
ble exceptions, the press here is venal
and vulgar, utterly reckless, and the
organ, not of average intelligence, but
of the lowest arts.
The first time I dined out in New
York was at the house of a very weal
thy citizen, identified with fashionable
society. The dinner was luxurious, and
■every thing thereat, from the plate and
porcelain to the furniture and toilettes,
indicated enormous means. My neigh
bor at table was a chatty, elegantly
dressed young man, to whom I had
been formally presented by my host.
Our conversation turned upon invest
ments, and my companion seemed fa( miiiar with all the stocks in the mar
ket, and spoke so highly of the pros
pects of one, that I accepted his invita
tion to call at his office the next day
and examine the details of the scheme.
These were given me in writing, with
the names of the board of directors,
among which I recognized several before
suggested to me as those of gentlemen
of probity and position. I accordingly
invested; and discovered, a few weeks
later, that the representations made to
me were false; that the stock was
worthless, and that the so-called “ Com
pany,” consisting of half-a-dozen per
107
sons, among whom my adviser was one,
had pocketed the amount advanced by
those who, like myself, had been de
luded by the fallacious programme and
its respectable endorsement. Fraud
may be practised in any country; but
here the swindler was encountered in
what is called good society ; and when
I complained to his “ directors,” they
declared they had allowed their names
to be used inadvertently, and that they
knew nothing of the matter. I insti
tuted a suit, but failed to obtain a ver
dict.
My first morning’s walk down a fash
ionable avenue was interrupted by a
shout and sign of alarm from the oppo
site side of the street. *1 had just time
to rush up a flight of steps and ensconce
myself in a friendly doorway, when by
ran a mad ox, and gored a laborer be
fore my sickened sight; nor was he
captured until he had carried dismay
and destraction for two miles through
the heart of this populous city ! This
rabid beast had escaped from a drove
waiting to be slaughtered in the sub
urbs. Such occurrences are not uncom
mon here, and, apparently, make little
impression and induce little effort for
reform.
The municipal magnates levied a tax
of three hundred dollars on one of my
friends, resident of a street they intend
ed to re-pave. Now it so happened
that the pavement of this street was in
excellent order; I could see no reason
for the expense and inconvenience pro
posed. Upon inquiry I learned that an
asphaltum was to be substituted for the
stone-pavement. Going around among
my neighbors, with a petition against
this useless, costly, and annoying pro
ceeding, my friend found that every
resident of the street agreed with us in
condemning the project. Moreover, we
ascertained from the contractor that he
offered to do the job for two dollars the
square yard, but had been advised to
charge four, the balance going into the
pockets of the officials. In spite of the
expressed wishes of those chiefly inter
ested, in spite of this flagrant swindle,
our excellent pavement was torn up;
�108
Putnam’s Magazins.
for weeks no vehicle could approach
our doors; boiling tar and heaps of
gravel and knots of laborers made the
whole thoroughfare a nuisance, for
which each victim, whose dwelling bor
dered the way, had to pay three hun
dred dollars; and now that the rubbish
is cleared away, the composite pave
ment laid, and the street open, owing
to the bad quality, the unscientific
preparation of the asphaltum, it is a
mass of black clinging mud, which,
after a rain, is a pitchy morass, and in
dry weather a floating atmosphere of
pulverized dirt and tar. The newspa
pers call it a poultice.
The universal law of vicissitude
finds here the most signal illustration.
Change is not only frequent, but rapid;
not only comparative, but absolute. I
came back to this city last autumn,
after three months’ sojourn at the sea
side, to find a new rector in the church
I attend ; a new cAefin the journal for
which I write; my favorite domestic
nook for a leisure evening, the abode
of intelligent and cordial hospitality, in
the process of demolition, to give place
to a block of stores; my club a scene
of disorder, on account of repairs ; my
broker a bankrupt; my belle a bride;
my tailor, doctor, deutist, and laundress
removed “up-town”—every body and
every thing I had become familiar with
and attached to changed, either locally
or intrinsically; and life, as it were, to
begin anew. It makes a head, with a
large organ of adhesiveness, whirl and
ache to thus perpetually forego the ac
customed.
I experienced, on first landing, a sen
sation, as it were, of this precarious
tenure. Scarcely had the exhilaration
felt on. entering the beautiful harbor
from a ten days’ sojourn on the “ mel
ancholy waste ” of ocean subsided, when,
as we drove up the dock and through
the mud and squalor of the river-side,
the commonplace style of edifice, and
the sight of temporary and unsubstan
tial architecture, depressed my spirits;
then the innumerable and glaring ad
vertisements of quack medicines on
every curb-stone and pile of bricks sug
[July,
gested a reckless, experimental habit—
which was confirmed by the careless
driving of vociferous urchins in butcher
carts or express-wagons. When we
emerged into Broadway, the throng, the
gilded signs, the cheerful rush, and
curious variety of faces and vehicles,
raised my spirits and quickened my ob
servation, while a walk in Fifth avenue
and through the Central Park, the next
day, which was Sunday, and the weath
er beautiful, impressed me cheerily with
the feeling of prosperous and progres
sive life.
Despite these characteristic features,
however, it is often difficult to realize
that I am in America, so many traits
and traces of Europe are visibly. The
other morning, for instance, while at the
pier, waiting to see a friend off in the
French steamer, knots of sailors, like
those we see at Havre and Brest, were
eating soup in the open air, and huck
sters tempting them to buy bead-bas
kets and pin-cushions for their “ sweet
hearts and wives ; ” the garb, the gab,
the odor of garlic, the figure of a priest
here and there, the very hats of some
of the passengers, made the scene like
one at a French quay. There are Ger
man beer-gardens, Italian restaurants,
journals in all the European languages,
tables d'hote, where they only are spo
ken ; churches, theatres, clubs, and co
teries, distinctly national and repre
sentative of the Old World.
Do not rashly infer that my political
principles have changed because of these
critical complaints. No; they are the
same, but my delight in them is chas
tened. I feel that they involve self-sac
rifice, even when triumphant democracy
entails duty, and that of a nature to in
terfere with private taste and individual
enjoyment. Democracy, my friend, is
no pastime, but a peril. Republican
institutions demand the surrender of
much that is pleasant in personal life,
and include responsibilities so grave,
that gayety is quelled and care inaugu
rated—just as the man leaves behind
him, in quitting his father’s roof to
assert himself in the world, much of the
liberty and nurture which made life
�1870.]
Editorial Notes.
pleasant, in order to assume the serious
business of independent existence—ex
cellent as a discipline, noble as a des
tiny, but solemn as a law of action.
Disenchantment, my friend, does not
inevitably imply renunciation; on the
contrary, truth is often ushered in
through a delusive pursuit, as the his
tory of scientific discovery proves. The
moment we regard the equalizing pro
cess going on in the world, as a disci
pline and a destiny, and accept it as a
duty, we recognize what perhaps is,
after all, the practical aim and end
of Christianity—self-sacrifice, humanity,
“ good-will to men,” in place of self
109
hood. Thus imbued and inspired, the
welfare of the race becomes a great per
sonal interest; we are content to suffer
and forego for the advantage of our
fellow-creatures; we look upon life not
as the arena of private success, but of
beneficent cooperation ; and, instead of
complaining of privation and encroach
ment, learn to regard them as a legiti
mate element in the method and means
whereby the mass of men, so long con
demned to ignorance, want, and sordid
labor, are to be raised and reared into a
higher sphere, and harmonized by fellow
ship, freedom, and faith, into a complete
and auspicious development.
EDITORIAL NOTES.
-
BRET HARTE OKCE MORE.
Criticism is too often tame and timid
in its reception of contemporary genius,
because it is without hope; its distrust,
its close and prolonged acquaintance
with mediocrity and pretension, consti
tutes its mental habit, and it is with
difficulty that it drops its patronizing
tone and ceases its frigid comment.
But Bret Harte’s stories mean so much ;
they are so terse, simple, searching, and
unpretentious; they present the most
difficult, novel, and bold situations with
so much conciseness of expression, so
much neatness and force; they take up
and drop the subject with so sure a
sense of dramatic fitness, that the usual
reserve and the common tone of criti* cism before them is priggish and insuf
ferable.
It is not enough to say of them: This
is good work. Something fervid and
emphatic is called for. We must say:
This is the work of a man of genius.
It is something unforeseen ; it is some
thing so natural and actual, so profound
in its significance, so moving in its de
velopment, that you must glow with
the generous emotions which it excites,
and respond to it as to the influences
of nature, and as when heart answereth
to heart in the actual intercourse of liv
ing men and women.
Just as we were all saying to each
other, How much we need a story-writer
who shall treat our American life in an
artistic form, satisfying to the most ex
acting sense of the highest literary
merit—just as we were deploring that
Irving, and Hawthorne, and Poe, men
of another generation, who were retro
spective, and not on a level with the
present hour, were the only men of fine
talent among our story-writers—Francis
Bret Harte, in the newest and remotest
part of our land, gives us an expres
sion of its early, rude, and lawless life,
at once unexpected and potent, and
which shames our distrust of the genius
of our race in its new home. It is an
expression so honest, so free from cant,
so exactly corresponding with its sub
ject, so unsqueamish and hearty, so
manly, that it is to be accepted like a
bit of nature. His stories are like so
many convincing facts; they need no
argument; they lodge themselves in
our minds, and germinate like living
things.
We are struck by the varied powei
which he exhibits, and the diverse emo
tions which he touches, in such narrow
dramatic limits. Within the little frame
of a sketch he is terse, graphic, vivid;
his humor and pathos are irresistible;
his sentiment delicate and true; his
�110
Putnam’s Magazine.
poetry magical and suggestive; his feel
ing of out-of-door life constant and de
lightful. His use of the minor key of
nature, as a contrast to the soiled and
troubled lives of his men and women,
is comparable to the accidental influ
ences which touch and soothe an un
happy man when his attention is caught
by sunlight in wood-paths, or by the
sound of the wind in trees, or by any
of the silencing and flood-like influ
ences that sweep over us when we are
open to the beautiful, the unnamable,
and mysterious.
Bret Harte’s genius is not unlike Rem
brandt’s, so far as it is a matter of art.
Take Miggles—Miggles telling her story
at the feet of the paralytic Jim—take
the description of his old face, with its
solemn eyes; take the alternate gloom
and light that hides or illuminates the
group in Miggles’ cabin; and then con
sider the gleam and grace with which
the portrait of that racy and heroic boy
woman is placed before you. Does it
not touch your sense of the picturesque
as, and is it not unexpected, and start
ling, and admirable, like a sketch by
Rembrandt ? But for the pathos, but
for the “ tears that rise in the heart and
gather to the eyes,” where shall we find
any homely art to be compared with
that ? Beauty in painting or sculpture
may so touch a man. It did so touch
Heine, at the feet of the Venus of Milo.
It may be pathetic to us, as in Da Vinci’s
wonderful heads. But no great plastic
artist, no mere pictorial talent, is potent
over the sources of our tears, as is the
unheralded story-writer from the West
ern shores. In this he employs a means
beyond the reach of Holbein or Hogarth.
We liken Bret Harte to Rembrandt,
rather than to Hogarth or to Holbein—
men of great and sincere genius, and
therefore having an equally great and
sincere trust in actual life—because of
his magic touch, his certainty and sud
denness of expression; his perfect trust
in his subject; because he deals with
the actual in its widest and commonest
aspects, without infecting us with the
dulness of the prosaic; because he is
never formal, never trite; and because
[July,
—unlike Hogarth—he does not consider
the vicious, the unfortunate, the weak,
so as to “ put up the keerds on a chap
from the start.”
He makes us feel our kinship with
the outcast; he draws us by our very
hearts towards the feeble and reckless,
and by a certain something—the felt
inexplicableness of the difference and
yet the equality of men—forbids us to
execrate the sinner as we do the sin.
One may say of him, as of Rembrandt,
that he sees Christ not in the noble and
consecrated, certainly not only in a type
hallowed by centuries of human admi
ration ; but he reveals a Saviour and
friend in the forlorn, in the despised, in
the outcast.
' Will the reader accuse us of extrava
gance, if we say we cannot understand
how a man can read these stories, and
not believe in immortality and in God ?They touch one so profoundly; they ex
alt one’s sense of the redemptive spirit
that may live in a man, and they make
one so humble ! They hush the Phari
see and the materialist who lives so
comfortably under his white shirt-front,
in clean linen, under immaculate con
ditions of self-righteousness. We com
pare Bret Harte to the greatest name in
modern art—Rembrandt—rather than
to Hogarth, because there is no bru
tality, no censure, no made-up mind for
or against his subjects, as in Hogarth.
Rembrandt’s poetry, his honest recep
tion of his subject—all this is in Bret
Harte; but also a grace unknown to
the great Flemish master.
Some have questioned the service he
has done our poor human nature in its
most despised forms, and some have
censured him for not adopting the
Hogarthian method. But it seems to
us his instinct has been his best guide ;
that his morality, his lesson to us, is as
superior to Hogarth’s gross and mate
rial one, as the Sermon on the Mount is
superior to the prayer of the Phari
see.
“ Miggles,” “ Tennessee’s Partner,”
and “ Stumpy,” and “Mother Shipton”
—what significance, what life in these 1
—what “thoughts beyond the reaches
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Rossetti, the painter and poet
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Stillman, W.J.
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [New York, NY]
Collation: 95-110 p. ; 24 cm.
Notes: From Putnam's Magazine (16: July 1980, 95-110 p.) Attribution of magazine and author Information from Virginia Clark's catalogue. Issue also includes ' A disenchanted republican: letter from a German traveller'. Printed in double columns. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[G. P. Putnam's Sons]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[1870]
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G5303
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Art
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Rossetti, the painter and poet), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
English Poetry
Painting
Poetry in English
Poets
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/9f39efedbb56fc7e3105be8eb8281f1c.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=mFo7uGAsGivz81Tiwj90DBJcke3gCIaVEfT8no275rDzby92d-GYDoNgkW3OVusFWNoBP2Tr3SnDtKs4GESN8uLwiUzwqTmCwsYguM28EKOU60yv6fq7plv7OeJeT1ssGsUlgFcRzXLuF5hd3A8LU9WwyBUIs9O8w7XRwjui86cDfwg2zHXAyORNYpx26VjeniXEu5ZitSjZwAVf%7E-kETBvAETi6JDcoVBG2-0aCOrzsB6BdpGSfIZBxDnaah%7EsJOWNnC1mYxPgeAh3CK%7EF2S06pUZ5NBceRKjye0FyaJfbxdnv1MjkfUpFnA33h8uUd9iiFMB7grCrHq5baSarSUA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
3284ec17ecab9d34114f4f43c47f2981
PDF Text
Text
378
[September
THE POET-KING OF SCOTLAND.
HE tragic fate of David, Duke of
Rotliesay, eldest son of Robert
III. of Scotland, is known to every
reader of Scott, as it forms perhaps
the most startling incident in The
Fair Maid of Perth. The youthful
prince, like many other heirs ap
parent, and the more that he had a
feeble and doting father, yielded
himself without restraint to the
impulses of youthful blood, and
rioted in all manner of insolence
and debauchery. He and Jack
Falstaff’s Prince Hal were simul
taneously pursuing similar courses.
Displeasing as this was to the
State at large, it was emphati
cally so to the haughty Earl of
Douglas, whose daughter Marjory
was the prince’s wife, and who na
turally resented the dishonour done
to his blood. Here, then, was one
powerful and dangerous enemy.
But an enemy more powerful and
more dangerous still was his uncle,
the Duke of Albany, a man cruel,
crafty, unscrupulous, and ambitious,
who had set his heart on the throne
for himself and his family. Rothe
say being entrusted by the feeble
king to his artful brother, as old
Boece says, ‘ to leir him honest and
civill maneris,’ was brought to
Falkland and thrown into a dun
geon without meat or drink. He
was subjected to that most tedious,
terrible, and revolting of all violent
deaths—starvation ; and we need
not wonder that round such a
‘ strange eventful history ’ much
circumstantial romance should have
gathered. For instance, a woman
moved with compassion for the un
happy prince is said to have let
meal fall down through the loft of
the tower, by which his life was pro
longed several days ; but her action
having been discovered she was put
to death. Another supplied him
with milk from her own bosom,
through a long reed, and as soon
T
as it was known ‘ she was slain
with great cruelty.’ At length the
captive was reduced to such straits
that he devoured the filth of his
dungeon, and gnawed his own fin
gers. A death so tragic necessarily
had miraculous consequences; and
his body having been buried at Lindores, miracles were performed there
for many years after; until, indeed,
his brother, James I., began to pu
nish his slayers, ‘ and fra that time
furth,’ says the chronicler, ‘ the
miraclis ceissit.’ There can be
little doubt in the mind of the
competent enquirer that both Al
bany and Douglas, the prince’s
brother-in-law, were, as the Scot
tish law-phrase has it, ‘ art and
part ’ in this foul murder, though
probably not to an equal degree, for
in the Remission that they after
wards received at the hands of the
feeble monarch their condonation
was in terms as ample as if they had
been the actual murderers.
Robert was advised to provide for
the safety of his remaining son James
by sending him for education and
protection to his ally the King of
France. The prince, then only
eleven years of age, sailed from the
Bass with his tutor, the Earl of Ork
ney, and a suitable attendance, in
March 1405. In direct violation of
a truce then existing between the
two kingdoms, an English ship of
war captured the Scottish vessel off
Flamborough Head, on the 12th of
April. To argue in such a case
would have been unavailing: besides,
it was known to the English that Al
bany would not be displeased that
his nephew and hisattendants should
be treated as prisoners of war; and in
fact it is surmised that he gave hints
for the capture, that the only remain
ing obstacle between himself and the
throne might be in a fair way of being
altogether removed. James’s own ac
count of the capture is as follows:
�;1874]
The Poet-King of S&itlaml.
Upon the wevis weltering to and fro,
So infortunate was we that fremyt day,
That maugre plainly quethir we wold or no,
With strong hand by forse sehortly to
say, .
Of inymyis taken and led away,
We weren all, and brought in thaire
contree,
Fortune it schupe non othir wayis to be.
For nineteen years he was the
prisoner first of Henry IV., and
then of his son Henry V.
In the treatment of ‘ his captive
guest,’ says John Hill Burton,
Henry V. showed a nature in which jea
lousies and crooked policy had no place.
Had he desired to train an able statesman
to support his own throne, he could not have
better accomplished his end. The King of
Scots had everything that England could
give to store his naturally active intellect
with learning and accomplishments ; and he
had opportunities of seeing the practice of
English politics, and of observing and dis
coursing with the great statesmen of the
day, both in England and in France, where
Henry had also a court. He would bo sent
back all the abler governor of his own
people, and more formidable foe to her
enemies, for his sojourn at the Court of
England.
It may be so ; but though there
is an over-ruling Providence
From seeming evil still educing good,
it is a spurious liberality that credits
violence and breach of faith with
happy results that were certainly
not contemplated. It has often
been asked why Henry IV. captured
and detained the youthful prince,
and above all why he was kept in
captivity so long. If Albany had
been the instigator, why was James
detained nearly five years after his
uncle’s death ? and if, as it has been
said, James was detained because
there was a refugee monk at Stir
ling believed to be Richard the
Second of England, who had escaped
from Pontefract, why was he not
liberated on the death of that per
sonage, whoever he was, which
occurred in 1419, when there .was
no longer the shadow of a claimant
to the English throne ? These
questions are more easily asked
VOL. X.—NO. LVII.
NEW SERIES.
379
than answered. A royal captive
was too tempting a prize to be
lightly parted with: and it was
natural that England should not
restore the sovereign of her trouble
some neighbour till she had taken
what precautions she could to
secure amity between the twTo
nations. In this case the fetters
of love strengthened the bands of
policy. A marriage with the blood
royal of England was the most ob
vious expedient, and James had
already lost his heart to the nearest
choice, Jane Beaufort, daughter of
the Earl of Somerset, and cousingerman of the English king.
Romance and policy went hand in
hand, and the aspirations of the
royal lover were in unison with the
wishes and the plans of politicians.
The story of his love is told with
singular sweetness and beauty in
‘ The King’s Quair ’(i.e. Quire,—
Book), to which we now turn with
out prosecuting the narrative of his
subsequent busy, energetic, and use
ful life.
This beautiful and graceful poem,
one of the bright consummate
flowers of romance, and therefore
singular as the production of one
whose whole after life, instead of
being a romantic dream, was a sage,
practical, far-sighted, stern reality,
was inspired by his passion for the
‘lady of his love,’ the beautiful
granddaughter of ‘ Old John of
Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster.’
The royal captive, an adept in all
knightly accomplishments, a musi
cian, a scholar, a philosopher, and a
poet, in the heyday of his blood,
found himself, contrary to all the
dictates of justice and hospitality,
‘ in strait ward and in strong
prison ’ in a strange land. For
nearly eighteen years he had be
wailed a ‘ deadly life,’ or a living
death, contrasting his own wretched
fate with the freedom that each had
in his kind,
The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea.
D D
�380
The Poet-King of Scotland.
He was tempted to question the
Divine goodness, seeing that he
more than others had had hard
measure dealt him, and thus days
and nights were spent in unavailing
lamentation. As a solace amid his
woes, it was his wont to rise early
as day and indulge in exercise, by
which he found joy out of torment.
Looking from his chamber window
in a tower of Windsor Castle, out
on a small flower-garden, occupying
the site of what had once been the
moat, he saw walking beneath—
The fairest or the freschest young floure
That ever I saw, methought, before that
houre—-
a vision of loveliness. The solitary
prisoner, with a poet’s eye and a
poet’s heart, looking out on a
garden fair and an arbour green,
musical in the May morning with
the notes of the nightingale, ‘ now
soft now loud among,’ was in the
mood to invest any comely daughter
of Eve with the attributes of a god
dess. When night is darkest the
light is near; and when the heart of
James was at the saddest the light of
his life was about to dawn on him.
Jane Beaufort, attended by two of
her maidens, entered the garden to
make her morning orisons, and the
captive of the Tower was so over
come with pleasure and delight,
that 4 suddenly his heart became
her thrall.’
Than gan I studye in myself and seyne,
All! suete are ye a warldly creature,
Or hevingly thing in likenesse of Nature ?
Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse ?
And cumyn are to loose me out of band,
Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse ?
That have depayntit with your hevinly
band
This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand ?
Quhat sail I think, allace.' quhat rever
ence
Sall I mester unto your excellence ?
He says she has—
Beauty enough to make a world to dote.
4 The King’s Quair ’ would have
been inevitably lost had it not been
[September
for the preservation of a single
manuscript, which once belonged
to Selden, and is now in the Bod
leian Library at Oxford. That
James was the author of several
poems is a fact noted by all who
have written of his life; but as
printing was not introduced into
Britain for a century after his age,
it can scarcely be matter of sur
prise that most of these should
have been lost. As Mair, Dempster,
and Tanner, Bishop of St. Asaph, all
mentioned particularly James’s
poem 4 upon his future wife,’ and as
reference was made to its being
among the Seldenian manuscripts
in the Bodleian, Mr. Tytler, of
Woodhouselee, engaged an Oxford
student to search for it; and this
search having been successful, he
further engaged him to make an
accurate copy. Mr. Tytler pub
lished it in 1783, prefixing a his
torical and critical Dissertation on
the Life of James I., and adding a
Dissertation on Scottish Music.
The text was illustrated by valu
able philological and explanatory
notes.
4 Christis Kirk of the
Grene ’ was also included by Mr.
Tytler in his publication, but we
reserve what we have to say of this
most humorous poem for the close
of our paper. The title of the
Seldenian manuscript above refer
red to is 4 The Quair, maid be King
James of Scotland the First, callit
The King’s Quair. Maid qn. his
Ma. was in England and at the
end there is the colophon—4 Quod
King James I.’ The transcript is
said to be a very indifferent one,
and contains not a few errors.
George Chalmers published in 1824
The Poetic Remains of some of
the Scottish Kings, in which what
is defective in Tytler’s exemplar of
4 The Quair ’ has not been remedied.
As James was taken to England
when a mere boy, and wrote Ins
poem there, and as he was a dili
gent student of Gower and Chaucer,
it is more than probable that it was
�1874]
The Poet-King of Scotland.
originally written in Southern or
East-Midland English. The exist
ing manuscript is not, however, in
that dialect, but in the Northern
English used in the Lowlands of
Scotland; therefore it is probable
that we have not got the first form,
but that which it took at the hands
of native scribes across the Tweed.
For the ease of the reader Mr.
Tytler divided the poem into six
cantos, according to the various
episodes contained in it. After the
taste of the age, it is allegorical, a
style of poetic composition probably
derived from the Provencal writers,
and continued in Britain to the end
of the reign of Elizabeth. To us of
the present day it is wearily, and
perhaps drearily, prolix; but it ac
corded well with an age of stately
decorum and stilted compliment,
and has all the elements of cum
brous magnificence. Congruity was
not aimed at by the allegorical
poets, and in ‘ The Quair ’ there is
an unseemly admixture of Chris
tian and Pagan mythology. This
cannot be ascribed to a want of
knowledge, but it is to be set down
to a defect of taste; for, except in
the case of the very highest poets,
who wrote entirely from inspira
tion, and had no recourse to models,
taste is a quality of culture, and the
child of criticism. It may exist in a
high degree with a mediocrity of
genius, and be sought for in vain
in the compositions of rich, original,
inventive bards. James did not
rise above the taste of his age, nor
furnish a purer and more chastened
model to his successors. But leav
ing out of view the structure of his
work, in individual passages he
soars to an elevation, and revels in
a sweet beauty, exceeded by none
of his contemporaries, and admired
even in this highly critical age,
familiar with the chastened grace
of Tennyson, by all possessed of
catholic sympathies.
Awaking from sleep in his prison,
he consoles himself by reading
381
Boethius, and this suggests to him
the instability of human affairs, and
the misfortunes and calamities of
his own unhappy life. Hearing the
bell ring to matins, he rose from his
couch, but could not divest himself
of the idea that the bell was vocal,
and was urging him to write his
own chequered history. Our read
ers will remember how often Charles
Dickens avails himself of a similar
fancy. James, therefore, ‘ took con
clusion some new thing to write,’
and invoked, as was the custom,
the Muses to his aid. He recounts
the details of his capture and cap
tivity ; at last his eye is delighted
with the garden and its bowers,
and his ear charmed with the song
of the nightingale, of whose sweet
harmony this was the text:
Worshippe, ye that lovers been, this May,
For of your bliss the Kalends are begun,
And sing with us, Away, winter, away!
Come, summer, come, the sweet season
and sun ;
Awake, for shame ; that have your
heavens won,
And amorously lift up your heades all;
Thank Love that list you to his mercy call.
He now speculates on the nature
of Love, to which he had hitherto
been a stranger, and prays that he
might enter his service, and ever
more be one of those who serve
him truly in weal and woe. His
prayer is answered sooner than he
expected, for in the garden appeared
his future queen, as has been men
tioned above, and falling under the
dominion of love, suddenly —
My wit and countenance,
My heart, my will, my nature, and my
mind,
Was changed clean right in ane other kind.
The personal beauty of the royal
maiden was enhanced by all the
art of the time :
Off liir array the form gif I sal write,
Toward hir golden haire and rich atyre,
In fretwise couchit with perlis quhite,
And grete balas lemyng as the fyre,
With mony ane emerant and faire
saphire,
D D 2
�382
The Poet-King of Scotland.
And on hir liede a chaplet fresch of hewe,
Of plumys partit rede, and quhite, and
blewe.
To this tricolour, the chosen em
blem of liberty, the royal youth
succumbed in a willing bondage.
About her neck, fair as the white
enamel, was a goodly chain of
gold, by which there hung a ruby
shaped like a heart; it seemed
burning wantonly on her white
throat like a spark of love. But better
and beyond all these were youth,
beauty, humble port, bounty, and
womanly feature—all sweet gifts
and graces to such extent that
Nature could ‘ no more her child
advance.’ He is now under the
law of Venus, and calls on the
nightingale to resume her song.
With that anon right she toke up a sang
Where come anon mo birdis and alight;
Bot than to here the mirth was tham amang,
Ouer that to see the suete sicht
Of hyr ymage, my spirit was so light,
Methought 1 flawe for joy without arest,
So were my wittis bound in all to fest.
And to the nottis of the philomene,
Quhilkis she sang the dittee there I maid
Direct to hir that was my hertis quene,
Withoutin quhom no songis may me
glade,
And to that sand walking in the schade,
My bedis thus with humble hert entire
Di'votly I said on this manere.
There is an infinite delicacy in
James’s expression of his love and
hopes, which his seclusion may have
fostered but could not have created,
proving how pure and noble and
knightly, in the highest sense—
how ‘ tender and true ’ was this ex
patriated flower of Scottish chivalry.
His ‘hertis quene’ became his lovely,
loving, and beloved wife : and when
the daggers of the assassins drank
his heart’s blood in the Dominican
Monastery at Perth, she was twice
stabbed in her frantic efforts to
defend and save him.
The chief interest of the poem
gathers round James himself and
his future queen. His pure heart,
his ingenuousness, his sincerity, his
brilliant fancy, his scholarly accom
[September
plishments, his deep and devoted
love, win irresistibly our admiration,
and make us forget the king and
the captive in the loyal-hearted and
warm-blooded man.
His transportation to the Sphere
of Love, and then to the Palace of
Minerva, and his subsequent journey
in quest of fortune, are very fanciful,
and in the purest contemporary style
of allegory. But to us, save in in
dividual passages, they are of no
great interest. Evidently these
portions of his work were composed
to conform to a conventional but
objectionable ideal. His discussion
of the vexed questions of Fate and
Free-will might seem to moderns to
be dragged in neck and heels to
exhibit his proficiency in scholastic
philosophy, but it is simply a com
pliance with the vicious practice of
the age. Gower and Chaucer were
his ‘ masters dear; ’ and, though
it would be heresy to place him
on a level with Chaucer, one of
those world-poets who mark an era,
he exhibits a reverential delicacy in
his description of the Lady of the
Garden which is wanting to Chaucer
in his enumeration of the charms of
Rosial in his ‘ Court of Love.’ Mr.
Ellis, however, one of the acutest of
our critics, is more daring than we
incline to be, for in his Specimens of
the BaflgBiiglish Poets he says with
out qualification that ‘“The King’s
Quair ” is full of simplicity and
feeling, and not inferior in poetical
merit to any similar production of
Chaucer.’
Before proceeding to describe and
criticise ‘Christis Kirk of the Grene,’
‘ a remarkable specimen of genuine
humour and pleasantry,’ we will
first attempt to establish the claim
of the First James to its authorship,
as this has been challenged in
favour of his descendant James the
Fifth. Mr. Paterson, in his Gudeman of Ballamgeich, is the latest
propounder and defender of this
latter opinion, and as he has stated
his case intelligently and fully, we
�1874]
The Poet-King of Scotland.
will examine his arguments in detail.
Meanwhile we will indicate, by way
of preface, what we believe gave
origin to the prevalent notion that
the Fifth James alone could have
produced such a graphic and
humorous picture of peasant life,
and we will do so in the words of
Mr. Burton, than whom there is no
higher authority on everything per
taining to ancient Scotland:
James V. was affectionately remembered
by his people as ‘ the King of the Commons.’
History told that he had been no friend to
the nobles, and tradition mixed him up with
many tales of adventure among the pea
santry, who not less enjoyed their memory
that they were not always creditable to him.
It was, perhaps, from these specialties of
his popularity, that he long held a place
in literary renown as the People’s Poet.
‘ Christ’s Kirk of the Green' and ‘ The
Gaberlunzie Man ’ are rhymed pictures of
Scottish peasant-life; so full of lively de
scription, and broad, vigorous, national
humour, that in popular esteem they could
only be the works of ‘the King of the
Commons ; ’ but this traditional belief lacks
solid support.
The first who may be regarded
as attributing this poem to James V.
is Dempster; for in his Ecclesiastical
History of the Nation of the Scots,
published in 162 7, two years after his
death, he says that of the poems
left by James V. testifying to his
most delightful genius, he had seen
only the vernacular epos ‘ On the
Rustic Dances at Falkirk.’ Here
there are two gross blunders—the
poem is described as an epos, an
heroic poem, such as the Greek and
Latin poets rendered in hexameters,
and English and Scottish poets in
pentameters ; and he had seen it.
No metric system is more opposed
to what is known as the epic than
that of the poem in question. Again,
the dances are referred to Falkirk in
stead of to Christ’s Kirk. These are
damaging particulars, and the more
so when we consider that Dempster
is the most untrustworthy of his
torians: Archbishop Ussher asserted
that he would believe nothing on
his evidence, unless he had himself
383
seen it. Though he could have
had no critical or partisan object in
assigning it to the one James more
than to the other, yet when a legiti
mate question of criticism and
authorship arises, Dempster’s tes
timony either way must simply be
eliminated. If this finding be cor
rect it nearly settles the dispute, for
Gibson, Tanner, and Ruddiman are
merely Dempster’s echoes.
In 1691, Edmund Gibson, after
wards the Bishop of London,
published at Oxford a very in
accurate edition, and introduced the
poem as one ‘ composed, as is sup
posed, by King James the Fifth.’ He
gives no authority for his supposition,
it being almost certain that he is
relying on the testimony of Demp
ster. The learned Ruddiman, in
the preface to his edition of Gavin
Douglas’s translation of Virgil’s
fEneis, published in 1710 (Mr.
Paterson says 1720), ascribes
‘Christ’s Kirk’ to James V., avow
edly on the authority of the Oxford
editor, and so does Tanner, Bishop
of St. Asaph, in his Bibliotheca
Britannico Hibernica, published in
1748. Thus four authorities that
have been much relied on dwindle
on examination to one, and that
one no authority at all on any
matter that admits of dispute.
Bishops Gibson and Tanner are in
this case foreigners, and their
‘ opinions,’ if their testimony de
serves even this title, are those of
persons whose ‘ opinions ’ carry no
weight. The only piece of disin
genuousness we have observed in
Mr. Paterson’s advocacy, and it is
surely a mere inadvertence, occurs,
in reference to Watson’s ChoiceCollection of Scots Poems. In the
first edition, published in 1706,
Watson attributed the poem to
James V. ; but Mr. Paterson does
not add that in the second edition,
published seven years later, he
ascribed it to James I. For our
selves we hold this change of
opinion on the part of Watson as
�384
The Poet-King of Scotland.
of almost infinitesimal value in the
settlement of the question. Neither
do we attach much importance to
the adhesion of the Earl of Orford,
Percy, Warton, Ritson, and others
to the vague recollection of Demp
ster, and to the unauthoritative
supposition of Bishop Gibson. Ab
solutely there is no external evi
dence in favour of the claims of
the later James, ‘ the King of the
Commons; ’ the whole external
evidence—and it is not great—is in
favour of his illustrious ancestor,
as we shall now attempt to prove.
In the latter part of 1568, George
Bannatyne, a man of intelligence
and some poetic power, made that
invaluable transcript of Scottish
poetry known as the Bannatyne
manuscript, now in the Advocates’
Library. At the close of his copy of
‘ Christ’s Kirk ’ he adds the affida
vit, q.,i.e. quoth, KingJames the First.
This is not perfectly conclusive, but
at any rate it counts for evidence,
and far outweighs the presumption
of Bishop Gibson and his followers.
It is, in fact, the only external
evidence we have to guide us in
forming a conclusion. An attempt
has been made to invalidate Bannatyne’s authority, because in the
next poem but one he has written
King James V. instead of King
James IV. But that was a poem
of no great mark—‘The Dregy of
Dunbar maid to King James, being
in Strivilling,’ of which Bannatyne
could not but know that James IV.,
and not his son, was the object,
and consequently the inference that
his blunder was a mere lapsus pennee
is not only probable, but necessary
and inevitable. The presumption
of a similar lapse in the case of
‘ Christ’s Kirk ’ is untenable. Had
James V. been the author of a
poem of so much humour and mark,
it is incredible that in a MS.
written only twenty-six years after
his death by one who was almost a
contemporary, it should have been
ascribed to a king who had died a
[September
hundred and thirty-two years
earlier. James V. had been too
popular and too unfortunate to be
lightly robbed of any credit to
which he was justly entitled; on
the contrary, it was long the
custom to give him credit for much
that was not his own.
It is the internal evidence that
is weak, and on it alone we could
scarcely be justified in building any
conclusion. If James I. wrote it,
the language has undergone a
modernisation. It is less antique
than Henryson’s, and it ought not
to be. But on the other hand, as
a popular poem in every sense of
the word, it was just the sort of
piece to undergo a soft succession
of living changes. This has been
the case with the ancient ballads of
Scotland especially. Had it been
a closet poem, so to speak, it might
have remained untouched. But
how could it live on from age to
age, except by a process of uncon
scious transformation ? ‘ If there
is not sufficient evidence,’ says Dr.
Irving, ‘ for referring it to James I.,
there is no evidence whatsoever for
referring it to James V.’ Irving,
no doubt, was a dogmatic man, of
strong prejudices; but he was
specially wTell-informed, and meant
to do justice to all. If the intimate
knowledge of the peasantry dis
played in the poem is held as
pointing to the royal ‘ Gaberlunzie
Man,’ we must remember that his
more illustrious ancestor occasion
ally mingled with the lower orders
too, and that in a fashion after the
Beggar-man’s own heart; so that
tlie Second Charles owed as much
of his roving disposition to the
blood of the Stuarts in his veins,
as to the modicum he held of that
of Margaret Tudor, and of that of
Henri Quatre. We think Mr.
Paterson stultifies himself when,
after attempting to discredit the
authority of the Bannatyne MS.,
because the transcriber bad written
Fifth for Fourth, he adds, ‘ Now,
�1874]
The Poet-King of Scotland.
this occurred in the reign of Queen
Mary, daughter of James V. It is
strange, therefore, that his memory
should have been so treacherous in
reference to the queen’s father or
grandfather. We must conclude
that the inaccuracies described were
not the result of ignorance, but merely
slips of the pen.’ We must con
clude so too, and therefore the only
external authority for the author
ship, authority in the proper sense
of the term, that can be discovered
is fully vindicated. We have not
noticed; Pebles to the Play, ’ for about
the authorship of this we think
there is small room for dispute.
Mair or Major quotes the first two
words of it as belonging to a poem of
the First James, and Lord Hailes’s
objection to it in connection with
the 70th statute of James II. has,
we think, been satisfactorily dis
posed of.
‘ Christis Kirk of the Grene,’ to the
subject and treatment of which we
now turn, is, says Lord Kames, ‘ a
ludicrous poem, representing low
manners with no less propriety than
spriglitliness.’ Its popularity had
crossed the Border, and Pope no
tices, sportively, that ‘ a Scot will
fight for it.’ We question if an
Englishman would fight for .any
national poem. Being a native of
a richer and more cosmopolitan
country, he has greater self-com
placency, and would scarcely stickle
for what he might deem a trifle.
The ‘ Kirk ’ is said to have been a
village in the parish of Lesly, in
Aberdeenshire. The best introduc
tion to the poem is to quote the
first two stanzas, and we beg our
readers to note the frequent and
systematic use of alliteration, a
poetic characteristic of the humor
ous poetry of the age :
Wes nevir in Scotland hard nor sene
Sec dancing nor deray,
Nouthir at Falkland on the Grene,
Ner Pebillis at the Play ;
As wes of wowaris, as I wene,
At Christis Kirk on ane day :
385
Thair came our Kitties, weshen clene,
In thair new kirtillis of gray,
Full gay,
At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day.
To dans thir damysellis thame dicht,
Thir lasses licht of laitis,
Thair gluvis war of the raffel rycht,
Thair sliune wer of the straitis,
Thair kirtillis were of Lynkome licht,
Weil prest with monny plaitis,
Thay wer sa nyss quhen men thame nicht,
Thay squelit lyke ony gaitis,
Sa loud,
At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day.
There are in all twenty-three
stanzas, filled ‘ with a succession of
highly ludicrous objects, and con
taining many characteristic lines.’
‘ Whoever reads the poem,’ says
Mr. Tytler, ‘ simply as a piece of
wit and humour, comes very far
short, I imagine, of the patriotic
design and intention of its author.’
And this he endeavours to illustrate.
We confess we read it simply for
its wit and humour, though on the
supposition that it is James the
First’s, the patriotic intention is
highly intelligible, and affords strong
internal evidence of his being the
author.
From the description of the rustic
coquette Gillie, and Jock whom
‘ scho scornit,’ we find the same
reference to, and preference for,
yellow hair that the ancient poems
testify—
Fow zellow zcllow wes hir lieid.
Tam Lutar was the village min
strel ; Steven was a famous dancer
who ‘ lap quhill he lay on his lendis
and the quarrel was at last com
menced by Kobin Itoy and Towny,
but the laws of the ring were un
known, for—
God wait gif hair was ruggit
Bethix thame,
At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day.
The patriotic purpose referred to
by Tytler now appears, viz. to force
the Scots to practise archery, by
ridiculing their ineptitude. Their
defeats by the English were in
variably due to their deficiency in
�386
The Poet-King of Scotland.
this arm. When the one of the
combatants referred to had bent a
bow, he thought to have pierced
his antagonist’s buttocks, but ‘by
an acre-braid it cam’ not near him! ’
The weapons were also defective,
for a friend’s bow flew in flinders
when he had drawn it furiously to
aid him. Harij and Lowry fared no
better, for the arrow of the latter
aimed at the breast hit the belly ;
but so far from piercing burnished
mail, like the cloth-yard shafts of
England, the arrow rebounded like
a bladder from the leathern doublet.
The stricken man was, however, so
stunned that he ‘ dusht doun to the
eard,’ and his adversary, thinking
him dead, fled from the town. The
wives, coming forth, found life in
the loun, and ‘ with three rowts up
they reft him,’ and cured him of
his swoon. A young man aiming at
the breast sent his arrow over the
byre, and being told that he had
slain a priest a mile off, also fled
from the town. The fight becomes
general, and the women cry and
clap, as usual on such occasions.
The exploits of Hutchen, the Town
Soutar, the Miller, and the Herds
men, are described with inimitable
humour; and the action of Dick, who,
when all was done, came forth with
an axe ‘ to fell a fuddir,’ or heap,
gave both his wife and Meg, his
mother, their paiks, is described
with genuine Scotch pawkiness
—keen observation and gift of
satire hid under a seeming sim
plicity. In a word, whoever may
be the author of ‘ Christ’s Kirk,’ he
stands in the foremost rank of
Scottish humorous poets. If our
hypothesis is correct, the captive of
the Tower and the chronicler of
the sports of Christ’s Kirk was a
man of no common versatility, and
could touch many strings of the
harp, ranging at will from the
deepest tenderness to the highest
humour, from Allegory to Farce.
Our sketch would be imperfect
were we not to notice, however
[September
briefly, the singularly tragic end of
this royal and most gifted child of
song. Several causes led to it, for
to no one in particular can it be
clearly traced. His wise and strin
gent laws protected property, fos
tered industry, and emancipated the
humbler classes from the tyranny of
the great feudal lords. With the
former, therefore, he was popular,
while his searching enquiry into the
titles of the latter to their estates
had greatly frightened them. Se
veral forfeitures that had been made,
thoughin strict accord with the laws,
intensified theirfears, and Sir Robert
Graham, the prime motive power in
the tragedy that had been planned,
is said to have openly denounced
Janies in Parliament as a tyrant,
and to have made no secret of his
conviction that he deserved death
at the hand of the first who met
him. The portents of superstition
were likewise brought into play,
and a Highland witch warned
James of his coming doom. But
threats and warnings lie despised
alike, and his jests oil the last were
long remembered. He had spent
the Christmas of 1436 in the Black
Friars’ Monastery in Perth, and was
still there on the twentieth of the
following February. On the even
ing of that day he was conversing
gaily with the queen and her ladies
before retiring to rest, when three
hundred of Graham’s Highlanders
broke into the monastery. Escape
by door or window was impossible,
but the king raising a board of the
flooring leapt into a vault below. A
lady of the Douglas family thrust
her arm through the staples to serve
as a bolt, but it was soon crushed
by the violence of the assassins. He
might have escaped by an opening
to the sewer, but three days before
he had himself caused it to be built
up, because the tennis balls entered
it when he was playing in the gar
den. Though at fault at first, the
conspirators at last found his hiding
place, and after a heroic and most
�1874]
The Poet-King of Scotland.
desperate resistance lie was des
patched with sixteen dagger stabs.
The conspirators were pursued and
captured, and expiated their bloody
crime by almost unimaginable tor
tures.
Since the time of CEdipus no
royal line has equalled that of the
Stuarts in its calamities. The First
James, adorned with the graces
of poetry and chivalry, a wise
legislator, a sagacious and resolute
king, perished, as we have seen, in
his forty-fourth year. His son, the
Second James, was killed in his
thirtieth year at the siege of Rox
burgh Castle, by the bursting of a
cannon. The Third James, after the
battle of Saucliieburn, in which his
rebellious subjects were counte
nanced and aided by his own son,
was stabbed, in his thirty-sixth
year, beneath a humble roof by a
pretended priest. That son, the
chivalrous madman of Flodden,
compassed his own death and that
of the flower of his kingdom, while
only forty years of age, by a piece
of foolish knight-errantry. At an
age ten years younger his only son,
James the Fifth, died of a broken
heart. Over the sufferings and
follies, if we may not say crimes,
387
and over the mournful and unwar
rantable doom of the beauteous
Mary, the world will never cease
to debate.
Her grandson ex
piated at Whitehall, by a bloody
death, the errors induced by his
self-will and his pernicious educa
tion. The Second Charles, the
Merry Monarch, had a fate as sad
as any of his ancestors ; for though
he died in his bed, his life was that
of a heartless voluptuary, who had
found in his years of seeming pros
perity neither truth in man nor
fidelity in woman. His brother, the
bigot James, lost three kingdoms,
and disinherited his dynasty, for his
blind adherence to a faith that failed
to regulate his life. The Old Preten
der was a cipher, and the Young
Pretender, after a. youthful flash of
promise, passed a useless life, and
ended it as a drunken dotard. The
last of the race, Henry, Cardinal
York, died in 1804, a spiritless old
man, and a pensioner of that House
of Hanover against which his father
and brother had waged war with
no advantage to themselves, and
with the forfeiture of life and lands,
of liberty and country, to many of
the noblest and most chivalrous in
habitants of our island.
W. G.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Poet-King of Scotland
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: p. 378-387 ; 22 cm.
Notes: From Fraser's Magazine 10 (September 1874). Printed in double columns. Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country was a general and literary journal published in London from 1830 to 1882, which initially took a strong Tory line in politics. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Article signed W.G.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1874
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
CT34
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Scotland
Monarchy
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
W.G.
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The Poet-King of Scotland), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
James I of Scotland
Scotland
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/16d13d808ea179b946d3f78bf31c91f1.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=TIGcsOLT3tSOUkTjnC-smGes7SbL-zf1V-DKNj6t571GtucksZQhWQ9WyO9EmPHir6zmhiYj13Pr5Tb6PCdryAx-T4x4EhTldQTdvI6G22FbbrLFU8XXFnJpOTc2h7eufE4syv8IvNmtPoiHh%7Elws9otbAI7XCtC94ZSQFNzaKbpkXw4mFhhMb07T%7EV1g2f5PqyLtpGQ4P-o4RyhMygSejQc4WfjTie2biK13tV2Rr72oiB%7ENGcEKkBH9nE417MFQ0ZtpGtZW19e3IuW5r1Pby0LhRf9xy3tFm6nkOpup9LnPwpWbkEphAYUFgLGWqwfk3pl3nc6CvOHtGwV4ajHQA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
165988dbce21eb09b628c864420be1bd
PDF Text
Text
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
“_________________ -^££0
I
WREATHE THE LIVING BROWS.
I
ORATION
ON
BY
COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
Price Threepence.
■
*
^onbon:
i
PROGRESSIVE PUBLISHING COMPANY,!
28 Stonecutter Street, E.C.
OL
1890.
2
��# i2 I
Hi'S 8*2
WREATHE
THE
LIVING-
BROWS.
AN ORATION
ON
WALT
WHITMAN
BY
COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
LONDON:
PROGRESSIVE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
28 Stonecutter Street, E.O.
1890.
�INTRODUCTION.
The following oration by Colonel Ingersoll was
delivered in the Horticultural Hall, New York, on
October 21, 1890. Although the object of the meeting
was to raise a testimonial for Walt Whitman in his old
age, several halls had been refused, the proprietors and
lessees being too bigoted to allow the greatest orator in
the United States to enter their doors.
Walt Whatman sat in an easy wheeled chair on the
platform. Before the crowded assembly broke up he
spoke the following characteristic words :—
“ Only a word, my friends, only a word. After all,
the main factor, my friends, is in meeting, being face
to face and meeting like this. I thought I would like
to come forward with my living voice and thank you
for coming and thank Robert Ingersoll for speaking,
and that is about all. With such brief thanks to you
and him and showing myself to bear testimony—I
think that is the Quaker term—face to face, I bid you
all hail and farewell.”
�AN ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
I.
In the year 1855 the American people knew but little
of books. Their ideals, their models, were English.
Young and Pollok, Addison and Watts were regarded
as great poets. Some of the more reckless read Thom
son’ s Seasons and the poems and novels of Sir Walter
Scott. A few, not quite orthodox, delighted in the
mechanical monotony of Pope, and the really wicked
__those lost to all religious shame—were worshippers
of Shakespeare. The really orthodox Protestant, un
troubled by doubts, considered Milton the greatest poet
of them all. Byron and Shelley were hardly respect
able—not to be read by young persons. It was admitted
on all hands that Burns was a child of nature of whom
his mother was ashamed and proud.
In the blessed year aforesaid, candor, free and sincere
speech, were under the ban. Creeds at that time were
entrenched behind statutes, prejudice, custom, ignor
ance, stupidity, Puritanism and slavery ; that is to say,
slavery of mind and body.
Of course it always has been, and for ever, will be,
impossible for slavery, or any kind or form of injustice,
to produce a great poet. There are hundreds of verse
makers and writers on the side of wrong—enemies of
progress—-but they are not poets, they are not men of
genius.
,.
At this time a young man—he to whom tins testi
monial is given—he upon whose head have fallen the
snows of more than seventy winters—this man, born
within the sound of the sea, gave to the world a book,
Leaves of Grass. This book was, and is, the true
transcript of a soul. The man is unmasked. No
drapery of hypocrisy, no pretence, no fear. The book
was as original in form as in thought. All customs
�4
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
were forgotten or disregarded, all rules broken—nothing
mechanical—no imitation—spontaneous, running and
winding like a river, multitudinous in its thoughts as
the waves of the sea—nothing mathematical or
measured. In everything a touch of chaos—lacking
what is called form as clouds lack form, but not lacking
the splendor of sunrise or the glory of sunset. It was
a marvellous collection and aggregation of fragments,
hints, suggestions, memories and prophecies, weeds and
flowers, clouds and clods, sights and sounds, emotions
and passions, waves, shadows and constellations.
His book was received by many with disdain, with
horror, with indignation and protest—by the few as a
marvellous, almost miraculous, message to the world—
full of thought, philosophy, poetry and music.
In the republic of mediocrity genius is dangerous.
A great soul appears and fills the world with new and
marvellous harmonies. In his words is the old Pro
methean flame. The heart of nature beats and throbs
in his line. The respectable prudes and pedagogues
sound the alarm, and cry, or rather screech : “ Is this a
book for a young person ?”
A poem true to life as a Greek statue—candid as
nature—fills these barren souls with fear.
Drapery about the perfect was suggested by im
modesty.
The provincial prudes, and others of like mould,
pretend that love is a duty rather than a passion—a
kind of self-denial—not an overmastering joy. They
preach the gospel of pretence and pantalettes. In the
presence of sincerity, of truth, they cast down their
eyes and endeavor to feel immodest. To them the most
beautiful thing is hypocrisy adorned with a blush. .
They have no idea of an honest, pure passion,
glorying in its strength—intense, intoxicated with the
beautiful—giving even to inanimate things pulse and
motion, and that transfigures, ennobles and idealises
the object of its adoration.
They do not walk the streets of the city of life—
they explore the sewers ; they stand in the gutters and
cry “ Unclean !” They pretend that beauty is a snare ;
that love is a Delilah ; that the highway of joy is the
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
5
broad road, lined with flowers and filled with perfume,
leading to the city of eternal sorrow.
Since the year 1855 the American people have de
veloped ; they are somewhat acquainted with the litera
ture of the world. They have witnessed the most
tremendous of revolutions, not only upon the fields of
battle, but in the world of thought. The American
citizen has concluded that it is hardly worth while
being a sovereign unless he has the right to think for
himself.
And now, from this height, with the vantage-ground
of to-day, I propose to examine this book and to state,
in a general way, what Walt Whitman has done, what
he has accomplished, and the place he has won in the
world of thought.
II.
THE RELIGION OF THE BODY.
Walt Whitman stood, when he published his book,
where all stand to-night—on the perpetually moving
line where history ends and prophecy begins. He was
full of life to the very tips of his fingers—brave, eager,
candid, joyous with health. He was acquainted with
the past. He knew something of song and story, of
philosophy and art—much of the heroic dead, of brave
suffering, of the thoughts of men, the habits of the
peOple_rich as well as poor—familiar with labor, a
friend of wind and wave, touched by love and friend
ship—liking the open road, enjoying the fields and
paths, the crags—friend of the forest—feeling that he
was free—neither master nor slave—willing that all
should know his thoughts—open as the sky, candid as
nature—and he gave his thoughts, his dreams, his con
clusions, his hopes, and his mental portrait to his
fellow-men.
Walt Whitman announced the gospel of the body.
He confronted the people. He denied the depravity of
man. He insisted that love is not a crime ; that men
and women should be proudly natural; that they need
not grovel on the earth and cover their faces for shame.
�6
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
He taught the dignity and glory of the father and
mother ; the sacredness of maternity.
Maternity, tender and pure as the tear of pity, holy
as suffering—the crown, the flower, the ecstasy of love.
People had been taught from Bibles and from creeds
that maternity was a kind of crime ; that the woman
should be purified by some ceremony in some temple
built in honor of some god. This barbarism was
attacked in Leaves of Grass.
The glory of simple life was sung ; a declaration of
independence was made for each and all.
And yet this appeal to manhood and to womanhood
was misunderstood. It was denounced simply because
it was in harmony with the great trend of nature. To
me, the most obscene word in our language is celibacy.
It was not the fashion for people to speak or write
their thoughts. We were flooded with the literature
of hypocrisy. The writers did not faithfully describe
the worlds in which they lived. They endeavored to
make a fashionable world. They pretended that the
cottage or the hut in which they dwelt was a palace,
and they called the little area in which they threw
their slops their domain, their realm, their empire.
They were ashamed of the real, of what their world
actually was. They imitated ; that is to say, they
told lies, and these lies filled the literature of most
lands.
Walt Whitman defended the sacredness of love, the
purity of passion—the passion that builds every home
and fills the world with art and song.
They cried out: “ He is a defender of passion—
he is a libertine ! He lives in the mire. He lacks
spirituality !”
Whoever differs with the multitude, especially with
a led multitude—that is to say, with a multitude of
taggers—will find out from their leaders that he has
committed an unpardonable sin. It is a crime to
travel a road of your own, especially if you put up
guide-boards for the information of others.
Many centuries ago Epicurus, the greatest man of
his century, and of many centuries before and after,
said : “ Happiness is the only good : happiness is the
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
7
supreme end.” This man was temperate, frugal,
generous, noble—and yet through all these years he
has been denounced by the hypocrites of the world as
a mere eater and drinker.
It was said that Whitman had exaggerated the
importance of love—that he had made too much of
this passion. Let me say that no poet—not excepting
Shakespeare—has had imagination enough to exagge
rate the importance of human love—a passion that
contains all heights and all depths—ample as space,
with a sky in which glitter all constellations, and that
has within it all storms, all lightnings, all wrecks and
ruins, all griefs, all sorrows, all shadows, and all the
joy and sunshine of which the heart and brain are
capable.
No writer must be measured by a word or line or
paragraph. He is to be measured by his work—by
the tendency, not of one line, but by the tendency
of all.
Which way does the great stream tend ? Is it for
good or evil ? Are the motives high and noble, or low
and infamous ?
We cannot measure Shakespeare by a few lines,
neither can we measure the Bible by a few chapters,
nor Leaves of Grass by a few paragraphs. In each
there are many things that I neither approve nor
believe—but in all books you will find a mingling of
wisdom and foolishness, of prophecies and mistakes—
in other words, among the excellencies there will be
defects. The mine is not all gold, or all silver, or all
diamonds—there are baser metals. The trees of the
forest are not all of one size. On some of the highest
there are dead and useless limbs, and and there may
be growing beneath the bushes, weeds, and now and
then a poisonous vine.
If I were to edit the great books of the world, I
might leave out some lines and I might leave out the
best. I have no right to make of my brain a sieve and
say that only that which passes through belongs
to the rest of the human race. I claim the right to
choose. I give that right to all.
Walt Whitman had the courage to express his
�8
OKATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
thought—the candor to tell the truth. And here let
me say it gives me joy—a kind of perfect satisfaction
—to look above the bigoted bats, the satisfied owls and
wrens and chickadees, and see the great eagle poised,
circling higher and higher, unconscious of their exist
ence. And it gives me joy, a kind of perfect satisfaction,
to look above the petty passions and jealousies of small
and respectable people—above the considerations of
place and power and reputation, and see a brave,
intrepid man.
It must be remembered that the American people
had separated from the Old World—that we had
declared not only the independence of colonies, but
the independence of the individual. We had done
more—we had declared that the State could no longer
be ruled by the Church, and that the Church could not
be ruled by the State, and that the individual could
not be ruled by the Church. These declarations were
in danger of being forgotten. We needed a new voice,
sonorous, loud, and clear, a new poet for America for
the new epoch, somebody to chant the morning song
of the new day.
The great man who gives a true transcript of his
mind, fascinates and instructs. Most writers suppress
individuality. They wish to please the public. They
flatter the stupid and pander to the prejudice of their
readers. They write for the market—making books
as other mechanics make shoes. They have no
message—they bear no torch—they are simply the
slaves of customers. The books they manufacture are
handled by “ the trade ” ; they are regarded as harmless.
The pulpit does not object ; the young person can read
the monotonous pages without a blush—or a thought.
On the title-pages of these books you will find the im
print of the great publishers—on the rest of the pages,
nothing. These books might be prescribed for insomnia.
III.
Men of talent, men of business, touch life upon few
sides. They travel but the beaten path. The creative
spirit is not in them. They regard with suspicion a
poet who touches life on every side. They have little
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
9
confidence in that divine thing called sympathy, and
they do not and cannot understand the man who enters
into the hopes, the aims, and the feelings of all others.
In all genius there is the touch of chaos—a little of
the vagabond ; and the successful tradesman, the man
who buys and sells, or manages a bank, does not care
to deal with a person who has only poems for collaterals
—they have a little fear of such people, and _ regard
them as the awkward country man does a sleight-ofhand performer.
In every age in which books have been produced the
governing class, the respectable, have been opposed to
the works of real genius. If what are known as. the
best people could have their way, if the pulpit had been
consulted—the provincial moralists — the works . of
Shakespeare would have been suppressed. Not a line
would have reached our time. And the same may be
said of every dramatist of his age.
If the Scotch Kirk could have decided, nothing
would have been known of Robert Burns. If the good
people, the orthodox, could have had their say, not one
line of Voltaire would now be known. All the plates
of the French Encyclopedia would have been destroyed
with the thousands that were destroyed. Nothing
would have been known of D’Alembert, Grimm,
Diderot, or any of the Titans who warred against the
thrones and altars and laid the foundation of modern
literature not only, but what is of far greater moment,
universal education.
It is not too much to say that every book now held
in high esteem would have been destroyed, if those in
authority could have had their will. Every book of
modern times, that has a real value, that has enlarged
the intellectual horizon of mankind, that has de
veloped the brain, that has furnished real food for
thought, can be found in the Index Expurgatorius of
the Papacy, and nearly every one has been commended
to the free minds of men by the denunciations of
Protestants.
If the guardians of society, the protectors of “ young
persons,” could have had their way, we should have
known nothing of Byron or Shelley. The voices that
�10
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
thrill the world would now be silent. If authority
could have had its way, the world would have been as
ignorant now as it was when our ancestors lived in
holes or hung from dead limbs by their prehensile
tails.
But we are not forced to go very far back. If Shake
speare had been published for the first time now, those
divine plays, greater than continents and seas, greater
even than the constellations of the midnight sky—
would be excluded from the mails by the decision of
the present enlightened postmaster-general.
The poets have always lived in an ideal world, and
that ideal world has always been far better than the
real world. As a consequence, they have forever
roused, not simply the imagination, but the energies—
the enthusiasm of the human race.
The great poets have been on the side of the oppressed
—of the downtrodden. They have suffered with the
imprisoned and the enslaved, and whenever and
wherever man has suffered for the right, wherever the
hero has been stricken down—whether on field or
scaffold—some man of genius has walked by his side,
and some poet has given form and expression, not
simply to his deeds, but to his aspirations.
From the Greek and Roman world we still hear the
voices of a few. The poets, the philosophers, the artists,
and the orators still speak. Countless millions have
been covered by the waves of oblivion, but the few
who uttered the elemental truths, who had sympathy
for the whole human race, and who were great enough
to prophesy a grander day, are as alive to-night as
when they roused, by their bodily presence, by their
living voices, by their works of art, the enthusiasm of
their fellow men.
Think of the respectable people, of the men of wealth
and position, those who dwelt in mansions, children of
success, who went down to the grave voiceless, and
whose names we do not know. Think of the vast
multitudes, the endless processions, that entered the
caverns of eternal light—leaving no thought—no truth
as a legacy to mankind !
The great poets have| sympathised; with the people.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN,
11
They have uttered in all ages the human cry. Un
bought by gold, unawed by power, they have lifted
high the torch that illuminates the world'.
IV.
Walt Whitman is in the highest sense a believer in
democracy. He knows that there is but one excuse
for government—the preservation of liberty ; to the
end that man may be happy. He knows that there is
but one excuse for any institution, secular and religious
—the preservation of liberty ; and there is but one ex
cuse for schools, for universal education, for the ascer
tainment of facts, namely, the preservation of liberty.
He resents the arrogance and cruelty of power. He
has sworn never to be tyrant or slave. He has solemnly
declared :
I speak the password primeval—I give the’sign of democracy.
By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their
counterpart of on the same terms.
This one declaration covers the entire ground. It is
a declaration of independence, and it is also a declara
tion of justice, that is to say, a declaration of the
independence of the individual, and a declaration that
all shall be free. The man who has this spirit can
truthfully say :
I have taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown,
I swear I am for those that have never been mastered.
There is in Whitman what he calls “ The boundless
impatience of restraint ”—together with that sense of
justice which compelled him to say “Neithera servant
nor a master, am I.”
He was wise enough to know that giving others the
same rights that he claims for himself could not harm
him, and he was great enough to say: “ As if it were
not indispensable to my own rights that others possess
the same.”
He felt as all should feel, that the liberty of no man
is safe unless the liberty of each is safe.
There is in our country a little of the old servile spirit
a little of the bowing and cringing to others. Many
�12
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
Americans do not understand that the officers of the
government are simply the servants of the people.
Nothing is so demoralising as the worship of place.
Whitman has reminded the people of this countay that
they are supreme, and he has said to them :
The President is there in the White House for you—it is not
you who are here for him.
The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you—not you here for
them.
All doctrines, all politics and civilisation exurge from you.
All sculpture and monuments and anything inscribed any
where are tallied in you.
He describes the ideal American citizen—the one
Who says, indifferently and alike, “ How are you friend?” to
the President at his levee.
And he says, “ Good day, my brother,” to the slave that hoes
in the sugar field.
Long ago, when the politicians were wrong, when the
judges were subservient, when the pulpit was coward,
Walt Whitman shouted:
Man shall not hold property in man.
The least developed person on earth is just as important and
to himself or herself as the most developed person is to
himself or herself.
•
This is the very soul of true democracy.
Beauty is not all there is of poetry. It must contain
the truth. It is not simply an oak, rude and grand,
neither is it simply a vine. It is both. Around the oak
of truth runs the vine of beauty.
Walt Whitman utters the elemental truths and is the
poet of democracy. He is also the poet of individuality.
V.
INDIVIDUALITY.
In order to protect the liberties of a nation, we must
protect the individual. A democracy is a nation of
free individuals. The individuals are not to be sacri
ficed to the nation. The nation exists only for the pur
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
13
pose of guarding and protecting the individuality of
men and women. Walt Whitman has told us that :
» The whole theory of the universe is directed to one
single individual—namely to you.”
And he has also told us that the greatest city—the
greatest nation—is “ where the citizen is the head and
the ideal.”
And that
The greatest city is that which has the greatest man. or
woman.
...
. .
If it be but a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city m
the whole world.
By this test, maybe the greatest city on the continent
to-night is Camden.
This poet has asked of us this question :
What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free
and own no superior ?
The man who asks this question has leftyio impress
of his lips in the dust, and has no dirt upon his knees.
He carries the idea of individuality to its utmost
height:
What do you suppose I have intimated to you in a hundred
ways
But that man or woman is as good as God ?
And that there is no God any more divine than yourself ?
Glorying in individuality, in the freedom of the
soul, he cries out:
Oh, the joy of suffering !
To struggle against great odds ;
To meet enemies undaunted ;
To be entirely alone with them—to find out how much I can
stand;
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to
face;
£
•,,
To mount the scaffold—to advance to the muzzle of guns with
perfect nonchalance—
To be indeed a god.
Walt Whitman is willing to stand alone.
sufficient unto himself, and he says :
He is
�14
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
Henceforth I ask not good fortune—I am good fortune.
Strong and content I travel the open road.
I am one of those who look carelessly into faces of
Presidents and Governors as to say, “ Who are you P”
And not only this, but he has the courage to say,
“ Nothing—not God—is greater to one than oneself.’’’
Walt Whitman is the poet of Individuality, the defender
of the rights of each for the sake of all—and his
sympathies are as wide as the world. He is the
defender of the whole race.
VI.
HUMANITY.
The great poet is intensely human—infinitely sym
pathetic-entering into the joys and griefs of others,
bearing their burdens, knowing their sorrows. Brain
without heart is not much; they must act together.
When the respectable people of the North, the rich, the
successful, were willing to carry out the Fugitive
Slave Law, Walt Whitman said :
I am the wounded slave—I wince at the bite of the dogs.
Hell and despair are upon me—“ Crack,” and again “ crack ”
the marksmen;
’
I clutch the rails of the fence—my blood drips, thinned with
the ooze of my skin ;
I fall on the weeds and stones;
The riders spur their unwilling horses—haul close ;
Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me with the butts of their
whips.
Agonies are one of my changes of garment.
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels. I, myself,
become the wounded person.
’
I see myself in prison shaped like another man ;
And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and
keep watch.
It is I, let out in the morning and barred at night
Not a prisoner walks handcuffed to the jail but I am hand
cuffed to him and walk by his side.
Judge not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling upon
a helpless thing.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
15
Of the very worst he had the infinite tenderness to
say : “ Not until the sun excludes you will I exclude
In this age of greed, when houses and lands, and
stocks and bonds, outrank human life ; when gold is
more of value than blood, these words should be read
by all :
When, the psalm sings, instead of the singer;
When the script preaches, instead of the preacher;
When the pulpit descends and goes, instead of the carver
that carved the supporting desk;
When I can touch the body of books, by night or by day, and
when they touch my body back again;
When the holy vessels, or the bits of Eucharist, or lath and
plast procreate as effectually as the young silversmiths
or bakers or the masons in their overalls;
When the university convinces like a slumbering woman and
child convince;
When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night
watchman’s daughter;
When warranty deeds loaf in chairs opposite, and are my
friendly companions;
I intend to reach them my hand and make as much of them
as I do of men and women like you!
VII.
The poet is also a painter, a sculptor—he, too, deals
in form and color. The great poet is of necessity a
great artist. With a few words he creates pictures,
filling his canvas with living men and women—with
those who feel and speak. Have you ever read the
account of the stage driver’s funeral ? Let me. read it:
Cold dash of waves at the ferry wharf—posh of ice in the
river—half-frozen mud in the street—a gray discouraged sky
overhead—short-lasting daylight of twelfth month.
A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—the funeral
of an old Broadway stage-driver—the cortege mostly drivers.
Steady the trot to the cemetery—duly rattles the deathbell—the gate is passed—the new-dug grave is hollowed out
—the living alight—the hearse uncloses.
The coffin is passed out—lowered and settled—the whip is
laid on the coffin—the earth is softly shoveled in.
The mound above is flattened with the spades.
�16
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
Silence : and among them no one moves or speaks.
It is done. He is decently laid away.
Is there anything more ?
He was a good fellow—free mouthed—quick tempered—
not bad looking—able to take his own part—witty—sensitive
to a slight—ready with life or death foi’ a friend—fond of
women—gambled—ate hearty—drank hearty—had known
what it was to be flush—grew low spirited toward the lastsickened—was helped by a contribution—died aged forty-one
years—and that was his funeral.
Let me read you another description—one of a
woman:
Behold a woman !
She looks out from her Quaker cap, her face is clear and.
more beautiful than the sky.
She sits in an arm-chair under the shaded porch of the
farm-house.
The sun just shines on her old, white head.
Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen.
Her grandsons raised the flax and her granddaughters spun,
it with the distaff and the wheel.
The melodious charactei’ of the earth.
The finished—beyond which philosophy cannot go and does
not wish to go.
The justified mother of men.
Would you hear of an old-time sea fight ?
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars ?
List to the yarn as my grandmother’s father, the sailor, told
it to me :
Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you, said he.
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or
truer, and never was and never will be.
Long the lower eve he came, horribly raking us.
We closed with him; the yards entangled, the cannon
touched.
My captain lashed fast with his own hands.
We had received some eighteen pound shots under the water,
and on our lower gun deck two large pieces had burst at
the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.
Fighting at sundown; fighting at dark.
Ten o’clock at night; the full moon well up; our leaks on the
gain; five feet of water reported.
The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the hold
to give them a chance for themselves.
�17
ORATION WALT WHITMAN.
The transit to and from the magazine is now stopped by the
sentinels.
They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.
Our frigate takes fire.
The other asks if we demand quarter,
If our colors are struck and the fighting done.
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little Captain,
“ We have not struck,” he composedly cries, “ we have just
begun our part of the fighting.”
Only three guns in use.
One is directed by the Captain himself against the enemy’s
mainmast.
Two, well served with grape and canister, silences his mus
ketry and clears his decks.
The taps alone second the fire of his little battery, especially
the maintop.
They hold out bravely during the whole of the action,
Not a moment’s cease.
The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the
powder magazine; one of the pumps has been shot
away; it is thought we are sinking.
Serene stands the little Captain,
He is not hurried; his voice neither high nor low.
His eyes give more light to us than our battle lanterns.
Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they sur
render to us.
Stretched and still lies the midnight,
Two great hulks motionless on the breast of the darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass
to the one we have conquered.
The captain on the quarter-deck coolly giving his orders
through a countenance white as a sheet;
Near by, the corpse of the child that served in the cabin;
The dead face of an old salt, with long white hair and care
fully curled whiskers.
The flames, spite of all that can be done, flecked aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two officers yet fit for duty.
Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of
flesh upon the masts and spars;
Cut of cordage, tangle of rigging, slight shock of the sooth
of waves;
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder parcels, strong
scent.
A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful, shining;
delicate sniffs of sea breeze, smells of sedge grass and
fields by the shore; death messages given in charge to
survivors.
B
�18
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
The hiss of the surgeon’s knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short, wild scream,
long, dull, tapering groan.
Some people say that this is not poetry—that it lacks
measure and rhyme.
VIII.
WHAT IS POETRY ?
The whole world is engaged in the invisible com
merce of thought. That is to say, in the exchange of
thoughts by words, symbols, sounds, colors and forms.
The motions of the silent, invisible world, where
feeling glows and thought flames—that contains all
seeds of action—are made known only by sounds and
colors, forms, objects, relations, uses and qualities—so
that the visible universe is a dictionary, an aggregation
of symbols, by which and through which is carried on
the invisible commerce of thought. Each object is
capable of many meanings, or of being used in many
ways to convey ideas or states of feeling or of facts
that take place in the world of the brain.
The greatest poet is the one who selects the best, the
most appropriate symbols to convey the best, the
highest, the sublimest thoughts. Each man occupies a
world of his own. He is the only citizen of his world.
He is subject and sovereign, and the best he can do is
to give the facts concerning the world in which he lives
to the citizens of other worlds. No two of these
worlds are alike. They are of all kinds, from the flat,
barren and uninteresting—from the small and shrivelled
and worthless—to those whose rivers and mountains
and seas and constellations belittle and cheapen the
visible world. The inhabitants of these marvellous
worlds have been the singers of songs, utterers of great
speech—the creators of art.
And here lies the difference between creators and
imitators : the creator tells what passes in his own
world—thé imitator does not. The imitator abdicates,
and by the fact of imitation falls upon his knees. He
is like one who, hearing a traveller talk, pretends to
others that he has travelled.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
19
In nearly all lands, the poet has been privileged—for the sake of beanty, they have allowed him to speak,
and for that reason he has told the story of the
oppressed, and has excited the indignation of honest
men and even the pity of tyrants. He, above all others,
has added to the intellectual beauty of the world. He
has been the true creator of language, and has left his
impress on mankind.
What I have said is not only true of poetry—it is
true of all speech. All are compelled to use the visible
world as a dictionary. Words have been invented and
are being invented—for the reason that new powers
are found in the old symbols, new qualities, relations,
uses, and meanings.
The growth of language is
necessary on account of the development of the human
mind. The savage needs but few symbols—the civil
ised many—the poet most of all.
The old idea was, however, that the poet must be a
rhymer. Before printing was known, it was said : the
rhyme assists the memory. That excuse no longer exists.
Is rhyme a necessary part of poetry ? In my judgment,
rhyme is a hindrance to expression. The rhymer is
compelled to wander from his subject—to say more or
less than hemeans—to introduce irrelevant matter that
interferes continually with the dramatic action and is a
perpetual obstruction to sincere utterance.
All poems, of necessity, must be short. The highly
and purely poetic is the sudden bursting into blossom
of a great and tender thought. The planting of the
seed, the growth, the bud and flower must be rapid.
The spring must be quick and warm—the soil perfect,
the sunshine and rain enough—everything should tend
to hasten, nothing to delay. In poetry, as in wit, the
crystallisation must be sudden.
,
The greatest poems are rhythmical. While rhyme is
a hindrance, rhythm seems to be the comrade of
the poetic. Rhythm has a natural foundation. Under
emotion, the blood rises and falls, the muscles contract
and relax, and this action of the blood is as rhythmical
as the rise and fall of the sea. In the highest form of
expression, the thought should be in harmony with
this natural ebb and flow.
�20
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
The highest poetic truth is expressed in rhythmical
form. I have sometimes thought that an idea selects
its own words, chooses its own garments, and that
when the thought has possession, absolutely, of the
speaker or writer, he unconsciously allows the thought
to clothe itself.
The great poetry of the world keeps time with the
winds and the waves.
I do not mean by rhythm a recurring accent at
accurately measured intervals. Perfect time is the
death of music. There should always be room for
eager haste and delicious delay, and whatever change
there may be in the rhythm or time, the action itself
should suggest perfect freedom.
A word more about rhythm. I believe that certain
feelings and passions—joy, grief, emulation, revenge,
produce certain molecular movements in the brain—•
that every thought is accompanied by certain physical
phenomena. Now it may be that certain sounds, colors,
and forms produce the same molecular action in the
brain that accompanies certain feelings, and that these
sounds, colors, and forms produce first, the molecular
movements, and these in their turn reproduce the feel
ings in motions and states of mind capable of
producing the same or like molecular movements.
So that what we call heroic music, produces the
same molecular action in the brain — the same
physical changes — that are produced by the real
feeling of heroism ; that the sounds we call plaintive
produce the same molecular movement in the brain
that grief, or the twilight of grief, actually produces.
There may be a rhythmical molecular movement
belonging to each state of mind, that accompanies each
thought or passion, and it may be that music, or paint
ing, or sculpture, produces the same state of mind or
feeling that produces the music or painting or sculp
ture, by producing the same molecular movements.
All arts are born of the same spirit, and express like
thoughts in different ways—that is to say, they produce
like states of mind and feeling. The sculptor, the
painter, the composer, the poet, the orator, work to the
same end, with different materials. The painter
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
21
expresses through form and color and relation ; the
sculptor through form and relation. The poet also
paints and chisels—his words give form, relation, and
color. His statues and his paintings do not crumble,
neither do they fade, nor will they as long as language
endures. The composer touches the passions, produces
the very states of feeling produced by the painter and'
sculptor, and poet and orator. In all these there must
be rhythm—that is to say, proportion—that is to say,
harmony, melody.
So that the greatest poet is the one who idealizes the
common, who gives new meanings to old symbols, who
transfigures the ordinary things of life. He must deal
with the hopes and fears, and with the experiences of
the people.
The poetic is not the exceptional. A perfect poem,
is like a perfect day. It has the undefinable charm of
naturalness and ease. It must not appear to be the
result of great labor. We feel, in spite of ourselves,
that man does best that which he does easiest.
The great poet is the instrumentality, not always of
his time, but of the best of his time, and he must be in.
unison and accord with the ideals of his race. The sublimer he is the simpler he is. The thoughts of the
people must be clad in the garments of feeling—the
words must be known, apt, familiar. The height must
be in the thought, in the sympathy.
In the olden time they used to have May day parties,
and the prettiest child was crowned Queen of May.
Imagine an old blacksmith and his wife looking at
their little daughter clad in white and crowned with
roses. They would wonder while they looked at her,
how they ever came to have so beautiful a child. It is
thus that the poet clothes the intellectual children or
ideals of the people. They must not be gemmed and
garlanded beyond the recognition of their parents. Out
from all the flowers and beauty must look the eyes of
the child they know.
We have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art.
Milton’s heavenly militia excites our laughter. Light
houses have driven sirens from the dangerous coasts.
We have found that we do not depend on the imagina
�22
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
tion for wonders—there are millions of miracles under
our feet.
Nothing can be more marvellous than the common
and every day facts of life. The phantoms have been
cast aside. Men and women are enough for men and
women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the
comedy that they can comprehend.
The painter no longer crowds his canvas with the
■winged and impossible —he paints life as he sees it,
people as he knows them, and in whom he is interested.
“ The Angelus,” the perfection of pathos, is nothing
but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness
as they hear the solemn sound of the distant* bell—two
peasants, who have nothing to be thankful for—nothing
but weariness and want, nothing but the crusts that
they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you
look at that picture you feel that they have something
besides to be thankful for—that they have life, love
and hope—and so th.e distant bell makes music in their
simple hearts.
IX.
The attitude of Whitman toward religion has not
been understood. Towards all forms of worship,
towards all creeds, he has maintained the attitude of
absolute fairness. He does not believe that nature has
given her last message to man. He does not believe
that all has been ascertained/ He denies that any
sect has written down the entire truth. He believes in
progress, and, so believing, he says :
We can consider bibles and religions divine. I do not say
they are not divine. I say they have all grown out of us and
may grow out of us still. It is not they who give the life.
It is you who give the life.
My thoughts are hymns of the praise of things ;
In the dispute on God and eternity I am silent.
Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme ?
There can be any number of Supremes. One does not
countervail another any more than one eyesight countervails
another.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
23
Upon the great questions, as to the great problems,
he feels only the serenity of a great and well-poised
soul.
No array of terms can. say how much I am at peace about
God and about death.
I hear and behold God in every object, not understanding
God, not in the least.
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than
myself.
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my face in
the glass.
I find letters from God dropped in the street and every one is
signed by God’s name.
The whole visible world is regarded by him as a
revelation, and so is the invisible world, and with this
feeling he writes :
Not objecting to special revelations—considering a curl of
smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just as curious
as any revelation.
The creeds do not satisfy, the old mythologies are
not enough ; they are too narrow at best, giving only
hints and suggestions ; and feeling this lack in that
which has been written and preached, Whitman says :
Magnifying and applying come I;
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters ;
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah;
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son and Herkules his grand
son ;
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahm, and Buddha;
In my portfolio placing Manito alone—Alah on a leaf—the
crucifix engraved
x
With Odin and the hideous face of Mexitli and every ido 1
and image—
Taking them all for what they are worth, and not a cent more.
Whitman keeps open house. He is intellectually
hospitable. He extends his hand to a new idea. He
does not accept a creed because it is wrinkled and old
and has a long white beard. He knows that hypocrisy
has a venerable look, and that it relies on looks and
masks— on stupidity—and fear. Neither does h e rej ect
�24
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN,
or accept the new because it is new. He wants the
truth, and so he welcomes all until he knows just who
and what they are.
PHILOSOPHY.
Walt Whitman is a philosopher.
The more a man has thought, the more he has studied,
the more he has travelled intellectually, the less certain
he is. Only the very ignorant are perfectly satisfied
that they know, To the common man the great
problems are easy, He has no trouble in accounting
for the universe. He can tell you the origin and
destiny of man and the why and the wherefore of
things. As a rule, he is a believer in special providence,
and is egoistic enough to suppose that everything that
happens in the universe happens in reference to him.
A colony of red ants lived at the foot of the Alps. It
happened one day, that an avalanche destroyed the
hill; and one of the ants was heard to remark : “ Who
could have taken so much trouble to destroy our
home ? ”
Walt Whitman walked by the side of the sea “ where
the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,”
and endeavoured to think out, to fathom the mystery
of being ? and he says :
I too, but signify, at the utmost, a little washed up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves gathered together—merging
myself as part of the sands and drift.
Aware, now, that amid all the blab whose echoes recoil upon
me, I have not once had the least idea of who or what I
am.
But that for all my insolent poems, the real me still stands
untouched, untold, altogether unreached,
Withdrawn afar, mocking me with mock congratulatory signs
and voices,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have
written or shall write,
Striking me with insults as I fall helpless on the sand.
I perceive I have not understood anything, not a single
object; and that no man ever can.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
25
There is in our language no profounder poem than
the one entitled “ Elemental Drifts.'’
The effort to find the origin of things has ever been,
and will forever be, fruitless. Those who endeavour
to find the secret of life resemble a man looking in the
mirror, who thinks that if he only could be quick
enough he could grasp the image that he sees behind
the glass.
The latest word of this poet upon this subject is as
follows :
(e To me this life with all its realities and functions
is finally a mystery, the real something yet to be
evolved, and the stamp and shape and life here some
how given an important, perhaps the main, outline to
something further. Somehow this hangs over every
thing else, and stands behind it, is inside of all facts,
and the concrete and material and the worldly affairs
of life and sense. That is the purport and meaning
behind all the other meanings, of Leaves of Grass’'
As a matter of fact the questions of origin and destiny
are beyond the grasp of the human mind. We can see
a certain distance ; beyond that everything is only
indistinct; and beyond the indistinct is the unseen.
In the presence of these mysteries—and everything is
a mystery so far as origin, destiny, and nature are con
cerned—the intelligent, honest man is compelled to say,
“ I do not know.”
In the great midnight a few truths like stars shine
on forever—and from the brain of man come a few
struggling gleams of light—a few momentary sparks.
Some have contended that everything is spirit;
others that everything is matter ; and again, others
who maintained that a part is matter and 9. part is
spirit; some that spirit was first and matter after;
others that matter was first and spirit after ; and others
that matter and spirit have existed together.
But none of these people can by any possibility tell
what matter is, or what spirit is, or what the difference
is between spirit and matter.
The materialists look upon the spiritualists as sub
stantially crazy ; and the spiritualists regard the
materialists as low and groveling. These spiritualistic
�26
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
people hold matter in contempt ; but, after all, matter
is quite a mystery. You take in your hand a little
earth—a little dust. Do you know what it is ? In
this dust you put a seed ; the rain falls upon it; the
light strikes it; the seed grows ; it bursts into blossom ;
it produces fruit.
What is this dust—this womb ? Do you understand
it? Is there anything in the wide universe more
wonderful than this ?
Take a grain of sand, reduce it to powder, take the
smallest possible particle, look at it with a microscope,
contemplate its every part for days, and it remains the
citadel of a secret—an impregnable fortress. Bring all
the theologians, philosophers, and scientists in serried
ranks against it; let them attack on every side with all
the arts and arms of thought and force. The citadel
does not fall. Over the battlements floats the flag and
the victorious secret smiles at the baffled hosts.
Walt Whitman did not and does not imagine that he
has reached the limit—the end of the road travelled by
the human race. He knows that every victory over
nature is but the preparation for another battle. This
truth was in his mind when he said : “ Understand me
well; it is provided in the essence of things, that from
any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come
forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.”
This is the generalisation of all history.
XI.
THE TWO POEMS.
There are two of these poems to which I have time
to call special attention. The first is entitled, “ A
Word Out of the Sea.”
The boy, coming out of the rocked cradle, wandering
over the sands and fields, up from the mystic play of
shadows, out of the patches of briers and blackberries
—from the memories of birds—from the thousand
responses of his heart—goes back to the sea and his
childhood, and sings a reminiscence.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
27
Two guests from Alabama—two birds—build their
nest, and there were four light green eggs, spotted with
brown, and the two birds sang for joy :
Shine, shine,
Pour down your warmth together, great sun!
While we bask, we two together.
Two together—<
Windsblow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
If we two but keep together.
In a little while one of the birds is missed and never
appeared again, and all through the summer the mate,
the solitary guest, was singing of the lost:
Blow, blow,
Blow up, sea winds, along Paumanok’s shore;
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.
And the boy that night, blending himself with the
shadows, with bare feet, went down to the sea, where
the white arms out in the breakers were tirelessly
tossing ; listening to the songs and translating the
notes.
And the singing bird called loud and high for the
mate, wondering what the dusky spot was in the
brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever way he
looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song,
hoping that the mate might hear his cry ; stopping
that he might not lose her answer ; waiting and then
•crying again : “Here I am!” And this gentle call is
for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the
wind ; those are the shadows ; and at last crying :
0 past, 0 joy !
In the air, in the woods, over fields,
Loved! loved! loved !
Loved—but no more with me—
We two togethei* no more.
And then the boy, understanding the song that had
awakened in his breast a thousand songs clearer and
louder and more sorrowful than the bird’s, knowing
�28
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be
absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all,
and asking of the sea the final word, and the sea
answering, delaying not and hurrying not, spoke the
low delicious word “ Death !” “ ever Death !”
The next poem, one that will live as long as our
language, entitled, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed,” is on the death of Lincoln.
The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands.
. One who reads this will never forget the odor of the
lilac, “lustrous western star” and “the grey-brown
bird singing in the pines and cedars.”
In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly pre
served, the atmosphere and climate in harmony with
every event.
Never will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin
through day and night, with the great cloud darkening
the land, nor the pomp of inlooped flags, the procession
long and winding, the flambeaus of night, the torches’
flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads, the
thousand voices, rising strong and solemn, the dirges,
the shuddering organs, the tolling bells—and the sprig
of lilac.
And then for a moment they will hear the grey
brown bird singing in the cedars, bashful and tender,
while the lustrous star lingers in the West, and they
will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls
to adorn the burial house—pictures of spring and
farms and homes and the grey smoke, lucid and
bright, and the floods of yellow gold—of the gorgeous
indolent sinking sun—the sweet herbage under foot—
the green leaves of the trees prolific—the breast of the
river with the wind-dapple here and there, and the
varied and ample land—and the most excellent sun so
calm and haughty—the violet and purple morn with
just felt breezes. The gentle, soft-born measureless
light—the miracle spreading, bathing all—the fulfilled
noon—the coming eve delicious and the welcome night
and the stars.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
29
And then again they will hear the song of the grey
brown bird in the limitless dusk amid the cedars and
pines. Again they will remember the star and again
the odor of the lilac.
But most of all, the song of the bird translated and
becoming the chant for death:
THE CHANT FOE DEATH.
Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate ’round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death.
Praised be the fathomless universe,
Por life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love—but praise ! praise! praise !
For the sure enwinding arms of cool enfolding death.
Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome p
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come
unfalteringly.
Approach, strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing
the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, 0 death.
From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and
feastings for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread
sky are flitting.
And life and the fields, and the bright and thoughtful night.
The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice
I know,
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death,"
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and
I ■«. the prairies wide,
Over the dense-packed cities all—and the teeming wharves
and waves,
I float this carol to thee, with joy to thee, 0 death.
�30
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN,
This poem, in memory of “ the sweetest, wisest soul
of all our days and lands,” and for whose sake lilac
and star and bird were entwined, will last as long as
the memory of Lincoln.
XII.
OLD AGE.
Walt Whitman- is not only the poet of childhood, of
youth, of manhood, but, above all, of old age. He
has not been soured by slander or petrified by preju
dice ; neither calumny nor flattery has made him re
vengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in
the winter of life,
His jocund heart still beating in his breast,
he is just as brave and calm and kind as in his man
hood’s proudest days, when roses blossomed in his
cheeks. He has taken life’s seven steps. Now, as the
gamester might say, “ on velvet.” He is enjoying “ old
age expanded, broad, with the haughty breadth of the
universe ; old age, flowing free, with the delicious,
near-by freedom of death ; old age, superbly rising,
welcoming the ineffable aggregation of dying days.”
He is taking the “ loftiest look at last,” and before
he goes he utters thanks “ for health, the midday sun,
the impalpable air—for life, mere life ; for precious
ever lingering memories of mother, father, brothers,
sisters, friends ; for all his days, for gentle words,
carresses, gifts from foreign lands, for shelter, wine
and meat, for sweet appreciation, for beings, groups,
love, deeds, words, books ; for colors, forms ; for all
the brave, strong men who forward sprung in freedom’s
help—all years—in all lands ; the cannoneers of song
and thought—the great artillerists, the foremost leaders,
captains of the soul.”
It is a great thing to preach philosophy—far greater
to live it. The highest philosophy accepts the inevit
able with a smile, and greets it as though it were
desired.
To be satisfied : This is wealth—success.
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
31
The real philosopher knows that everything has hap
pened that could have happened—consequently he
accepts. He is glad that he has lived—glad that he has
had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman
has accepted life.
I shall go forth;
I shall traverse these states, but I cannot tell whither or how
iong.
Perhaps soon, some day or night, while I am singing, my
voice will suddenly cease,
O soul!
Then all may arrive but to this :
The glances of my eyes that swept the daylight,
The unspeakable love I interchanged with women,
My joys in the open air,
My walks in the Mannahatta,
The continual good will I have met,
The curious attachments of young men to me,
My reflections alone—the absorption into me from the land
scape, stars, animals, thunder, rain, and snow in my
interviews alone;
The words of my mouth—rude, ignorant—my many faults
and derelictions;
The light touches on my lips of the lips of my comrades at
parting,
The tracks which I leave on the sidewalks and fields—
May all arrive at but this beginning of me;
This beginning of me—and yet it is enough, 0, soul!
0, soul, we have positively appeared; that is enough.
Yes, Walt Whitman has appeared. He has his place
upon the stage. The drama is not ended. His voice
is still heard. He is the Poet of Democracy—of all
people. He is the poet of the body and soul. He has
sounded the note of Individuality. He has given the
pass-word primeval. He is the Poet of Humanity—of
Intellectual Hospitality. He has voiced the aspirations
of America—and, above all, he is the poet of Love and
Death.
How grandly, how bravely he has given his thought,
and how superb is his farewell—his leave-taking :
After the supper and talk ; after the day is done.
As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging.
Good-bye and good-bye with emotional lips repeating.
�32
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
So hard for his hand to release those hands—no more will
they meet—
No more for.communion of sorrow and joy of old and young,
A far-stretching journey awaits him to return no more.
Shunning postponing severance, seeking to ward off the last
word ever so little,
Even at the exit dooi’ turning—charges superfluous calling
back—even as he descends the steps,
Something to eke out a minute additional—shadows of night
fall deepening,
Farewell messages lessening, dimmer the forthgoer’s visage
and form,
Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness; loth, oh, so loth to
depart!
And is this all ? Will the forthgoer be lost, and for
ever ? Is death the end ? Over the grave bends Love
sobbing, and by her side stands Hope and whispers :
We shall meet again. Before all life is death, and
after all death is life. The falling leaf, touched with
the hectic flush, that testifies of autumn’s death, is, in
a subtler sense, a prophecy of spring.
Walt Whitman has dreamed great dreams, told great
truths and uttered sublime thoughts. He has held aloft
the torch and bravely led the way.
As you read the marvellous book, or the person, called
Leaves of Grass, you feel the freedom of the antique
world ; you hear the voices of the morning, of the
first great singers—voices elemental as those of sea and
storm. The horizon enlarges, the heavens grow ample,
limitations are forgotten —the realisation of the will,
the accomplishment of the ideal, seem to be within
your power. Obstructions become petty and disappear.
The chains and bars are broken, and the distinctions
of caste are lost.
The soul is in the open air, under the blue and stars
—the flag of Nature. Creeds, theories, and philosophies
ask to be examined, contradicted, reconstructed. Pre
judices disappear, superstitions vanish, and custom
abdicates. The sacred places become highways, duties
and desires clasp hands and become comrades and
friends. Authority drops the sceptre, the priest the
mitre, and the purple falls from kings. The inanimate
�ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
33
becomes articulate, the meanest and humblest things
utter speech, and the dumb and voiceless burst into
song. A feeling of independence takes possession of
the soul, the body expands, the blood flows full and
free, superiors vanish, flattery is a lost art, and life
becomes rich, royal and superb. The world becomes a
personal possession, and the oceans, the continents and
constellations belong to you. You are in the centre,
everything radiates from you, and in your veins beats
and throbs the pulse of all life. You become a rover,
careless and free. You wander by the shores of all
seas and hear the eternal psalm. You feel the silence
of the wide forest, and stand beneath the intertwined
and over-arching boughs, entranced with symphonies
of winds and woods. You are borne on the tides of
eager and swift rivers, hear the rush and roar of
cataracts as they fall beneath the seven-hued arch, and
watch the eagles as they circling soar. You traverse
gorges dark and dim, and climb the scarred and threa
tening cliffs. You stand in orchards where the blossoms
fall like snow, where the birds nest and sing, and
painted moths make aimless journeys through the
happy air. You live the lives of those who till the
earth, and walk amid the perfumed fields, hear the
reapers’ song, and feel the breadth and scope of earth
and sky. You are in the great cities, in the midst of
multitudes, of the endless processions. You are on the
wide plains—the prairies—with hunter and trapper,
with savage and pioneer, and you feel the soft grass
yielding under your feet. You sail in many ships, and
breathe the free air of the sea. You travel many roads,
and countless paths. You visit palaces and prisons,
hospitals and courts ; you pity kings and convicts, and
your sympathy goes out to all the suffering and insane,
the oppressed and enslaved, and even to the infamous.
You hear the din of labor, all sounds of factory, field,
and forest, of all tools, instruments, and machines.
You become familiar with men and women of all
employments, trades, and professions—with birth and
burial, with wedding feast and funeral chant. You see
the cloud and flame of war, and you enjoy the ineffable
perfect days of peace.
�34
ORATION ON WALT WHITMAN.
In?hls°ne book’ in these wondrous Leaves of Grass
yi>n1r?.d hmts and suggestions, touches and fragments’
of all there is of life, that lies between the babe, whose
rounded cheeks dimple beneath his mother’s laughing
oving eyes, and the old man, snow-crowned, who, with
a smile, extends his hand to death. And we have met
to-night to honor ourselves by honoring the author of
Leaves of Grass.
Printed and Published by G. W. Foote, at 28 Stonecutter Street
London, E.O.
’
�WORKS BY COLONEL R. G. INGERSOLL
s. d.
x 0
j g
MISTAKES OF MOSES
...
...
...
Superior edition, in cloth ...
...
...
Only Complete Edition published in England.*
DEFENCE OF FREETHOUGHT
...
... q g
Five Hours’ Speech at the Trial of C. B.
Reynolds for Blasphemy.
REPLY TO GLADSTONE
...
...
With a Biography by J. M. Wheeler. '
ROME OR REASON ?
... 0
Reply to Cardinal Manning
CRIMES AGAINST CRIMINALS
...
FAITH AND FACT. Reply to Rev. Dr. Field
Second Reply to Dr. Field
4
0 4
... 0 3
... 0 2
...
0
0
2
...
0
2
THE LIMITS OF TOLERATION
......................... 0
A Discussion with Hon. F. D. Coudert and
Gov. S. L. Woodford
2
GOD AND MAN.
...
...
THE HOUSEHOLD OF FAITH
...
THE DYING CREED
...
DO I BLASPHEME ?
2
0
THE CLERGY AND COMMON SENSE
...
2
o
2
THE GREAT MISTAKE
LIVE TOPICS
...
...
...
...
.01
0 1
MYTH AND MIRACLE
...
...
0
1
REAL BLASPHEMY
...
...
0
x
.....................
0
2
SOCIAL SALVATION
MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE ...
...
0 2
...
GOD AND THE STATE
...
WHY AM I AN AGNOSTIC?
WHY AM I AN AGNOSTIC ?
Part II.
..
...
0
0
2
2
...
0
2
Progressive Publishing Co, 28 Stonecutter Street, E.O.
�“THE FREETHINKER”
Edited by G. W. FOOTE.
The Only Penny Freethought Paper in England.
Circulates throughout the World.
Published every Thursday.
�THE
PROGRESSIVE PUBLISHING
COMPANY’S
C ATALOG U E.
■ ---- 0--------All orders to be sent, with remittwnce, to K. Forder, 88 Stonecutter
Street, London, E.C. Rate of postage—Orders under 3d., one halfpenny
orders under 6d. one penny. Orders over 6d. post free.
SEPTEMBER, 1890.
AVELING, DR. E. B.
Darwin. Made Easy. Cloth
...
...
...
10
Dr. Aveling is a Fellow of the London University, and
this is the best popular exposition of Darwinism extant.
BENTHAM, JEREMY
The Church of England. Catechism Examined. A tren
chant analysis, in Bentham’s best manner, showing
how the Catechism is calculated to make children
hypocrites or fools, if not worse. Sir Samuel
Romilly was of opinion that the work would be
prosecuted for blasphemy, though it escaped that
fate in consequence of the writer’s eminence.
With a Biographical Preface by J. M. Wheeler ...
Utilitarianism...
...
...
...
...
“A place must be assigned to Bentham among the
masters of wisdom.”—John Stuart Mill.
“ A man of first-rate genius.”—Edward Dicey.
“It is impossible to know Bentham without admiring
and revering him ”—Sir Samuel Romilly.
“ Everything that comes from the pen or from the mind
of Mr. Bentham is entitled to profound regard.”—James
Mill.
“He found jurisprudence a gibberish and left it a
science.”—Macaulay.
10
0 3
�(2)
COLLINS, ANTHONY
Free Will and Necessity. A Philosophical Inquiry
concerning Human Liberty. First published in
1715. Now reprinted with Preface and Annota
tions by G. W. Foote, and a Biographical Intro
duction by J. M. Wheeler
...
...
...
Superior Edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth
10
2 0
“ I do not know of anything that has been advanced
by later writers in support of the scheme of Necessity,
of which the germ is not to be found in the Inquiry of
Collins.”—Prof. Dugald Stewart.
“ Collins states the arguments against human freedom
with a logical force unsurpassed by any Necessitarian.”
—Prof. A. C. Fraser.
“ Collins writes with wonderful power and closeness
of reasoning.”—Prof. Huxley.
“ Collins was one of the most terrible enemies of
the Christian religion.”—Voltaire.
FEUERBACH, LUDWIG
The Essence of Religion. God the Image of Man,
Man s Dependence upon Nature the Last and Only
Source of Religion ...
...
...
...
i o
“ No one has demonstrated and explained the purely
human origin of the idea of God better than Ludwig
Feuerbach. ’ ’—Bachner.
“ I confess that to Feuerbach I owe a debt of inesti
mable gratitude. _ Feeling about in uncertainty for the
ground, and finding everywhere shifting sands, Feuer
bach cast a sudden blaze in the darkness and disclosed
to me the way.”—Rev. S. Baring Gould.
FOOTE, G. W.
Is Socialism Sound ? Four Nights’ Public Debate
with Annie Besant ...
...
...
...
Superior Edition, in cloth
...
...
Christianity and Secularism. Four Nights’ Public
Debate with the Rev. Dr. James McGann
...
Superior Edition, in cloth
...
...
...
Darwin on God
...
Superior Edition, in cloth
...
...
...
...
...
...
Contents :—Darwin’s Grandfather—Darwin’s Father—
Darwin’s Early Piety—Almost a Clergyman—On Board
the “ Beagle ”—Settling at Down—Death and Burial—
Purpose of Pamphlet—Some Objections—Darwin Abair-
i o
2 0
1 o
i g
o 6
j q
�( 3 )
dons Christianity—Deism—Creation—Origin of Life—
Origin of Man— Animism—A Personal Creator Design
_ Divine Beneficence—Religion and Morality—.Agnos
ticism and Atheism.
Infidel Death-Beds. Second edition, much enlarged
Superior Edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth
0 8
1 3
List of Freethinkers dealt with :—Lord Amberley,
Baskerville, Bayle, Bentham, Bert, Lord .golingbroke,
Broussais, Bruno, Buckle, Byron, Carlile Clifiord, Clootz,
Collins, Comte, Condorcet, Cooper, D Alembert, Danton,
Charles and Erasmus Darwin, Delambre, Diderot, Bolet,
Geo. Eliot, Frederick the Great, Gambetta, Garabaldi,
Gendre, Gibbon, Godwin, Gœthe, Grote, Helvetiua,
Hetherington, Hobbes, Austin Holyoake, iHago, Hume,
Littré, Harriet Martineau, Jean Mealier, «Tames ana J onn
Stuart Mill, Mirabeau, Robt. Owen, Paine, Palmer,
Rabelais, Reade, Mdme. Roland, George Sand, Schiller,
Shelley, Spinoza, Strauss, Toland, Vanini, Voltaire,
Volney, Watson, John Watts, Woolston.
Letters to the Clergy. First Series. 128pp. ...
1, Creation, to the Bishop of Carlisle; 2, The
Believing Thief, to the Rev. C. H. Spurgeon;
3, The Atonement, to the Bishop of Peter
borough; 4, Old Testament Morality, to the
Rev. E. Conder, D.D.; 5, Inspiration, to the
Rev. R. F. Horton, M.A.; 6, Credentials of the
Gospel, to the Rev. Prof. J. A. Beet; 7, Miracles,
to the Rev. Brownlow Maitland; 8, Prayer, to
the Rev. T. Teignmouth Shore, M.A.
Defence of Free Speech. Three Hours’ Address to
the Jury before Lord Coleridge. With a Special
Preface and many Footnotes ...
Letters to Jesus Christ
Philosophy of Secularism
The Bible God...
The Folly of Prayer
The Impossible Creed. An Open Letter to the Bishop
of Peterborough on the Sermon on the Mount ...
Christianity and Progress. Reply to Mr. Gladstone
Mrs. Besant’s Theosophy. A Candid Criticism ...
Theosophy and Secularism. A Rejoinder to Mrs.
Besant
The New Cagliostro. An Open Letter to Madame
Blavatsky ...
1 0
0
0
0
0
0
4
4
3
2
2
0 2
0 2
0 2
0 2
0 2
�( * )
What Was Christ ? A Reply to J. s. Mill
0 2
^tl-aU ,Ev,lden1c.e writers make the passage on
Ghust their stock reliance, and Mr. Foote thoroughly
dissects and analyses it, and denounces it as valueless.’’
—2Vational Reformer.
The Shadow of the Sword. A moral and statistical
-Essay on War
0 2
war^ndbth
Pamphlet, exposing the horrors of
wai and the burden imposed upon the people by the
war systems of Europe.”—Echo.
“A trenchant exposure of the folly of war, which
everyone should read.”—Rimes.
Eoy,11 ^auP®rsa
Showing what Royalty does for
the People, and what the People do for Royalty
The Dying Atheist. A Story ...
0 2
0
1
Was Jesus Insane? A searching inquiry into the
mental condition of the Prophet of Nazareth
0 1
Is the Bible Inspired ? A Criticism on “ Lux Mundi.”
0 1
The Rev. Hugh Price Hughes’s Converted Atheist
A Lie m Five Chapters
0
1
Bible Heroes—First Series, in elegant wrapper
(1) Mr. Adam, (2) Captain Noah, (3) Father
Abraham, (4) Juggling Jacob, (5) Master Joseph,
(6) Joseph’s Brethren, (7) Holy Moses I., (8)
Holy Moses II., (9) Parson Aaron, (10) General
Joshua, (11) Jephthah and Co., (12) Professor
Samson. One Penny each singly.
1
0
Bible Heroes—Series, in elegant wrapper
(13) Prophet Samuel, (14) King Saul, (15) Saint
David I., (16) Saint David II., (17) Sultan
Solomon, (18) Poor Job, (19) Hairy Elijah, (20)
Bald Elisha, (21) General Jehu, (22) Doctor
Daniel, (23) The Prophets (Isaiah, Jeremiah,
Ezekiel, Hosea, (24) St. Peter, (25) St. Paul.
Bible Romances. New Edition. Revised and largely
rewritten.—(1) The Creation Story, 2d.; (2) Eve
and the Apple, Id.; (3), Cain and Abel, Id.;
(4) Noah’s Flood, 2d. (5) The Tower of Babel, Id;
(6) Lot’s Wife, Id. Other numbers following on
the first of each month.
1
0
�( 5 )
G. W. FOOTE & W. P. BALL
Bible Handbook for Freethinkers and Inquiring
Christians. Complete, paper covers ...
...
Superior Edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth
Sold also in separate Parts as follows—
The Contradictions are
printed in parallel columns . .
...
...
2. Bible Absurdities. All the chief Absurdities
from Genesis to Revelation, conveniently and
strikingly arranged, with appropriate headlines,
giving the point of each absurdity in a sentence
3. Bible Atrocities. Containing all the godly wicked
ness from Genesis to Revelation. Each infamy
has a separate headline for easy reference
...
4. Bible Immoralities, Indecencies, Obscenities,
Broken Promises, and Unfulfilled Prophecies ...
1. Bible Contradictions.
1 4
2 0
0
4
0
4
0 4
0 4
G. W. FOOTE & J. M. WHEELER
The Jewish Life of Christ. Being the Sepher
Toldoth Jeshu, or Bookof the Generation of Jesus,
With an Historical Preface and Voluminous Notes
Superior Edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth
’
0 6
1 0
“Messrs. G. W. Foote and J. M. Wheeler have laid the
Freethought party under great obligation by the careful
manner in which they have collected and stated the
information on a very doubtful and difficult subject......
We have no hesitation in giving unqualified praise to the
voluminous and sometimes very erudite notes.”—
National Reformer.
Crimes of Christianity. Vol. I., cloth gilt, 216 pp.
Hundreds of exact References to Standard Autho
rities. No pains spared to make it a complete,
trustworthy, final, unanswerable Indictment of
Christianity...
...
...
...
...
Chapters (1) Christ to Constantine; (2) Con
stantine to Hypatia; (3) Monkery; (4) Pious
Forgeries; (5) Pious Frauds; (6) Rise of the
Papacy; (7) Crimes of the Popes; (8) Perse
cution of the Jews ; (9) The Crusades.
“The book is very carefully compiled, the
references are given with exactitude, and the
2 6
�( 6 )
work is calculated to be of the greatest use to the
opponents of Christianity.”—National Reformer.
“ The book is worth reading. It is fair, and
on the whole correct.”—Weekly Times.
“The book has a purpose, and is entitled to a
fair hearing.”—Huddersfield Examiner.
“ The work should be scattered like autumn
leaves.”—Ironclad Age (U.S.A.)
HUME, DAVID
The Mortality Of the Soul With an Introduction
by G. W. Foote. This essay was first published
after IIume’< death. It is not included in the
ordinary editions of the Essays. Prof. Huxley
calls it “ A remarkable essay ” and “ a model of
clear and vigorous statement.”
...
...
Liberty and. Necessity. An argument against Free
Will and in favor of Moral Causation ...
...
0 2
0 4
COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
Some Mistakes of Moses. With an Introduction by
G. W. Foote. The only complete edition in
England. Accurate as Colenso, and fascinating
as a novel. 132pp. ...
...
...
...
Superior Edition, on superfinepaper, bound in cloth
Defence of Freethought. A five hours’ speech at
the Trial of C. B. Reynolds for Blasphemy
...
Reply to Gladstone. With a Biography by J. M.
Wheeler ...
...
...
...
...
Rome or Reason? A Reply to Cardinal Manning ...
Crimes against Criminals
...
...
...
Why am I an Agnostic ? Parts I. and II., each ...
Faith and. Fact. Reply to Rev. Dr. Field
...
God. and. Man. Second Reply to Dr. Field
...
The Dying Creed.
...
...
...
••
The Household, of Faith
...
...
...
The Limits of Toleration. A Discussion with the
Hon. F. D. Oourdert and Gov. S. L. Woodford ...
Art and. Morality
...
...
...
•••
Do I Blaspheme?
...
...
...
•••
The Clergy and Common Sense...
...
1 0
1 6
0 6'
0 4
0 4
0
0
0
0
0
0
3
2
2
2
2
2
0
0
0
0
2
2
2
2
�( 7 )
'X
Social Salvation
...
...
...
...
God and the State
...
...
...
...
Marriage and Divorce. An Agnostic’s View
...
The Great Mistake
...
...
...
...
Live Topics ...
...
...
...
...
Myth and Miracle
...
...
...
...
Real Blasphemy
...
...
...
...
Repairing the Idols
...
...
...
...
Whole of the above TPor7iS of Ingersoll bound in two
o
o
0
o
o
o
o
o
2
2
2
1
1
1
1
1
volumes, cloth, 7s.
SHELLE?
A Refutation of Deism. In a Dialogue. With an
Introduction by G. W. Foote ...
...
...
0 4
THOMSON JAMES (B.V)
Satires and Profanites. New Edition ...
...
Contents :—The Story of a Famous Old Jewish
Firm (Jehovah, Son & Co)—The Devil in the
Church of England — Religion in the Rocky
Mountains—ChristiwrEve in the Upper Circles
—A Commission of Inquiry on Royalty—A
Bible Lesson on Monarchy—The One Thing
Needful.
1 o
“ It cannot be neglected by any who are interested in
one of the most pathetic personages of our time.”—
Academy.
“As clever as they are often profane.”—Christian World.
“Well worth preserving.”—Weekly Dispatch.
“Reminds one of the genius of Swift.”— Oldham Chronicle.
J. M. WHEELER
Biographical Dictionary of Freethinkers of all
Ages and Nations. Handsomely bound in cloth
“ The Dictionary wJrnvolved enormous labor, and the
compiler deserves the thanks of the Ereethought party.”
—National Reformer.
“ The work will be of the greatest value.”—Freethought
“ At last we have the long-wanted means of silencing
those Christians who are continually inquiring for our
great men, asserting that all great men have been on
the side of Christianity.”—Truthseeker (New York).
“The most important Freethought work published
this year.”—De Dageraad (Amsterdam).
“ A good and useful work that was much needed.”—
Commonweal.
7 6
�( 8 )
Letters from Heaven
Letters from Hell
...
...
...
...
o
o
...
02
...
Post free 7d. One Thousand carriage free.
Sample packet of 20 (one of each tract) post free
1. Salvation by Faith (Ingersoll); 2, Death of
Adam (Nelson); 3, Bible Blunders (Foote); 4,
The Bible and Teetotalism (Wheeler); 5, Bible
Harmony (Holy Ghost); 6, Which is the Safe
Side? (Foote); 7, Voltaire’s Death-Bed ; 8, The
Parson’s Creed (verse) ; 9, Prophecy Tested (Ball);
10, Christianity and the Family (Ingersoll); 11,
Thomas Paine’s Death-Bed ; 12, Shelley’s Reli
gion ; 13, J. S. Mill on Christianity ; 14, A Gol
den Opportunity (facetious); 15, Darwin’s Reli
gious Views; 16, Atheists and Atheism; 17.
Good Friday at Jerusalem; 18, Parsons on
“ Smut ” (Foote); 19, Mrs. Eve (Foote); 20, New
Testament Forgeries (Wheeler).
0 6
Mr. G-. W. Foote’s Portrait by Amey. Cabinet size...
Post free and carefully packed, Is. Id.
Imperial Size, very fine
. .
...
...
Post free and carefully packed, 3s. 2d.
1 0
...
...
...
...
i
1
MISCELLANEOUS
Picture of the Statue of Bruno at Rome
Post free in. Letts’s case, 3d.
“FREETHINKER” TRACTS. Per hundred
0 2
3 0
“THE FREETHINKER”
Edited by G.W. FOOTE.
The Only Penny Freethought Paper in England.
Circulates throughout the World.
Published every Thursday.
Printed by G. W. Foote, at 28 Stonecutter Street, London, E.C.
��FREETROUGHT PUBLICATIONS.
THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND CATECHISM EXAMINED
By Jeremy Bentham. With a Biographical Preface by
J. M. Wheeler _
_
.
.
_
10
FREE WILL AND NECESSITY. By Anthony Collins
1 0
Reprinted from 17)5 ed., with Preface and Annotations by
G. W. Foote, and a Biographical Introduction by J. M.
Wheeler.
Superior edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth
2 0
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION. By Ludwig Feuerbach
1
0
IS SOCIALISM SOUND i Four Nights’Public Debate between
Annie Besant and G. W. Foote
----1 0
Superior edition, in cloth ----2 '0
CHRISTIANITY AND SECULARISM. Four Nights’ Public
Debate between G. W. Foote and the Rev. Dr. J. McCann 10
^Superior edition, in cloth ------1 6
DARWIN ON GOD. By G. W. Foote
.-.-06
Superior edition, in cloth - .10
INFIDEL DEATH BEDS. By G. W. Foote. Second edition.
Much enlarged ----08
Superior edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth
13
LETTERS TO THE CLERGY. By G. W. Foote. 128pp. 1 0
BIBLE HEROES. By G. W. Foote. First series, in elegant
wrapper
10
BIBLE HEROES. Second series, in elegant wrapper
10
BIBLE HANDBOOK FOR FREETHINKERS and INQUIRING
CHRISTIANS. By G. W. Foote and W. P. Ball. Complete,
paper covers
-14"
Superior edition, on superfine paper, bound in cloth 2 0
THE JEWISH LIFE OF CHRIST. By G. W. Foote and J. M.
Wheeler. With Historical Preface and Voluminous Notes
0 6
CRIMES OF CHRISTIANITY. By G. W. Foote and J. M.
Wheeler. Vol. I., cloth gilt, 216pp.
2 6
SOME MISTAKES OF MOSES. By Col. Robert G. Ingersoll.
With an Introduction by G. W. Foote. 132pp.
10
SATIRES AND PROFANITIES. By James. Thomson (B.V.)
1 0
BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY OF FREETHINKERS of all
Ages and Nations. By J. M. Wheeler. Handsomely bound
in cloth
.--.76
DEFENCE OF FREETHOUGHT. A five hours’ speech at the ,
Trial of O. B. Reynolds for Blasphemy. By Col. R. G. Ingersoll
'0 6
A REFUTATION OF DEISM, tn a Dialogue. By Shelley.
With an Introduction by G. W. Foote 0 4
R. FORDER, 28 Stonecutter Street, London, E.C.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
An oration on Walt Whitman
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 34, 8 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Printed and published by G.W. Foote. Publisher's catalogue (8 p.), dated September 1890, at end. No. 45g in Stein checklist. "The following oration by Colonel Ingersoll was delivered in the Horticultural Hall, New York, on October 21, 1890". Essays previously published in a variety of journals and books, which are listed in the Acknowledgements section. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Progressive Publishing Company
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1890
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
N382
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (An oration on Walt Whitman), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
American Poetry
NSS
Poetry
Poetry in English
Walt Whitman
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/995cfdef9fff98f3139dcecedb8abee6.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=JdZs0zKY56-3932Q4JcdlrLGAj46a9o4bbYyzswlpQZQkkxsTbhP4jvcf25ukfWqb6%7EhKvXhCOsWdlSZRP7je3Q65uMo1UZH-tu0Scx%7Eh%7Ezmv64XY3tW9dCnV1Xie58NOU7wDR9cLfFIQcPir%7EG6bHoAkD78Qg7GWKAXWPl3H6R1-oUmBIqsqwx2tFSMhyV4v42r%7EYt8fc2Ju3pOCj7s2FT-xWsmrhyQuPoIoi62-JCXf-Bw25%7EuEeehpQsa2PfXF3PLDabsQ6vOzqWItcuMxSnjtKZJsAtxac1--M4aTp2I3N97kkM4AR4jQCcix8I8ZPCbf-zt0of61vVnnvybLA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
540dcab72c2b71e6941c9af1d2f09421
PDF Text
Text
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
Spoken on Memorable
©ccaoíono W
JOHN HEYWOOD,
RIDGEFIELD & DEANSGATE, MANCHESTER
ii Paternoster Buildings, London.
Price Twopence.
�The Destroyer of Weeds, Thistles, and Thorns is a
Benefactor, 'whether he soweth grain or not.
Interpolations are the foundation Stones of every
orthodox church.
let the Ghosts go. We will worship them no more.
Let them cover their eyeless sockets with theirfleshlcss
hands, andfade forever from the imaginations of men.
Liberty sustains the same relation to Mind that Space
does to Matter.
To Plough is to Pray, to Plant is to Prophesy, and
the Harvest answers andfulfils.
�Zbc Ipaet rises before me like
a Dream,
EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH DELIVERED AT TIIE
SOLDIERS’ REUNION AT INDIANAPOLIS, 1876,
HE past rises before me like a dream. Again we
•L are in the great struggle for national life. We
hear the sounds of preparation—the music of boisterous
drums—the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see
thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of
orators ; we see the pale cheeks of women, and the
flushed faces of men ; and in those assemblages we see
all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers.
We lose sight of them no more. We are with them
when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We
see them part with those they love. Some are walk
ing for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the
maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and
the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part
forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing
babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the bless
ings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who
hold them and press them to their hearts again and
again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and
kisses—divine mingling of agony and love ! And
�(4)
some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with
brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from
their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We
ee the wife standing in the door with the babe in her
arms—standing in the sunlight sobbing—at the turn of
the road a hand waves—she answers by holding high
in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.
We see them all as they march away under the
flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music
of war—marching down the streets of the great cities—
through the towns and across the prairies—down to
the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right.
We go with them, one and all. We are by their
side on all the gory fields—in all the hospitals of pain
—on all the weary marches. We stand guard with
them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We
are with them in ravines running with blood—in the
furrows of old fields. We are with them between
contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst,
the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves.
We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in
the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the
charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel.
We are with them in the prisons of hatred and
famine; but human speech can never tell us what
they endured.
We are at home when the news comes that they are
dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first
sorrow.
We see the silvered head of the old man
bowed with the last grief.
The past rises before us, and we see four millions of
human beings governed by the lash—we see them
bound hand and foot—we hear the strokes of cruel
whips—we see the hounds tracking women through
�(5)
tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts
of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable ! Outrage infinite !
Four million bodies in chains—four million souls in
fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother,
father and child are trampled beneath the brutal feet
of might. And all this was done under our own
beautiful banner of the free.
The past rises before us. We hear the roar and
shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall.
These heroes died. We look. Instead of slaves we
see men and women and children. The wand of
progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen,
the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and
school-houses and books, and where all was want and
crime and cruelty and fear we see the faces of the free.
These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—
they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in
the land they made free, under the flag they made
stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the
tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep
beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of
sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of
Rest. Earth may run red with other wars—they are
at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of con
flict, they found the serenity of death. I have one
sentiment for soldiers living and dead : Cheers for the
living ; tears for the dead.
�Ube Volunteer Soldiers of tbe
Union Hrmp;
“ I ¡’hose Valour and Patriotism gave to the world
a Government of the people, by the people, for
the people. ”
RESPONSE TO THE TOAST AT THE GRAND BANQUET
OE THE RE-UNION OF THE ARMY OF THE TENNESSEE,
CHICAGO, NOV, I3TH, 1878.
HEN the savagery of the lash, the barbarism
of the chain, and the insanity of secession con
fronted the civilisation of our century, the question,
“ Will the great Republic defend itself?” trembled on
tlie lips of every lover of mankind. The North, filled
with intelligence and wealth, products of liberty, mar
shalled her hosts and asked only for a leader.
From civil life a man, silent, thoughtful, poised, and
calm, stepped forth, and with the lips of victory voiced
the nation’s first and last demand : “ Unconditional
and immediate surrender. ” From that moment the end
was known. That utterance was the real declaration
of real war, and in accordance with the dramatic unities
of mighty events, the great soldier who made it received
the final sword of the rebellion. The soldiers of therepublic were not seekers after vulgar glory ; they were
W
�(7)
not animated by the hope of plunder or the love of
conquest. They fought to preserve the homestead of
liberty, and that their children might have peace. They
were the defenders of humanity, the destroyers of pre
judice, the breakers of chains, and in the name of the
future they saluted the monsters of their time. They
finished what the soldiers of the Revolution commenced.
They relighted the torch that fell from their august
hands, and filled the world again with light. They
blotted from the statute-books the laws that had been
passed by hypocrites at the instigation of robbers, and
tore with indignant hands from the Constitution that
infamous clause that made men the catchers of their
fellow-men. They made it possible for judges to be
just and statesmen to be human. They broke the
shackles from the limbs of slaves, from the souls of
masters, and from the Northern brain. They kept our
country on the map of the world and our flag in heaven.
They rolled the stone from the sepulchre of progress,
and found therein two angels clad in shining gar
ments—nationality and liberty.
The soldiers were the saviours of the nation. They
were the liberators of man. In writing the proclama
tion of emancipation, Lincoln, greatest of our mighty
dead, whose memory is as gentle as the summer air
when reapers sing ’mid gathered sheaves, copied with
the pen what Grant and his brave comrades wrote with
swords.
Grander than the Greek, nobler than the Roman,
the soldiers of the Republic, with patriotism as shore
less as the air, battled for the rights of others, for the
nobility of labour; fought that mothers might own
their babes, that arrogant idleness should not scar the
back of patient toil, that our country should not be a
�(8)
many-headed monster, made of warring States, but a
nation—sovereign, great and free.
Blood was water, money was leaves, and life was
only common air, until one flag floated over the Repub
lic without a master and without a slave. Then was
asked the question: Will a free people tax themselves
to pay the nation’s debt ? The soldiers went home to
their waiting wives, to their glad children, and to the
girls they loved. They went back to the fields, the
shops, and mines. They had not been demoralized.
They had been ennobled. They were as honest in
peace as they were brave in war. Mocking at poverty,
laughing at reverses, they made a friend of toil. They
said, “We saved the nation’s life, and what is life with
out honour ? ” They worked and wrought with all of
labour’s royal sons that every pledge the nation gave
might be redeemed. And their great leader, having
put a shining band of friendship, a girdle of clasped
and happy hands around the globe, comes home and
finds that every promise made in war has now the ring
and gleam of gold.
And now let us drink to the volunteers. To those
who sleep in unknown, sunken graves ; whose names
are only in the hearts of those they loved and left, of
those who often hear in happy dreams the footsteps of
return. Let us drink to those who died while lipless
famine mocked. One to all the maimed whose scars
give modesty a tongue, and all who dared and gave to
chance the care, the keeping of their lives ; to all the
dead ; to Sherman, to Sheridan, and to Grant, the
foremost soldier of the world ; and last, to Lincoln,
whose loving life, like a bow of peace, spans and
arches all the clouds of war.
�1776.
^Declaration of Jnbepenbence.
ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO OUR FATHERS RETIRED
THE GODS FROM POLITICS.
T has been a favourite idea with me that our fore
fathers were educated by Nature; that they grew
grand as the continent upon which they landed ; that
the great rivers—the wide plains—the splendid lakes
—the lonely forests—the sublime mountains—that all
these things stole into and became a part of their be
ing, and they grew great as the country in which they
lived. - They began to hate the narrow, contracted
views of Europe. They were educated by their sur
roundings, and every little colony had to be, to a cer
tain extent, a republic. The kings of the old world
endeavoured to parcel out this land to their favourites.
But there were too many Indians. There was too
much courage required for them to take and keep it,
and so men had to come here who were dissatisfied
with the old country—who were dissatisfied with Eng
land, dissatisfied with France, with Germany, with
Ireland, and Holland. The king’s favourites stayed at
home. Men came here for liberty, and on account of
certain principles they entertained and held dearer than
life. And they were willing to work, willing to fell the
forests, to fight the savages, willing to go through all
I
�10)
the hardships, perils and dangers of a new country, of
a new land; and the consequence was that our country
was settled by brave and adventurous spirits, by men
who had opinions of their own and were willing to live
in the wild forests for the sake of expressing those
opinions, even if they expressed them only to trees,
rocks, and savage men. The best blood of the old
world came to the new.
These grand men were enthusiasts ; and the world
has only been raised by enthusiasts. In every country
there have been a few who have given a national aspir
ation to the people. The enthusiasts of 1776 were the
builders and framers of this great and splendid govern
ment ; and they were the men who saw, although
others did not, the golden fringe of the mantle of glory
that will finally cover this world. They knew, they
felt, they believed that they would give a new constel
lation to the political heavens—that they would make
the Americans a grand people—grand as the continent
on which they lived. .
Only a few days ago I stood in Independence Hall
—in that little room where was signed the immortal
paper, A little room, like any other; and it did not
seem possible that from that room went forth ideas,
like cherubim and seraphim, spreading their wings
over a continent, and touching as with holy fire, the
hearts of men.
In a few minutes I was in the park, where are gath
ered the accomplishments of a century. Our fathers
never dreamed of the things I saw. There were hun
dreds of locomotives, with their nerves of steel and
breath of flame—every kind of machine, with whirling
wheels and curious cogs and cranks, and the myriad
thoughts of men that have been wrought in iron, brass
�(11)
and steel. And going out from- one little building
were wires in the air, stretching to every civilized na
tion, and they could send a shining messenger in a
moment to any part of the world, and it would go
sweeping under the waves of the sea with thoughts
and words within its glowing heart. I saw all that
had been achieved by this nation, and I wished that
the signers of the Declaration—the soldiers of the
revolution—could see what a century of freedom has
produced. I wished they could see the fields we culti
vate—the rivers we navigate—the railroads running
over the Alleghanies, far into what was then the un
known forest—on over the broad prairies—on over
the vast plains—away over the mountains of the W est,
to the Golden Gate of the Pacific.
What has made this country- ? I say again, liberty
and labour. What would we be without labour ? I
want every farmer, when ploughing the rustling corn
of June—while mowing in the perfumed fields—to feel
that he is adding to the wealth and glory of the United
States. I want every mechanic—every man of toil, to
know and feel that he is keeping the cars running, the
telegraph wires in the air; that he is making the statues
and painting the pictures; that he is writing and print
ing the books ; that he is helping to fill the world with
honour, with happiness, with love and law.
Our country is founded upon the dignity of labour—
upon the equality of man. Ours is the first real repub
lic in the history of the world. Beneath our flag the
people are free. We have retired the gods from po
litics. We have found that man is the only source of
political power, and that the governed should govern.
We have disfranchised the aristocrats of the air, and
have given one country to mankind.
�Ht a brother's (Brave»
HON. EBON C. INGERSOLL, DIED AT WASHINGTON,
JUNE 2ND, 1879.
Y FRIENDS : I am going to do that which
the dead often promised he would do for me.
The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend,
died where manhood’s morning almost touches noon,
and while the shadows still were falling toward the
West. He had not passed on life’s highway the stone
that marks the highest point, but being weary for a
moment he laid down by the wayside, and, using his
burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that
kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with
life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence
and pathetic dust. Yet, after all, it may be best; just
in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while
eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the
unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar—
a sunken ship. For, whether in mid-sea or among
the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck must mark
at last the end of each and all. And every life, no
matter if its every hour is rich with love, and every
moment jewelled with a joy, will, at its close, become
a tragedy, as sad, and deep, and dark as can be woven
of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This
brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak
and rock, but in the sunshine he was vine and flower.
M
�(13)
He was the friend of all heroic souls. He climbed
the heights and left all superstitions far below, while
on his forehead fell the golden dawning of a grander
day. He loved the beautiful, and was with colour,
form and music touched to tears. He sided with the
weak, and with a willing hand gave alms ; with loyal
heart and with the purest mind he faithfully discharged
all public trusts. He was a worshipper of liberty and
a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have
heard him quote the words : “ For justice all place a
temple, and all season summer.” He believed that
happiness was the only good, reason the only torch,
justice the only worshipper, humanity the only religion,
and love the priest.
He added to the sum of human joy; and were every
one for whom he did some loving service to bring a
blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath
a wilderness of flowers. Life is a narrow vale between
the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We
strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry
aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing
cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead
there comes no word ; but in the night of death hope
sees a star, and listening love hears the rustle of a wing.
He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the ap
proach of death for the return of health, whispered’with
his latest breath, “ I am better now.” Let us believe,
in spite of doubts and dogmas and fears and tears, that
these dear words are true of all the countless dead.
And now, to you, who have been chosen from among
the many men he loved to do the last sad office for the
dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain
our love. There was—there is—no gentler, stronger,
manlier man.
�Whence and Whither,
SPOKEN AT THE GRAVE OF A CHILD.
JAN. 1882.
/T Y FRIENDS : I know how vain it is to gild a
' X grief with words, and yet I wish to take from
every grave its fear. Here, in this world, where life
and death' are equal kings, all should be brave enough
to meet what all the dead have met. The future has
been filled with fear, stained and polluted by the heart
less past. From the wondrous tree of life the buds
fall with ripened fruit, and in the common bed of earth
the patriarchs and babes sleep side by side. Why
should we fear that which will come to all that is ? We
cannot tell; we do not know which is the greater bless
ing—life or death. We cannot say that death is not a
good. We do not know whether the grave is the end
of this life or the door of another, or whether the night
here is not somewhere else a dawn. Neither can we
tell which is the more fortunate—the child dying in its
mother’s arms, before its lips have learned to form a
word, or he who journeys all the length of life’s uneven
road, painfully taking the last slow steps with staff and
crutch.
Every cradle asks us, “ Whence ? ” and every coffin,
“ Whither ? ” The poor barbarian, weeping above his
dead, can answer these questions as intelligently and
K
�(15)
satisfactorily as the robed priest of the most authentic
creed. The tearful ignorance of the one is just as con
soling as the learned and unmeaning words of the
other. No man, standing where the horizon of life
has touched a grave, has any right to prophesy a future
filled with pain and tears. It may be that death gives
all there is of worth to life. If those we press and
strain against our hearts could never die, perhaps that
love would wither from the earth. May be this com
mon fate treads from out the paths between our hearts
the weeds of selfishness and hate, and I had rather live
and love where death is king than have eternal life
where love is not. Another life is naught unless we
know and love again the ones who love us here.
They who’stand here with breaking hearts around
this little grave need have no fear. The larger and
nobler faith in all that is and is to be, tells us that
death, even at its worst, is only perfect rest. We
know that through the common wants of life—the
needs and duties of each hour—their grief will lessen
day by day, until this grave will be to them a place of
rest and peace—almost of joy. There is for them this
consolation: the dead do not suffer. If they live again,
their lives will surely be as good as ours.
We have no fear. We are all children of the same
mother, and the same fate awaits us all. We, too,
have our religion, and it is this: Help for the living—
Hope for the dead.
�Ube ZJlbost IRematbable discourses
ot tbe da&.
BY COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL,
America's Greatest Orator.
MISTAKES OF MOSES....................................... 3^
GODS; PAST AND PRESENT........................... id
GREAT INFIDELS..................................................id
SALVATION; HERE AND HEREAFTER....id
SPIRIT OF THE AGE, or, modern thinkers...id
COL. INGERSOLL AT HOME........................... id
REPLY TO TALMAGE......................................... 2d
PROSE POEMS......................................................... 2d
HELL........................................................................... 2d
------------------ —COO----------------—
Also a limited number of Copies, Handsome
Edition, 64 pages, Price Sixpence.
Ube (Sboets,
FUwo studies in ^Biblical Rumour,
BY
D. M. BENNETT,
Editor of the New-York “ Truthseeker.”
THE GREAT WRESTLING MATCH.............. id
DIVINE PYROTECHNY...................................... id
'•
fo.
TRADE SUPPLIED BY
JOHN KEYWOOD,
Ridgefield & Deansgate, Manchester.
11 Paternoster Buildpngs, London.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Prose poems : spoken on memorable occasions
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: Manchester; London
Collation: 15 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: This ed. not listed by Stein, but cf his Item 314. Contents: The past rises before me like a dream (extract from a speech delivered at the Soldiers' Reunion at Indianapolis, 1876) -- The Volunteer soldiers of the Union army (response to the toast at the grand banquet of the re-union of the Army of the Tennessee, Chicago, Nov. 13th, 1878) -- 1776 Declaration of Independence --At a brother's grave (Hon. Eron C. Ingersoll. Died at Washington, June 2nd, 1879) -- Whence and whither (spoken at the grave of a child. Jan. 1882). Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
John Heywood, Ridgefield & Deansgate
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[n.d.]
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
N386
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Prose poems : spoken on memorable occasions), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
NSS
Poetry
Speeches
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/57b8631eda1101715a603562d0b80ebe.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=b0X1MZCLPxpksZFuTNChmLjoU3%7E5WPwVj81fE5bHNKgIJ5kAx2MjkMsFtqP6W2SIbmC3HLlrPqEmQ1OCszhWeFKZKytr9pt0IMl5rdQUE2RQyqlD-EmtamHlq5OUefwnMbIAIcVtszatZpaFXz5Wh5HClRgJmTggvctytXdDn78ykmIwMUgkj429tRX1wVbq87ExIUPLeVPO8c4qUn6oBkHqUcErz41nonZB%7ET-l1Ua4ot7RJ-0Rlp8P0QgRGvADlzOYeG9qEJUz96-G0f3VbJriL3wSjWngrOdCx4M-UIIyKynS-488pekCqc7NwsfWDUOuIReZjbLe0-lw8DQfkg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
3347584ee8ad2dcdecbc8488b010f8cf
PDF Text
Text
38
[July
ci ^3
Shelley
as a
Lyric Poet.1
OO many biographies, records, comments, criticisms, of Shelley
0 have lately appeared that I take for granted that all who hear
me have some general acquaintance with the facts of his life.
Of the biographies none, perhaps, is more interesting than the
short work by Mr. J. A. Symonds, which has lately been published
as one of the series edited by Mr. Morley, ‘ English Men of Letters.’
That work has all the charm which intense admiration of its subject,
set forth in a glowing style, can lend it. Those who in the main
hold with Mr. Symonds, and are at one with him in his funda
mental estimate ot things, will no doubt find his work highly attrac
tive. Those, on the other hand, who see in Shelley’s character
many things which they cannot admire, and in the theories that
moulded it much which is deeply repulsive, will find Mr. Symonds’s
work a less satisfactory guide than they could have wished. Of
the many comments and criticisms on Shelley’s character and poetry
two of the most substantial and rational are, the essay by Mr. R. H.
Hutton, and that by the late Mr. Walter Bagehot. To these two
friends Shelley, it would appear, had been one of the attractions of
their youth, and in their riper years each has given his mature
estimate of Shelley’s poetry in its whole substance and tendency.
We all admire that which we agree with; and nowhere have I found
on this subject thoughts which seem tome so adequate and so helpful
as those contained in these two essays, none which give such insight
into Shelley's abnormal character and into the secret springs of his
inspiration. Of the benefit of these thoughts I have freely availed
myself, whenever they seemed to throw light on the subject of this
lecture.
The effort to enter into the meaning of Shelley’s poetry is not
altogether a painless one. Some may ask, Why should it be painful ?
Cannot you enjoy his poems merely in an aesthetic way, take the
marvel of their aerial movement and the magic of their melody,
without scrutinising too closely their meaning or moral import?
This, I suppose, most of my hearers could do for themselves, without
any comment of mine. Such a mere surface, dilettante way of
treating the subject would be useless in itself, and altogether un
worthy of this place. All true literature, all genuine poetry, is the
direct outcome, the condensed essence, of actual life and thought.
Lyric poetry for the most part is—Shelley's especially was—the
vivid expression of personal experience.
It is only as poetry
is founded on reality that it has any solid value ; otherwise it is
1 A Lecture delivered in the theatre of the Museum, Oxford.
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
39
worthless. Before, then, attempting to understand Shelley's lyrics I
must ask what was the reality out of which they came—that is, what
manner of man Shelley was, what were his ruling views of life, along
what lines did his thoughts move ?
Those who knew Shelley best speak of the sweetness and refine
ment of his nature, of his lofty disinterestedness, his unworldliness.
They even speak of something like heroic self-forgetfulness. These
things we can in sort believe, for there are in his writings many
traits that look like those qualities. And yet one receives with some
decided reserve the high eulogies of his friends ; for we feel that
these were not generally men whose moral estimates of things we
would entirely accept, and his life contained things that seem
strangely at variance with such qualities as they attribute to him.
When Byron speaks of his purity of mind we cannot but doubt whether
Byron was a good judge of purity. We must, moreover, on the evidence
'of Shelley’s own works demur; for there runs through his poems
a painful taint of supersubtilised impurity, of aweless shamelessness,
which we never can believe came from a mind truly pure. A pene
trating taint it is, which has evilly affected many of the higher minds
who admire him, in a way which Byron's own more commonplace
licentiousness never could have done.
One of his biographers has said that in no man was the moral
sense ever more completely developed than in Shelley, in none was
the perception of right and wrong more acute. I rather think that
the late Mr. Bagehot was nearer the mark when he asserted that in
Shelley the conscience never had been revealed—that he was almost
entirely without conscience. Moral susceptibilities and impulses,
keen and refined, he had. He was inspired with an enthusiasm of
humanity after a kind; hated to see pain in others, and would
willingly relieve it; hated oppression, and stormed against it, but
then he regarded all rule and authority as oppression. He felt for
the poor and the suffering, and tried to help them, and willingly
would have shared with all men the vision of good which he sought
for himself. But these passionate impulses are something very dif
ferent from conscience. Conscience first reveals itself when we become
aware of the strife between a lower and a higher nature within us—
a law of the flesh warring against the law of the mind. And it is out
of this experience that moral religion is born, the higher law rather
leading up and linking us to One whom that law represents. As
Canon Mozely has said, ‘ it is an introspection on which all religion
is built—man going into himself and seeing the struggle within
him ; and thence getting self-knowledge, and thence the knowledge
of God.’ Of this double nature, this inward strife between flesh and
spirit, Shelley knew nothing. He was altogether a child of impulse
—of impulse, one, total, all-absorbing. And the impulse that came
to him he followed whithersoever it went, without questioning either
himself or it. He was pre-eminently roZs ttu6c<tlv aKoXovOyriKos,
and you know that Aristotle tells us that such an one is no fit judge
�40
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
[j^y
of moral truth. But this peculiarity, which made him so little fitted
to guide either his own life or that of others, tended, on the other
hand, very powerfully to make him pre-eminently a lyric poet. How
it fitted him for this we shall presently see. But abandonment to
impulse, however much it may contribute to lyrical inspiration, is a
poor guide to conduct; and a poet s conduct in life, of whatever kind
it be, quickly reacts on his poetry. It was so with Shelley.
It is painful to recall the unhappy incidents, but? we cannot
understand his poetry if we forget them. ‘ Strongly moralised,’ Mr.
Symonds tells us, his boyhood was ; but of a strange—I might say,
an unhuman—type the morality must have been which allowed
some of the chief acts of his life. His father was no doubt a com
monplace and worldly-minded squire, wholly unsympathetic with his
dreamy son; but this cannot justify the son’s unfilial and irreverent
conduct towards his parent, going so far as to curse him for the
amusement of coarse Eton companions. Nobility of nature he may
have had, but it was such nobility as allowed him, in order to hurl
defiance at authority, to start atheist at Eton, and to do the same
more boldly at Oxford, with what result you know. It allowed him
to engage the heart of a simple and artless girl, who entrusted her
life in his keeping, and then after two or three years to abandon
her and her child—for no better reason, it would seem, than that
she cared too little for her baby, and had an unpleasant sister, who
was an offence to Shelley. It allowed him first to insult the religious
sense of his fellow men by preaching the wildest atheism, then in the
poem ‘ Laon and Cythna,’ which he intended to be his gospel for the
world, to outrage the deepest instincts of our nature by introducing a
most horrible and unnatural incident. A moral taint there is in this,
which has left its trail in many of his after poems. The furies of
the sad tragedy of Harriet Westbrook haunted him till the close,
and drew forth some strains of weird agony; but even in these
there is no manly repentance, no self-reproach that is true and
human-hearted.
After his second marriage he never repeated the former offence,
but many a strain in his later poems, as in ‘ Epipsychidion,’ and in
his latest lyrics, proves that constancy of affection was not in him, nor
reckoned by him among the virtues. Idolators of Shelley will, I know,
reply, ‘Tou judge Shelley by the conventional morality of the present
day, and, judging him by this standard, of course you harshly con
demn him. But it was against these very conventions which you call
morality that Shelley s whole life was a protest. He was the prophet
of something truer or better than this.’ To this I answer that
Shelley’s revolt was not against the conventional morality of his own
time, but against the fundamental morality of all time. Had he
merely cried out against the stifling political atmosphere and the
dry, dead orthodoxy of the Regency and the reign of George IV., and
longed for some ampler air, freer and more life-giving, one could well
have understood him, even sympathised with him. But he rebelled
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
41
not against the limitations and corruptions of his own day, but
against the moral verities which two thousand years have made good,
and which have been tested and approved not only by eighteen
Christian centuries, but no less by the wisdom of Virgil and Cicero, of
Aristotle and Sophocles. Shelley may be the prophet of a new morality,
but it is one which never can be realised till moral law has been ob
literated from the universe and conscience from the heart of man.
A nature which was capable of the things I have alluded to,
whatever other traits of nobility it may have had, must have been
traversed by some strange deep flaw, marred by some radical inward
defect. In some of his gifts and impulses he was more,—in other
things essential to goodness, he was far less,—than other men ; a
fully developed man he certainly was not. I am inclined to believe
that, for all his noble impulses and aims, he was in some way defi
cient in rational and moral sanity. Alanv of you will remember
Hazlitt’s somewhat cynical description of him. Yet, to judge by
his writings, it looks like truth. He had ‘ a fire in his eye, a fever
in his blood, a maggot in his brain, a hectic flutter in his speech,
which mark out the philosophic fanatic.
He is sanguine-complexioned and shrill-voiced.’ This is just the outward appearance
we could fancy for his inward temperament. What was that tem
perament ?
He was entirely a child of impulse, lived and longed for highstrung, intense emotion—simple, all-absorbing, all-penetrating emo
tion, going straight on in one direction to its object, hating and
resenting whatever opposed its progress thitherward. The object
which he longed for was some abstract intellectualised spirit of beauty
and loveliness, which should thrill his spirit continually with delicious
shocks of emotion.
Ibis yearning, panting desire is expressed by him in a thousand
forms and figures throughout his poetry. Again and again the
refrain recurs—
I pant for the music which is Divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink the spirit of that sweet sound ;
More, 0 more ! I am thirsting yet;
It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart, to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.
He sought not mere sensuous enjoyment, like Keats, but keen
intellectual and emotional delight—the mental thrill, the glow of
soul, the ‘ tingling of the nerves,’ that accompany transcendental
�42
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
[July
rapture. His hungry craving was for intellectual beauty, and the
delight it yields ; if not that, then for horror, anything to thrill the
nerves, though it should curdle the blood and make the flesh creep.
Sometimes for a moment this perfect abstract loveliness would seem
to have embodied itself in some creature of flesh and blood ; but only
for a moment would the sight soothe him—the sympathy would cease,
the glow of heart would die down—and he would pass on in the hot,
insatiable pursuit of new rapture. ‘ There is no rest for us,’ says the
great preacher, 4 save in quietness, confidence, and affection.’ This
was not what Shelley sought, but something very different from this.
The pursuit of abstract ideal beauty was one form which his
hungry, insatiable desire took. Another passion that possessed him
was the longing to pierce to the very heart the mystery of existence.
It has been said that before an insoluble mystery, clearly seen to be
insoluble, the soul bows down and is at rest, as before an ascertained
truth. Shelley knew nothing of this. Before nothing would his soul
bow down. Every veil, however sacred, he would rend, pierce the
inner shrine of being, and force it to give up its secret. There is in
him a profane audacity, an utter awelessness. Intellectual AZSws
was to him unknown. Beverence was to him another word for hated
superstition. Nothing was to him inviolate. All the natural reserves
he would break down. Heavenward, he would pierce to the heart of
the universe and lay it bare; manward, he would annihilate all the
precincts of personality. Every soul should be free to mingle with
any other, as so many raindrops do. In his own words,
The fountains of our deepest life shall be
Confused in passion’s golden purity.
However fine the language in which such feelings may clothe theme
selves, in truth they are wholly vile ; there is no horror of shameless
ness which they may not generate. Yet this is what comes of the
unbridled desire for ‘ tingling pulses,’ quivering, panting, fainting
sensibility, which Shelley everywhere makes the supreme happiness.
It issues in awelessness, irreverence, and what some one has called
4 moral nudity.’
These two impulses, both combined with another passion, he had
—the passion for reforming the world. He had a real, benevolent
desire to impart to all men the peculiar good he sought for himself
—a life of free, unimpeded impulse, of passionate, unobstructed
desire. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity—these of course; but some
thing far beyond these—absolute Perfection, as he conceived it, he
believed to be within every man’s reach. Attainable, if only all the
growths of history could be swept away, all authority and govern
ment, all religion, all law, custom, nationality, everything that
limits and restrains, and if every man were left open to the uncon
trolled expansion of himself and his impulses. The end of this
process of making a clean sweep of all that is, and beginning afresh,
would be that family, social ranks, government, worship, would dis
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
43
appear, and then man would be king over himself, and wise, gentle,
just, and good. Such was his temperament, the original emotional
basis of Shelley s nature ; such, too, some of the chief aims towards
which this temperament impelled him. And certainly these aims do
make one think of the ‘ maggot in his brain.’ But a temperament of
this kind, whatever aims it turned to, was eminently and essentially
lyrical. Those thrills of soul, those tingling nerves, those rapturous glows
of feeling, are the very substance out of which high lyrics are woven.
The insatiable craving to pierce the mystery, of course, drove
Shelley to philosophy for instruments to pierce it with. During his
brief life he was a follower of three distinct schools of thought. At
first he began with the philosophy of the senses, was a materialist,
adopting Lucretius as his master and holding that atoms are the
only realities, with perhaps a pervading life of nature to mould
them—that from atoms all things come, to atoms return. Yet even
over this dreary creed, without spirit, immortality, or God, he shouted
a jubilant ‘ Eureka,' as though it were some new glad tidings.
hrom this he passed into the school of Hume—got rid of matter,
the dull clods of earth, denied both matter and mind, and held that
these were nothing but impressions, with no substance behind them.
This was liker Shelley’s cast of mind than materialism. Not only
dull clods of matter, but personality, the ‘ I ’ and the ‘ thou,’ were by
this creed eliminated, and that exactly suited Shelley’s way of
thought. It gave him a phantom world.
brom Hume he went on to Plato, and in him found still more
congenial nutriment. The solid, fixed entities—matter and mind —
he could still deny, while he was led on to believe in eternal arche
types behind all phenomena, as the only realities. These Platonic
ideas attracted his abstract intellect and imagination, and are often
alluded to in his later poems, as in ‘ Adonais.’ Out of this philosophy
it is probable that he got the only object of worship which he ever
acknowledged, the Spirit of Beauty. Plato’s idea of beauty changed into
a spirit, but without will, without morality, in his own words :—
That Light whose smile kindles the universe,
That Beauty in which all things work and move,
That Benediction which the eclipsing curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
Which, through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast and earth and air and sea,
Bums bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst.
To the moral and religious truths which are the backbone of
Plato’s thought lie never attained. Shelley’s thought never had any
backbone. Each of these successively adopted philosophies entered
into and coloured the successive stages of Shelley’s poetry; but
through them all his intellect and imagination remained unchanged.
W hat was the nature of that intellect ? It was wholly akin and
�44
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
-juiv
adapted to the temperament I have described as his. Imnatient of
solid substances, inaccessible to many kinds of truth, inappreciative of
solid, concrete facts, it was quick and subtle to seize the evanescent
hues of things, the delicate aromas which are too fine for ordinary
perceptions. His intellect waited on his temperament, and, so to
speak, did its will—caught up one by one the warm emotions as they
were flung off, and worked them up into the most exquisite abstrac
tions. The rush of throbbing pulsations supplied the materials for
his keen-edged thought to work on, and these it did mould into the
rarest, most beautiful shapes. This his mind was busv doing all his
life long. The real world, existence as it is to other minds, he re
coiled from—shrank from the dull, gross earth which we see around
us—nor less from the unseen world of Righteous Law and Will
which we apprehend above us. The solid earth he did not care for.
Heaven—a moral heaven—there was that in him which would not
believe in. So, as Mr. Hutton has said, his mind made for itself a
dwelling-place midway between the two, equally remote from both.
some interstellar region, some cold, clear place—
Pinnacled dim in the intense inane—
which he peopled with ideal shapes and abstractions, wonderful or weird,
beautiful or fantastic, all woven out of his own dreaming phantasy.
This was the world in which he was at home; he was not at home
with any reality known to other men. No real human characters
appear in his poetry; his own pulsations, desires, aspirations, sup
plied the place of these. Hardly any actual human feeling is in
them; only some phase of evanescent emotion, or the shadow of it, is
seized—not even the flower of human feeling, but the bloom of the
flower or the dream of the bloom. A real landscape he has seldom
described, only his own impression of it, or some momentarv gleam,
some tender light, that has fleeted vanishingly over earth and sea he
has caught. Nature he used mainly to cull from it some of its most
delicate tints, some faint hues of the dawn or the sunset clouds, to
weave in and colour the web of his abstract dream. So entirely at
home is he in this abstract shadowv world of his own making, that
when he would describe common visible things he does so bv likening
them to those phantoms of the brain, as though with these last alone
he was familiar. A irgil likens the ghosts bv the banks of Styx to
falling leaves—
Quani mulxa in silvis auciumni frigore prime
Lapsa cadunx folia.
Shelley likens falling leaves to ghosts.
leaves, he says—
Before the wind the dead
Are driven. like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.
Others have compared thought to a breeze. With Shelley the
breeze is like thought; the pilot spirit of the blast, he savs—
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
45
Wakens the leaves and waves, ere it hath past,
To such brief unison as on the brain
One tone which never can recur has cast
One accent, never to return again.
We see thus that nature as it actually exists has little place in
Shelley’s poetry. And man, as he really is, may be said to have no
place at all.
Neither is the world of moral or spiritual truth there—not the
living laws by which the world is governed—no presence of a Sove
reign Will, no all-wise Personality, behind the fleeting shows of
time. The abstract world which his imagination dwelt in is a cold,
weird, unearthly, inhuman place, peopled with shapes which we may
wonder at, but cannot love. When we first encounter these we are
fain to exclaim, Earth we know, and Heaven we know, but who and
what are ye ? Ye belong neither to things human nor to things
divine. After a very brief sojourn in Shelley’s ideal world, with its
pale abstractions, most men are ready to say with another poet, after
a voyage among the stars—
Then back to earth, the dear green earth;
Whole ages though I here should roam,
The world for my remarks and me
Would not a whit the better be :
I’ve left my heart at home.
In that dear green earth, and the men who have lived or still
live on it, in their human hopes and fears, in their faiths and aspi
rations, lies the truest field for the highest imagination to work
in. That I believe to be the haunt and main region for the songs
of the greatest poets. The real is the true world for a great poet,
but it was not Shelley’s world.
Yet Shelley, while the imaginative mood was on him, felt this
ideal world of his as real as most men feel the solid earth, and
through the pallid lips of its phantom people and dim abstractions he
pours as warm a flood of emotion as ever poet did through the
rosiest lips and brightest eyes of earth-born creatures. Not more real
to Burns were his bonny Jean and his Highland Mary, than to
Shelley were the visions of Asia and Panthea, and the Lady of the Sen
sitive Plant, while he gazed on them. And when his affections did
light, not on these abstractions, but on creatures of flesh and blood,
yet so penetrated was his thought with his own idealism, that he
lifted them up from earth into that rarefied atmosphere, and de
scribed them in the same style of imagery and language as that with
which he clothes the phantasms of his mind. Thus it will be seen
that it was a narrow and limited tract over which Shelley’s imagina
tion ranged—that it took little or no note of reality, and that bound
less as was its fertility and power of resource within its own chosen
circle, yet the widest realm of mere brain creation must be thin and
�46
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
[juiy
small compared with existing reality both in the seen and the
unseen worlds.
We can now see the reason why Shelley’s long poems are such
absolute failures, his short lyrics so strangely succeed. Mere thrills
of soul were weak as connecting bonds for long poems.
Dis
tilled essences and personified qualities were poor material out of
which to build up great works. These things could give neither
unity, nor motive power, • nor human interest to long poems.
Hence the incoherence which all but a few devoted admirers find
in Shelley’s long poems, -despite their grand passages and their splen
did imagery. In fact, if the long poems were to be broken up and
thrown into a heap, and the lyric portions riddled out of them and
preserved, the world would lose nothing, and would get rid of not a
little offensive stuff. An exception to this judgment is generally
made in favour of the ‘ Cenci ’; but that tragedy turns on an
incident so repulsive that, notwithstanding its acknowedged power,
it can hardly give pleasure to any healthy mind.
On the other hand, single thrills of rapture, which are such in
sufficient stuff to make long poems out of, supply the very inspiration
for the true lyric. It is this predominance of emotion, so unhappy to
himself, which made Shelley the lyrist that he was. When he sings
his lyric strains, whatever is most unpleasant in him is softened
down, if it does not wholly disappear. Whatever is most unique and
excellent in him comes out at its best—his eye for abstract beauty,
the subtlety of his thought, the rush of bis eager pursuing de
sire, the splendour of his imagery, the delicate rhythm, the
matchless music. These lyrics are gales of melody blown from a
far-off region, that looks fair in the distance. Perhaps those enjoy
them most who do not inquire too closely what is the nature of that
land, or know too exactly the theories and views of life of which
these songs are the effluence; for if we come too near we might
find that there was poison in the air. Many a one has read those
lyrics and felt their fascination without thought of the unhappy
experience out of which they have come. They understood ‘ a
beauty in the words, but not the words.’ I doubt whether any one
after very early youth, any one who has known the realities of life,
can continue to take Shelley’s best songs to heart, as he can those of
Shakespeare or the best of Burns. For, however we may continue to
wonder at the genius that is in them, no healthy mind will find in
them the expression of its truest and best thoughts. Other lyric
poets, it has been said, sing of what they feel. Shelley in his lyrics
sings of what he wants to feel. The thrills of desire, the gushes of
emotion, are all straining after something seen afar but unat
tained, something distant or future ; or they are passionate despair,
utter despondency for something hopelessly gone. Yet it must be
owned that those bursts of passionate desire after ideal beauty set
our pulses a-throbbing with a strange vibration even when we do
not really sympathise with them. Even his desolate wails make
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
4.7
those seem for a moment to share his despair who do not really
share it. Such is the charm of his impassioned eloquence and the
witchery of his music.
Let us turn now to look at some of his lyrics in detail.
The earliest of them, those of 1814, were written while Shelley
was under the depressing spell of materialistic belief, and at the time
when he was abandoning’ poor Harriet Wbstbrook. For a time he
lived under the spell of that ghastly faith, hugging it, yet hating it;
and its progeny are seen in the lyrics of that time, such as ‘ Death,’
e Mutability,’ ‘ Lines in a Country Churchyard.’ These have a cold,
clammy feel. They are full of ‘ wormy horrors,’ as though the poet
were one
who had made his bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black Death
Keeps record of the trophies •won from Life,
as though by dwelling amid these things he had hoped to force some
lone ghost
to render up the tale
Of what we are.
And what does it all come to ?—what is the lesson he reads there ?__
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call life. . . . Behind lurk Fear
And Hope, twin destinies, who ever weave
Their shadows o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
That is all that the belief in mere matter taught Shelley, or ever
will teach anyone.
As he passed on, the clayey, clammy sensation is less present.
Even Hume’s impressions are better than mere dust, and the Platonic
ideas are better than Hume’s impressions. When he came under
the influence of Plato his doctrine of ideas, as eternal existences
and the only realities, exercised over Shelley the charm it always
has had for imaginative minds; and it furnished him with a form
under which he figured to himself his favourite belief in the Spirit
of Love and Beauty as the animating spirit of the universe—that
for which the human soul pants. It is the passion for this ideal
which leads Alastor through his long wanderings to die at last in the
Caucasian wilderness without attaining it. It is this which he apos
trophises in the ‘ Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,’ as the power which
consecrates all it shines on, as the awful loveliness to which he looks
to free this world from its dark slavery. It is this vision which
reappears in its highest form in ‘Prometheus Unbound,’ the greatest
and most attractive of all Shelley’s longer poems. That drama is
from beginning to end a great lyrical poem, or I should rather
say a congeries of lyrics, in which perhaps more than anywhere
else Shelley’s lyrical power has reached its highest flight. The
whole poem is exalted by a grand pervading idea, one which in
�48
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
[July
its truest and deepest form is the grandest we can conceive—the
idea of the ultimate renovation of man and the world. And although
the powers and processes and personified abstractions which Shelley
invoked to effect this end are ludicrously inadequate, as irrational as
it would be to try to build a solid house out of shadows and moon
beams, yet the end in view does impart to the poem something of
its own elevation. Prometheus, the representative of suffering and
struggling humanity, is to be redeemed and perfected by union with
Asia, who is the ideal of beauty, the light of life, the spirit of love.
To this spirit Shelley looked to rid the world of all its evil and
bring in the diviner day. The lyric poetry, which is exquisite
throughout, perhaps culminates in the well-known exquisite song in
which Panthea, one of the nymphs, hails her sister Asia, as
Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between them;
And thy smiles, before they dwindle,
Make the cold air fire ; then screen them
In those looks, where whoso gazes
Faints, entangled in their mazes.
Child of Light! thy limbs are burning
Through the vest which seems to hide them;
As the radiant lines of morning
Through the clouds, ere they divide them ;
And this atmosphere divinest
Shrouds thee wheresoe’er thou shinest.
Lamp of Earth 1 where’er thou movest
The dim shapes are clad with brightness,
And the souls of whom thou lovest
Walk upon the winds with lightness,
Till they fail, as I am failing,
Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing.
The reply of Asia to this song is hardly less exquisite. Everyone
here will remember it:—
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside the helm, conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing ;
It seems to float ever, for ever,
Upon the many-winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses !
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
49
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music’s most serene dominions,
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar
Without a course, without a star,
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven;
Till through Elysian garden islets
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided :
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,
Harmonising this earth with what we feel above.
In these two lyrics you have Shelley at his highest perfection.
Exquisitely beautiful as they are, they are, however, beautiful as the
mirage is beautiful, and as unsubstantial. There is nothing in the
reality of things answering to Asia. She is not human, she is not
divine. There is nothing moral in her—no will, no power to subdue
evil; only an exquisite essence, a melting loveliness. There is in
her no law, no righteousness ; something to enervate, nothing to
brace the sold. After her you long for one bracing look on the
stern, severe countenance of Duty, of whom another poet sang—
Stern lawgiver I yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know I anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;
Flowers laugh before thee in their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong,
And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.
Perfect as is the workmanship of those lyrics in 4 Prometheus ’
and many another, their excellence is lessened by the material out of
which they are woven being fantastic, not substantial, truth. Few
of them lay hold of real sentiments which are catholic to humanity.
They do not deal with permanent emotions which belong to all men
and are for all time, but appeal rather to minds in a particular stage
of culture, and that not a healthy stage. They are not of such stuff
as life is made of. They will not interest all healthy and truthful
minds in all stages of culture and in all ages. To do this, however,
is, I believe, a note of the highest style of lyric poem.
Another thing to be observed is, that while the imagery of Shelley’s
lyrics is so splendid and the music of their language so magical, both
of these are at that point of over-bloom which is on the verge of decay.
The imagery, for all its splendour, is too ornate, too redundant, too
much overlays the thought, which has not strength enough to uphold
such a weight. Then, as to the music of the words, wonderful as it is,
all but exclusive admirers of Shelley must have felt at times as if the
sound runs away with the sense. In some of the 4 Prometheus’ lyrics
No. 595 (no. cxv.
n. s.)
E
�50
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
[Juiy
the poet, according to Mr. Symonds, seems to have ‘realised the miracle
of making words, detached from meaning, the substance of a new
ethereal music.’ This is, to say the least, a dangerous miracle to
practise. Even Shelley, overbome by the power of melodious words,
would at times seem to approach perilously near the borders of the
unintelligible, not to say the nonsensical. What it comes to, when
adopted as a style, has been seen plainly enough in some of Shelley’s
chief followers in our own day. Cloyed with overloaded imagery, and
satiated almost to sickening with alliterative music, we turn for re
invigoration to poetry that is severe even to baldness.
The ‘ Prometheus Unbound ’ was written in Italy, and during his
four Italian years Shelley’s lyric stream flowed on unremittingly, and
enriched England’s poetry with many lyrics unrivalled in their kind,
and evoked from its language a new power. These lyrics are on the
whole his best poetic work. To go over them in detail would be im
possible, besides being needless. Perhaps his year most prolific in
lyrics was 1820, just two years before his death. Among the products
of this year were, the ‘ Sensitive Plant,’ more than half lyrical, the
‘ Cloud,’ the ‘ Skylark,’ ‘ Love’s Philosophy,’ ‘ Arethusa,’ 4 Hymns
of Pan and Apollo,’ all in his best manner, with many besides these.
About the lyrics of this time two things are noticeable : more of them
are about things of nature than heretofore, and there are several on
Greek subjects.
Of all modem attempts to reinstate Greek subjects I know nothing
equal to these, except perhaps one or two of the Laureate’s happiest
efforts. They take the Greek forms and mythologies, and fill them
with modem thought and spirit. And perhaps this is the only way
to make Greek subjects real and interesting to us; for if we want
the very Greek spirit we had better go to the originals and not to
any reproductions.
You remember how he makes Pan sing—
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come ;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
*
*
*
*
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded with my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and SyIvans, and Fauns,
And the nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend or follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
5i
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven, and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth,
And then I changed my pipings—
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
I pursued a maiden and clasped a weed.
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed :
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
Of the lyrics on natural objects the two supreme ones are the
4 Ode on the West Wind ’ and the 4 Skylark.’ Of this last nothing
need be said. Artistically and poetically it is unique, has a place of
its own in poetry; yet may I be allowed to express a misgiving
about it which I have long felt, and others may feel too ? For all its
beauty,, perhaps one would rather not recall it when hearing the
skylark’s song in the fields on a bright spring morning. The poem is
not in tune with the bird’s song and the feelings it does and ought to
awaken. The rapture with which the strain springs up at first dies
down before the close into Shelley’s ever-haunting morbidity. Who
wishes, when hearing the real skylark, to be told that
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught ?
If personal feeling is to be inwrought into the living powers of
nature, let it be such feeling as is in keeping with the object, ap
propriate to the theme in hand.
Such is that personal invocation with which Shelley closes his
grand 4 Ode to the West Wind,’ written the previous year, 1819—
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :
What if my leaves are fallen like its own !
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit I be thou me, impetuous one !
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ;
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind !
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy ! 0 Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
e
2
�Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
52
[July
This ode ends with some vigour, some hope ; but that is not
usual with Shelley. Everyone must have noticed how almost
habitually his intensest lyrics—those which have started with the
fullest swing of rapture—die down before they close into a wail
of despair. It is as though, when the strong gush of emotion had
spent itself, there was no more behind, nothing to fall back upon, but
blank emptiness and desolation. It is this that makes Shelley’s poetry
so unspeakably sad—sad with a hopeless sorrow that is like none
other. You feel as though he were a wanderer who has lost his way
hopelessly in the wilderness of a blank universe. His cry is, as Mr.
Carlyle long since said, like ‘ the infinite inarticulate wailing of for
saken infants.’ In the wail of his desolation there are many tones—
some wild and weird, some defiant, some full of despondent pathos.
The lines written in ‘ Dejection,’ on the Bay of Naples, in 1818,
are perhaps the most touching of all his wails : the words are so
sweet they seem, by their very sweetness, to lighten the load of heart
loneliness :—
I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown :
I sit upon the sands alone ;
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion.
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas ! I have nor hope, nor health,
Nor peace within, nor calm around,
Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found.
*
*
*
*
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are ;
I would lie down like a tired child,
And weep away this life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and heai’ the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.
Who that reads these sighing lines but must feel for the heart
that breathed them ! Yet how can we be surprised that he should
have felt so desolate ? Every heart needs some real stay. And a
heart so sensitive, a spirit so finely touched, as Shelley’s needs, far
more than unsympathetic and narrow natures, a refuge amid the
storms of life. But he knew of none. His universe was a home
less one, had no centre of repose. His universal essence of love,
�1879]
Shelley as a Lyric Poet.
53
diffused throughout it, contained nothing substantial—no will that
could control and support his own. While a soul owns no law, is
without awe, lives wholly by impulse, what rest, what central peace,
is possible for it ? When the ardours of emotion have died down,
what remains for it but weakness, exhaustion, despair ? The feeling
of his weakness woke in Shelley no contriteness or brokenness of spirit,
no self-abasement, no reverence. Nature was to him really the whole,
and he saw in it nothing but ‘ a revelation of death, a sepulchral
picture, generation after generation disappearing and being heard of
and seen no more.’ He rejected utterly that other ‘ consolatory
revelation which tells us that we are spiritual beings, and have a
spiritual source of life,’ and strength, above and beyond the material
system. Such a belief, or rather no belief, as his can engender
only infinite sadness, infinite despair. And this is the deep under
tone of all Shelley’s poetry.
I have dwelt on his lyrics because they contain little of the offen
sive and nothing of the revolting which here and there obtrudes
itself in the longer poems. And one may speak of these lyrics without
agitating too deeply questions which at present I would rather avoid.
Yet even the lyrics bear some impress of the source whence they
come. Beautiful though they be, they are like those fine pearls
which, we are told, are the products of disease in the parent shell.
All Shelley’s poetry is, as it were, a gale blown from a richly
gifted but unwholesome land ; and the taint, though not so percep
tible in the lyrics, still hangs more or less over many of the finest.
Besides this defect, they are very limited in their range of influ
ence. They cannot reach the hearts of all men. They fascinate only
some of the educated, and that probably only while they are young.
The time comes when these pass out of that peculiar sphere of
thought and find little interest in such poetry. Probably the rare
exquisiteness of their workmanship will always preserve Shelley’s
lyrics, even after the world has lost, as we may hope it will lose,
sympathy with their substance. But better, stronger, more vital
far are those lyrics which lay hold on the permanent, unchanging
emotions of man—those emotions which all healthy natures have felt
and always will feel, and which no new stage of thought or civilisa
tion can ever bury out of sight.
J. C. Shairp.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Shelley as a lyric poet
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Shairp, J.C.
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: p. 38-53 ; 22 cm.
Notes: Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Fraser's Magazine 20 (July 1879). Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country was a general and literary journal published in London from 1830 to 1882, which initially took a strong Tory line in politics.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1879
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
CT43
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Shelley as a lyric poet), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poetry in English
Romantic Poetry
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/6319c02d64ce5075b562a76b25e423fc.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=WtzY6tIHsgoNnjp3mWuYUNIRclPOu%7EHH1jTh38NTpgrA2VeUIYS0eF6vg5GFsIvkA1mG-cYgAoED4Xk%7E62znHWKnzfMyFDZYPgbSEB6w1FI27COaj2EuC5npYTiBObYprC386raHFQ5DCeRYaKBPsAOau0ew0hragL%7ErvrZFXA2qCpXYbiiLQBalAaVALVQ%7ESBZ6cZRgwub10%7EtBVs8CeS7Q3UZyqEnABuCKfDSMvZ%7EdU0O%7E6wXA3imsMQZlHVtFyLv7avCcLwpXVqFLNeVgadkD7194zTLx-y6-K-cm%7EJTVCONYpSYxUWt%7E6DlYOVATlK9FZdU-E0h9RbSItNiSDw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
825ff3ba3bbd17aeeb68bf1744521bda
PDF Text
Text
T
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
“De kortste levensbeschrijvingen zijn die der grootste genieen.
Zij leefden in hun schriften en daarom ging hun privaat en publiek leven onopgemerkt voorbij. Hun grootste bewonderaars gelijken het meest op hen.”
Ook de biographie van Emerson, aan wien wij deze woorden
ontleenen, beslaat slechts enkele bladzijden. Zijn uitwendig leven
was niet rijk aan afwisselingen.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, wiens voorouders in Northumberland
woonden, werd den 25sten Mei 1803 te Boston geboren, waar
zijn vader predikant was. Reeds op achttienjarigen leeftijd ontving hij een academischen graad aan Harvard-college. Na voltooiing zijner theologische studien werd hij predikant bij een der
unitarische gemeenten zijner geboortestad. Maar de Unitariers ,
hoewel om hun vrijzinnigheid geroemd, maakten Emerson het
leven moeielijk. Zij begrepen zijn vrijen en onafhankelijken geest
niet. “De leiders der Unitariers verwierpen het oorspronkelijk ta
lent, dat onder hen geboren was. De oogen der verlichte jonge
menschen waren op de nieuwe ster gevestigd, die hen voortdu-
XI.
5
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
rend inspireerde en langs nieuwe wegen leidde. Amerika had
nimmer zulk een verschijning aanschouwd. Maar het genie van
Emerson verdween spoedig nit het kerkelijk gesternte en stond
voortaan alleen als een vaste en eenzame ster.” 1
Op den 15den Juli 1838 nam hij afscheid van zijn gemeente.
Parker, die een jaar te voren predikant was geworden, getuigt
van deze toespraak: “Hij overtrof zichzelf. Schoon, waar,indrukwekkend was de schildering van de fouten der kerk in haar tegenwoordigen toestand. Hij heeft mijn geest wakker geschud.” 2
De afscheidsrede, op uitnoodiging der theologische studenten
te Cambridge in “Divinity-College” gehouden, was in het oog
van vele eerwaardigen dwaas en goddeloos. Emerson had vooral
op twee dwalingen in het kerkelijk Christendom gewezen: Jezus,
die tot het echte ras der profeten behoorde, was onkenbaar ge
worden. Men had hem goddelijke titels gegeven, die eens de uitdrukking waren van bewondering en liefde. Door hem buiten de
menschheid te plaatsen, hebben zijn prediking en leven hun bekoorlijkheid verloren. De andere dwaling bestond hierin, dat men
Gods openbaring tot het verleden beperkte en daarom, in plaats
van den levenden, een dooden God verkondigde.
Het kenmerk der tegenwoordige prediking was volgens Emer
son de traditie. Daarom kon zij geen brood voor het leven geven.
Alleen hij, die over de oude vormen den adem des levens laat
gaan, die overal de waarheid spreekt, gelijk eigen leven en geweten hem ingeven, kan voor de zoekende en bezwaarde zielen
bronnen van hoop en vertroosting ontsluiten.
Tweemaal heeft Emerson Europa bezocht. In gezelschap van
een amerikaansch kunstenaar vertoefde hij, tot herstel zijner ge' Vgl. Theodore Parker’s Experience as a Minister, p. Ill, 51, 33.
2 Vgl. Life and Correspondence of Th. Parker bij John Weiss,
I, p. 113, 114.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
73
zondheid, in 1833 gedurende eenige maanden in Sicilie, Italie,
Frankrijk en Engeland. Zeker zou hij ook aan Duitschland een
bezoek hebben gebracht, ware Goethe, wien hij hoog vereerde ,
niet het vorige jaar gestorven. Met eenige beroeinde persoonlijkheden, wier schriften hem bekend waren, verlangde Emerson
kennis te maken. In Engeland trokken hem vooral Coleridge,
Wordsworth en Carlyle aan. Hij vond den laatste op zijn eenzaam landgoed Craigenputtock ; de leeraar van Dunscore, die op
een afstand van zestien mijlen van hem woonde, was de eenige
in den ganschen omtrek, met wien de groote denker kon converseeren. Emerson noemt hem een schrijver, “die de wereld zoo
volkomen beheerschte, alsof hij in zichzelf het beste bezat, wat
Louden kon aanbieden.” Hij beschrijft Carlyle als een lang, mager, spraakzaam man, vol frissche anecdoten en humor. Als de
wijsgeer zich ergerde over de uitbundige loftuitingen op een
genie gehouden, dan vertelde hij van zijn diepe bewondering voor
het talent, dat ziju varken toonde te bezitten. Het beste, wat
hij van Amerika wist, was dat een mens ch daar vleesch voor
zijn arbeid kon krijgen.
Veertien jaar later kwam Emerson voor de tweede maal in
Engeland. Van eenige handwerkersvereenigingen in Lancashire en
Yorkshire had hij een uitnoodiging ontvangen, om in een twintigtal steden voorlezingen te houden. Het uitzicht om Engeland
en Schotland grondig te leeren kennen, de aantrekkelijkheid eener
zeereis , die op zijn door ingespannen studie geschokte gezond-
heid gunstig kon werken, deden hem besluiten, om aan het
verzoek te voldoen. Toch besloot hij slechts aarzelend. Met reizen was hij weinig ingenomen. Hij noemt het ergens “het paradijs der dwazen”. De reismanie is volgens hem een bewijs van
gebrek aan karakter, van een ziekte, waaraan het geestelijk
leven lijdt.
Te Boston ging hij den 5den October 1847 aan boord, om na
�74
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
een afwezigheid van ruim een half jaar in zijn vaderland terugte keeren.
Emerson heeft de indrukken, die hij van Engeland ontving ,
in eenige voorlezingen aan zijn landgenooten medegedeeld. 1
De moed, het intieme huiselijk leven, de teedere omgang van
de leden der beide seksen, waarvan hij in Engeland getuige was,,
hadden zijn bewondering opgewekt. In zijn oog staat de engelsche held hooger dan de fransche, de duitsche, de italiaansche
of grieksche. In Engeland verwacht men, gelijk Nelson zeide, dat
ieder zijn plicht zal doen. Er wordt daar driemaal meer gearbeid
dan in andere landen. Armoede beschouwt men als een schande.
Wat hem minder beviel, was de gehechtheid van den Engelschman aan oude gebruiken, zijn bekrompen nationaliteitsgevoel, zoodat de hoogste lofspraak, die een vreemdeling verdienen
kan, aldus luidt: ik zou u bijna voor een Engelschman houden.
De godsdienst is er zinledig, de staatskerk een pop, die elke
kritiek met angst afwijst. Zij duldt geen verschil van meeningen
en schuwt het licht. De Engelschman gelooft allereerst aan een
Voorzienigheid, die voor elk pond sterling zorgt. Het ontbreekt
hem aan idealisme, aan phantasie. Zelfs in zijn verhevenste poezie
verloochent zich zijn utilitarianisme niet. De “nuttige” wetenschappen trekken hem allermeest aan.
Engeland wordt vergeleken met een oud, in verschillende eeuwen
opgetrokken gebouw, waaraan allerlei reparaties zijn aangebracht.
Zijn zwaartepunt ligt in het private, niet in het publieke leven,
dat meestal trouweloos is geweest. Zijn buitenlandsche politiek
was zelden edelmoedig en rechtvaardig. De rijken onderdrukken er
de armen; het pauperisme is in Engeland een ontzettende macht.
Het is het land der patriotten, wijzen, martelaars en zangers.
Werd het eens door den Oceaan, waaruit het is voortgekomen,
Vgl. English Traits, in 1856 uitgegeven.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
75
verzwolgen, dan zal het in de herinnering voortleven als het
«iland, dat onsterfelijke wetten gegeven en het recht der persoonlijkheid gehuldigd heeft.
Emerson onderscheidt in Engeland twee volken of klassen, wier
harmonie en disharmonie de macht van den staat uitmaken: tot
de eersten hehooren zij, die voor idealen ontvankelijk zijn, wier aantal
door hem op een dozijn geschat wordt; de klasse der practische
lieden daarentegen telt haar volgelingen bij millioenen. Zijn voorliefde
voor het idealisme beheerschte zijn oordeel over de celebriteiten
onder de schrijvers van dien tijd. Terwijl hij met Coleridge, Words
worth , Carlyle hoogelijk is ingenomen, is zijn oordeel over de
mannen, die hij een plaats geeft in de practische klasse, niet
van eenzijdigheid vrij te pleiten. Wat dunkt u b. v. van de volgende karakteristiek van Macaulay? “De schitterende geschiedschrijver leert, dat men onder het goede verstaan moet: goed eten,
goede kleeding, stoffelijk welzijn; dat de roem der nieuwere phi
losophic bestaat in haar streven, om het nuttige te bevorderen,
de ideeen en de moraal buiten rekening te laten. Het verstand
moet ons leeren, hoe wij betere ziekenstoelen en wijnsoepen voor
zwakken kunnen maken. Zinnelijk genot is het eenig goede. Het
grootste voordeel der astronomie bestaat in de verbetering der
scheepvaart. Een schoon resultaat voorwaar, waartoe de beschaving en de godsdienst van Engeland na een geschiedenis van duizend jaren gekomen zijn: de loochening der zedelijkheid!”
Duitschland staat volgens Emerson ver boven Engeland, dat
niet in staat is den duitschen geest te begrijpen. In Engeland is
de natuurwetenschap van de wetenschap des geestes gescheiden ,
waarmede zij eeuwig verbonden moest blijven. Duitschland is het
land der idealen, dat voor Europa denkt, waar het enthousiasme
levendig wordt gehouden.
Van zijn verblijf in Engeland nam Emerson de aangenaamste
indrukken mede. Overal was hij vriendelijk en gastvrij ontvangen.
�76
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Oude vrienden werden nog eens bezocht, nieuwe vriendschapsbanden gesloten. Bancroft, de groote amerikaansche geschiedsehrijver,
die toen nog gezant te Londen was, bracht hem in kennis met
Hallam, Dickens, 'Thackeray, Tennyson, Disraeli, Forster, Robert
Brown, Owen, Lyell en anderen, Hij was voor eenige dagen de
gast van Miss Martineau, die pas uit Egypte was teruggekeerd.
Met haar bezocht hij Wordsworth, den dichter van de Ode op de
onsterfelijkheid, welke volgens hem de hoogte aanwijst, waartoe
de geest in onzen tijd kan stijgen.
Sinds 1838 woont Emerson als privaat persoon te Concord in
Massachusetts. Zijn woning staat op de plaats, waar de Amerikanen in 1775 een overwinning bebaalden op de Engelschen. 1
1 Aan een artikel van een Amerikaan over “Emerson in zijn eigen wo
ning”,’ geplaatst in The Inquirer van 26 Juli 1879, ontleenen wij de
volgende bijzonderheden:
Emerson woont met zijn vrouw en een dochter. Naast hem woonde vroeger de bekeilde Nathanael Hawthorne (f 1864). Zijn eenige zoon is een uitstekend geneeshecr te Concord.
Zijn huis is eenvoudig, maar smaakvol ingericht. De niet groote
bibliotheek bestaat alleen uit voortreffelijke werken. Schrijvers uit verschillende deelen der wereld zenden hem present-exemplaren hunner geschriften.
In den omgang boeit Emerson vooral door zijn eenvoud. Over zijn gebrek aan helderheid heeft men dikwijls ten onrechte geklaagd. Eenige
handwerkslieden Zeiden eens tot hun nieuwen predikant: wij zijn maar
eenvoudige'lieden en hebben het niet verder gebracht dan dat wij Emer
son kunnen begrijpeii.
De grijsaard onderzoekt nog met de grootste gemakkelijkheid de moeielijkste problemen van onzen tijd. Zijn dichterlijk idealisme is verheven
boven de heftige polemiek der theologen.
Wie den wijze van Concord bezocht heeft, verwondert zich niet over
de liefde, die zijn vrienden hem toedragen, over den eerbied, waarmede
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
77
Na het verlaten van den kansel heeft hij het werk, in de kerk
begonnen, in de maatschappij voortgezet. Als schrijver en als spreker in verschillende vereenigingen, voor geletterden en ongeletterden, is hij steeds als de prediker van het idealisme opgetreden.
Eerst had hij met allerlei vooroordeelen te kampen. Men waarschuwde tegen hem, omdat hij een ongeloovig en goddeloos mensch
was. Maar het duurde niet lang , of hij werd als de gevierde auteur
en spreker begroet. Volgens de getuigenis van een landgenoot kan
men zich niets aangrijpenders voorstellen dan Emerson te hooren.
Als hij een gedachte uitspreekt, die de vrucht is van langdurige
overpeinzing, dan zou men meenen, dat hij in het bezit was van
een opdracht. door de gansche menschheid onderteekend, om juist
z66 te spreken.
Carlyle, die de beide eerste bundels zijner “Essays” met een
Voorrede verrijkte, noemde ze: de alleenspraak van een ziel, die
waar is. In Engeland verschenen van zijn werken tai van nadrukken, in Frankrijk en Duitschland enkele vertalingen. Vooral
in Duitschland zijn sommige schrijvers hoogelijk met hem inge
nomen.
“Ein Prophet, nicht in der pratentiosen Bedeutung gebraucht,
die uns die Vergangenheit, die Heiligkeit vieler Jahre ertheilt,
ist Emerson wohl zu nennen. Er ist es nicht allein weil er Geist
besitzt, denn wir haben viele lebende Autoren, die auch damit
gesegnet sind; wahrend wir jedoch hinter jenen uns selten einen
Charakter denken konnen, und nur ihre, in den Spinnennetzen
der Literatur, waltende Feder verfolgen, so denken wir uns hin
ter seinen Worten einen leuchtenden, strahlenden Charakter verborgen. Ja noch mehr, wir ahnen ein groszes Herz voll Anmuth
geleerden uit Engeland en Amerika tot hem opzien. Niemand verlaat zijn
gastvrije woning zonder de overtuiging mede te nemen, dat hij althans
eenmaal in zijn leven een groot man heeft ontmoet.
�78
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
und Liebs, das sich allein dem Fortschritt dsr Menschheit gewidmet hat.” 1
“Kein Schriftstellsr” — zoo schrijft Hermann Grimm 2 — “hat
solchen Reiz fur mich als Emerson. Nichts Ueberflussigendes, Beschonigendes, Sentimentales finden wir bei ihm. Die alltaglichen
Binge macht er poetisch, das geringste fiihrt er auf das groszte
zurtick. Mit einem Wort hebt er uns uber die Erde, und wahrend
er sagt, dasz alles schon sei, glauben wir es ihm. Die Welt
wird zu einer bunten Wiese, die er vor uns ausbreitet, und der
Geist des Lebendigen flieszt mitten hindurch in klaren Wellen,
aus denen versteckt alle Blumen und Graser Kraft und Wachsthum
trinken.”
In ons vaderland heeft, zoover ik weet, alleen Dr. Wolff op
hem de aandacht gevestigd en hem een plaats toegekend onder
de voortreffelijkste schrijvers. 34 Aan hem dank ik mijn eerste ken-
nismaking met Emerson, terwijl hij mij tevens aan zich verplicht
heeft door de inlichtingen, mij bij de bewerking dezer schets
gegeven. 1
Zullen wij in staat zijn Emerson te begrijpen, dan moeten wij
niet vergeten, dat hij een Amerikaan is, die voor Amerikanen
schrijft en spreekt.
1 Vgl.
Fabricius, in de Voorrede voor eenige door hem vertaalde Es
says van Emerson (1858).
2 Vgl. E. W. Emerson uber Goethe und Shakespeare (1857).
3 Vgl. De Gids, 1861, p. 772-825.
4 De londensche editie, (Bell & Sons, 1876) getiteld: The complete
Works of R. W\ Emerson is alles behalve compleet. Daarin ontbreken
o. a.: The mind and manners of the nineteenth century, lezingen
door E. in 1848 in Engeland gehonden; Memoirs of Margaret Fuller,
Marchesa d'Ossoli, in 1852 met W. H. Channing uitgegeven; Ora
tion on the death of President Lincoln, 1865; Society and Solitude,
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
79
In zijn voorkomen vertoont hij het type van een Amerikaan
nit Nieuw-Engeland.
Niet Engeland, maar Amerika is volgens hem de zetel en het
centrum van het britsche ras. Zijn vaderland bezit natuurlijke
voordeelen, welke het moederland mist. Eens zal Engeland, als
een oud en uitgeput eiland, tevreden moeten zijn wanneer het
zijn kinderen krachtig ontwikkeld ziet.
In zijn lezing over den amerikaanschen geleerde laat hij de fiere
taal hooren: “Wij hebben te lang naar Europa geluisterd. Reeds
begint men den geest van den vrijen Amerikaan voor schroomvallig en bedeesd te houden, steeds geneigd om anderen na te vol
gen. Wij mogen niet altijd van den oogst van vreemden profiteeren. Wij moeten op eigen beenen staan , met eigen handen arbeiden,
onze eigen gedachten uitspreken .*
1
Er zijn menschen, die vragen: wie wil gaarne in een land
wonen, dat haast geen verleden, geen geschiedenis heeft? Aan
dezulken vraagt hij op zijn beurt: zoudt gij u thuis gevoelen in
een land, waar privileges worden toegekend aan geboorte en rijkdom , waar de pers niet vrij , het pauperisme een ontzettende macht
is, waar titulaire vors ten heerschen, die in prachtige koetsen
rijden en veel wijn drinken, maar niet door zelfopoffering, volharding en ernstige studie hun leven versieren? 2
Essays, 1870; (vertaald in het Duitsch door Mohnicke, Zweite Auflage,
1876); Letters and Social Aims, Essays, 1871; (in het duitsch met een
inleiding van Julian Schmidt, 1876); Parnasszis, Selected Poems, 1871.
In het prachtwerk, dat onlangs is aangekondigd: The hundred grea
test Men zullen, behalve door Matthew Arnold, Max Muller, Fayne en
Renan, ook door Emerson “historical Introductions” gegeven worden.
1 Rede, uitgesproken 31 Aug. 1837, in de Phi Seta Kappa Society
te Cambridge.
2 The young American, een lezing, gehouden te Boston, 7 Febr.
1844, in the Mercantile Library Association.
�80
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
De ingenomenheid met zijn land en volk maakt hem daarom
niet blind voor de groote gebreken, die hij opmerkte. Als een
echt profeet treedt hij daartegen op. In de staatsstukken en de
debatten der volksvertegenwoordigers, in de lycaea en kerken, in
de nieuwsbladen verneemt hij niet de taal, die van een opgewekt
nationaal gevoel getuigt. ’t Schijnt of het belang van den kapitalist het eenige noodige is! Wie verkondigt van het spreekgestoelte, in de courant of op de straten het geheim van den
echten held, die alleen het onmogelijke tot stand kan brengen?
Wij bezitten, zegt hij, geen krachtige publieke meening. Wij
scharen ons niet aan de zijde der echte liberalen, die de armen,
de onderdrukten, de zwakken beschermen. Wij hebben te veel
vertrouwen op het geld, maar te weinig op God.
Bij herhaling wordt het practisch materialisme bestreden, dat
zich in alle vertakkingen van het amerikaansche leven openbaart.
In onze maatschappij — zoo roept hij zijn toehoorders toe —
is er, behalve aan pachters, wevers en zeelieden, ook behoefte
aan enkele mannen, die de hemelsche vonk, welke in hun borst
gloeit, op anderen weten over te brengen, die ons de richting
aanwijzen, welke wij te volgen hebben. “Zult gij te midden van
allerlei stemmen, die roepen om nieuwe wegen of standbeelden,
verbeteringen in kleeding of in de tandheelkunde, om een politieke partij of de verdeeling van een staat, niet het oor leenen
aan een paar eenzame stemmen in het land, die voor ideeen en
beginselen pleiten, welke niet verkocht noch vernietigd kunnen
worden?” 1
Ook in zijn sterk ontwikkeld individualisme is Emerson het
type van den echten Amerikaan. Hij bekommert zich niet om het
oordeel zijner lezers of hoorders. Wat het publiek van hem zegt,
dat gaat hem niets ter wereld aan.
1 The Transcendlist, een lezing, gehouden te Bostonenta, in Januari 1842.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
81
Een bevoegd beoordeelaar beeft opgemerkt: Emerson schrijft
en denkt als Amerikaan.
Emerson is terecht een wijsgeer genoemd. Elk onderwerp wordt
door hem wijsgeerig behandeld. Nooit blijft hij bij de oppervlakte
staan. Ieder verschijnsel, ook het schijnbaar onbelangrijkste, wordt
door hem ontleed en verklaard. Hij rust niet, voordat hij tot
het wezen der dingen is doorgedrongen.
Maar een wijsgeerig stelsel zoeken wij bij hem te vergeefs.
Een boek over de wijsbegeerte heeft hij nooit geschreven. Het
zijn korte verhandelingen over allerlei onderwerpen, Essays, die
hij geeft. Hij rangschikt zich het liefst onder de zoekende geesten en heeft een onbegrensden afkeer van alle stelselzucht en dogmatisme. Er is volgens hem geen enkele waarheid, hoe verheven
ook, of de mogelijkheid bestaat, dat wij haar morgen, bij het
licht van nieuwe gedachten, moeten prijs geven. Hij houdt niet
van die menschen, welke altijd naar een steunpunt verlangen.
De meesterwerken van God, de volmaakte eenheid zijn verborgen en onberekenbaar. Als wij nog jong zijn, besteden wij veel
tijd en moeite, om alle deflnities over godsdienst, poezie, kunst
en politiek op te teekenen, in de hoop dat wij binnen eenige
jaren de waarde van alle theorieen zullen kennen. Maar de jaren
gaan voorbij en het doel. waarnaar wij streven, wordt niet bereikt.
Tegenover het materialisme kiest Emerson beslist partij voor
het idealisme. Terwijl de materialist uitgaat van de zinnelijke
wereld en den mensch als een harer producten beschouwt, is
het menschelijk bewustzijn zijn uitgangspunt. De natuur, de letterkunde, de geschiedenis zijn volgens hem subjectieve verschijnselen. De geest is de eenige realiteit. Hij houdt het voor bepaald onmogelijk, dat een idealist zoo diep zou kunnen zinken,
om een materialist te worden.
�82
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Emerson is een hartstochtelijk bewonderaar van de natuur.
“Ik doorwaadde moerassen en baggerde door de sneeuw zonder
hoop en voelde mij toch vroolijk en volmaakt gelukkig. Wie in
de bosschen zijn leven doorbrengt, kan altijd een kind blijven.
Zij zijn altijd jong. Er heerscht daar zeker decorum. Het is er
voortdurend feest. Daar gevoel ik eerst, dat de natuur elke ramp
kan genezen. dat alle egolsme verdwijnt. Mijn oog wordt een
doorschijnende globe. Ik voel mij een deel van God. De naam
van mijn vriend klinkt mij als een vreemde in de ooren of als
een, dien ik slechts toevallig boor. Of ik heer of knecht ben,
het raakt mij niet. Ik bemin een onsterfelijke schoonheid. Te
midden van velden en bosschen ben ik niet alleen, geen onbekende. Maar de natuur is niet altijd in feestkleederen getooid.
Hetzelfde tooneel, dat gister nog zoo liefelijk was, is heden som
ber. Daarom moet er harmonie zijn tusschen de natuur en den
mensch, zal het gevoel van voldoening in ons worden opgewekt.”
Zoo schreef hij in een zijner eerste opstellen. 1 De beschouwingen, die hij hier over de natuur geeft, herinneren aan Fichte’s
idealisme. Ik ben niet in staat — zoo schrijft hij — de onfeilbaarheid mijner zintuigen te bewijzen; ik weet niet of de indrukken, die zij mij verschaffen, met de voorwerpen in overeenstemming zijn. Maar wat doet het er toe, of de Orion werkelijk in
de diepten van het firmament bestaat of een beeld is, op het
uitspansel mijner ziel geteekend? Het is mij om het even, of de
natuur een werkelijk bestaan heeft of een apocalypse is van den
geest. Zij blijft in mijn oog even eerbiedwaardig. Al zijn wij van
de onveranderlijkheid der natuurwetten overtuigd, daaruit kan het
absoluut bestaan der natuur niet bewezen worden. Kinderen gelooven aan de zichtbare wereld. Lichtzinnige zielen maken zich vroolijk
over hen, volgens wie de natuur geen werkelijk bestaan heeft
1 Nature, 1839.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
83
buiten ons. De wetenschap werpt de gewone voorstellingen over
de natuur omver. Door haar voorgelicht, noemt onze geest, wat
men gewoon is werkelijkheid te noemen, schijn en daarentegen
werkelijk, wat in het oog van velen een visioen is.
Later moge Emerson wat minder beslist gesproken hebben, de
zichtbare wereld blijft toch in zijn oog slechts het symbool der onzichtbare. Tegenover Locke kent hij aan het onstoffelijke de prioriteit toe bo ven het stoffelijke.
Ook de natuur leidt volgens Emerson tot God op, wien hij
het liefst the Over-Soul noemt. Hij is de ziel van alles. Buiten
hem bestaat niets. Hij woont in ons. Er is geen muur als grens,
waar het uitwerksel, de mensch, ophoudt en de oorzaak, God, begint. Hij bezoekt ons, gelijk het spreekwoord zegt, zonder klok-
kengelui. De natuur van den absoluten geest is goedheid en waarheid. Wij kunnen zijn taal alleen verstaan, wanneer wij aan onze
beste gedachten gehoorzamen, ons aan den geest der profetie
toevertrouwen, die elk mensch is ingeschapen. Wanneer wij ons
onder den invloed van zijn geest stellen, dan worden onze gesprekken lyrisch, zacht als het geluid van den wind, die pas
opkomt. Wie zijn goddelijke tegenwoordigheid bespeurt, wordt
met geestdrift vervuld.
God openbaart zich alleen aan de eenvoudigen en nederigen.
Wie zich met Hem vereenigd gevoelt, weet bij intuitie dat het
goede ook het ware is, dat zijn belangen den Allerhoogste ter
harte gaan. Wat voor hem goed is, zal hem niet kunnen ontgaan.
Elk woord, ieder boek, die voor hem noodig zijn tot hulp of
vertroosting, zullen zeker tot hem komen. Wie Gods stem wil
hooren, moet in zijn binnenkamer gaan en de deuren gesloten
houden, gelijk Jezus deed. Het is noodig om naar de stem in
ons binnenste te luisteren, zullen wij God lceren kennen. 1
1 Vgl. vooral The Over-Soul, in de tweede bundel zijoer Essays (1844).
�84
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Godsdienst is aanbidding. Volgens Emerson zijn wij van nature
geloovigen en waren de schoonste tijdperken in de geschiedenis der
menschheid door geloof gekennierkt. Maar wij moeten ons niet ongerust maken, als wij den invloed van Calvijn, Fenelon, Wesley of Chan
ning zien afnemen. Op de bouwvallen van kerken en godsdiensten
richt God zijn tempel op in de harten der menschen. Wij leven thans
in een tijdperk van overgang. De oude leerstellingen, die eens de
volken krachtig gemaakt, ja in het leven geroepen hebben , schijnen
krachteloos geworden. Men heeft helaas! godsdienst en zedelijkheid
van elkander gescheiden. In onze groote steden wonen massa’s
menschen, die geen God meer hebben, omdat zij materialisten zijn
geworden. Geestdrift , verhefiing van het hart zijn hun vreemd.
Velen gelooven aan chemie, mechanica, vleesch, wijn , rijkdom,
aan electrische batterijen, naaimachines — maar niet aan een
goddelijke oorzaak. Kunnen er krachtiger bewijzen voor veler
ongodsdienstigheid gegeven worden dan de . verdraagzaamheid
tegenover den slavenhandel, de verkeerde richting, die de opvoeding neemt, de geringe waarde, die aan de hoogste gaven
van geest en hart wordt toegekend, de verdraagzaamheid der
meest beschaafde gezelschappen tegenover de zonde? Het staat
bij Emerson vast, dat het scepticisme de overwinning niet zal
behalen. Maar het moet niet door theologische leerstellingen bestreden worden, “Vergeet uw boeken en overleveringen en gehoorzaamt alleen aan uw zedelijk instinkt. Ik ken geen woorden, die zulk een diepe beteekenis hebben als deze: geestelijk en
zedelijk.” 1
Een zijner jongste Essays is getiteld; Onsterfelijkheid. 2 Hij
kan zich begrijpen, dat men niet gaarne over dit onderwerp schrijft.
De lezer zal zich teleurgesteld voelen. Hij vindt niet, wat hij zoekt.
1 Vgl. The Conduct of Life (1860).
2 Vgl. Letters and social aims.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
85
Gelijk alle ernstige zielen, zegt Emerson, is mijn geloof aan de
onsterfelijkheid der ziel vaster dan de bewijzen, die ik daarvoor
geef. Het eenig werkelijk bewijs is te teeder en staat boven alle
redeneering; daarom blijft Wordsworth’s “Ode op de onsterfelijk
heid” altijd een meesterstuk.
Men kan wijzen op de oneindigheid van het heelal, die zich
evenzeer in elk deeltje openbaart; op ons verlangen naar het blijvende, het eeuwige, dat alleen in staat is op den duur onze belangstelling te wekken; op de onvolmaaktheid van den arbeid en
de deugd zelfs van den edelste; op allerlei analogieen en profetieen
in ons en buiten ons. Al hebben die gronden en gevolgtrekkingen
zeker beteekenis, zij zijn onvoldoende om daarop een theorie te
bouwen, gelijk menigmaal is beproofd.
Zulk een onderwerp moet met heiligen schroom behandeld worden. Niet door boeken of door theologische bewijzen, maar alleen
door een uitnemende persoonlijkheid, die ons oog aan het tijdelijke ontrukt en op het eeuwige wijst, in wiens hart de krachtigste en teederste liefde woont, kan het visioen verklaard worden.
Daarom heeft het getuigenis van enkele geinspireerde zielen groote
beteekenis. Het is een dwaasheid, om te vragen: mijn bisschop,
mijn leeraar, hoe denkt gij daarover? Geloofden Wesley, Butler,
Fenelon aan onsterfelijkheid? Wat zijn dat voor vragen? Leest
liever een dichter als Milton of een ziener als Plato; leest den
heiligen Augustinus, Swedenborgh, Kant. Wie de wetten des geestes verstaan heeft, zal zulke vragen, die goed zijn voor schooljongens, niet meer doen.
Alleen hij bezit onsterfelijkheid, die, waar hij komt, alles
met nieuw leven bezielt. “Ik geloof, dat elke gezonde geest zich
bij de overtuiging kan nederleggen: Wanneer een bewust persoonlijk voortleven het beste is, — en als wij het heelal konden
overzien, zou het ons zeker blijken, dat dit het beste is, — dan
zal het ons deel worden.”
�86
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
De geschiedenis is volgens Emerson’s eigenaardige opvatting
de oorkonde van de werken van den geest, die alles omvat. Alle
feiten der historie bestaan reeds te voren als wetten in den geest.
Elke gebeurtenis, zal zij geloofwaardig en verstaanbaar zijn, moet
beantwoorden aan iets, dat in den mensch is. Wij stellen belang
in steden, die lang verwoest zijn, in pyramiden, omdat wij voor
die onzinnige uitdrukkingen: daar of eertijds de woorden: hier
of thans in de plaats willen stellen. Het niet-ik moet door het
ik, het verschil door de eenheid vervangen worden.
De geschiedenis van het individu geeft de verklaring van de
geschiedenis der wereld, der natuur, der kunst en der letter kunde. De St. Pieter is de zwakke kopie van een goddelijk
ideaal, dat in eens menschen ziel is opgekomen; de Munster
van Straatsburg het stoffelijk afdruksel van den geest van Erwin
von Steinbach.
De ervaring van elken dag leert de vervulling der oude profetie, dat woorden en teekenen, waarop wij vroeger geen acht
sloegen, concrete voorwerpen voor ons worden. Wie de engelsche
kathedralen bezoekt, bemerkt aanstonds, dat het woud een overweldigenden invloed op den geest der bouwmeesters heeft uitgeoefend. Wanneer wij op een winternamiddag door de bosschen
wandelen en op de kleuren letten, die door de takken doorschemeren, dan kennen wij den oorsprong der geschilderde glazen in
de gothische kerken.
Waarom trekken ons de geschiedenis, de letterkunde, de kunst
van Griekenland vooral aan? Omdat wij zelve Grieken zijn. Wij
worden daardoor aan een periode uit ons eigen leven herinnerd. Onze bewondering voor de oudheid geldt niet het oude,
maar het natuurlijke. De eenvoudigheid en de gratie van het
kind kenmerkten den Griek. Zijn vormen boeien ons, zoolang
wij het kinderlijk karakter behouden hebben.
�7
'
-
'
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
87
De godsmannen vervullen een missie, die in het hart en de
ziel van den eenvoudigste onder hun leerlingen was geschreven.
Hoe komt het, dat sommige menschen aan Jezus een bovennatuurlijken oorsprong toekennen, omdat hij uit de geschiedenis niet
verklaard kan worden ? Omdat zij zelve niet godsdienstig zijn, niet
tot zichzelve inkeeren; anders zou hun eigen godsvrucht de verklaring geven van elk zijner woorden en daden.
Ik ken de eerste monniken en anachoreten. Als ik menschen
ontmoette, die in contemplatie verzonken waren en een afkeer
hadden van den arbeid, herkende ik een Simon Stylites en de
eerste kapucynermonniken.
Wanneer de geschiedenis gelezen en geschreven wordt in het
licht dezer twee feiten: de geest is
; tusschen den geest en
de natuur bestaat een wederkeerige betrekking, dan zal zij niet
langer voor ons een onvruchtbaar boek zijn. Wij hooren dan niet
meer, welke boeken iemand gelezen, maar welke tijdperken hij
doorleefd heeft. In hem vind ik het verleden terug: de gouden
eeuw, den boom der kennis, de roeping van Abraham, den tempelbouw, de komst van den Christus, de Middeleeuwen, de herleving
der wetenschappen, de Hervorming, de ontdekking van nieuwe
werelden. Hij is de priester van Pan, die de zegeningen der
morgensterren en de weldaden van hemel en aarde zal brengen.
Veel te lang hebben wij onze aandacht gevestigd op die oude
chronologie van hoogmoed en zelfzucht. Aan een nieuwe historiographie is behoefte, waarin wij de ware uitdrukking onzer eigen
natuur zullen wedervinden. 1
Wanneer de geschiedenis, gelijk Emerson haar opvat, biographie
is, dan kan het ons niet verwonderen, dat vooral de uitnemende
persoonlijkheden zijn aandacht hebben getrokken. Volgens hem
schijnt de natuur voor hen te bestaan. Zij maken de aarde gezond.
Vgl. vooral Emerson’s Essay: History.
XI.
6
�88
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Eerst door ons geloof aan hen wordt ons leven draaglijk en liefelijk. Wij leven dan met onze meerderen. Hun namen geven wij
aan onze kinderen en steden. In onze woningen staan hun werken
en beelden, terwijl elke omstandigheid ons een anecdote voor den
geest brengt, die op hen betrekking heeft. Als er een magneet
was, die ons kon aanwijzen, waar menschen wonen, die inwendig rijk en krachtig zijn, wij zouden al onze goederen verkoopen en heden nog met dezen magneet op reis gaan.
Een groot man woont in een hoogere sfeer der gedachten, waartoe anderen slechts met moeite eD inspanning kunnen opklimmen.
Als hij zijn oogen opent, ziet hij de dingen in het ware licht.
Hij is dicht bij ons, zoodat wij hem op het eerste gezicht herkennen. Hij voldoet aan onze verwachtingen en komt op den
juisten tijd.
Elke groote geest is de openbaring van een nieuw geheim der
natuur. De schimmen der helden verheffen zich telkens voor onze
oogen. Zij geven ons hun bevelen met blikken vol schoonheid en
woorden vol goedheid.
Maar welke helden staan in Emerson’s schatting het hoogst?
Zij, die zich weten te verloochenen en zichzelve durven te zijn,
bij wie het geestelijke hooger staat dan het stoffelijke, die door
oprechtheid en zelfbeheersching over anderen heerschen. Zij trekken alle klassen der maatschappij tot zich, totdat eindelijk, gelijk men pleegt te zeggen, ook de honden zich aan hen toevertrouwen. 1
Men vergete evenwel niet, dat de held deugden bezit, die hij
niet aan anderen kan mededeelen. Het schijnt dat de godheid ,
1 Van Abraham Lincoln getuigt Emerson: “Hij was welkom en tehuis
in de nederigste hut, terwijl hij in dagen van gevaar de bewondering der
wijzen opwekte. Zijn hart was zoo groot als de wereld en toch was daarin
geen plaats, om de herinnering aan geleden onrecht te bewaren.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
89
•fils zij hem zendt om zijn tocht door de wereld te volbrengen,
op het kleed zijner ziel geschreven heeft: Slechts goed voor deze
reis. Volgens de wet der individualiteit moet ieder mensch zichzelf blijven.
Men zou kunnen vragen: Vormen de groote mannen eenkaste?
Zijn de ellendige massa’s van geen waarde? Wat wordt er dan
van de beloften aan de deugd gedaan ? Emerson’s antwoord luidt:
De maatschappij is een school, waarin elk op zijn beurt meester
en leerling is. Voor alien is dezelfde werkkring weggelegd. 1
Wie iets van Emerson gelezen heeft, kent zijn “Representative
Men”, die in 1850 voor het eerst zijn uitgegeven. Het boekje bevat geen levensschetsen van beroemde personen, maar typen. Plato
wordt als de wijsgeer, Swedenborg als de mysticus, Shakespeare
als de dichter, Montaigne als de scepticus, Goethe als de schrijver, Napoleon als de man der wereld geschetst. 2 De schrijver plaatst
ze niet in de lijst van hun tijd, maar beschouwt hen als de vertegenwoordigers van het geestelijk leven in zijn verschillende vor
men. “De schatten des geestes worden onder de hoede van dit
zestal gesteld, zonder wie het u niet geoorloofd is, daarnaar te
grijpen. Een groot paleis staat voor ons, waartoe zes poorten den
1 Vgl. Uses of great men , een Inleiding op Representative Men.
2 “In der geistvollcn kleinen Schrift “Representative Men” giebt der
Amerikaner Emerson dem einen Aufsatz den Titel “Shakespeare oder der
Dichter”, dem anderen “Goethe oder der Schriftsteller”. Dieser Unterschied
in den Titeln erscheint zuerst wunderlich: Goethe ist doch vor Allem auch
Dichter. Bei naherem Zusehen verstandigt man sich aber mit dem Verfasser
wohl. Shakespeare ist ausschlieszlich Dichter und als solcher der erste
unter den modernen; wer dagegen Goethe nnr als Dichter kennt, kennt
ihn kaum zur Halfte.”
(Vgl. Julian Schmidt; “Goethe nnd Herder”, in de 'PreussiscTie Jahr-
liicher, 1879, p. 441.)
�90
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
I.-
. >
-
■
toegang verschaffen, aan elk van welke -een dezer helden de wacht
houdt. Wie binnen wil treden, moet zich aan een der zes onderwerpen.” (Herm. Grimm.) Bij dit boekje, zoo rijk aan schoonfr
en diepzinnige gedachten, moeten wij, al kan het slechts kort
zijn, de aandacht onzer lezers bepalen.
Plato behoort tot de lievelingsschrijvers van Emerson. Telkens
komt hij op hem terug. Wanneer een scepticus, over vragen die
op het geestelijk leven betrekking hebben, zijn meeningen verkondigt en Plato niet gelezen heeft, dan kan hij, volgens onzen schrijver, geen aanspraak maken op onzen tijd.
Gedurende 22 eeuwen is Plato de Bijbel der geleerden. Mannen als Augustinus, Copernicus, Newton, Swedenborg waren zijn
schuldenaars en tot schade van hun roem na hem geboren.
Tot schande der menschheid is het niemand gelukt, om een
enkel idee aan de zijne toe te voegen. Hij had geen vrouw en
kinderen, maar de denkers van alle beschaafde volken vormen zijn
nakomelingschap en zijn met zijn geest doortrokken. De alexandrijnsche geleerden' en de groote helden uit de eeuw van Eliza
beth zijn leerlingen van hem. Het Calvinisme, ja zelfs het Chris
tendom vindt ge in zijn Phaedo terug. Het mysticisme dankt aan
Plato al zijn teksten. Een Engelschman leest hem en roept uit:
Hoe geheel engelschfl Een lezer in Nieuw-Engeland houdt hem
voor een amerikaansch genie.
Hoe is het te verklaren, dat hij in de geschiedenis van het
geestelijk leven van ons geslacht zulk een hooge plaats heeft in
genomen , dat alle scholen, wijsgeeren, kerken, priesters zijn
werken hebben bestudeei^r Zulk een wonder zou onverklaarbaar
zijn, ware Plato niet een oprecht en universeel denker geweest,
die de wetten van den geest en de orde der natuur wist te eerbiedigen, in wiens hoofd een plaats was voor de schatten van
Europa en van Azie.
Emerson dweept, zou men bijna zeggen, met Plato. Alleen be-
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
91
treurt hij het, dat deze edele in het achtste boek der Republiek
den leugen voor regenten geoorloofd acht.
Is Swedenborg terecht de vertegenwoordiger der mystiek genoemd? Deze type komt mij voor het minst gelukt te zijn Gaarne
beken ik, dat het mij niet gelukt is, den schrijver altijd te kunnen volgen. Misschien zou hier de uitspraak van een zijner bewonderaars in Amerika van toepassing zijn: Als ik Emerson niet
hegrijp, dan ligt het aan mij.
Het kan ook zijn, dat Swedenborg, die zelf alles behalve door
duidelijkheid uitmunt, moeielijk in een helder licht kan worden
gesteld voor hen, die vreemdelingen zijn in zijn werken.
Er is in die vreemde persoonlijkheid veel, dat Emerson aantrekt.
Vooreerst staan bij hem boven den dichter en den wijsgeer de
mannen, die ons in de wereld der zedelijkheid of van den wil
binnenleiden. ‘‘Van alles maak ik poezie, maar het zedelijk gevoel maakt poezie van mij.”
Maar hij vond ook enkele zijner lievelingsdenkbeelden bij Sweden
borg terug. Alles in de natuur is volgens dezen mysticus symbolisch
-en typisch; de zinnelijke wereld is slechts het zinnebeeld der geestelijke. Met vromen eerbied was hij vervuld voor de harmonie,
die hij in de natuur wist te ontdekken. Volgens Emerson komt
hem een plaats toe onder de wetgevers der menschheid. Zijn tijdgenooten mochten hem voor een visionair houden; maar terwijl
de koningen en hertogen van zijn tijd lang vergeten zijn, begint
hij thans in de harten van duizenden te leven.
Toch is Emerson alles behalve blind voor de afdwalingen van
dien grooten geest. Zijn omgang met engelen en geesten trok
hem niet aan. Zijn onderzoek droeg eeri te uitsluitend theologisch
karakter. Het individu kwam bij hem niet tot zijn recht. Men
is met hem altijd in een kerk.
De scepticus heeft een afkeer van de uitersten. Hij gaat even-
�92
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
min met den speculatieven wijsgeer als met den materialist, met
den idealist als met den realist, met den geloovige als met den
ongeloovige mede. Waarom —■ zoo vraagt hij — zal ik gaan
philosopheeren over dingen, die buiten de grenzen van mijn ver
stand liggen? Waartoe ons op overtuigingen omtrent een ander
leven beroepen, die wij niet bezitten? Wat baat het de kracht
der deugd te overdrijven en een eogel te worden vbdr uw tijd?
Ik heb genoeg van de dogmatici en walg van hen, die de dog
ma’s ontkennen. Ik ben hier om te onderzoeken. Waartoe theorieen over de maatschappij, den godsdienst, de natuur verkondigd, die elk oogenblik weersproken kunnen worden ?
Het terrein van den scepticus is dat der waarneming, der onthouding, niet van het ongeloof, van de ontkenning, nog minder
van de spotternij. Hij is de bedachtzame, voorzichtige man, die
zijn rekening opmaakt, zijn goederen bestuurt en meent, dat een
mensch te veel vijanden heeft, om ook nog zijn eigen vijand te
worden. Montaigne is volgens hem een type van het verstandig
scepticisme.
Vanwaar Emerson’s voorliefde voor hem? Hij verhaalt ons,
dat hem uit de bibliotheek zijns vaders een deel van Cotton’s
vertaling der Essais van Montaigne in handen kwam. Jaren
daarna, toen hij pas de hoogeschool verlaten had, las hij het
en schafte zich ook de andere deelen aan. De lectuur boeide
hem. ’t Was hem of hij zelf die bladzijden geschreven had in
een vroeger leven, daar zij geheel de uitdrukking waren van zijn
eigen denkbeelden en ervaringen. Met blijdschap vernam hij later,
dat een der nieuw ontdekte autografen van Shakespeare op een
vertaling van Montaigne door Florio geschreven was.
Ook trok hem Montaigne’s blanke oprechtheid aan. Hij verstond niet de kunst van veinzen. Hij beleed zijn zonden. Zijn
eigen deugden hield hij niet voor vlekkeloos. “Wanneer ik zijn
portret tegenover het titelblad bekijk, dan is ’t of ik hem hoor
�RALPH 'WALDO EMERSON.
93
zeggen: gij kunt declameeren en overdrijven zooveel gij wilt;
ik houd mij aan de waarheid en spreek liever in proza over wat
ik weet, dan dat ik een fraaien roman schrijf. Ik houd van oude
schoenen, die mijn voeten geen pijn doen, van oude vrienden en
duidelijke bewijzen.”
Zijn beschouwingen over allerlei onderwerpen laten zich aangenaam lezen. Montaigne schrijft in de taal der conversatie. Hij
is nooit zouteloos, onoprecht en bezit het talent om den lezer
bezig te houden met wat hem belang inboezemt. Hij kent de
wereld, de boeken en zijn eigen persoon; hij schreeuwt niet,
protesteert niet, smeekt niet; hij geniet elk uur van den dag
en bemint de smart, omdat zij hem aan de werkelijkheid herinnert. Hij houdt van stevigen grond onder zijn voeten. Enthousiasme of hoogere inspiratie zoekt gij bij hem te vergeefs. Hij
blijft altijd kalm en bezadigd; alleen wanneer hij over Socrates
spreekt, wordt hij hartstochtelijk.
Het recht van het scepticisme van Montaigne moet volgens
Emerson erkend worden. In sommige oogenblikken van ons leven
trekt het ons aan. Het is niet het scepticisme van den materia
list. “Wat vleermuizen of ossen denken , gaat ons niet aan.”
Maar het scepticisme heeft zijn grenzen. Het zedelijk gevoel is
onaantastbaar. In het veranderlijke moeten wij het blijvende leeren
ontdekken. Moge de eene afgrond zicb onder den anderen openen,
deze meening plaats maken voor gene — in de eeuwige oorzaak
heeft alles zijn grond.
Geen dichter staat in Emerson’s oog zoo hoog als Shakespeare,
de dichter bij uitnemendheid. Anderer wijsheid kunt gij verklaren,
de zijne niet. Wij moeten in het voorhof blijven staan. Men kan
zich niets verheveners voorstellen dan zijn scheppingen. Zijn levenswijsheid is even groot als zijn lyrisch talent en phantasie.
Zijn taal is melodieus en waar. Nooit liet hij zich tot ostentatie
�94
Ralph Waldo
emerson.
verleiden. De personen, die hij laat optreden, schijnen met hem
onder
dak te wonen.
Niet Aubrey of Eowe, maar Shakespeare zelf geeft ons zijn
biographie. Al kan hij zijn drievoet niet verlaten, om ons de
geheime geschiedenis zijner inspiratie te verhalen, wij kennen zijn
overtuigingen over vr^agstukken, waarin elk mensch belang stelt:
over leven en dood, rijkdom en armoede, over de verborgen en
zichtbare invloeden, die ons lot bepalen, over de geheimzinnige
en demonische machten, welke met onze wetenschap spotten. Wie’
las ooit zijn sonnetten en drama’s en ontdekte niet zijn intiemste
gedachten ? Bleven de vragen, die op zedelijkheid, godsdienst,
wijsbegeerte betrekking hebben, door hem onbeantwoord ? Kan
een vorst niet, evenals Napoleon van Talma, van hem leeren ,
hoe hij koninklijk moet optreden? Welk meisje vond hem niet
teederder dan haar eigen teederste gevoelens? Overtrof hij den
jeugdigen minnaar niet in liefde? Aan welken edelman met ruwe
manieren gaf hij geen lessen ?
Waarom mag Shakespeare het type van den dichter heeten?
Omdat hij het wezen der dingen in muziek en verzen weet uit
te drukken. Hij is een profeet, een voorlooper van een beteren
toestand. Onpartijdig schildert hij het tragische zoowel als het
komische. Met even vaste hand teekent hij een ooghaartje of een
kuiltje in den wang, als een berg. De gansche wereld kon zich
door hem laten portretteeren.
Men zou zich vergissen, wanneer men Emerson voor een blind
vereerder van “dien zanger en weldoener der menschheid” hield.
Ook Shakespeare deelt volgens hem in de menschelijke onvolkomenheden. Hij bleeft bij de schoonheid der zichtbare wereld
staan. Het is bevreemdend, dat zulk een genie niet de hoogere
beteekenis der symbolen onderzocht. Waar het talent en gaven
des geestes geldt, kent de wereld zijns gelijke niet. Maar zijn
leven was in strijd met zijn ideeen. Hij, die voor de zielkunde
�RALPH WALDO
EMERSON.
95
een nieuw veld opende , die de standaard der menschheid hooger
vlrhief, leidde zelf een onheilig leven! Hij misbruikte zijn genie
tot amusement van het publiek! “De wereld wacht nog op haar
dichter-priester, die als een geinspireerde zien, spreken en handelen zal.”
De schrijver is , volgens Emerson , de man voor alle eeuwen ,
die tot zijn eigen tijd in de rechte betrekking moet staan. Hij
was vroeger een gewijde persoonlijkheid. Toen schreef hij bijbels, hymnen ter eere der godheid, wetboeken , heldendichten
en treurspelen. Elk zijner woorden bevatte een waarheid. Hij
wekte volken tot nieuw leven op. Waarom zijn de schrijvers
thans minder geSerd ? Omdat zij voor de wisselende meeningen
van het wufte volk buigen, een slechte regeering schaamteloos
verdedigen of in dienst der oppositie hun geblaf laten hooren,
kleurlooze kritiek en onzedelijke romans schrijven, in plaats van
dag en nacht hun dorst aan de bronnen der inspiratie te
lesschen.
Emerson meent, dat wij van niemand beter dan van Goethe
de macht en den plicht van den auteur kunnen leeren. Hij trad op
in een tijd van algemeene beschaving zonder individualiteit; van
poStische schrijvers zonder dichters; van parlementaire redenaars
en advocaten zonder Demosthenessen en Chattams; van theologische faculteiten zonder profeten, van geleerde genootschappen
zonder geleerden.
Goethe is het hoofd van het duitsche volk. Hij ontleende zijn
kracht aan de natuur, waarmede hij op het innigst verbonden was,
aan den eeuwigen geest, die hem bezielde. Vandaar dat verheven
gevoel van onafhankelijkheid, hetwelk hem kenmerkte. Niets bleef
voor hem verborgen; hij wist van demonen, heiligen, bovennatuurlijke krachten gebruik te maken. Hij ontdekte elk geheim
op het gebied der schoone kunsten. Hij had geen tijd, om iemand
�96
■RALPH WALDO EMERSON,,
te haten. Zijn “Wilhelm Meister” is de schoonste roman. Wie het
boek kan verstaan, leest het met verrukking en verbazing. Geen
werk dezer eeuw is z66 nieuw, beschrijft het leven, de gewoonten, de karakters der menschen z66 juist. Alleen het slot is gebrekkig en onzedelijk.
Waarom, vraagt Emerson, kunnen wij Goethe nooit als een
geliefd vriend begroeten ? Omdat hij meermalen ons zedelijk gevoel beleedigt. De waarheid is bij hem alleen een middel tot
beschaving. De toon, dien hij aanslaat, is te wereldsch. “Wij
moeten” — zoo luidt het schoone slot dezer schets — “heilige
schriften schrijven, om aarde en hemel te vereenigen. Geen enkele onwaarheid mag blijven bestaan. De waarheid moet altijd
het richtsnoer onzer daden'zijn.”
Napoleon wordt als de vertegenwoordiger van de mannen van
het gezond verstand, van de praktijk geschetst. Hij is de profeet
van de kooplieden, industrieelen, van alien, wier doel is rijk te
worden. Hij bezat alles, wat de mensch in de 19de eeuw begeert: goede boeken, goed gezelschap , talrijke bedienden, paleizen , schilderijen en wat al niet meer. De ergste ziekte is in zijn
oog het verlangen naar volmaaktheid. Met minachting spreekt hij
over de predikers der vrijheid. Necker en Lafayette zijn in zijn
oog dwepers! Dankbaarheid en edelmoedigheid achtte hij goed
voor vrouwen en kinderen.
Napoleon werd geboren , omdat hij noodzakelijk was. Hij heerschte
over de volken, omdat deze Napoleons in het klein waren. Hij was
een man van staal en ijzer; zestien uren kon hij te paard
zitten, dagen lang bijna zonder voedsel en rust blijven. Hij handelde met de snelheid eens tijgers. Moedig, vastberaden , zonder
gewetensbezwaren, liet hij zich door niemand of niets van zijn
voornemen afbrengen. Hij wist wat hij den volgenden dag te
doen had. Hinderpalen en gevaren kende hij niet. Hij had een
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
97
afkeer -van de mannen van geboorte en van “de erfelijke ezels”,
gelijk hij de Bourbons noemde.
Met al zijn groote en scbitterende gaven was hij geen held in
den waren zin des woords. Omdat hij verstand had zonder geweten, was hij een bedrieger en een schelm. Hij zocht fortuin
te maken zonder zedelijk begins el. Daarom heeft zijn werk geen
sporen achtergelaten. Volgens de eeuwige wet, die in het heelal
heerscht, moet iedere daad, die een zelfzuchtig doel beoogt, mislukken. Alleen dat goed gedijt, hetwelk met open deuren genoten kan worden en anderen tot zegen is.
Emerson is niet alleen wijsgeer, maar ook moralist. Ook
als zoodanig dienen wij hem wat meer van naderbij te leeren
kennen.
Het beginsel der zedelijkheid is volgens hem zelfvertrouwen. 1
Er komt in het leven van elk mensch een tijd, wanneer hij inziet, dat navolging voor hem met zelfmoord gelijk staat. Niemand, ook hij zelf niet, weet wat hij vermag, voordat hij er
de proef van genomen heeft. Gelijk de groote helden van ons geslacht, moet elk mensch de plaats innemen, welke de goddelijke Voorzienigheid hem heeft aangewezen, een weldoener en verlosser voor anderen zijn. Maar wij vertrouwen niet genoeg op ons
zelve en schamen ons daarom voor de goddelijke gedachte, die
wij vertegenwoordigen.
De maatschappij is er op uit, om ons deze zelfstandigheid te
ontrooven. Zij heeft een afkeer van zelfvertrouwen, houdt van
gebruiken en gewoonten en eischt boven alles conformiteit. Daartegen waarschuwt Emerson zoo krachtig mogelijk. Een mensch
moet een non-conformist wezen. Zelf moet hij onderzoeken wat
Vgl. zija Essay: Sdf-Reliance.
�98
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
goed is, overal, zonder aanzien des persoons, de ronde waarheid
zeggen. In de wereld volgens de publieke opinie, in de eenzaamheid naar eigen overtuiging te leven, dat gaat gemakkelijk. Maar
alleen hij is groot, die in de wereld de onafhankelijkheid der
eenzaamheid bewaart. Wie zich naar gebruiken schikt, die voor
hem geen recht van bestaan hebben, verliest al zijn kracht Wie
een doode kerk in het leven zoekt te houden, geeft zijn karakter
prijs. Wanneer ik weet, tot welke sekte iemand behoort, behoef
ik naar zijn meeningen geen onderzoek meer te doen. Als een
prediker over de kerkelijke instellingen het woord voert, dan weet
ik vooruit, dat hij niet als mensch, maar als dienaar der parochie
zal spreken. (?)
Laat de menigte haar ontevredenheid toonen over onze nonconformiteit, haar oordeel is zonder waarde.
Er is nog meer, wat ons zelfvertrouwen in den weg staat: onze
eerbied voor ons eigen verleden, voor onze woorden en daden,
waaraan wij niet ontrouw willen worden (consistency). Die dwaze
vasthoudendheid is het ideaal van kleine staatslieden, kleine philosofen en kleine theologen. Een groote ziel zegt ronduit wat
zij heden denkt, en spreekt later even open haar overtuigingen
uit, al wijken zij nog zoo ver af van die, welke vroeger gehuldigd werden. Het is waar, dan zullen oude dames uitroepen:
gij kunt zeker zijn, dat gij niet begrepen wordt. Maar Pytha
goras, Socrates, Jezus , KLuther, Copernicus, Galilei, Newton,
ja, geen enkel wijs en edel mensch werd ooit begrepen. Is dat
zoo treurig?
De bron van het zelfvertrouwen is volgens Emerson de spontaneiteit. “De intuitie is de fontein, waaruit daden en gedachten
ontspringen, de bron der inspiratie, welke alleen de atheist loochent.
Elk mensch weet, dat hij aan zijn inspiraties volkomen vertrouwen
schuldig is. Zij zijn evenmin betwistbaar als dag en nacht.”
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
99
Op twee wetten in de zedelijke wereld vestigt Emerson vooral
de aandacht: de eerste is die der compensatie. 1
Reeds in zijn jengd, zoo verhaalt hij ons, had hij gewenscht,
over deze wet iets te schrijven. Naar zijn meening kan het leven
ons omtrent die wet beter inlichten dan de theologie, weet het
volk er meer van dan de predikers. De oneindige verscheidenheid
der documenten, die van de compensatie getuigen, bekoorde zijn
verbeelding. Hij was er van overtuigd, dat de leer der com
pensatie een ster op onzen weg zou zijn, waardoor wij in donkere oogenblikken voor afdwalingen bewaard werden. Op lateren
leeftijd werd de begeerte om daarover te schrijven weder bij hem
opgewekt. Hij hoorde een leeraar, die om zijn orthodoxie geacht
was, op de gewone manier over het laatste oordeel preeken. Aan
de rede en de Schrift ontleende hij de bewijzen, die ons dwingen aan een vergelding in het toekomend leven te gelooven. In
deze wereld toch heeft de gerechtigheid haar loop niet. De vergeldingsleer, door den prediker verkondigd, kwam hier op neer: goederen, prachtige kleeren, weelde en nog zooveel meer, dat alles is
thans in handen der beginselloozen, terwijl de godsdienstigen
arm en veracht zijn. De laatsten hebben dus aanspraak op geld,
wildbraad, champagne enz.
De dwaling van den prediker bestond volgens Emerson in de
concessie, dat de slechten gelukkig zijn en dat er op aarde geen
gerechtigheid heerscht. Maar de vergadering ging schijnbaar wel
voldaan naai’ huis. Nu moest hij zelf dat onderwerp eens op zijn
wijze gaan behandelen. Wij kunnen slechts enkele punten uit zijn
interessante verhandeling aanstippen.
Er heerscht in de natuur een onvermijdelijk dualisme, zoo
dat elk voorwerp een helft is, welke door een andere gecompleteerd wordt, b. v. geest en stof; man en vrouw; subjectief en
1 Vgl. zijn Essay: Compensation.
�100
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
objectief; boven en beneden; beweging en rust; ja en neen. De
physiologen hebben opgemerkt, dat er in de dierenwereld geen
bevoorrechten zijn, daar een zekere compensatie het evenwicht be-
waart tusschen elke gave en elk gebrek.
Een koud klimaat verhoogt onze kracht, Een onvruchtbare grond
brengt geen koortsen, krokodillen, tijgers of schorpioenen voort.
Ook in
Alle zoet
lies. Met
Wat ter
het leven van den mensch heerscht hetzelfde dualisme.
heeft zijn bitter. Tegenover elke winst staat een ver
elk grein vernuft krijgt gij ook een grein dwaasheid.
eener zijde verloren gaat, wordt ter anderer zijde ge-
wonnen. De natuur houdt niet van monopolies en uitzonderingen.
In het oog van den pachter is macht een begeerlijke zaak.
Maar hij vergeet, dat de President zijn “White-House” ’ duur
betaaid heeft. Misschien heeft hij zijn vrede en zijn beste eigen-
schappen moeten prijsgeven. Wie door de kracht van zijn wil
of zijn geest over duizenden heerscht, draagt ook de verantwoordelijkheid van die macht. De gemspireerde moet van het licht
getuigen', vader en moeder, vrouw en kind haten, de wereld be
droeven door aan de waarheid getrouw te blijven.
De wet der compensatie schrijft aan steden en volken wetten
voor. Niemand vermag iets tegen haar. Is een regeering wreed,
dan is het leven van den regent niet meer veilig. Wanneer het
strafwetboek te gestreng is, dan zullen de jury’s geen veroordeelend vonnis uitspreken. Al wat willekeurig, kunstmatig is, kan
op den duur niet bestaan.
Het heelal is in elk zijner deeltjes vertegenwoordigd. De natuuronderzoeker merkt in elke metamorphose hetzelfde type op:
het paard is een loopend, de visch een zwemmend, de vogel
een vliegend mensch. De ware leer der alomtegenwoordigheid Gods
1 De naam van het hotel, volgens de Constitute der Vereenigde Staten
van Amerika ter beschikking van den President gesteld.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
101
is deze: God openbaart zich met al zijn eigenschappen in elk
grasscheutje.
Alle dingen zijn zedelijk. De ziel, die in ons gevoel is, heet
buiten ons wet. In ons bemerken wij haar inspiratie, terwijl wij
in de geschiedenis haar noodlottige kracht kunnen bespeuren. “Zij
is in de wereld en de wereld is door haar gemaakt.”
Elk geheim komt aan het licht, iedere misdaad wordt gestraft,
elke deugd beloond, elk onrecht hersteld. Wat wij vergelding noemen, is de noodzakelijkheid, door welke het geheel verschijnt
wanneer een deel aanwezig is. Als gij rook ziet, moet er ook
vnur zijn. Oorzaak en gevolg, middelen en doel, zaad en vrucht
kunnen niet gescheiden worden. Alle pogingen, die de dwazen ondernemen om het goede te verkrijgen, zonder aan de voorwaarden
te voldoen, die daaraan verbonden zijn, blijven vruchteloos.
De wet der compensatie wordt in de spreekwoorden van alle
volken verkondigd: geef en u zal gegeven worden ; wie niets waagt,
bezit niets; wie niet werkt, zal niet eten; verwenschingen komen
altijd terug op het hoofd van hem, die ze uitspreekt; de duivel
is een ezel.
Wie een ander onrecht aandoet, lijdt daardoor zelf. De fanaticus, die de poorten des hemels voor anderen wil sluiten, vergeet dat voor hem de toegang gesloten is. Wie zich om het hart
van anderen niet bekommert, zal ook het zijne verliezen.
Niemand kan den edele eenig kwaad doen. Ziekte, beleediging,
armoede, alle rampen, worden zijn weldoeners. Een dwaas bijgeloof beweert, dat een mensch door anderen bedrogen kan worden.
Wij kunnen slechts ons zelve misleiden. Elke bewezen dienst wordt
vergolden. Hoe langer de betaling uitgesteld wordt, des te beter
voor ons: de goddelijke gerechtigheid is gewoon, met interest op
interest te betalen.
De geschiedenis der vervolgingen verhaalt, hoe de menschen
beproefd hebben de natuur te misleiden. Te vergeefs. De geeseling,
�102
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
die de martelaar ondergaat, strekt hem tot eer; ieder boek, dat
verbrand wordt, verlicht de wereld ; elke stem, die men tot zwijgen
poogt te brengen, weerklinkt over de gansche aarde. Eindelijk
ontwaken de geesten en de martelaar wordt gerechtvaardigd, de
onderdrukker van zijn macht beroofd.
De omstandigheden zijn onverschillig; de mensch is alles. Wanneer dwazen van de wet der compen satie hooren, dan roepen
zij nit: wat baat het goed te doen? Als ik iets goeds deelachtig word, moet ik den prijs daarvoor betalen; verlies ik iets
goeds, dan win ik wat anders. Zij vergeten, dat een mensch niets
wezenlijks verliest, wanneer hij in rechtschapenheid toeneemt. “Ik
wensch geen uitwendige goederen , geen eerbewijzingen , geen macht,
geen gunst van menschen, daar zij geen werkelijke winst aanbieden. Ik begin de woorden van den heiligen Bernard te begrijpen:
“Nieman d kan mij kwaad doen dan ik zelf; wanneer ik werkelijk
lijd, is het alleen mijn eigen schuld.”
Er schijnt een groote onrechtvaardigheid in de wereld te bestaan.
Wij denken aan de onderscheiding, die wij overal opmerken tusschen meer en minder. Wij voelen ons bedroefd, als wij in aanraking komen met menschen, die minder vermogens hebben dan
wij, en zijn verlegen met onze verhouding tegenover hen. Wij zijn
bevreesd, dat zij God zullen aanklagen. Maar wanneer wij de feiten
nauwkeurig onderzoeken , dan verdwijnen al die kolossale ongelijkheden. De liefde heft ze alle op. Is mijn broeder edeler dan ik,
ik kan hem beminnen en zijn eigenschappen worden de mijne. Ik
ontdek, dat hij mijn goede genius is. Wanneer ik Jezus bemin,
wordt zijn deugd dan niet de mijne?
Langzamerhand komen wij tot het besef, dat de wet der compensatie zich ook in de rampen des levens openbaart. Wij kunnen
van onze vrienden niet scheiden. Onze engelen willen wij niet laten
vertrekken. Maar wij vergeten, dat zij voor aartsengelen plaats
maken. De dood van een geliefden vriend of van een onzer be-
�-Vi' V
’ : ‘ RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
'
103
trekkingen, eerst een gemis, brengt gewoonlijk een weldadige omwenteling in ons leven tot stand. Een tijdperk van ons leven
wordt gesloten, om plaats te maken voor een ander, dat heilzamer is voor de ontwikkeling van ons karakter.
Emerson herinnert nog aan een andere wet in de zedelijke wereld ,
die der voortdurende opklimmende beweging, welke zich overal
in bet heelal openbaart. 1 Elk einde is een begin; om elken cirkel
kan men een anderen beschrijven; onder elken afgrond opent zich
een diepere. Een laatste feit is het begin van een nieuwe serie
van feiten.
Wij zoeken steeds een hoogeren trap te bereiken dan dien, waarop
wij het laatst stonden. Elke nieuwe stap, door ons in het rijk
der gedachten gedaan, leert ons, dat twintig tegenstrijdige feiten
de uitdrukking zijn van een en dezelfde wet.
Wanneer God op aarde een denker zendt, dan schijnt alles in
gevaar. Elk deel der wetenschap moet op nieuw onderzocht wor
den,- aan menige letterkundige celebriteit dreigt de kroon ontnomen te zullen worden. Zijn komst wordt met blijdschap begroet
door hem, die de waarheid verkiest boven zijn meeningen over
de waarheid, die overtuigd is, dat zijn verhouding tot de maatschappij, het Christendom en de wereld niet boven alle bedenking
verheven is.
Geen enkele deugd heeft reeds haar toppunt bereikt. De maatschappelijke deugden zijn de ondeugden van den heilige. Onze
vrees voor hervorming is een bewijs , dat onze zoogenoemde deugden
in denzelfden afgrond moeten geworpen worden, die reeds onze
grovere ondeugden heeft verzwolgen.
1 Vgl. zijn Essay: Circles.
XI.
7
�104
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
In zijn verbeelding hoort Emerson de volgende tegenwerping: “Tot
welk een fraai Pyrrhonisme zijt gij gekomen, o wijsgeer der kringen!
Gij zoudt ons gaarne willen wijsmaken, dat zelfs onze misdaden,
als wij waar zijn, levende steenen kunnen zijn, waarmede wij
den tempel van den waren God zullen bouwen.” Zijn antwoord luidt:
Ik bekommer mij niet om de rechtvaardiging mijner gevoelens. Ik
verblijd mij, dat ik mocht opmerken, hoe het onoverwinlijk beginsel van het goede in elke spleet doordringt, die het egoisme
openlaat. Ik ben slechts een zoeker der waarheid. Niemand be-
hoeft aan hetgeen ik doe of laat eenige waarde toe te kennen.
Ik onderzoek eenvoudig, alsof er geen verleden achter mij lag.
Met onverzadelijke begeerte street ik er naar, om een nieuwen
cirkel te trekken. Zonder geestdrift is nimmer iets groots tot stand
gekomen. Als wij hiet weten waarheen wij gaan, dan kunnen wij.
hoog stijgen.
Wij moeten van ten moralist afscheid nemen. Wanneer wij
over meer ruimte konden beschikken, we zouden vooral de aandacht onzer lezers bij de Essays over karakter, liefde en vriendschap bepalen?P
Terecht is Emerson een dichter genoemd. Niet omdat hij eenige
verhandelingen geschreven heeft over kunst, poezie, verbeelding,
melodie; ook niet ijlmdat hij een paar bundels verzen in het licht
heeft gegeven. De inspiratie van den dichter is hem alles behalve
vreemd. Zijn stijl kenmerkt zich door levendigheid en aanschouwe-.
lijkheid. Zijn proza is menigmaal poezie. Wat hij over de roeping
van den dichteijj schreef, is niet uit boeken geput. uElk mensch
beleeft enkele oogenblikken 1 wanneer hij de stof beheerscht. In.
1 Vgl. ook, in The Conduct of Life, de opstellen over Power, Cul
ture, Illusions.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
105
goed gezelschap wordt alles in schoone gelijkenissen, in symbolen uitgedrukt. De dichter moet de grootste beeldhouwer zijn.
Aan het hof der Muzen geldt de onverbiddelijke wet: gij moet bf
geinspireerd zijn df zwijgen. De zanger mag slechts in zijn beste
oogenblikken zijn stem verheffen. De hoogste poezie, die aan de
menschheid jeugd en gezondheid, heldenmoed en kracht schenkt,
is dieper verborgen en moeielijker te ontdekken dan Amerika en
Australis, de stoom en de electrische batterij. De poezie is onschatbaar als een schuilplaats van het geloof, als een protest tegen
het geschreeuw van het atheisme. Elke schoone en mannelijke
r
taal is een zuivere toon in het lied.”
Spreekt uit zulk een taal niet de dichter tot ons?
Niemand herinnert minder dan Emerson aan den geleerde van
•den ouden stempel. Naar uitvoerige citaten, die van zijn geleerdheid getuigenis moeten afleggen, zoekt ge bij hem te vergeefs.
Toch is hij tehuis in oude en nieuwe letterkunde, zoowel van het
Oosten als van het Westen. Als hij ze noodig heeft, staan hem
de beste schrijvers en dichters ten dienste. Hij heeft ze niet alleen
gelezen, maar ook hun beste gedachten in hoofd en hart bewaard.
Met een zijner Essays, getiteld: Boeken, willen wij nog vluchtig
kennismaken. 1
Er zijn boeken, hoewel hun getal klein is, die in ons leven
dezelfde plaats innemen als ouders, geliefden en hartstochtelijke
ervaringen ; die z66 heilzaam, versterkend, revolutionair zijn , zulk
een treffende overeenkomst toonen met de wereld, die zij schilderen, dat wij ons schamen, aan zulke werken niet een voorname
plaats in ons leven te hebben toegekend.
* In Society and Solitude.
�106
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
In een uitgezochte kleine bibliotheek verkeeren wij in gezelschap van de wijste en ontwikkeldste mannen uit de beschaafde
landen in verschillende eeuwen. De gedachten, die zij zelfs voor
hun boezemvrienden niet durfden uitspreken, liggen voor ons
open. Wij danken daaraan de idee der onsterfelijkheid. Zij versterken in ons de zedelijke kracht en wekken onze phantasie
op. Wie de classieke werken gelezen heeft, heeft recht tot spreken. Maar als een scepticus of een schijnheilige over vraagstukken, die op het geestelijk leven betrekking hebben, een oordeel
velt, zonder dat hij de werken der groote meesters op dit gebied gelezen heeft, dan mag hij op uw tijd geen aanspraak rnaken. Laat hem eerst naar de bronnen gaan, om daar zelf het
antwoord te vernemen.
Volgens Emerson ontbreekt aan de Hoogescholen een leerstoel
der “boeken”, welke meer dan eenige andere vereischt wordt. Ineen academische bibliotheek noodigen duizende vrienden, in dezelfde foedralen gehuld, ons uit. De keus is moeielijk en wij
weten uit eigen ervaring, dat in deze loterij minstens vijftig of
honderd nieten op £en prijs voorkomen. Wanneer nu een barmhartige ziel,. die een groot deel van zijn tijd verspild heeft te
midden van onbeduidendheden, eindelijk rust vond bij enkele
meesterstukken, die hem gelukkig maakten, zou hij een goed
werk verrichten, als hij ons die werken wilde aanwijzen, welke
hem veilig over oceauen en donkere moerassen in het hart der
heilige steden, naar paleizen en tempels gevoerd hebben. De Fabriciussen, de Scaligers, de Mirandolas, de Bayles, de Johnsons
zouden de aangewezen personen zijn, wier oog met e£n blik den ganschen horizont der geleerdheid omvat.
Het lezen van middelmatige schrijvers is onvruchtbaar. Vele
volken danken hun beschaving aan
enkel boek. Voor een
groot deel van Europa was de Bijbel de eenige godsdienstige
lectuur. Hafiz, Confucius, Cervantes waren de grootste genieen
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
407
I der Perzen, Chinezen en Spanjaarden. Het zou wenschelijk zijn,
dat alle schrijvers van lageren rang voor ons verloren gingen >
opdat wij een diepe studie van de uitnemendste geesten konden
maken.
Emerson wil voorloopig de taak van zulk een professor der
“boeken” op zich nemen en noemt eenige werken op, die niemand zonder schade ongelezen kan laten.
Wie geen vreemdeling in Griekenland wil zijn, moet Homerus,
Herodotus, Aeschylus, Plato en Plutarchus kennen.
Onder de Platonici kunnen Plotinus, Porphyrius, Jamblichus
niet ongelezen blijven.
Voor de kennis van Rome’s geschiedenis zijn Livius, Horatius,
Tacitus, Martialis, Gibbon onontbeerlijk.
' Zonder Dante, Boccacio, Michel Angelo kunnen wij de Middeleeuwen niet verstaan.
Voor de oudste geschiedenis van Engeland moeten o. a. de
jongere Edda, Beda Venerabilis en Hume, voor de eeuw van Eli
zabeth Shakespeare, Spencer, Baco, Beaumont, Fletcher, Her
bert — om slechts enkelen te noemen — bestudeerd worden.
, a Voor de geschiedenis zijn vooral biographiefe van belang. Tot
de beste boeken rekent Emerson autobiographieen als die van
Augustinus, Benvenuto Cellini, Montaigne, ■ Rousseau, Linnaeus,
Gibbon, Hume , Franklin, Burns, Goethe en Haydn.
In onzen tijd, nu velen onverschillig zijn omtrent alles, wat niet
in getallen kan worden uitgedrukt, moeten vooral de dichters en
alien, die de phantasie opwekken, in eere gehouden worden.
De allerbeste lectuur bieden ons volgens Emerson de heilige
schriften, niet alleen die der Jodea en der Christenen, maar ook
die van heidensche volken, vooral de Veda’s, de wetten van
Manu, de Upanischads, de Bhagavad-Gita en de heilige boeken
der Buddhisten aan. “De Bijbels zijn de majestueuse uitdrukking
van het algemeen geweten. Zij zijn bestemd voor de binnenkamer en
�1,Q8
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
moeten op de knieSn gelezen worden. De zendeling kan ze medenemen , maar zal bemerken, dat de geest, die in deze boeken woont,
sneller reist dan hy en hem by zijn komst in een vreemd land begroet.”
Daarnaast worden die schriften geplaatst, welke bijna canoniek
gezag verwierven, zooals de spreuken van Epictetus, van Mar
cus Aurelius, de “Imitatio Christi” en de “Pens^es” van Pascal.
Aan het slot zijner lezing erkent de spreker, dat niet ieder
in staat is, om de meesterstukken der menschheid, al bepaalde
hij zich daartoe ook alleen, te lezen. Hij beveelt daarom letterkundige vereenigingen aan, waarin elk op zijn beurt een beroemden schrijver aan anderen voorstelt. Wanneer wij de parels
aanbieden, die wij zelve in een werk gevonden hebben, dan
mogen anderen beslissen, of het voor hen onontbeerlijk is.
Frederika Bremer heeft Emerson vergeleken met zijn landgenoot
Theodore Parker en niet zonder reden. Bij alle verschil, waarop
wij hier niet kunnen wijzen, beschouwden beiden het als hun
roeping, om als profeten onder hun volk te arbeiden. Welk een
liefde voor waarheid en gerechtigheid woonde in die twee edele
harten! Tegenover het gezag in kerk en maatschappij hebben zij
de vrijheid gepredikt; tegenover het materialisme de vaan van
het idealisme omhoog geheven.,
Julian Schmidt noemt Emerson een geestverwant van Carlyle.
“Emerson errinnert fast in all seinen Schriften an Carlyle. Ohne Zweifel ist er als der jiingere von ihm stark beeinfluszt; die Verwandtschaft ist jedoch angeboren.” 1 Beider ingenomenheid met Duitschland, hun idealistische levensbeschouwing, hun opvatting van de
geschiedenis en van de waarde der groote helden van ons ge1 Vgl. de Inleiding voor de Neue Essays van R. W. Emerson, p. X.
�RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
109
slacht Ieveren treffende parallellen. Toch zou het weinig moeite
kosten, om naast de o vereen stemming het verschil tusschen deze
groote geesten in het licht te stellen.
Wij hebben ons bijna geheel van kritiek op Emerson’s denkbeelden onthouden. Wij deden dit opzettelijk. Waartoe zou het
dienen, telkens aan te wijzen, waar wij van hem verschillen?
Er was gelegenheid te over, om tegen sommige vreemde voorstellingen , paradoxen, overdrijvingen, tegenstrijdigheden, die wij
in zijn schriften bij menigte aantreffen, protest aan te teekenen.
Maar wij wenschten Emerson aan te bevelen bij zoovelen, voor
wie hij nog een vreemdeling is. Wij ontkennen niet, dat er in
spanning vereischt wordt, om van zijn werken te genieten. Zijn
stijl is niet gemakkelijk te volgen, al komt het ons voor, dat
zijn laatste werken in helderheid boven zijn vroegere schriften
uitmunten. 1 Maar de moeite, aan de studie besteed, wordt rijkelijk beloond. Wij maken kennis met een diepzinnig man, wiens
ernst en karakter, wiens afkeer van alle ijdelheid en zelfverheffing ons onweerstaanbaar aantrekken. Al zijn wij het menigmaal
niet met hem eens, hij wektop tot nadenken en schenkt ons
een genot van de edelste soort.In zijn gezelschap voelt men zich
beter gestemd. Wij kunnen denindruk verklaren, dien de studie
van Emerson’s
werken op een zijner vereerdcrs
maakte: “Als
1 Ik geloof, dat iemand een goed werk zou verrichten, wanneer hij
b. v. het keurig boekje: Society and Solitude in onze taal overzette.
Van de duitsche vertaling van Scalma Mohnicke is reeds een tweede
uitgave verschenen. “Geschrieben in der classischen Weise des beriihmten
Autors, spricht sich dieses Buch in zwolf Anfsatzen uber die sociale und
natiirliche Stellung des Menschen aus. Der hohe sittliche Ernst, die gliicklichen Apercjus, die auszerordentliche Belesenheit, der umfassende Gesichtskreis, die scharfe Beobachtung und die virtuose Darstellnng des Verfassers
sind von wahrhaft hinreiszender Wirkung und gewahren dem denkenden
Leser ein Genusz, der eben so kostlich als nachhaltig ist.”
�"
110
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
' “ '
■ ? \L"‘
men jaren lang van een boek denzelfden reinen, aangrijpenden
indruk ontvangt, leert men daaraan te gelooven. Wanneer ik
Emerson lees, dan komt mij alles oud en bekend voor, maar tevens nieuw, alsof ik het voor de eerste maal hoorde. Zijn overtuigingen komen voort uit het diepst zijner ziel. Zulk een man
te hooren, dat moet boven alle beschrijving aangrijpend zijn.” 1
1 H. Grimm, Funfzehn Essays, p. 430 verv. (1874.)
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: p. 71-110 : ill. (front. port.) ; 20 cm.
Notes: Drawing of Ralph Waldo Emerson with his signature on front cover. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Includes bibliographical references.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[n.d.]
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
CT33
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
[Unknown]
Subject
The topic of the resource
Poetry
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Ralph Waldo Emerson), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
Dutch
American Poetry
Conway Tracts
Poetry in English
Ralph Waldo Emerson