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Art. IV.—Shelley.
1. The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by
Mrs. Shelley. 1853.
2. Essays; Letters from Abroad; Translations and Frag
ments. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited bv Mrs. Shelley.
1854.
3. The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. By Captain Thomas
Medwin. 1847.
4. The Shelley Papers. By Captain Thomas Medwin. 1833.
O write well on any theme requires not only a knowledge of
the subject, but a deep sympathy with it. The first requisite
is more commonly fulfilled than the second. Men can, after a
fashion, master a subject—know its bearings and its details—and
still have no real attachment for it: men, too, if they are at all
suspected of this indifference, will lash themselves into a
spurious love, which may be detected by its very absurdity. But
true love springs from the heart, can admire the virtues of its
friend without exaggeration, and yet not be hoodwinked to his
faults ; has the sincerity to praise where praise is deserved, and
the courage to reprove where reproof is wanted. Hence is it
that true love is the same as thorough knowledge, for it sees both
sides of the matter. Shelley’s critics, as well as his biographer,
have been of all kinds except the last. Captain Medwin should
remember that as it is the fault of a bad logician to prove too
much, so it is of an indiscreet friend to praise too much. He
has, however, in his “ Life of Shelley” contrived to fall into both
mistakes. But he is also wanting in the higher qualifications of
a biographer. It has now become, somehow or another, an esta
blished axiom that nothing is so easy to write as a biography.
Jot down a few facts, reckon them up like a schoolboy’s addition
sum, and you have a Life ready-made. Nay, perhaps save your
self even this trouble, and, in these days of mechanical aids, take
a “ Ready Reckoner,” and you will find it done for you. An
other popular receipt is, to sketch in a few lines here and there—
never mind if they are a little blurred—paint them in watercolours, and you have a portrait at once : the critics will clean
your picture for you gratis. Perhaps nothing is so difficult as a
biography; but of all biographies, a poet’s most so. You have
in his case not only to trace the mere liver of life, but all those
back currents and cross eddies in which his stream of poesy has
flowed. Every little action has to be examined to see what effect
T
[Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXV.J—New Series, Vol. XIII. No. I.
II
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Shelley.
it has had upon his life and his poetry, for the two are inter
woven as w7oof and warp : not only this, hut the biographer must
bring a congenial and a poetic spirit to the task—must show in
what new realms of poesy our poet has travelled, what new
beauties he has discovered, what new Castalian springs he has
drunk of; should show, too, what new views of life he has
opened up, how these views originated, and what their ultimate
aim is—for this is the important point—and what real value they
have in their practical bearing upon this earth ; and how far they
are likely to affect and improve it. But in Shelley’s case the dif
ficulty is tenfold increased. His character, in one sense one of
the most simple, is in reality one of the most complex. So shy
and reserved in many matters, yet speaking forth so boldly and
uncompromisingly; so inconsistent at times, yet ever the same in
the cause of truth ; so impulsive in most matters, yet so firm in
behalf of liberty; so feminine and so susceptible, yet so heroic
and resolute, he presents a medley of contradictions. All this
must be accounted for by his next biographer. Nevertheless, we
are thankful to Captain Medwin for what he has accomplished;
he has done it to the best of his endeavours, and with a certain
species of enthusiasm which will atone for many defects. But a
Life of Shelley is still wanted—so much remains that is still
obscure about him. Any little facts, as long as they are genuine
and upon undoubted authority, would be welcome; for it is these
little facts and traits—little they are wrongly called—which help
us to judge of a man’s character, and give us such an insight into
his life and poems.
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” said Byron; yet, we suspect,
without knowing why. The one is Nature’s real infinite order of
things; the other, only man’s worldly finite arrangement. We
talk of sober truth and wild fiction; but it is truth in reality that
is wild, and fiction sober. “ As easy as lying,” says Hamlet, but
truth is hard to imitate. Hence to thinking men the romance of
history is more exciting than any novel; a biography more inte
resting than any fiction. Shelley’s life, with all its pathos, is an
example. The imagination of no novelist would ever have dared
to have drawn such a character. It would have been scouted at
once as impossible in the highest degree. Let us endeavour to
give some sort of a brief sketch of it, trying to fill in, with what
cunning we have, the lights and shades. Percy Bysshe Shelley
was born at Field Place, in Sussex, on the 4th of August, 1792,
related through his family to Algernon and Sir Philip Sydney,
heir to a baronetcy and its rich acres. Novel readers would be
delighted in such a promising hero; young ladies would have
fallen in love with him at once, or with his ten thousand a year.
He was brought up, it appears, with his sisters until he was
�At Sion House, Brentford; and at Eton.
99
seven or eight years old, and then sent to an academy at Brent
ford, and subsequently, at thirteen, to Eton. At neither schools
did he mix with the other boys, but like Novalis and many other
boy-men, took no part in the sports. This shyness and reserve
he never threw off during life. It appears even in his poems;
they seem to shun the light of the common world, its din, its
noise ; they fly away to the realms of imagination for peace
and quietness. We can fancy Shelley walking by himself with
that delicate feminine face and quiet dreaming eye, glooming
moodily over his supposed wrongs, which, by-the-bye, he might
have easily cast away, had he but set to work and bowled round
hand, or played at fives with the rest; they would have dropped
off, as lightly as the bails, with the first wicket he took. But it
was not so, and he ever afterwards looked back with pain upon
those early days. Writing of them in the Dedication of the “Revolt
of Islam”—
“ I wept, I knew not why; until there rose
From the near schoolroom, voices that, alas!
Were but one echo from a world of woes—
The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.”
At Sion House, Brentford, Shelley was a great reader of
blue-books,” so called, says Captain Medwin, from their covers,
and which, for the moderate sum of sixpence, contained an
immense amount of murders, haunted castles, and so forth.
When the “ blue-books” were all exhausted, Shelley had recourse
to a circulating library at Brentford, where, no doubt, as at all
circulating libraries, plenty more “ blue-books” were to be ob
tained, and where he became enchanted with “ Zofloya, or the
Moor,” whose hero appears to have been the Devil himself. No
doubt, to this source may we trace Shelley’s love for the morbid
and the horrible, which happily, under better influences, disap
peared from his writings. Here at Sion House, too, was exhi
bited Walker’s Orrery, which even surpassed “ Zofloya” in its
attractions, and which first turned Shelley’s thoughts in a better
direction than circulating libraries generally point to. At Eton,
an old schoolfellow of Shelley’s gives the following account of
him:—“ He was known as ‘ Mad Shelley,’ and many a cruel
torture was practised upon him. The‘Shelley! Shelley! Shelley!’
which was thundered in the cloisters, was but too often accom
panied by practical jokes—such as knocking his books from
under his arm, seizing him as he stooped to recover them, pulling
and tearing his clothes, or pointing with the finger, as one Nea
politan maddens another.” We often look upon a school as an
epitome of the world—a perfect microcosmos. And the above is
as true a picture of the world’s treatment of Shelley, as of Eton.
A few more years, and it was the world itself, with stronger lungs
h 2
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Shelley.
and with bitterer tones, crying out “ Mad Shelley;” it was the world,
a few years after, that seized his books with Chancery decrees; it
was the world, that is to say, these same boys, now “ children of
a larger growth,” that pointed at him with its finger. Shelley
felt all this in after-life as much as he did now at school; not
the mere insults, but that these boys, now men, should never have
outgrown their weaknesses. One more point in his Eton career.
He was there condemned to that most distasteful of all tasks to
true genius, to write Latin verses, that poetry of machinery.
Shelley, condemned to the Procrustean bed of longs and shorts,
wishing to enter the promised land of science—Shelley, who
hereafter should be the true poet, scanning with his fingers
dactyles and spondees, asking for a short and a long, that great
desideratum to finish a pentameter with, and all the time thirsting
to drink from springs that might refresh his mind, is a pitiful
spectacle, well worth pondering over. How many promising
minds this insane custom, still continued at our schools, has
blunted and sickened, cannot well be computed, we should say.
We wonder boys have not yet been practically taught the Pyrrhic
dance or the evolutions of a Greek chorus; they would be quite
as mechanical and far more amusing. In one person alone at
Eton did Shelley at all find a congenial spirit, a Dr. Lind, of
whom Mrs. Shelley writes, that he supported and befriended
*
Shelley, and Shelley never mentioned his name without love and
reverence, and in after years drew his character as that of the old
man who liberates Laon from his tower-prison, and tends on him
in sickness. This is touchingly like Shelley’s nobleness, which
never forgot a kindness. Most poets have ever looked back upon
boyhood with joy; it is the storehouse of many an old affection,
full of many dear memories. Shelley’s was blank enough of all
such things ; this one old man, a green spot in its sandy wild.
And now, since Eton would do nothing for Shelley, he betook
himself to reading Pliny’s “Natural History,” puzzling his tutor
with some questions on the chapters on astronomy. He next
commenced German. The fires of such an ardent spirit could
not easily be smothered out. Chemistry and Burgher’s “ Leonora”
were now his two engrossing themes; and about this time he wrote,
in conjunction with Captain Medwin, “ The Wandering Jew,” the
little of which that we have seen is poor enough; but Shelley’s
ideas are described by the gallant captain as “images wild, vast,
and Titanic in which remark we suspect that Captain Medwin
is like the Jew, rather “wandering.” And now we are approach
ing a great event in Shelley's life. A Miss Grove, a cousin of
his, of nearly the same age, who is described as very beautiful,
* See Mrs. Shelley’s note on the “Revolt of Islam.”
�At Oxford.
101
captivated him. We like to dwell upon these two child-lovers.
The frost of the world must have thawed away for the first time
to poor Shelley; a spring, full of fresh thoughts and hopes, were
springing up in his heart. He had found some one in this wide,
wild world to love him, and to love. Upon his dark night now
came forth the evening star of love, trembling with beautv and
light. Surely it was not the same old world, with its haggard
nightmares and its feverish dreams ? The dew of love fell soft
upon that wild brain of his. It was the first love—that first
iove which comes but once in a man’s life. You may have it
again ; but, like many another fever, it is slight and poor in
comparison. Of her and himself did he write in after years—
“ They were two cousins like to twins,
Ancl so they grew together like two flowers
Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers
Lull or awaken in their purple prime.”
To her, too, did he dedicate his “ Queen Mab —
“ Thou wast my purer mind,
Thou wast the inspiration of my song ;
Thine are these early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.”
And now, in conjunction, these two child-lovers wrote the
romance of ‘ Zastrozzi. We would fain linger here on these
happy days. But there is already a third party in the number—
it is a skeleton. Shelley, now not much more than sixteen, went
up to Oxford, engrossed with his chemistry. But Oxford did
not, any more than Eton, encourage his pursuits. Acids and
Alma Mater did not agree. Galvanic batteries and portly dons
were not likely to be on the best of terms. Why, a Head of a
College might mistake one for some infernal machine. So
Shelley betook himself to philosophy; Locke was his professed
guide, but in reality the French exponents of Locke, which is a
very different matter. Hume, too, became his text-book ; and
the poet, now a convert to Materialism, rushed on to Atheism;
and in a moment of enthusiasm conceived the project of con
verting Alma Mater herself. We don’t well see what other course
that venerable lady, with the means she possessed, could pursue
but the one she adopted. So Shelley was expelled. It is worth
considering, however, that there was no other weapon left against
Atheism but the poor and feeble one of expulsion. On Alma
Mater we need waste no reflections; but turn to Shelley in his
utter desolateness, for unto him it must have been an hour of
great darkness. The old traditional guide-posts were gone, and
he had to walk the road of life alone. New world-theories he
must construct; the old eternal problems he must now solve
�102
*
Shelley.
for himself. Other griefs from -without pressed upon him. His
cousin deserted him, or rather, we should suppose, was made to
desert him. His treatise on Atheism had deeply offended his
relations, though we are surprised at its preventing his marriage.
An expected baronetcy in this world, like charity, can hide a
multitude of sins. A baronet’s blood-red hand could easily, we
should have thought, have covered up even Atheism, since it gene
rally can conceal so many faults. So Shelley left Alma Mater, and
matriculated at the university of the world, where he should
some day take honours, though from thence some would have
expelled him too. He appears to have gone up to London, living
with Captain Medwin, speculating on metaphysics, and writing
letters under feigned names to various people, including Mrs.
Hernans. To show in what a state of mind he was at this time,
we may give the following anecdote in Captain Medwin’s own
words :—“Being in Leicester-square one morning at five o’clock,
I was attracted by a group of boys standing round a welldressed person lying near the rails. On coming up to them I
discovered Shelley, who had unconsciously spent a part of the
night sub dio.” We read of him, too, sailing paper boats on the
Serpentine, as he did years after on the Serchio, just as he
describes Helen’s son—
“ In all gentle sports took joy,
Oft in a dry leaf for a boat,
With a small feather for a sail,
His fancy on that spring would float.”
(“Rosalind and Helen.”)
He returned home, where, however, he did not remain long, in
consequence of his falling in love with a Miss M estbrook, a
schoolfellow of his sister’s. This was productive of another
breach with his family, more serious than that caused by his
Atheism. Miss Westbrook, it appears, was the daughter of a
retired innkeeper; and Shelley’s father, the baronet, with proper
aristocratic notions on all points, had long been accustomed to
tell his son that he would provide for any quantity of natural
children, but a mesalliance he would never pardon. So when
Shelley married the daughter of the retired innkeeper, his father
very properly cut off his allowance. Anything in this world, we
believe, will be forgiven, except this one thing. You may take a
poor girl’s virtue, and it passes for a good joke with the world; but
if you make her the only reparation you can, you shall be an out
cast from society. Such doctrines are a premium upon vice, and do
more harm to a nation than Holywell-street: and we are more in
clined to place many of the griefs of Shelley’s first marriage, with
its sad results, at the front door of fashionable society, -than to any
other cause. The retired innkeeper and Shelley’s uncle, Captain
�His and Schillers Love for the Storm.
103
Pilford, however, found the requisite funds, and Shelley and his
young wife went off to live in the Lake District, where Mr. De
Quincey gives us the following picture of them :—“ The Shelleys
had been induced by some of their new friends (the Southeys) to
take part of a house standing about half a mile out of Keswick,
on the Penrith road. There was a pretty garden attached to it; and
whilst walking in this, one of the Southey party asked Mrs. Shelley
if the garden had been let with their part of the house. ‘ Oh, no,’
she replied; ‘the garden is not ours; but then, you know, the
people let us run about in it, whenever Percy and I are tired of
sitting in the house.’ The naivete of this expression, ‘run about/
contrasting so picturesquely with the intermitting efforts of the
girlish wife at supporting a matron-like gravity, now that she was
doing the honours of her house to married ladies, caused all the
party to smile.”* Ah ! could it, indeed, have been always so; and
we think of another poet who says of himself and his wife, “I was
a child—she was a child;” and we sigh as we think over their
tragic fates. Shelley did not stay here long. We find him flitting,
spirit-like, about from place to place. We meet with him at one
time at Dublin, which he was obliged to leave on account of a
political pamphlet he had published. Soon afterwards we dis
cover him in North Wales, helping to assist the people to rebuild
the sea-wall which had been washed away. All this time, too,
was he suffering bitterly in spirit—the struggle was still going on
within. In addition to this, his wife was by no means a person
suited for him, and after a three years’ union they were separated.
In July, 1814, conceiving himself free, we find him travelling
abroad with Mary, the future Mrs. Shelley, daughter of Alary
Wollstonecraft and William Godwin, well known for their antimatrimonial speculations. They crossed the Channel in an open
boat, and were very nearly lost in a gale. Shelley’s chief enjoy
ment seems to have been on the water; and in this expedition
his greatest delight seems to have been in sailing down the rapids
of the Rhine on a raft. He is in this particular very like Schiller;
in fact, a portion of Schiller’s biography might be applied, word
for word, to him :—“At times he might be seen floating on the
river in a gondola, feasting himself with the loveliness of earth
and sky. He delighted most to be there when tempests were
abroad; his unquiet spirit found a solace in the expression of its
own unrest on the face of nature; danger lent a charm to his
situation; he felt in harmony with the scene, when that rack was
sweeping stormfully across the heavens, and the forests were
sounding in the breeze, and the river was rolling its chafed waters
into wild eddying heaps.”t And we find this love for water and
* “Sketches, Critical and Biographic,” p. 18.
f "Life of Schiller.”
�104
Shelley.
the storm in Shelley’s poems. He now returned to London, where
he suffered from poverty and absolute want. Nothing daunted
him. He now betook himself to the study of medicine, and com
menced walking the hospitals. Gleams and visions of liberty
lighted him upon his path ; but they were all mere will-o’-the-wisps,
and went quickly out, leaving him in blacker darkness than
before. Doubts still surrounded him on all sides. It is a pic
ture worth studying—that delicate, womanly face, thoughtful and
sad, with its long curling hair, and its genius-lighted eyes, brood
ing painfully in poverty over its woes. We look on him, and he
seems as some flower that has bloomed by mistake in winter-time
—too frail to cope with the blasts and the falling sleet, but yet
blooms on, prophesying of sunshine and summer days. The year
1815, however, brought him relief. It was discovered that’the
fee-simple of the Shelley estates was vested in Shelley, and that
he could thus obtain money upon them. The old baronet was
furious at the discovery, but was ultimately persuaded to make
his son an allowance. Shelley, now freed from his pecuniary
difficulties, again went abroad in May, 181G, this time to Secheron,
near Geneva, where Byron was living; and here the two poets
kept a crank boat on the lake, in which Shelley used “ to brave
Bises, which none of the barques could face.” How much Byron
profited by his intercourse with Shelley let the third canto of
“ Childe Harold,” which was written at this period, testify; and
let us at the same time remember Byron’s own words—“You
were all mistaken about Shelley, who was, without exception, the
best and least selfish man I ever knew.” After an absence of
more than a year, Shelley returned to England; and now per
haps the bitterest trial of all awaited him. His wife had drowned
herself. Woe seems to have shrouded him as with a garment.
How bitterly he feels it, these and many other verses tell—
“ That time is dead for ever, child,
Browned, frozen, dead for ever;
We look on the past
And stare aghast,
At the spectres, wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes that thou and 1 beguiled
To death on life’s dark river.”
Nay, the strain on his mind was too much, and he became for a
time insane, and so describes himself in “Julian and Maddalo.”
And now, as if his bitterness were not enough, the Court of
Chancery tore his children away from him. “ Misfortune, where
goest thou, into the house of the artist ?” saith the Greek pro
verb. And still the struggle was going on within, embittered by
woes from without. Life’s battle-field is never single. We
cannot stop to inquire whether trials and struggles may not be
�His Friendship with Keats.
105
in some way essential to the education of genius, and whether
there may not be some as yet unrecognised law to that end.
The old fable is certainly a true one of the swan singing only in
its death-agonies.
But there must be an end; and now the scorching day was
melting into a quiet eve : the stormy waves were subsiding. We
have dwelt at some length on the previous details, but must now
be more brief. We do not so much regret this. It is in the
storm only that we care to see the straining ship brave out the
danger—any day we can see plenty of painted toy-boats sailing
on the millpond. Shelley now married his second wife, Mary
Wollstonecraft Godwin, and led a quiet life at Marlowe, writing
“ Alastor” and the “Revolt of Islam,” and endearing himself to
the villagers by his kindnesses. He here contracted severe
ophthalmia, from visiting the poor people in the depth of an un
usually cold winter. About this time, too, he became acquainted
with Keats, and nothing can be finer than the friendship between
the two poets—nothing nobler in literature than Shelley taking
up the gauntlet for his oppressed brother poet against the re
viewers, and writing afterwards to his memory the sweetest of all
dirges, the “ Adonais.” So dear did he hold his friend, that when
Shelley’s body was washed ashore, Keats’ poems were found in
his bosom. In 1818, Shelley left England, never to return.
Life now was becoming unto him as a summer afternoon with its
golden sunshine. He had found a wife whom he could love:
that passionate heart, ever seeking some haven, had at last found
one—little voices now again called him father. The mists of
youth wrere clearing away; gleams of light were breaking in upon
him. He had betaken himself to the study of Plato ; and perhaps
there was no book in the world that was likely to do him such
good. In one of his letters he writes, “ The destiny of man can
scarcely be so degraded, that he was born only to die.” But
even now he had his troubles, as we all shall have, be the world
made ever so perfect. He lost one of his children; was still
troubled with a most painful disease; was still the mark for
every reviewer’s shaft. And now, when everything promised so
fair and bright, on one July afternoon the waves of the Mediter
ranean closed over that fair form, still young, though his hair
was already grey, “ seared with the autumn of strange suffering.”
The battle of life was past and over.
We have thus given a hurried sketch of Shelley’s life. Impul
siveness was no doubt the prominent feature of his character.
Love for his fellow-men, hatred against all tyranny, whether of
government or mere creeds, combined with kis ardent and poetic
spirit, hurried at times his as yet undisciplined mind away. No
doubt he struck at many things without discretion. But it re
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Shelley.
quires older men than Shelley to discriminate what is to be
hit. Strike at the immorality of a clergyman, and he screens
himself behind the Church, and there is instantly a cry you are
assailing Religion itself. Many stalking-horses, some of them
with huge ears and broken knees, are there walking about on this
earth, which we must worship, even as the ^Egyptians did cats,
and the Hindoos cows. Animal worship is not yet extinct.
Shelley, too, was one of those whose nature is their own law;
who refuse to be cramped up by the arbitrary conventionalities
of life which suit ordinary mortals so well, which fact is such a
puzzle to commonplace minds that they solve it by setting down
the unlucky individual as a madman; an easy solution, in which
we cannot acquiesce. One of those few, too, was he
“ Whose spirit kindles for a newer virtue,
Which, proud and sure, and for itself sufficient,
To no faith, goes a begging.”
An isolation of spirit, too, he possessed, often peculiar to genius.
He found no one to sympathize with him; hence his mind was
turned in upon itself, seeking higher principles, newer resolutions
than are yet current. He found himself, even when amidst the
throng, quite alone; though jostled by the multitude, quite soli
tary. Society to such a one is pain; the very noise of human
voices, misery. Hence, in his despair, he is tempted to exclaim
to his wife, “ My greatest content would be utterly to desert all
human society. I would retire with you and our child to a soli
tary island in the sea, would build a boat, and shut upon my
retreat the floodgates of the world: I would read no reviews, and
talk with no authors. If I dared trust my imagination, it would
tell me that there are one or two chosen companions beside
myself whom I would desire. But to this I would not listen.”
That Shelley should have been misappreciated is only natural. To
a proverb, the world likes its own, and Shelley was not amongst
that number. High-minded, he despised the inanities of life;
sincere and earnest, he hated the hollowness of the day. Too
sensitive, he turned away to bye-paths. The flock of sheep herd
together; he was sick at heart and wandered by himself. Poetic
and ideal, he felt more than most of us the heart-aches and
brain-aches of life, and ever seeking, ever hoping, found no cure
for them. Speculative and philosophical, he felt the burden of
the world-mystery and the world-problem, which he was ever
trying to solve, and which every time lay heavier on his soul.
Weak and physically frail, he felt life’s pack more than others,
and knew not how to carry it without its galling him. A loving,
sympathizing soul, he found but little affection, little love in the
world ; for the most part a cold response and hard hearts, and so
he uttered his wail of misery and then died.
�His Critics.
107
He was slain accidentally in the battle of life—a mere stripling
fighting manfully in the van. Still the army of life, like a mighty
billow, rushes on; still the battle rages, still the desperate charge
of the forlorn hope—here it gains, there it wavers, then is swept
away—and still fresh ones follow on: the individual fighting in
the first place for himself and his own necessities; and then, if a
noble soul, doing battle for his fellow-creatures, helping the weak,
raising up the down-trodden. The years sweep on like immense
caravans, each of them laden with its own multitude, brawling,
striving, fighting. We look out from the windows, and see behind
us the earth covered with the monuments of mighty men, with
nameless mounds where sleep the dead. Let us linger round the
grave of him who lies beneath the walls of Rome, near the pyra
mid of Caius Cestius, “ in a place so sweet that it might make
one in love to be buried thereand see what epitaphs have been
written over him, and what, too, we have to say.
In plainer words, we will proceed to look at Shelley as exhibited
by others, glancing at his religion, his politics, and poetry, by all
of which we may be enabled to learn something more, and to
form a completer estimate of him; and we would here remark
that whatever censure or praise we may bestow on him, the one
should be laid on, the other doubled by, his youth.
We have now passed away from the old reviewing times of
Gifford, when difference of opinion was added to the sins usually
recognised by the Decalogue, when it actually could taint the
rhymes, and make the verses of too many or too few feet, accord
ing to the critic's orthodox ear. This old leaven has long since
died out of all respectable Reviews, and can only be seen in its
original bitterness in a few religious publications, where vitupe
ration so easily supplies the place of argument. The world
luckily sees with different eyes to those it did thirty years ago.
Most people can now give Shelley credit for his noble qualities
of generosity and pureness of moral character; and even those
who may differ widely from his opinions, are willing to admit the
beauty of his poems. Most people, we said; all certainly except
those connected with a few religious publications, and the author
of “ Modern Painters.” Mr. Ruskin seems to be seized with some
monomania when Shelley’s name is mentioned. In the Appendix
to his “ Elements of Drawing,” he calls Shelley “ shallow and
verbose.” In a note in the second volume of“ Modem Painters,”
part iii. sec. ii. chap. iv. § 6, he speaks of Shelley, “ sickly
dreaming over clouds and waves.” As these objections are mere
matters of opinion, we shall pass them by; it is hopeless to
try to make the wilfully blind see. But in the third volume,
part iv. chap. xvi. § 38, he talks of Shelley’s “ troublesome
selfishness.” Facts are said to be the best arguments, and we will
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Shelley.
give Mr. Ruskin, as an answer to his libel, the following pathetic
story in Leigh Hunt’s own words :—
“ Mr. Shelley, in coming to our house at night, had found a woman
lying near the top of the hill, in fits. It was a fierce winter’s night,
with snow upon the ground—and winter loses nothing of its severity
at Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest as well as the most
pitying on these occasions, knocked at the first houses he could reach,
in order to have the woman taken in. The invariable answer was,
they could not do it. He asked for an outhouse to put her in, while
he went for the doctor. Impossible. In vain he assured them she
was no impostor—an assurance he was able to give, having studied
something of medicine, and even walked the hospital, that he might
be Useful in this way. They would not dispute the point with him ;
but doors were closed, and windows were shut down. Time flies; the
poor woman is in convulsions; her son, a young man, lamenting over
her. At last my friend sees a carriage driving up to a house at a little
distance; the knock is given; the warm door opens; servants and
lights put forth. Now, thought he, is the time; he puts on his best
address—which anybody might recognise for that of the highest gentle
man—and plants himself in the way of an elderly person who is step
ping out of the carriage with his family. He tells him his story.
They only press on the faster. ‘ Will you go and see her ?’ ‘ No, sir,
there is no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it—impostors
swarm everywhere—the thing cannot be done. Sir, your conduct is
extraordinary.’ ‘ Sir,’ cried Mr. Shelley, at last assuming a very diffe
rent appearance, and forcing the flourishing householder to stop, out
of astonishment, ‘ I am sorry to say that your conduct is not extra
ordinary ; and if my own may seem to amaze you, I will tell you
something that may amaze you a little more, and I hope will frighten
you. It is such men as you who madden the spirits and the patience
of the poor and wretched ; and if ever a convulsion comes in this coun
try, which is very probable, recollect what I tell you—you will have
your house, that you refuse to put this miserable woman into, burnt
over your head.’ 4 God bless me, sir! Dear me, sir!’ exclaimed the
frightened wretch, and fluttered into his mansion. The woman was
then brought to our house, which was at some distance, and down a
bleak path; and Mr. Shelley and her son were obliged to hold her till
the doctor could arrive. It appeared that she had been attending this
son in London, on a criminal charge made against him, the agitation
of which had thrown her into fits on their return. The doctor said
that she would have inevitably perished had she lain there only a short
time longer. The next day my friend sent mother and son comfort
ably home to Hendon, where they were well known, and whence they
returned him thanks full of gratitude.”
This was an action worthy of a descendant of Algernon and
Sir Philip Sydney, and may perhaps remind Mr. Ruskin of a
certain parable of the good Samaritan. Again, in the same
volume and part of “Modern Painters,” ch. xvii. § 26, Mr. Ruskin
calls Shelley “passionate and unprincipled;” and again, in §41,
�Mr. Ruskin on Shelley.
109
lie speaks of his “ morbid temperament.” It is only charitable
to suppose that Mr. Ruskin has never read Shelley’s Life ; and,
again, in the same volume and part, ch. xvi. § 34, he writes,
“ Shelley is sad because he is impious.” This sort of reasoning
reminds us of a story told in Rogers’s “ Table Talk,” which, as it
affords us some further insight into Shelley’s character, may be
given:—“One day, during dinner, at Pisa, where Shelley and
Trelawney were with us, Byron chose to run down Shakspeare,
for whom he, like Sheridan, either had, or pretended to have, little
admiration. I said nothing; but Shelley immediately took up
the defence of the great poet, and conducted it with his usual meek
yet resolute manner, unmoved with the rude things with which
Byron interrupted him—‘ Oh, that’s very zvell for an Atheist,’ ”
&c. Byron, however, did not approach Mr. Ruskin’s absurdity.
Atheism here did not altogether spoil Shelley’s defence; it only
made it pretty good. Orthodoxy, we must suppose, would have
rendered it perfect. But Mr. Ruskin boldly asserts, “Shelley is
sad because he is impious;” or, in other words, because Shelley
happens to differ from Mr. Ruskin’s notions on religion. It is
true that Shelley is sad—not, though, because he is “ impious,” but
from mourning over the wrongs that he sees hourly committed
—the day full of toil, the air thick with groans. A solemn tone
of sorrow pervades his poetry, like the dirge of the autumn wind
sighing through the woods for the leaves as they keep falling off.
We are ashamed and mortified to find Mr. Ruskin using such a
coarse and vulgar argument—he who is ever complaining of the
unfairness of his critics. But perhaps Mr. Ruskin may find this
out, that when he has learnt to respect others, his critics will be in
clined to treat him more leniently; and, furthermore, whilst he
deals so harshly and so uncharitably with Shelley, we would in
all kindness remind him of the line, “ who is so blessed fair that
fears no blot?”
And now for our orthodox reviewers, and their treatment of
Shelley. “Queen Mab” is generally selected by them as the
piece de resistance. We are far from defending the poem as re
gards its tone and spirit, nor do we uphold Shelley in any of his
attacks upon the personal character of the Founder of Chris
tianity ; he finds no sympathy with us when he calls Christ “ the
Galilean Serpent.” Much more do we agree with the old dra
matist, Decker, when he writes—
“ The best of men
That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil Spirit;
The first true gentleman that ever breathed.”
Shelley himself afterwards thoroughly disclaimed the opinions
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Shelley.
of this early and crude production. Upon an attempt being made
to republish it, he thus wrote to the editor of the Examiner:
—“ A poem, entitled ‘ Queen Mab,’ was written by me at the age
of eighteen, I dare say in a sufficiently intemperate spirit—but
even then was not intended for publication; and a few copies only
were struck off, to be distributed among my personal friends. I
have not seen this production for several years; I doubt not
but that it is perfectly worthless in point of literary composition;
and that in all that concerns moral and political speculation, as
well as in the subtler discriminations of metaphysical and reli
gious doctrine, it is still more crude and immature.” And he
goes on to say that he has applied for an injunction to stop its
*
sale. Shelley, in after life, was the last man to speak slightingly
of religion or religious matters—no true poet can ever do that;
he, above all men, venerates religion. By him, as Shelley says
in the Preface to the “ Revolt of Islam,” “ the erroneous and de
grading idea which men have conceived of a Supreme Being is
spoken against, but not the Supreme Being itself.” But why
“ Queen Mab” should ever be picked out as so peculiarly blas
phemous by its assailants, we have ever been surprised. We are,
we repeat, far from sympathizing in the least with Shelley’s ex
pressions; but we equally abhor the tenets of his orthodox
reviewers. They are far more open to the charge of blasphemy
than Shelley. It is they who degrade God, and God’s creatures,
by representing him as the God of vengeance, and all His works
vile and filthy; this glorious world as the devil’s world, and all
the men and women in it chosen vessels of wrath, unable to do
one good deed of themselves. They call Shelley an Atheist, in
deed ! Rather call all those Atheists who deny liberty and all
rights to their poorer brethren; who would trample them still
deeper in the mire of ignorance, who would desecrate God’s Sab
baths with idleness, and who make God in their own images piti
fully sowing damnation broadcast on his creatures. Call them,
too, Atheists, yes, the worst of Atheists, who lead a life of idleness
and aimless inactivity; for the denial of God (a personal God, in
the common sense of the term) does not constitute Atheism; but
spending a life as if there were no God, and no such things as
those minor gods—Justice, or Love, or Gratitude.
Shelley was, at all events, sincere in his creed, which is more
than can be said for most of his opponents. He suffered for it,
and suffered bitterly; not, indeed, the tortures of the rack, but
those more painful ordeals which we in this nineteenth century
are so skilful to inflict. All ages have very properly allotted
special punishments to their greatest spirits. The Greeks gave
* See also a letter to Mr. John Gisborne—“ Shelley’s Letters and Essays,”
vol. ii. p. 239.
�Religion at the Present Day.
Ill
hemlock to Socrates; the Jews rewarded Jesus with a cross.
Galileo received a rack for his portion. But we English have
found out the greater refinement of cruelty, which may be in
flicted by hounding a poet down by Reviews and Chancery-suits.
Contrast Shelley, and his fervid eloquence, and poetry, and zeal,
with his opponents. Go into an English church, and there you
shall too often see but an automaton, now in white now in black,
grinding old church tunes of which our ears are weary. It—for
we cannot call that machine a living human being—finds no re
sponse in the hearts of its hearers. Notone pulse there is quickened,
not one eye grows brighter. If it would but say something to
all those men and women, they should be as dancers ready to
dance at the sound of music. But no voice comes, unless you
call a monotonous drawl a voice. The farce is all the more
hitter, because that figure to our knowledge leads a life quite
contrary to the words upon his lips. How few of these Automata
in white or in black would, in days of darkness and of trouble,
stand up for their Bible and their Gospel, and dare to pull off
the surplice and gown, and wear the martyr’s fiery shirt! One
of them comes into the Church for the family living, and makes
God’s house a place for money-changers and traders in simony;
the other, because he has not capacity enough for any other pro
fession. And these are the men that are to lead us in days when
science and knowledge are fast advancing in every direction!
these the men to sing of God’s wondrous works ! Do they not
rather dishonour God, and prostitute religion to the worst form
of Atheism ?
That Shelley, or any one else, should become wearied with our
present religious condition, we are not surprised. Our wonder
is, that there are not far more of the same class. We have for
years been lying under a tree which is long past bearing—waiting,
alas ! for fruits, and not finding even a green branch, or a shady
place. The once pure water of baptism is now turbid, the very
sacramental bread mouldy. We must sorrowfully say with Jean
Paul—“The soul which by nature looks Heavenward, is without
a temple in this age.” So the old religious roads of thought are
being torn up; the old via sacra being levelled. As it has been
said a thousand times, no one need fear that religion will ever
die. While there is the blue unfathomable sky above us, in which
swim golden sun and moon and stars, and the comets trail along
like fiery ships, there will ever arise a sense of mystery and awe
in the breast of man; and while the sweet seasons come round,
there will spring from his heart, like a fresh gushing fountain, a
psalm of thankfulness to the Author of them. The deep spiritual
nature of man can never die. And it is no sign of the decay of
religion, but quite the reverse, when men refuse to be fed on the
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Shelley.
dry husks and chaff of doctrines. Yes, we will hope that a new
and a brighter Reformation is dawning; that fresh Luthers and
Melancthons shall arise, and that we shall have a Church wherein
Science shall not fear to unfold her New Testament—wherein
poets and philosophers, and painters and sculptors, may be its
priests, each preaching from his own pulpit—when every day
shall be equally holy—when every cottage shall be a temple,
and all the earth consecrated ground—consecrated with^ the
prayers of love and labour.
And now let us turn to Shelley’s politics. Most poets have ever
been the supporters of Liberty. And the reason is, as Words
worth says, “ A poet is a man endowed with more lively sensi
bility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, and a more comprehen
sive soul than are supposed to be common among mankind.”
They feel “ the sweet sense of kindred” more than others, and
cannot bear to see some of their brethren chained like galleyslaves to the oar of labour—earning their bread with tears of
blood, without time for leisure, or meditation, or self-improve
ment ; working like the beasts of the field, with this difference,
that they are less cared for by their masters. As Milton says—
“ True poets are the objects of my reverence and love, and the
constant sources of my delight. I know that most of them, from
the earliest times to those of Buchanan, have been the strenuous
enemies of despotism.” The remark is true. Tyrtaeus singing
war-strains, and the old Hebrew prophets rousing Israel from its
sleep of bondage, are instances of what is meant. All poets
have felt this love for Liberty. Even Mr. Tennyson can turn at
times from his descriptive paintings, and give us such a lyric as
“Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,” so full of noble hopes and
sympathies. A little time ago we had a novel with a Chartist poet
for its hero ; and by-and-bv a living poet, the son of a canal
bargeman, risesup among us—no fiction this time—uttering strains
of woe to that same often invoked Liberty. But the feeling is
most vivid in early youth ; the cares of the world soon grow
round us, and many of us find out it is to our apparent advantage
to remain silent; and we become to our shame dumb, ignomi
niously content to accept things as they are. Some even turn
renegades, as Southey. But in Shelley the flame every day burnt
brighter. Liberty with him was no mere toy to be broken and
laid aside, but the end and aim of his life. He kept true to the
dream of youth, and the inspiration of early days, when injustice
has not yet clouded our vision. But, on the face of it, is there
not something supremely ridiculous in the son of a wealthy
baronet coming forward to delineate the woes of men about
which he could really know nothing ? Why not have written
�The Times in which Shelley lived.
113
odes of the Minerva-press stamp, which could have been read to
aristocratic drawing-rooms ? The answer is, that this thing
genius is strong and earnest, and, luckily, will not bend like a reed
before any fashionable breeze from Belgravia or St. James’s.
Society is a costly porcelain vase, wherein the poor plant genius
is cramped and stunted, and artificially watered and heated, in
stead of living in the free open air, enjoying the breeze and the
showers of heaven; it must either break its prison or wither.
Shelley adopted the former course. Let us rejoice it was so—
that there was one man who, though brought up in luxury, had
the heart and the courage to pity the misfortunes of the poor.
Let us remember, too, the days Shelley had fallen upon, when the
nation was suffering all the distresses a long war could entail;
when a Parliament of landlords enacted the Corn-laws for the
benefit of their own rents; when prosecutions were rife for the
most trifling offences ; when Government actually employed spies
to excite starving men to violence; when “ blood was on the
grass like dew.” It was the dark night that preceded the dawn
of a better day. Since then, schools have sprung up ; free-libraries
and museums have grown here and there; parks have been
opened; baths and wash-houses built; crowded districts drained
and ventilated; cheap and good books diffused. Within the last
few months “The National Association for the Advancement of
Social Science” has held its first meeting, and there is a general
wish, except perhaps amongst a few, to improve the condition of
the working classes. A man who, in Shelley’s position, should
now write as Shelley did, could simply be regarded as a misguided
enthusiast; and we can only pardon Gerald Massey in some of
his wild strains, by knowing how galling is the yoke, and how
bitter the bread, of poverty. Still much, almost everything, yet
remains to be done. The life of the labourer still, as Shelley
would sing,
“ Is to work, and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day.”
Not even that, as the poorhouse in the winter’s night can testify.
But, after all, what is this image of Liberty which Shelley has set
up for us ? We can answer best in his own words :—
“ For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread,
From his daily labour come,
In a neat and happy home—
Thou art clothes, and fire and food
For the trampled multitude:
No—in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be,
As in England now we see.”
[Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXV.J—New Series, Vol. XIII. No. I.
I
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Shelley.
This surely is rather a material view; no one can well see
treason in the loaf, or impiety in the well-filled cupboard; and yet
an important one. The soul of man can never be fed, while his
body is racked with hunger; his mind can never be warmed with
any spark of the higher life, while his limbs shiver with the cold;
his spiritual faculties can never be raised, while be is sunk in
physical uncleanness. But rising to a higher strain, Shelley
proceeds:—
“ To the rich thou art a check;
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.
Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold,
As laws are in England:—thou
Shieldest alike the high and low.
Thou art Wisdom—freemen never
Dream that God will doom for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which priests make such ado.
Thou art Peace—never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
*****
Science, and Poetry, and Thought,
Are thy lamps ; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
Such, they curse their Maker not.
Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless,
Art thou; let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.”
(“ The Masque of Anarchy.”)
This, we must confess, is superior to most of his delineations of
Liberty. In a great many places he doubtless runs very wild in
the cause of Freedom. He had not yet attained that true calm
ness which is requisite for any great movement. Youth has it
not. The green sapling cracks and explodes in the fire, yet gives
no heat; the seasoned log burns bright and quiet. It is not by
fiery declamations, by mere impulse, that anything in this world is
ever surely gained, but by calmness, clearness of vision, and deep
insight. The still small voice makes more impression on us
than the loudest shouts, for the latter are, through their very noise,
quite inarticulate. Still the question remains to be answered,
�Happiness, how obtained.
115
how is this and other visions of Liberty to be realized ? Was
Shelley himself in the right way to bring about the desired
reform ? Certainly, as far as his hand could reach, he did his
utmost. He poured what oil he could on the raging waters
round him. But these attempts, and all others like them, are, it
is very obvious, only palliatives, not real remedies. Shelley’s
views as to Reform and Liberty are very vague. He seems to have
had some idea that with a hey presto, everything could be
changed. Pantaloon had only to strike the floor three times, and
the whole scene vanished; the old witches, who caused all the
trouble, were to be changed at once into beautiful sprites;
Columbine should come dancing on, and a general return to
Fairyland, everybody paying for every one, and nobody taking
anything. He himself was willing to make any sacrifice. In
this respect he seems to have been like some innocent child,
wandering into a garden, singing as he went, plucking with its
tiny hands the flowers and fruits, willing to share them with any
one—wishing, perhaps, that men could live upon them altogether,
and not a. little vexed and surprised when told that they would
not bloom in the winter time—wishing, too, that the beds might be
kept trim, and the grass might be cut without human labour—and
then sitting down, musing, melancholy, and sad, on the first falling
leaf.
To us it appears that liberty and happiness—if it be liberty
and happiness we want—depend upon no legerdemain, no
shuffling of cards. Once let us learn that our well-being depends
not upon external circumstances, but upon the riches of moral
goodness, and that our mind, like a prism, can colour all events,
and we shall then be on the true road to a higher reform than
our politicians have yet dreamt of. To teach men their duty,
and what love and what justice mean, seems to us just now the
one thing needful. Gold, perhaps, is the medicine least wanted to
cure human ills—the worst salve for human bruises. The mere
kind look and the kind action will be treasured up with its own
interest, not to be counted at any poor per cent., whilst the money
will have been foolishly squandered—how much more the word
which shall kindle a new idea, a fresh truth, another life. The
mechanic earning his few shillings a week, enough to support
himself, may find pleasure, if he has but learnt to take an
interest in the few green grass blades beneath his feet, and the
few opening flowers in his garden, which no lord in his castle can
surpass. Nothing is so cheap as true happiness: and Providence
has well arranged that we may be surrounded by ever-flowing
springs of it, if we will but choose, in all humility, to drink of
them. Shelley, unfortunately, fancied that there was some one
specific to be externally applied to the gangrene of wretchedness,
i2
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Shelley.
and cure it at once and for ever; but we must go far beyond the
surface, and the application must be made, not to the diseased
part only, but to the whole body of society. And as to the
sorrows and contradictions of life, we take and accept them,
believing that there is a spirit at work for good, which will bring
them out to a successful issue. And we are proud to be instru
ments in working out so grand a principle, believing that the
pain and the loss to us will be gain to the human race; that
these days of sorrow will be a gain to coming years; that this
sadness of a part will be a gain to the whole. In this is our un
faltering trust; and secure in it we can go joyfully along, enduring
patiently whatever sorrow or whatever conflict we may encounter,
striving to help our weaker brethren, giving them what aid we
can.
Painful as it may be to think of a number of fellow-creatures
toiling early and late, yet labour has its own claims on our grati
tude. Labour seems to be man’s appointed lot here, and it is
foolish to quarrel with it; still more foolish to call it a curse; the
thistles and the thorns have been, perhaps, of more benefit to the
human race than all the flowers in the Garden of Eden. They
have called forth man’s energies, and developed his resources.
All those chimneys in our factory-towns—are they not as steeples,
veritable church steeples and towers of the great temple of Labour,
pointing, with no dumb stone fingers, up to heaven, saying, by
us, by labour, is the road up there ? Does not the flame and the
smoke-wreath look as if it came from some vast altar, the incense
of sacrifices—yes, of noble human sacrifices, daily offered up;
and do not the clank and clash of a thousand hammers and anvils
sound sweet upon our ears, as the music of bells calling us to our
duty—trumpets sounding us to the battle of life, that battle
against evil and wrong ? So it must be: out of darkness cometh
light, and from the cold frosts and bitter snows of winter, bloom
all the beauteous flowers of spring; and from all this grime, and
dirt, and sweat of labour, who shall prophesy the result ? Even
now are there giants in the land; even now may we see cranks,
and wheels, and iron arms, tethered to their work instead of men;
even now do wre hear the music of the electric wires across the
fields, telling us other things than the mere message they convey;
even now may the hum of the engine, and the breath of its iron
lungs, be heard in our old farm-yards, and the reaping-machine
seen cutting down the golden wheat, and the steam-plough
furrowing up the fields, taking away the heaviest burdens from
the backs of men. Shelley would have hailed such a time with
delight—when there should be some margin of the day given to
the ploughman and the mechanic for rest and recreation—for re
�The Power of Love and Justice.
117
member, a man is ever worthier than his hire. Had Shelley ever
seen a railroad, he would, perhaps, have exclaimed with Dr. Arnott,
“Good-night to Feudality.” It is curious to notice what an in
terest he took in endeavouring to establish a steamer on the Gulf
of Genoa. But all the leisure in the world, all the instruction
that can be had, will avail us nothing, if we do not build on
higher principles than we are at present accustomed to—if we do
not rest our foundations upon Love and Justice. “Ah !” sighed
Shelley to Leigh Hunt, as the organ was playing in the cathedral
at Pisa, “ what a divine religion might be found out, if charity
were really made the principle of it instead of faith.” This, then,
is a part of Shelley’s creed—a creed which is beginning at length
to be felt; the creed of Jesus and of Socrates ; of poets of to-day
and of yesterday; the law of laws; the doctrine of charity—that
charity which Paul preached as greater than faith. Let our poli
tics and our religion be built upon love and justice for their
foundations, and once more will man live in harmony with the
rest of the creation—will smell sweet with “ his fellow-creatures
the plants,” and his voice will be attuned with the love-songs of
the birds. He will then understand how he was made in God’s
image, for God is love; the world will then once more bloom a
Garden of Eden, and Selfishness, that evil spirit—call it the
devil if you will, for it is this world’s devil—be ousted from our
planet.
But it requires something more than a poet’s strains to break
the spells that bind us—to exhume the people from their present
sepulchre of ignorance. A Tyrtaeus is of no use, unless we will
fight; his strains of no avail, unless we will work, man to man,
shoulder to shoulder. The walls of prejudice and selfishness will
not fall down by any mere trumpet-blast. If any one thinks us
too ideal, let him know we are purposely so. The ideal
is better than the real, and it is something to be ideal in
these practical days of ours. “ Equality ” and “ love ” may per
haps never be known, as they should be, amongst men. Riches
have been well compared to snow, which if it fall level to-day,
to-morrow will be heaped in drifts. But surely there is an equality
apart from money, and a love which knows not bank-notes; we
will hope for, and aid forward, too, the day when there may not
be the present gulf betwixt the peer and the peasant, and when
that simple commandment shall be better observed, “ Do unto
others as you would be done by.”
In a note to “ The Prometheus Unbound,” Mrs. Shelley thus
writes:—
“ The prominent feature of Shelley’s theory of the destiny of the
human species was, that evil is not inherent in the system of the crea
�118
Shelley.
tion, but an accident that might he expelled. This also forms a
portion of Christianity. God made earth and man perfect, till he, by
his fall—
‘Brought death into the world, and all our woe.’
Shelley believed that mankind had only to will that there should be
no evil, and there would be none. That man could become so perfect
as to be able to expel evil from his own nature, and from the greater
part of the creation, vras the cardinal point of his system.”
There is much truth in this. Our misery arises from the in
fringement of natural laws; and as long as those laws remain
broken, our misery will still continue. But Hope is by our side,
and she tells us, with the unmistakeable voice of truth, that men
will some day grow wiser and less selfish than at present—when
most of the present suffering shall pass away—when none need
be long unhappy, except through their own fault—for the earth
was created for a good and a happy purpose, though it take
myriads of years to accomplish it.
And now let us not be one-sided, but view Shelley as a whole
—the unripe as well as the sunny side of the fruit—the dark
shadow on his orb as well as the sunlight. His impulsive
character prevented him from laying enough stress on the grand
principle of duty. Its infinite worth we cannot over-estimate.
Duty is a pillar firmly fixed in rock of adamant, round which we
climb heavenward; round everything else we only twine horizon
tally, crawling along the ground. How far a stronger sense of
duty in Shelley would have saved him from the wretchedness
which he suffered, and his first wife from the terrible catastrophe
consequent on his leaving her, we shall not attempt to estimate;
but certainly it would have impelled him, as it did Milton, to
return from Italy when his country was in danger, and like him
also, if need were, to support himself even by keeping a school.
We have already noticed his want of a due appreciation of the im
portance of Labour. He forgot also that the energies of man are
tempered to an iron hardness by adversity; that our strength
springs up fresher and stronger under the clouds of trials and
sufferings; that our souls are braced by the keen, cold winds of
poverty; our faculties purified by the fire of affliction. Hence
was he ever planning Utopias, where the idle should batten upon
the earnings of the industrious — cloud-cuckoo-towns, where
idleness and the take-no-thought-for-to-morrow principles should
become the laws of our being, which are all of them impossibili
ties on this toiling planet. Again, too, Shelley erred in being
too ready to pull down instead of to build up. Greater harm has
"been done, both in religion and politics, by men whose capabili
ties have been of the destructive order, without the constructive
�Shelley, and the Arrangements of Society.
119
faculty, than by all tlie bigots that ever breathed. It is worse
than cruelty to take away the bread of life and the waters of life,
however adulterated they may be, from a man, and offer his
hungry and thirsting soul nothing in their place. But the grand
mistake of Shelley’s was the idea of revolutionizing the course of
things by a simple change of institutions. The best form of
government can do but little, unless the reform begins with the
individuals themselves. Govern ourselves well, and we need not
then talk so much about governing others. It is not the form of
government, so much as the men and women, we must care for—
not this or that institution, but the first principles of honesty and
justice amongst ourselves, which we must regard.
That men should be severe upon Shelley we can well under
stand—good, easy people, whose skins are luckily so tough and
insensible that the harness of life can make no raw on them—
whose heads are but moulds for so many cast-iron opinions and
creeds. That an over-sensitive poet should break away from all
the rules of life, and betake himself to the wilderness of his own
doubts and speculations, is to them a most incredible, not to say
a most wicked thing. To leave a home fireside, with its six
o’clock dinner and port wine, in exchange for a doubtful supper
on bread and cheese, and a certain one on metaphysics—to form
your own world-theory—to found a fresh morality—is to them
the height of madness. They forget that the arrangements of
society are made, and rightly too, for the mass—that is, for such
people as themselves—and that a poet is something very different
from themselves, and that these laws which operate so well for
them, will in all likelihood work fatally on the poet. So the
poor poet must be hooted and brayed at by all the chorus of
human owls and quadrupeds. He plunges away madly into the
darkness beyond, solitary and sad, endeavouring to steer by the
compass of his own thoughts. The world looks on him in his
struggles and his toils with the same quiet indifference, not to say
pleasure, that a boy does at a cockchafer spinning in agony on a
pin’s point. That Shelley’s views were often wild and crude, no
one for a moment will deny. Enthusiastic and impulsive, he
jumped to all sorts of conclusions on the most important points.
The value of a young man’s experience—and Shelley died at
nine-and-twenty—is not worth much, and it is only by expe
rience we can test anything in this practical world. He himself
found this out at last. Circumstances also had a great effect in
his case, as they have upon all of us. We perhaps can never
rightly weigh the balance of any man’s actions, because we never
allow enough for the circumstances which should be placed in
the other scale. Here was Shelley, the son of a man who was
,
�120
Shelley.
entirely different in his whole nature, sent to school where he
*
was brutally treated and discouraged in his studies, marrying a
peison who was in no respects fitted for him. On the other
hand, suppose that he had had a father who could have judi
ciously sympathized with him, been sent to a school where
masters would have encouraged his studies, and have married a
suitable wife, who shall say what Shelley might have been ?
But we are dealing with things not as they might be, but as they
were and are. One small pebble in the way of a stream shall
make the river flow in another direction, and water quite other
lands and countries to what it does now. Yet man, perhaps,
should not be a stream, as weak as water. Be this as it may, it
is certain that before Shelley s death the mists that had long
obscured the rising of his dawui were already melting, and his
day was just breaking, all calm and pure; the bitter juices were
all being drawn up, and converted into sweetness and bloom; the
fruit of his genius was fast becoming ripe and mellow.
We have gone thus far into Shelley’s life and opinions, without
touching upon his poetry; for we think that if a person cared
nothing at all about poetry in the abstract, he must be struck
with that still higher poetry of kindness and generosity which so
inspired Shelley. His written poetry, in our mind, is quite a
secondary affair to that. There is a poetry of real life which is
grander than any yet sung by minstrel. The man is greater
than his poems.
The critics have plenty of stock objections to find with Shelley’s
poetry. The most common complaint is, that he is too metaphy
sical ; that the air is so rarified in his higher regions of Philoso
phy, that ordinary beings can’t breathe it; that his verse is like
hard granite peaks, brilliant with the lights and the shadows of
the changeful clouds, robed with white wreaths of mists, and
touched with the splendours of the setting and the rising sun,
but not one flower blooms upon it, not one living creature is to
be seen there, only ethereal forms flitting fitfully hither and
thither; and we must, to a certain extent, admit the truth of the
charge. Shelley exhibited to a remarkable degree the union of
the metaphysical and the imaginative mind. Philosophy and
poetry prevailed over him alternately. For a long time he was
doubtful to which he should devote himself, f It is from an
overbalance of philosophy that there is such a want of concrete
ness in his poems. He was for ever looking at things in a meta
* “As like his father, as I’m unlike mine.”—Letter to Mrs. Gisborne,
f See Mrs. Shelley’s note on the “ Revolt of Islam.”
�The Cause of Shelley s Poetry.
121
physical point of view, projecting himself into Time and Space;
regarding this earth as a ball, with its blue robe of air,
“ As she dances about the sun,”
instead of parcelled out into rich farms and sprinkled with towns,
and solid three and four-storied bouses, and walls fourteen inches
thick, tenanted by Kit Slys, Shylocks, Iagos, Falstaffs, and the
whole company of humanity, who play on alternate nights and
days the tragedy or the comedy of life. That he should have
taken this abstract view of life is not at all wonderful. All great
minds are ever attracted by the problem of life. This world
riddle is of all things the most fascinating to the ardent and
inquiring spirit. The reason why Shelley sang of the things
he did, was simply that they both interested and pained him more
than others. Living in an age, which gave birth to the French
Revolution, which was agonized with the throes of all sorts of
speculative theories, his verse naturally echoed them. Every true
artist—whether by poetry, or painting, or architecture, it matters
not—gives us the great questions of the day, with his attempted
solution of them. Hence is it that Shelley is really a poet, be
cause in his verse he truly sympathized with the wants of the
day. Before a man can write well, he must have felt. It is not
fine phrases, or similes, or fine anything else that make a poet,
any more than fine clothes make a man. Shelley found out that
the old-established customs, the old morals, the old laws, did not
suit him. The every-day maxims of low prudence sounded to
him very much like baseness; the common religion to him was
synonymous with uncommon irreligion, and public morality
looked to him merely a mask for private immorality. He felt
all this, and felt it bitterly, and sighed after nobler aspirations;
hence his poetry. His great failing is a certain amount of queru
lousness, instead of calmly reposing amidst all his conflicts in an
eternal Justice, which, though it may be far from visible to com
mon eyes, is still the foundation of the world. He had before
his death passed through only one stage of the conflict which
most great minds undergo. Before belief, there must be doubt;
before the fire, the smoke. Shelley never attained that perfect
repose which the greatest poets have possessed, and his poetry
consequently does not rise to the highest order. Now, Shelley
defines poetry as “ the expression of the imagination,”* and he
has Shakspeare on his side—
“ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.”
* “ A Defence of Poetry.”
�122
Shelley.
Strangely does that word “ lunatic” sound now, as we think of
that tale of “ Mad Shelley.” But this is exactly what Shelley’s
poetry really is—“ the expression of the imagination,” unmodi
fied by experience, and any knowledge of this world of men and
women. Imagination, though doubtless the first requisite of a
poet, is far from all. As Novalis would say, “ a poet is a Tnie.rocosmos.” The great poets are all of them many-sided. Their
poetry is both /ztjtnjtTtc and 7to' ]<tiq. They illustrate both the
u
Aristotelian and Baconian theory of poetry, as well as much
more. They are like lands which bear crops of all kinds. They
possess, in fact, the united faculties of all other men, and these
faculties serve to check and balance one another. Every part
working in unison, nothing unduly developed at the expense of
another, are the characteristics of all great poets, and, in fact, of
all great men, who are only poets in another way. Shelley’s
imagination, unluckily, galloped away with him, instead of his
reining it in. Take some of the most imaginative pieces that
have ever been written, and we shall find how they are all of them
more or less ballasted. There is that most fairy-like of all things,
“ The Birds” of Aristophanes, brilliant with imagination, yet still
occupying our interest by its wit and humour. Again, “The
Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “ The Tempest,” with all
their scenes from Fairyland, and their spirits, are balanced
by the human creations, and the interest and incidents that
arise from the plots. Shelley seems never to have anchored
his imagination to anything.
There was no clog to it.
Nothing to tie it down. Hence his weak, shadowy drawings,
his want of substance, an absence of reality. Hence his
characters are too often mere personified abstractions; thoughts
which have been only half-clothed in human bodies. For
we cannot agree with Lord Macaulay in thinking that they
cease to be abstractions, and interest us as human beings; for
common experience tells us that they do not.
*
Shelley had in
him none of the elements which made Shakspeare essentially
popular. He was a vegetarian, a water-drinker. In philosophical
moods he doubted the existence of matter; but then he was
always in philosophical moods. He is, in short, too spiritual,
too subtle for ordinary men with good appetites, who are not
troubled by the theories of Berkeley. We cannot fancy him at
one of those “ wit-combats” at The Mermaid, drinking sherrissack, and joining in the chorus of a song. He wanted the
faculty of humour, though Captain Medwin assures us he
possessed it strongly. We have looked in vain; we cannot find
* See some incidental remarks on Shelley, in the Essay upon “ The Pil
grim’s Progress.”
,
�if
q
ja
dt
<1
His Poems as illustrated by his Life.
123
a spark of it in his letters, which, on the contrary, are marked hy
his usual melancholy spirits. He was too metaphysical to he
humorous. He had more of the Jaques and the Hamlet vein
than Falstaff’s in him. Hence his bitter outbursts of sarcasm.
We must, however, turn to his Life to account for the peculiarities
of his poetry. We find there that it took him only a few weeks
to write “ The Prometheus Unbound,” whilst he laboured at
“ The Cenci” for months; that he forsook his drama of
“ Charles I.” in disgust, for “ The Triumph of Life,” one of
his most abstruse poems. A curious trait, which gives us no
little clue in the matter, is mentioned by Captain Medwin, that
Shelley was in the habit of noting down his dreams. “ The first
day,” he said, “they made a page, the next two, the third
several, till at last they constituted far the greater part of his
existence, realizing what Calderon says, in his comedy of ‘ La
Vida es Sueno’—
‘ Sueno es Sueno.’
‘ Dreams are but the dreams of other dreams.’ ”
What could be expected of a poet to whom dreams were the only
realities of life ? And yet there is something peculiarly pathetic
in the story; to many of us, as well as to Shelley, probably our
sleeping and our waking dreams are the happiest parts of our ex
istence. We build our air-castles, those dreams of the day, and
take refuge in them from the toil and uproar of the world. There
are times when all of us become disheartened, when the spirit
within us faints, when we sigh in our hearts—
“ 0 cease ! must hate and death return ?
Cease! must men kill and die ?”
Shelley was, notwithstanding his sanguine hopes, subject to such
fits of despondency; no wonder that he should write down his
dreams. After all, we live far more in our world of thoughts,
and fancies, and dreams, and spend a happier existence, too, in
them, than on the real material world. Shelley, too, seems to
have known that the abstract nature of his poetry would be a bar
to his popularity, and says, in a letter to a friend, that there are
not five people who will understand his ‘‘Prometheus Unbound;”
and in his prefatory lines to his “ Epipsychidion,” he writes:—
“ My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who shall conceive thy reasoning.”
And this might be said, with some limitation, of all his poetry.
Again, when his wife complains of his want of human interest
and story, he wishes to know if she, too, has become “criticbitten.” As he said of Keats, he himself can never become
popular; his effect upon men will be, not to make them applaud,
�124
Shelley.
but to think. Popularity and fame were not the things Shelley
cared for. It would be well if our young poets would remember
this. No great thing ever did become popular at once. The
fact of its becoming popular at once, shows it is not worth much.
If you care for popularity, then write songs which can be played
on street-organs, and by sentimental young ladies in drawing
rooms, and which commonplace critics can understand. But if
you respect yourself—and that’s the only respect worth anything
—never mind if only five people understand you; these five are
worth five millions of others, nay, are worth the whole of the rest
of the world. As to Shelley being difficult to understand, we
apprehend that this is far more the reader’s fault than the poet’s.
Plato, instead of saying “ poets utter wise things which they
do not themselves understand,” should have said, “ which their
readers do not try to understand.” We are not amongst those
who look upon poetry as a mere amusement, as a light recreation.
The office of the poet is the highest in the world. As Shelley finely
says, “ poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world;”
and he himself was the Laureate of Freedom. The poet comes
as spokesman between nature and the rest of his fellow-men: he
is the true priest—the true prophet; extending the tent of our
thoughts, enlarging the horizon of our ideas, teaching whatever
is lovely, whatever is holy and pure, revealing the unseen things
the common eye cannot see, and the melodies the common ear
cannot hear, interpreting the mute symbols of [flower, and cloud,
and hill, drawing his inspiration from the depths within his own
soul.
There is another point in connexion with this want of human
interest in his poems—that though Shelley experienced at times
all the hardships of poverty, yet he was not born poor. Unlike
the Burns and the Shakspeares, he never mingled with the crowd,
never learnt human life in that rough, coarse way, which tinges
their poetry with common every-day experiences, and invests
their characters with a flesh-and-blood reality. At school he was
always reserved, and in after-life much the same. Hence it is that
Sheliey never draws upon our feelings, like the great masters, in
his longer pieces ; there is none of the pathos of life, except, per
haps, in the “ Cenci.” He is too cold ; his characters are like
statues of white marble ; no warm blood flows in their veins, no
tears trickle down their cheeks. They might be inhabitants of
another planet, for what we know, giving us the benefit of their
views on various social problems.
Again, as we are criticising, we must find fault with those dulcia vitia of overloaded imagery and similes. His verse too often
flows not in a clear, deep, rolling stream, but more like a moun
tain current, swollen and impetuous from rain, jostling together
�The Past, Present, and Future.
125
■ everything that floats upon it. His imagery is often so rich that,
E- like the fruit on too luxuriant branches, it completely weighs
k the verse down and requires propping up. A very curious ex|t ample of this may be seen in “ The Skylark,” where, after comk paring the bird to all beautiful things, having said that its song
t is sweeter than the sound of showers, he closes by—
L
r
r
e
“ All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.”
He cannot, in fact, heap simile on simile fast enough, though the
verses are even now overflowing with them, like flowers overpowering with their sweetness. Again, we must notice an opposite vice—a love for unpleasant situations and things—
“ At whose name the verse feels loath ”—
as in “ The Cenciand a disagreeable love for the details of madness and hospital-life, as in “ Julian and Maddaloand we have
finished the catalogue of his principal offences. We dare say
there are plenty more minor faults, but we wont deprive other
critics of the pleasure of exposing them.
Shelley’s imagination was both his stepping-stone and his stumbling-block. It unfortunately mars his poems by its over-excess,
yet it gave him wings, with which he could soar aloft above the
8 grovelling views of our everyday life. The fault of the literature of
E the day is that it is too retrospective ; thinks that the Golden Age
« is in the Past, and not in the Future. It has its eyes fixed in the
a back of its head, and if it ever attempts to look forward, squints
s most abominably. This is the worst sign of the day, or of any
fl day. Let us, if we will, praise the dead Past, and crown its grey
a temples with a wreath of glory; but let us look forward to the
A Future as a happv youth, holding a cornucopia of all good things
9 in his hand. Shelley, at times, when a film came across his
w eyes, sank into this wild sea of despair, but his imagination soon
m buoyed him up.
There is a good Scottish proverb which it
• would be well for us to remember—“We maun live with the
« present, and no’ with the past.” Our duty lies with the present,
m and it is simply by making it as good as possible that we can
< mould the future. Shelley’s imagination, too, prevented him from
js- sharing in our English insularity.
There was nothing local in
•H his mind. It was as catholic as the universe. Hence he was
w ever looking forward with courageous hope. Golden gleams of
-fl the future flashed before him. He could conjure up new Edens,
ai and see Liberty again with Justice walking hand in hand upon a
i® new earth.
Shelley’s poems will not bear studying as a whole, nor will his
ar characters bear analysing. They are, in fact, all representations
■
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ij
k
8
w
V
�126
Shelley.
of Shelley. The reason of this is that Shelley sought to give
his own views to the world, and he had no medium to give it
through hut himself. He had no resources from experience 'to
draw upon, no character but his own that he really knew. His
life was a poem, his poems his life. Alastor sailing in his boat,
is Shelley ; Lionel in his dungeon-walls, Shelley; Laon, with his
visions of Liberty, Shelley. So his female characters are only
Shelley over again with long dresses and short sleeves. In one poem
only, “ The Cenci,” does he make any effort to get behind the
mask of his creations. But even here Count Cenci is only the
reverse of former characters ; he is only their antithesis, as im
pulsive towards evil as they were towards good. Shelley should
have remembered an axiom of his favourite author, Plato—kcckoc
JJ£V fytoV OV^UQ.
Turning to Shelley’s poems, we perceive at once the instinctive
feelings of the true poet. Thus he begins “Alastor” :—
“ Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood !
If our great mother have imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred.”
Mr. Leigh Hunt, in his “Recollections of Lord Byron and
some of his Contemporaries,” speaks thus of Shelley—“ He was
pious towards nature, towards his friends, towards the whole
human race, towards the meanest insect of the forest.” But he
was more than this. He felt that we are all akin, not men
alone, but the cloud above our heads, and the flower beneath our
feet. He felt that man is related to the world as a Part to the
Whole. He felt how all things mysteriously influence us, and how
to these influences we are akin. Such natural stepping-stones as
these lead us to Heaven, to which also we are allied. This rela
tionship it is, above all things, the poet’s office to show. Dearly,
too, does Shelley love Nature, who gives to us all alike her beau
ties, trying to read us the lesson—
“The simple life wantslittie, and true'taste
Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste
The scene it would adorn.”—(“ Epipsychidion.”)
How long it will be before we shall find out that we can live
without our present costly tastes, that our food will be as sweet
from clean earthenware as from silver dishes (many of them, by
the way though, only plated), that our sleep will be quite as re
freshing from a plain bedstead as one that suffocates us with its
unpaid-for hangings, we cannot undertake to say. The sooner,
�His Love for Personification.
127
however, the better. Very fine is the old fable of Antaeus, who,
when he touched his mother earth, received fresh strength.
Nature is the true corrective of the false bias which our minds
insensibly contract from the present sordid state of the world.
A walk in the woods acts as a tonic. A landscape fills the senses
not only with mere material visions of beauty, but these react
again upon us with a precious moral spirit.
We must not pass over Shelley’s love for personification of in
animate objects, a result of his strong imagination. Take, for
instance—
“ Our boat is asleep on Serchio’s stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,
And the oars and the sails, but 'tis sleeping fast,
Like a beast unconscious of its tether.”
(“The Boat on the Serchio.”)
There is another well-known example in the “ Cenci,” of the
rock hanging over the precipice, clinging for support, as a dying
soul clings to life. This propensity it is that leads him to
humanize the objects of nature. He cannot see a stream, but he
forthwith converts it into a personage, as the old heathen poets
would have into a god or a goddess. He gazes upon Arethusa ;
it is no longer a stream, but a beautiful nymph with crystal feet
leaping from rock to rock, her tresses floating on the wind, and
wherever she steps, the turf grows greener and brighter. And
then comes Alpheus, no longer a stream but a river-god, with his
fierce beard and glaring eyes, chasing the nymph whom the earth
tries to rescue from his embrace ; and so they rush along in .their
mad pursuit. This is quite in the spirit of the old Greek my
thology. In these prosaic days we are ever analysing the old
Divinities; we put Venus into a crucible and melt her down,
and look at Jupiter through a microscope like any other
specimen of natural history. We will, however, continue our
quotation, as it developes many of Shelley’s characteristics in a
few lines :—
“ The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there;
To tower and cavern, rift and tree,
The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods,
And the rocks above and the stream below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennine's shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of airy gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled,^
�128
Shelley.
JShelley’s love for the mountains amounted to a passion. Long
before Mr. Ruskin wrote—who seems to arrogate for himself the
priority of seeing any real beauty or use in them—had Shelley
sung their praises. So fond was he of them, that Captain Medwin
tells us he was continually sketching them in his books. A claim,
too, has been put in for Wordsworth, that he first gave us the
scenery of the sky, and all the glorious cloud-scapes and air
tones, which earlier poets had so strangely neglected. Shelley
may at least share this glory with him; though the critics have
forgotten that Aristophanes has a still prior claim. Shelley is
continually alluding to them. His lyric on the “ Cloud” paints them
as they move in their huge battalions across the sky, in all their
colours, from red sunrise to crimson sunset; or as they come
sailing along with their black wings, as if they were Titan ships
waging war one with another; or in the night lying as if they
were silver sands lippled by the waves of the wind, and lighted
by the moon.
In all Shelley’s pieces there is a strange melancholy feeling,
which we have alluded to before; not the result, as Mr. Ruskin
foolishly thinks, of any impiety, but from the poet’s affection for
Humanity, and his sorrow at its ills. Take this picture of
Summer and Winter”:—
“It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon—and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like seternity.
All things rejoiced beneath the sun—the weeds,
The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds;
The willow leaves that glanced in the bright breeze,
And the firm foliage of the larger trees.
It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold;
Alas! then, for the homeless beggar old.”
Shelley, with all his love for Nature, could no longer dwell upon
the last scene. The wind sowing the flakes of snow on the
earth, the frozen grass lying on the bald fields like grey hair, and
the icicles hanging like a beard from the rocks, had no charms
for him. He was thinking of all the frost-bitten, homeless,
breadless wanderers. So through all his poetry he is ever musing
�His Melancholy Feelings, and their Causes.
129
on the wrongs and sufferings of poor humanity. This gives it a
peculiar melancholy tone, not morbidness, but a true deep pathos.
He writes more of the fall of the year, than of its birth. He
sings the dirge over its bier, rather than the marriage-song of
the Spring. The wild wind, “the world’s rejected guest,” moans
among his verses, and there finds a home. Ever does he say,
“ the sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”
Another reason is there for this feeling with Shelley, his habit of
looking at the world from a metaphysical point of view. The
very grandeur and might of the Universe casts a shadow upon the
heart of man. All great minds have ever known this profound
gloom. Whether CEdipus interprets or not the world-riddle, he
shall die. Mark how in “ Alastor” Shelley writes—
“ The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams.”
How much is conveyed in that word “ homeless.” The
streams wandering along, seeking rest and finding none, until
they reach the haven of the sea, and then are snatched away
again into the air, seeming to say, “ we change, but we cannot
die;” here we are condemned to be for ever, restless, shifting,
changing. So with all things. And Shelley felt this strongly.
The mountains which seem so firm, and “ all that must seternal
be,” are after all but as changeful as the clouds which rest upon
their brows.
Many minor points are there which we might discuss, such as
Shelley’s particular fondness for a certain class of images, and
particular words. On one of these in particular, taken from the
green fields, he seems to dwell with great affection. Thus he
writes—
“ Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms, or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame.”
(“ Sonnet on Political Greatness.”)
So he speaks of Arethusa "‘shepherding her bright fountains
of Adonais, “ whose quick dreams were his flocks
and of the
West Wind—
“ Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed on air.”
So, again, in the “ Witch of Atlas,” he calls the wind “the shep
herdess of ocean flocksand he speaks of the earth itself as
“ the last of the flock of the starry fold.”* Even in his prose
* It is curious to notice how the “ one miud common to all individual men,”
as Mr. Emerson would say, repeats the same idea. Thus Edward Bolton, a
poet but little known, writes thus:—
“ Lo! how the firmament
Within an azure fold
Theflock of the stars hath pent.”—(“ Hymn for Christmas.”)
[Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXV.]—New Series, Vol. XIII. No. I.
K
�130
Shelley.
he returns to this metaphor, and calls Dante “the Lucifer of the
starry flock.”* And even in his translation he uses it, thus
expanding
eXar^pa (3oG>v, i]yhTOp oveipwv
Nvktog,
(“ The Homeric Hymn to Mercury.”)
into “ a Shepherd of thin dreams, a cow stealing.” Other
favourite words, such as “winged,” “islanded,” will readily occur to
every reader. Space fails us, and we must he brief. Much more
is there that might be said about Shelley’s poems, showing how,
in the first place, they were inspired by his early reading, how they
next yielded to German influences, how these developed themselves
into Materialism, and how this, too, was merging into a sort of
Spiritualism at the time of his death; marking each era accu
rately, and showing, too, what effects the French and Italian
schools of poetry had upon him. Especially, too, should we like
to dwell on some of his lyrics; nothing approaches them for
sweetness and melody, except some of Shakspeare’s songs, or some
of Goethe’s minor pieces. But we must turn to the man himself.
Poetry he loved with a religious spirit. Noble was he in work
ing at it as his profession. Noble, too, was he in his choice of
life. On one hand lay ten thousand a-year and its game pre
serves, and its bright smiles of courtly women, its soft-cushioned
and soft-carpeted drawing-rooms, its dinners with endless courses,
its revenue of salutations and bows, its faithful army of faithless
toadies; on the other, poverty with its bleak sharp rocks, where
yet a man may find a cave to live in; its rude angry sea, yet to
which if a man shall listen he may hear the eternal melodies; with
its black clouds overhead, which, though so dense, will sometimes
open out spaces of the clear, blue, unfathomable sky in the day,
and the bright keen stars in the night. Shelley made no hesi
tation which he should choose; and nobly done, we say to him,
and all such. Noble, too, was he that he wrote on fearlessly and
boldly in spite of party-reviews and party-critics. Fame was not
his mistress. He worshipped not at the shrine of that most
fickle of goddesses. Ever higher, was his motto. He was ever
quoting this sentiment from the second volume of St. Leon—
“ There is nothing which the human mind can- conceive which it
may not executeand again, “ Shakspeare was only a human
being.”t His face was ever upward—up the steep hill of poesy,
whose rarest flowers bloom on the highest peaks. What he might
And every one will recollect how Bloomfield’s “ Farmer’s Boy ” so naturally
speaks of the stars as—
“The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest.”
* “Defence of Poetry,” p. 35.
f See Mrs. Shelley’s note on “ The Cenci.”
�His Personal Character.
131
have been, had he lived, we can never tell. Dying at twenty-nine,
we are judging him only by his weaknesses. What could we have
told of Shakspeare or Goethe, if the one had only lived to write
his “ Pericles,” and the other his “ Werter” ?
Let us not forget,- too, the pureness of Shelley s morals. His life
in this respect was as pure as crystal without one flaw, one stain
on it. Many scenes are there in his writings, one especially in
the “ Revolt of Islam,” which could have been treated by no
other man with the same pureness of thought. Above all things,
too, do we prize his letters to his wife; they are so full of genuine
affection and kindness. Well was it that he should die in the
great ocean, pure as he himself was, that ocean which he so
dearly loved. Above all men, too, is Shelley religious, strange
as it will seem to many readers. Love for all that is good and
beautiful and truthful, reverence for all that is great and noble,
a spirit of humility, had their roots deep in the depths of his
soul. What matters it about names and sects ? Let us hear
no more about them; they are all but roads and lanes and paths,
more or less straight, more or less wide, to the great Invisible
Temple.
We must place Shelley amongst the world’s Master-Spirits and
Master-Singers; a younger brother of that grand blind old man,
Cromwell’s secretary. Shelley, too, was one of the world’s
Forlorn Hope; one of those generous martyrs who now and
then appear at such rare intervals, and fill us with undying hope
in the cause of Humanity; one of those who would willingly
lay down his life in the trench, if his body would but bridge
over the chasm for his comrades to pass. Such a man makes us
prouder of our race; and his memory makes the earth itself a
richer world. There is a light flung round Shelley’s life, though
so marked with griefs and disasters, which has never shone on
the most victorious king or Icaiser—a light that shall burn for
ever as a beacon to all Humanity.
�
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Title
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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>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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Shelley
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: p. 97-131 ; 22 cm.
Notes: Includes bibliography (p.97) and bibliographical references. Reviews of four works about Shelley: The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. 1853 -- Essays; Letters from Abroad; Translations and Fragments. by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. 1854 -- The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, by Captain Thomas Medwin. 1847 -- The Shelley Papers by Captain Thomas Medwin. 1833. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Westminster Review 13 (January 1858).
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Wise, John Richard de Capel
Date
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[n.d.]
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[s.n.]
Subject
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Poetry
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<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), 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>
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CT44
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application/pdf
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Text
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poetry
Poetry in English
Romantic Poetry
-
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Text
yVlUMAL
AND
‘ Read it again, and tell me, who was she ?’
‘Well, wines are best to drink where they are grown.
And tales to tell where they are old and known ;
But Mumal was a fair false sorceress,
Whose wiles brought half the East to nakedness,
Whom Mendra and the king set out to see.
Before hei’ house what seemed a river ran,
And here they met a crazy beggar man
Who said “ Ye soon shall be forlorn like me.”
The king turned back, the river ran too high :
Mendra went forward, and he found it dry.
He passed the roaring lions, made of stone,
The seven couches, where her shadows lie,
Who stretched to clasp him as he hurried by,
And found the couch where Mumal sat alone,
Too idle to do anything but love.
So he went back and made his boast thereof,
Nor showed her to the envious king, save he
Would serve them at their feast on bended knee :
Who paid the scorn with bonds, yet nightly freed
In the dear prison of her arms he slept
Till once he found not whom her sister kept.’
‘ And lost his faith, but not his love ; now read
In the seven-gated hold
Mendra sits, bound sevenfold
With the meshes of fine gold;
There they cast him to grow old.
And the hold hath seven eyes,
Where the king hath set his spies,
Set to spin the captive’s sighs
To a deadlier web of lies.
There when night is at the noon
Mendra wails beneath the moon.
1 Of. ‘Tuhfatu-1 Kiram’ in Sir H. Elliott’s History of India, voh i., pp. 345—341
and Captain Burton’s Sindh, pp. 114—125.
�MUMAL AND MENDRA.
‘ Where did she go when I could not follow?
Where is she gone whom. I held so dear ?
She is false and fair, and her heart is hollow;
I called her name and she did not hear.
If she had loved me she would have heard,
Though my voice were only the voice of a bird,
Singing far away as the flight of a swallow,
She would have heard me, called me to follow;
If she had loved me she would have heard.
Faster than any swallow can fly,
I came to her under the cloudy sky,
With neither moon nor stars above,
And never a guiding light but Love,
And the fleetest steed that would follow my track
Panting after me under the spur,
Should journey three days ere he turned back,
But I journeyed in three hours to her ;
And all my magic was only Love.
She taught me Love’s magic, I know it yet,
She taught me, and how could she forget ?
She could have heard me, I know, far away,
If she could not hear she had only to stay,
To stay for her love where the roses blow,
If she loved me, what ailed her to go ?’
In the garden at Mayapur,
Where the magic lions of Mumal roar,
Sitting alone on the magic bed,
Mumal also made moan, and said :
4 Seven weeks, and day by day,
I make the fountain of gladness play;
Seven weeks, and night by night,
I burn in my bower the lovers’ light;
Seven weeks, and I always wear
The lovers’ flower in my scented hair;
Seven weeks, and I wmtch and pray,
Saying, “Surely he comes to-day;” '
Seven weeks and he is away.
Is Mendra dead that he comes no more
To the garden of love at Mayapur ?
If he lives, he can come if he will,
Yet I know while he lives he loves me still.’
301
�302
MUMAL AND MENDRA.
Over against the prison tower,
Mumal hath spoken the word of power.
In heaven the Lord of lovers heard,
Before she spake it the mighty word,
And none of the seventy-seven spies
Beheld her palace of love arise :
But Mendra saw it with hungry eyes,
And he marvelled what Mumal came to do,
And he said, ‘ The false is seeking the true;’
And he waited a space while the palace grew
’Twixt the prison bars and the boundless blue.
When the palace builders went away,
Mumal stood at the window the livelong day.
Mendra looks forth every morn
To greet his love with a smile of scorn.
Mendra looks forth every eve
To see if his love still waits to grieve;
From morning to eve his curtains fall,
Lest his beloved, who loves him well,
Should see but his shadow upon the wall,
And all day the loveless laugh in hell,
To think that one night’s fickleness
Should have put hex' delight so far away,
That she might not find it in many years;
Though she never had loved her love the less
For the night that her sister made hei' stay.
But every morn and every even
Tears are shed in the lovers’ heaven,
And the tears of heaven are healing tears.
Over against the tower again
Mumal hath builded a palace of pain ;
She watches there as she watched before
To lure Mendra home unto Mayapur ;
And Mendra also will never miss
The exquisite pain, the shuddering bliss,
To sit in his chains and to know that a queen
Is pining to see him, and he unseen.
About the seven-gated hold
She builded her palaces seven fold ;
Seven moons she watched in each
To see her love and to hear his speech ;
�DRAWN DY E. F. CLARKE.
MUMA L AND MENDRA.
��MUMAL AND MENDRA.
All her reward was, morn by morn,
To know that he watched how she brooked his scorn ;
All her rest was to know at eve
He had known she was there to love and grieve ;
While he did not forget, though he did not forgive,
He loved her enough to help her to live.
But when six times seven moons were past,
And she entered the fairest palace and last;
She panted greatly in hope and fear,
Saying, ‘ I have done and the end is near;
Will Love accept of me even yet ?
I have been patient and sorely tried,
There is only one night for Love to forget,
Only one little stain for Love to hide,
When he wraps me up into the light at his side.
0 Love, accept of me even yet,
For the tears wherein I am purified.’
And the Lord of death who is Lord of love,
Who is over and under the souls of all,
Considered her voice when he heard her call:
And he strengthened her out of his house above.
And she walked to the window with steady pace,
And she looked her last with a quiet face.
She looked forth into the dewy dawn,
And already the curtains of black were drawn ;
She looked again through the noon-day skies,
And the sable curtains did not rise;
She watched till she saw the golden moon,
And the curtains were drawn as at morn and noon,,
‘ 0 love, there is nothing to see,’ she said,
‘ 0 love, you will have me cover my head;
If love hideth himself what is left to see,
Though I hide myself love shall discover me,
Love shall behold me, and only he,
0 love, there is nothing to do,’ she said,
And she bowed to her love, and she was dead.
And because of the love that had made them one,.
Binding their souls in a band for ever,
That either might tangle, but never sever,
He understood that her watch was done,
303
�304
MUMAL AND MENDRA.
That she had forgotten that love was pain,
In the land of the Lord who makes all things plain,
And he said, ‘ She is gone where I must follow,
She will guide me now, for she holds me dear,
To the land beyond the flight of the swallow,
To the far-off land that is always near.’
Now the spies had said, ‘ 0 king, we see
No sin in Mendra concerning thee;’
So the king commanded to set him free.
But ere they came to his release,
He also had entered into peace.
Long ago, and long ago,
Mumal and Mendra ceased from woe,
In the land where seven rivers flow,
Yet they, whose hearts are molten in one,
By the fire that burns beyond the sun,
Thank the Lord of lovers unto this day
For Mumal’s and Mendra’s love, and pray
To the Lord, who healed the pain and strife,
They had while they sought to the Lord of-life,
Crying out, with short ecstatic breath,
To the Lord of love, who is Lord of death,
Laughing at life which is hard and hollow,
Till out of the prison of hope and fear
The fluttering spirit is free to followr
To the far-off land that is alwTays near.
G. A. Simcox.
�
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Title
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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>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
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Mumal and mendra: a legend of Scinde
Creator
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Simcox, George Augustus
Clarke, E.F. (ill)
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 300-304 p. : ill. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From The Dark Blue 2 (November 1871). Attribution of journal title and date: Virginia Clark catalogue. The Dark Blue was a London-based literary magazine published monthly from 1871 to 1873. Drawing by R.F. Clarke, engraved by C.M. Jenkin. Mumal and Mendra is a mythical love story in ancient Indian history.
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[s.n.]
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[1871]
Identifier
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G5336
Subject
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Poetry
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<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 (Mumal and mendra: a legend of Scinde), 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>
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application/pdf
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Text
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
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2e557ca78e8c02864727708aee9640ef
PDF Text
Text
75
Art.
V.—Shelley.
The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. A revised Text,
with Notes and a Memoir. By W. M. Rossetti. . 2 vols.
Moxon and Co. 1870.
rpHE connexion of Mr W. M. Rossetti's name with a Memoir of
I Shellev and an edition of his works, is a sufficient guarantee
of the impartiality and thoroughness with which these tasks have
been respectively accomplished. There was ample scope for Mr.
Rossetti’s labours in both departments ; indeed, it is not too much
to say that it has been reserved for him to make the first serious
attempt either at a complete biography or a correct text.. This is
in itself no slight distinction; the intelligence, ingenuity, and
industry he has displayed in it are more commendable still; but
the spirit of affectionate enthusiasm in which he has wrought is
best of all, and will insure him the sincere sympathy of all
admirers of Shelley, independently of any estimate which may
be formed of the actual value of his work.
All biographies of Shelley have hitherto been of a fragmentary
character, either from their partial and limited scope, as those
of Trelawny, Hogg, and Peacock; or from their desultoriness,
as the Shelley Memorials; or from imperfect information,
as the narratives of Medwin and Middleton. Of the latter it
is not necessary to say much. Med win’s incredible heedless
ness and blundering have destroyed the authenticity, and con
sequently the value of excellent materials. Mr. Middleton’s work
is written in an admirable spirit; but in all other respects what
Medwin’s is to a good book it is to Medwin’s. The Shelley
Memorials contain many documents of the highest interest and
much intelligent literary criticism. They answered their pur
pose, more could not be required. Mr. Peacock’s notes also, we
suppose, answered their purpose, together with another not con
templated by the writer—that of demonstrating his entire in
capacity to understand the man in whose intimacy he had spent
so many years. Notwithstanding, however, the cold and unin
viting character of Mr. Peacock’s reminiscences, and the serious
misrepresentations which they have been shown to contain, he
deserves our thanks for having preserved some interesting par
ticulars which would otherwise have been forgotten, and the
precision of his style offers some amends for his singular deficiency
in graphic power. We may dwell somewhat more fully on the
works of Mr. Jefferson Hogg and Captain Trelawny, as it is to
these that we at least are indebted for our most vivid impres-
�76
Shelley.
sions of the poet's personality. Mr. Hogg, besides his unques
tionable power as a raconteur, was well fitted for his task from
his college friendship with Shelley, and the intimacy he continued
to maintain with him until his final departure from England.
We therefore carry away from the perusal of his book, in which
he d wells with infinite gusto on the minute traits of his immortal
friend, a lively picture of the wild yet gracious figure of the poet
in his youth. Fet whatever our enjoyment of the sparkle of
anecdote and humour, whose quaint brilliancy imparts such a
charm to these pages, we cannot help thinking that Mr. Hogg
mistook one matter of essential importance—the style and man
ner in which it became him to write of such a man as Shelley.
His keen appreciation of the ludicrous was evidently too strong
a temptation to be resisted, and has thrown an air of grotesque
ness over his entire work. Another point on which the world has
found it difficult to sympathize with him, is his palpably honest
conviction that the life of Thomas Jefferson Hogg was only
second, if second, in importance to that of Percy Bysshe Shelley
himself. It is almost ungracious to quarrel with irrelevancies
which have afforded us such hearty amusement; but we must
repeat that amusement, although a good thing in itself, is, when
intruded into a biography of Shelley, a good thing out of its
proper place. We believe, however, that his fault was not a want
of love but a lack of imaginative power and keen insight, which
misled him to fasten on the momentary and accidental, instead
of penetrating into the deep and eternal parts of the poet’s
nature.
The other work, which is indeed a mere sketch, but to which
we are most truly indebted for fresh and graphic delineations of
Shelley, is Captain Trelawny’s “ Recollections of the Last Days
of Shelley and Byron,” which, unfortunately for all lovers of
Shelley, scarcely extends over more than the last six months of
the poet’s life. But it bears on every page the impress of love
and sincerity, and possesses at the same time the rare power of
conveying in the simplest language pictures that bear stamped
on them the seal of the most unmistakable reality. The descrip
tion, for example, of his first meeting with Shelley is inimitable
in its way; but as Mr. Rossetti has wisely incorporated it in
Trelawny’s own words into his Memoir, we refrain from quotiug
it here. But, indeed, the book is full of passages where one
catches no less delightful glimpses of the poet’s ways, while every
where, even in the most trifling anecdote, we are kept aware of
the fact that we are brought into closer contact with a higher, a
truly godlike nature. One cause of Captain Trelawny’s supe
riority as a biographer to Shelley’s other friends may probably
be found in the more favourable circumstances under which he
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77
approached him in the first instance. Mr. Hogg and Mr. Peacock
made Shelley’s acquaintance when he was young and undistin
guished | they associated with him on a footing of entire equality,
had obviously no conception of his superiority, and spent the
rest of their lives in finding it out, if indeed they ever attained
to this knowledge at all. Captain Trelawny tells us that he was
led to seek Shelley’s acquaintance by the report of his genius,
his adventurous history, and his unlikeness to the mass of men.
Availing himself of all these scattered materials, as well as of
a number of new and interesting particulars obtained from inde
pendent sources of information, Mr. Rossetti has for the first
time combined them into a symmetrical whole. And great praise
indeed is due to him for the clear and methodical arrangement
and the straightforward manly tone of his Memoir, which, far
from being a mere compilation, is a substantial and independent
work, bearing the clear impress of the writer’s powerful indi
viduality» In order, however, to form a correct estimate of Mr.
Rossetti’s Memoir, we should make it clear to ourselves what task
it was he really aimed at accomplishing, and whether he has
accomplished this. He states so plainly that the end he had
in view was to sift and authenticate the extant mass of material
as a contribution towards the systematizing of a “ Life of
Shelley/* that it would be a wilful misrepresentation of the whole
scope of his work to measure it by a standard at which it never
aimed. The condensed scheme on which Mr. Rossetti’s Life had
necessarily to be written has probably made it impossible for him
to enter more deeply into the poet’s character; this drawback,
however, is partly compensated by the resulting compression of
matter and nervousness of style. We confess that in our judg
ment a more vivid picture of the poet’s individuality might have
been obtained if the illustrative anecdotes, instead of being all
massed together in one section, had been distributed over the
whole extent of the Life in the natural order of their occurrence.
We think that by these means a certain local colour would have
been obtained, and greater life and motion imparted to the flow
of the narrative. We question also the desirability, taking of
course the necessary brevity of the Memoir into consideration, of
devoting bo large a portion of the allotted space to Shelley’s
views on Art, while rather hurrying over his opinions on religion
and philosophy, and also perhaps thereby curtailing the writer’s
own criticism on Shelley’s poems.
Our account of Mr. Rossetti’s edition would be very incom
plete without some notice of what forms, after all, its distin
guishing feature, and will always render its appearance an era
in the history of Shelley’s writings. We allude to its character
as the first critical edition of the poet’s works. Respecting the
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Shelley.
need of such a revision there has been but one opinion among
the students of Shelley, whose impatience at the frequently
marred and mangled condition of the text has borne a tolerably
fair proportion to their capacity for the apprehension of its
beauties It will suffice to cite the testimony of the late Pro
fessor Craik, of Mr. F. T. Palgrave, and of Mr. Swinburne.
Several partial attempts—among which special recognition is
due to the ingenious emendations of Mr. F. G. Fleay—had pre
viously been made to remedy the defects unmistakably indi
cated ; but to Mr. Rossetti belongs the honour of having first
grappled with the task as a whole. His task has in the main
been exceedingly well performed. His edition is a monument of
unwearied assiduity, of vigilant attention to the minutest detail.
Such labour is the indispensable condition of correctness; but it
needed an interest in his author passing the ordinary love of
editors to enable Mr. Rossetti to spare so much time from the
brilliant but precarious feats of conjectural emendation for the
humbler, but not less essential scrutiny of punctuation and
orthography, and the rectification of annoying grammatical negli
gences. His services in the former department are inestimable,
and it is only to be regretted that they must necessarily elude
the recognition of all but the most critical readers. The amend
ment of Shelley's careless grammar is a more delicate matter;
but we are disposed to think that Mr. Rossetti has not exceeded
the latitude which may be fairly claimed by an editor of clear
judgment, and fully exempt from the taint of hypercriticism. As
regards the several arrangement of the volumes, we are only
disposed to regret (and we cannot help regretting strongly) the
dislocation occasioned by the removal of several of the most
important poems to the appendix of fragments. Not only is
their effectiveness greatly impaired by their juxtaposition with
fugitive and imperfect snatches of verse, but the parts of the
collection from which they have been removed appear impove
rished by their absence. The more we are enabled to regard
Shelley’s pieces as so many passages of one grand poem—the
poetical interpretation of a life—the more we must regret such
interruptions of the sequence of his thought.
As an emendator, Mr. Rossetti has two main resources—
collation with the original editions and conjecture. The first
has assisted him to some admirable corrections ; as, for instance,
the restoration of the vivid and Shelleian word ruining, in
a passage of “ Alastor,” which since the first edition has always
been printed “ Wave running on wave.” As a conjectural
corrector Mr. Rossetti has not always been equally successful,
and we shall be able to show that many of his most plausible
suggestions are unfounded ; but fortunately these have usually
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79
remained in the state of suggestions, and have not been incorpo
rated with the text. To no man was ever less applicable,
indeed, Dryden’s shrewd criticism on critics, that they study
rather to display themselves than to explain their authors. Mr.
Rossetti seldom scruples without some reasonable ground; and
if in many instances his scruples are needless, there are many
others where they have been called forth by a real corruption,
which he has instinctively felt without seeing how to remove it.
In other instances his corrections are brilliant and indisputable,
as in stanza vi. of the dedication of the “ Revolt of Islam,”
where the lines—
“ Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be
Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee,”
are themselves marvellously “revived” by the simple substitution
of clod.
We would gladly have dwelt longer on Mr. Rossetti’s charac
teristics as an editor, but we must pass on to the contribution
which we are ourselves enabled to offer to the improvement of
Shelley’s text, a contribution which we can bring forward without
misgiving, inasmuch as it is derived from the only infallible source
of information, the original MSS. themselves. These documents,
M students of Shelley are aware, were examined by Mr. Garnett
in 1862, with the result of the discovery of ninety pages of pre
viously unknown matter printed in that gentleman’s valuable
Relics of Shelley,” as well as not a little more, which now
appears for the first time in Mr. Rossetti’s edition. From various
circumstances, however, the examination was in some respects
Cursory, and more was done for the enrichment than for the
correction of the text, although some very interesting emendations
were made, such as “ might” and “ earth,” for “ light” and “ air”
in the first stanza of the lines written at Naples. We must
here express how deeply we are indebted to Mr. Garnett, and
to the liberality of Shelley’s representatives, in now being able to
offer, the results of a more minute examination made since the
publication of the recent edition. A few words must suffice to
explain why this examination has proved less productive than
might have been hoped. Shelley’s MSS. may, from our present
point of view, be divided into two classes—those of poems pub
lished during his lifetime, and of poems published after his
death. The former, although a great part of the “ Prometheus”
is fortunately an exception, have in general shared the usual
fate of MSS. sent to the printer—they have been disregarded,
as chrysalis cases for which no man concerns himself after the
emergence of their Psyche. The rough drafts of these poems,
indeed, are extant in many instances, but except where the printed
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Shelley.
text is evidently faulty, it would manifestly be unsafe to unsettle it
on their authority. On the other hand, the second class of MSS.,
with a few exceptions, such as the “ Witch of Atlas,” exists solely
in the form of rough drafts, usually written three or four times over,
and in these instances perpetually at variance with each other.
It would be easy to fill pages with such variations, but in all
such cases, as it appears to us, the presumption is in favour of the
received reading, which probably was not adopted without good
authority, perhaps that of some more perfect copy now lost. Thus
for example, we should hesitate to substitute Cl innocent heaven*
for “serene heaven/’ in the “ Ode to Naples/’ although the variad
tion is entitled to great respect from the beautiful condition of the
copy, and from this being the only one which contains the two
“ introductory epodes” as Shelley unclassically styles them—a
circumstance of great interest, as it shows that these exquisitely
beautiful stanzas were an afterthought. The inspection of two
pieces, however, has been fruitful of results, though on opposite
accounts—that of the “ Letter to Maria Gisborne” from the
perfect, that of the “ Triumph of Life” from the chaotic cha
racter of the original MS. The examination of the “ Prome
theus” has also led to the correction of several errors which had
insinuated themselves from the necessity of entrusting the cor
rection of the proofs to others. Several alterations in the minor
poems, generally of much interest, may also be regarded as
indisputable, and as such entitled to a place here. Finally, we
shall enumerate the instances in which emendations proposed by
Mr. Rossetti, or mentioned in his notes, have not been confirmed
upon an appeal to the original. Our references are in all cases
made to his edition.
Vol. I.
Prometheus Unbound, p. 317, 1. 21.—“And gnash beside
the streams of fire, and wail Your foodless teeth.” The punctua
tion is faulty. In the original, which is always carefully punc-i
tuated, there is a comma after gnash and wail respectively, but
not after fire, showing that wail is here not a verb but a sub
stantive. The allusion is to the two infernal streams, Phlegethon
and Cocytus. P. 327, at bottom, for silent footsteps read
killing. P. 330, stage direction at the beginning of act ii.,
for lonely read lovely. P. 333, 1. 29, for morn read moon. P.
337, 1. 6, the much queried lake-surrounded is correct,
though not very intelligible. P. 337, 1. 18, “And wakes the
destined soft emotion.” The sense has hitherto been obscured
by the erroneous punctuation. Destined ought to be followed
by a full stop. L. 21, for streams read steams. P. 338, 1. 15,
for on read in. P. 372, 1. 25, “Radiance and light,” read life,
avoiding the tautology.
�Shelley.
81
Vol. II.
Letter to Maria Gisborne, p. 245, 1. 9, for philosophic read
\ philanthropic, as already acutely conjectured by Mr. Rossetti.
L. 18, 1‘ Which fishes found under the utmost crag,” read
fishers, one of the most striking examples conceivable of
the wonderful way in which the most trifling modification will
Sometimes convert nonsense into sense. An almost equally re
markable instance is afforded by the first line on the following
page, “ Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo,” where the sense has
been utterly perverted by placing a hyphen instead of a comma
between lava and cry. The earthquake demons do not reply
to the gnomes’ toast in lava-cries, but in lava itself, a more
congenial beverage. Same page, L 24, for green read queer.
P. 247, four lines from bottom, for know read knew. P. 248, at
top, for acting read citing. P. 249, 1. 12, the celebrated pas
sage on Godwin has been tampered with. It originally read—•
“ That which was Godwin, greater none than he
Though fallen and fallen on evil times, to stand.”
Consideration for Godwin evidently dictated an alteration which
in justice to Shelley should now be revoked. Same page, three
lines from bottom, for said read read. The blanks on p. 251,
1» 80, should be filled with the names of Hogg, Peacock, and
Smith. That on p. 252, 1. 10, is unfortunately irretrievable.
Triumph of Life, p. 397, eight lines from the bottom,
toursued or spurned the shadows, read shunned. Last line, for
wiocZ lawn-interspersed, read wood-lawns interspersed. P. 899,
1. 8, for thunders read thunder. L. 6, for meet read greet. P.
400, 1. 16, supply while before “the shock.” P. 401, 1. 24, for
sentiment read nutriment. P. 403, eight lines from bottom,
>fill up the chasm thus:—
“ Even as the deeds of others, not as theirs,
And then------”
P. 404, 1. 8, for comest read earnest. L. 23, for years dawn
read season. Same page, three lines from bottom, for her read
the. P. 406, first line, “ out of the deep cavern, with palms so
tender, omit out, and insert and before with. L. 3, omit the.
K 17, for to read in. P. 409,1. 7, “ The words of hate and care,”
for care read awe, thus negativing the ingenious correction of
words into world, proposed by Mr. Rossetti, which we had re
warded as nearly certain, and which still appears to us more
beautiful both in sense and music. Same page, 1. 18, for vale
read isle. The correction is significant from the fact that these
countless swarms of bats are found in the Indian Archipelago,
not upon the continent. The idea was probably suggested to
[Vol. XCIV. No. CLXXXV.J—New Series, Vol. XXXVIII. No. I.
G
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Shelley.
Shelley by Trelawny’s narratives of his adventures in these
regions. L. 29, for rode like demons read sate like vultures.
P. 410, seven lines from the bottom, for wrapped read wrought.
Mr. Rossetti had divined an error, which he proposed to amend
by reading shaped or warped.
How wonderfully Shelley usually improved on his first drafts
is again shown by the commencement of the “ Triumph of Life,”
which originally stood as follows :—
“ Out of the eastern shadow of the earth
Amid the clouds upon its margin grey,
Scattered by night to swathe in its bright birth
In gold and fleecy snow the infant Day,
The glorious Sun arose, beneath his light
The earth and all.”
As it now stands the Introduction to the “ Triumph of Life”
is one of the most highly wrought and perfect passages we know
in poetry.
Translation from Faust, p. 494, stage direction, Faust
dances and sings with a girl. The song is as follows :—
Faust.
“ I had once a lovely dream
In which I saw an apple tree,
Where two fair apples with their gleam
To climb and taste attracted me.”
The Gibe.
. “ She with apples you desired
From Paradise came long ago :
With you I feel that if required,
Such still within my garden grow.”
Same page, three lines from the bottom, “ Are we so wise, and
is the pond still haunted ?” This is an absurd mistranslation of
the original, “Wir sind so klug, und dennoch spukt’s in
Tegel,” the allusion being to the recent apparition of a spectre
in the hamlet of Tegel, to the scandal of enlightened persons.
The blunder is not, however, attributable to Shelley, who, not
knowing what Tegel meant, left a blank in consequence, but to
the person who published his MS. in the Liberal.
Miscellaneous corrections. Julian and Maddalo, vol. i.
p. 290, 1. 14. For dales read vales, the word employed by
Milton in the passage referred to—Lines to Misery, st. x. 1. 2.
The rough draft has lovers instead of shadows, which having
been also in Med win’s copy, and being, as Mr. Rossetti justly
observes, more uncommon and poetical, should we think be
adopted. Lines to an Indian Air, vol. ii. p. 210, 1. 9, in what
is to all appearance the last written of the many drafts of this
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83
divine song, the words “champak odours” are distinctly altered
into “odours of my chaplet.” The alteration is startling, and we
confess our preference for the poem as it stood in the older
edition. Although it makes the line agree more formally in
metre with the corresponding verses of the other two stanzas,
yet it loses that subtle musical charm which it previously
possessed.
[ The Question, p. 225. The line hitherto missing from the
second stanza of that exquisite poem is, “ Like a child, half in
tenderness and mirth.” Mutability, p. 272, 1. 9, for too read
Aow. Prince Athanase, last line, p. 307, for frame read flame.
Otho, p. 309, 1. 20, for buy read bring, instead of wring, as
'ingeniously surmised by Mr. Rossetti. On Keats, p. 351, 1. 2,
for montldess read prfniZess, omitting and. Evening, p. 358,
1. 8, for enormous read cinereous. Fragment of an unfinished
Drama, p. 358,1. 27, for spring read spray. Cyclops, p. 447,
1. 23, insert “ to be” after “ not,” as suggested by Mr. Rossetti.
Epigram from, Plato, p. 457, 1. 5, for does read doth. Pan
awl Echo, p. 458, 1. 14, omit the.
Besides those already mentioned, the following emendations,
proposed by Mr. Rossetti, or adverted to in his notes, are nega
tived by the evidence of the MS., vol. i. p. 257, 1. 10, there for
¿free. ‘ P. 314, eight lines from bottom, ghostly for ghastly.
P. 327, 1. 10, bestrewn for between. P. 365, 1. 3, obscure for
o&scene. Vol. ii. p. 210, 1. 9, pine for fail. P. 247, 1. 25, age
for eye. P. 449, 1. 20, manoeuvre for measure. Dr. Dobbin’s
ingenious suggestion of “ stony” for “ strong” in the “ Hymn to
Mercury,” st. viii. 1. 1, is confirmed by the MS.
Notwithstanding all that has been effected, the imperfections
of Shelley's MSS. still leave a not inconsiderable field open for
eoniectural emendation, and the following suggestions may
perhaps help to elucidate a few obscure readings :—
I A well-known passage in “ Alastor” (vol. i. p. 107) has occasioned
infinite perplexity to Mr. Rossetti and Mr. Swinburne. The latter
abandons it as hopeless ; the former endeavours to render it
intelligible by a change in the punctuation, according to which
it reads as follows :—
“ On every side now rose
Rocks which in unimaginable forms
Lifted their black and barren pinnacles
In the light of evening, and (its precipice
Obscuring) the ravine disclosed above.”
“ According to my punctuation,” says Mr. Rossetti, “ the state
ment is, that there were certain rock-pinnacles which, while they
obscured the precipice (or precipitous descent) of the ravine, left
the ravine itself visible higher up.” If, however, these spires of
G 2
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Shelley.
rock were less elevated than the walls of the ravine, we cannot
understand how they should be “ lifted in the light of evening,”
or how they could with any propriety be termed pinnacles at all.
A pinnacle is surely the highest and not the lowest point of the
rock. But if for disclosed we read inclosed, all is plain, and
we get a beautiful picture with scarcely any disturbance of the
text.
In the “Revolt of Islam” (canto iii. st. 15) is a passage abso
lutely preposterous as it stands :—
“ The moon was calm and bright,—around that column
The overhanging sky and circling sea
Spread forth in silentness profound and solemn,
The darkness of brief frenzy cast on me,
So that I knew not mine own misery.”
This is evidently nonsense ; darkness could not be spread forth
by the calm brightness of sky and sea. Cast should be altered
into past, and a colon substituted for the comma at the end of
the third line.
In Prometheus Unbound (vol. i. p. 351), Ocean says—
“ My streams will flow
Round many peopled continents.”
Read many-peopled as a compound epithet. The meaning is
not that there will be more continents than heretofore after the
liberation of Prometheus ; but that, in consequence of their
exemption from war and other calamities, these continents will
henceforth be more populous.
With these few remarks we must take leave of the biography
and textual criticism, and we are indeed sorry that within our
limits it is simply impossible to render justice to the thoroughness,
the impartiality, the indefatigable labour and genuine love which
are Mr. Rossetti’s most eminent characteristics as biographer
and editor. We cannot, however, refrain from expressing our
extreme surprise and disappointment when, on looking over
“Queen Mab” in the new edition, we saw the deforming
transformation which that poem had undergone. It is true
the alterations which Mr. Rossetti has introduced into the
text are taken from the “ Dsemon of the World,” which Shelley
purposed to be a modified extract of “ Queen Mab,” and pub
lished in the same volume with “ Alastor and other Poems.
But we can only infer from this fact that when once the inspira
tion which went to the shaping of any work ot art has totally
passed away, a poet may easily mar his own creation by trying
to make it better. Though “ Queen Mab” may in some respects
be a crude production, yet it is so full of the sap and ferment
of genius, and bears so unmistakably the stamp of Shelley’s
peculiar characteristics, that besides the value it possesses for us
�Shelley.
85
as poetry, it has the additional interest of being the earliest
' production in which we can trace the true workings of the poet’s
mind. And it appears to us that for this reason, if for no other,
1 the text ought to have been allowed to remain as it originally
stood; for with regard to those really juvenile effusions such as
the “Wandering Jew” and the “Posthumous Fragments of
Margaret Nicholson,” which Mr. Rossetti has seen fit to print in
the appendix to this edition, it is a pity he has thus rescued
Ithem from the oblivion they so richly deserve. But indeed the
new readings of “ Queen Mab,” so far from possessing any greater
poetic beauty whether of idea or expression, seem to us invariably
a diluted version of the original.
But let the reader judge for himself. We will first quote the
lines as they stand in the original “ Queen Mab,” and place
underneath them the alterations in the present edition.
“The Fairy’s frame was slight; yon fibrous cloud
That catches but the palest tinge of even,
And which the straining eye can hardly seize
When melting into eastern twilight’s shadow
Were scarce so thin, so slight, but the fair star
That gems the glittering coronet of morn,
Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful,
As that which bursting from the Fairy’s form
Spread a purpureal halo round the scene,
Yet with an undulating motion
Swayed to her outline gracefully.”
“ The Fairy’s frame was slight; slight as some cloud
That catches but the palest tinge of day
When evening yields to night—
Bright as that fibrous woof when stars indue
Its transitory robe,
Her thin and misty form
Moved with the moving air;
Such sounds as breathed around like odorous winds
Of wakening Spring arose,
Filling the chamber and the midnight sky.”
Mark here those changes which, although apparently often
’trifling, yet alter the whole delicate texture of this exquisite
passage : instead of the original and most apt epithet applied to
the cloud, “ fibrous,” we get nothing at all in the later version,
and we are indeed at an utter loss to account for the alteration.
Thus, for the simple expression “ palest tinge of even,” we find
this awkward way of saying the identical thing, “ palest tinge of
day, when evening yields to night,” &c.; but far worse, the
truly lovely line, “ the fair star that gems the glittering coronet
of morn,” is omitted altogether, swallowed up, annihilated.
The limits of our essay will not allow us to give any further
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Shelley.
examples, but we could cite passage after passage where the
original beautiful text has been equally marred. And we must
be allowed here to express the earnest hope, which we can
hardly doubt will be echoed by all lovers of Shelley, that in any
future edition “ Queen Mab” may be restored to its original form.
Let us now, however, turn our attention to the criticism of the
works themselves; and as it is Mr. Rossetti’s evident disposition
to lay the chief stress on the technical execution of Shelley’s
poems, touching but slightly on their subject-matter and general
design, we may perhaps be justified in dwelling somewhat mor®
fully on the latter point, thus endeavouring to supplement a
deficiency highly characteristic of certain tendencies predomi
nant in contemporary art and poetry. For while on the one
hand there is in our age a propensity to depreciate the important
functions of the Beautiful, thus robbing the speculative faculties
of an ally that would impart form and colour to their abstractions,
we have on the other hand the no less mischievous error of
giving an undue prominence to workmanship and execution, and
looking on form and colour, not as the temple where the image
of the god stands enshrined, but as the very deity itself. By
these fatal demarcations and barriers erected in the mental
territories, where one realm is assigned to the Beautiful, another
to the True, and a third to the Good, we impoverish each one
of these three great forces, and in the mistaken conviction of
thereby strengthening their respective activities we obstruct that
interchange of influences which should vivify the .¿Esthetics*
Ethics, and Science of a nation. Let us for one moment stay to
consider what would become of the Beautiful, if, securely dammed
up against the influx of moral convictions and the speculations
and discoveries of the reasoning faculties, it were subsisting in
proud isolation only on and through itself. Assuredly epics such
as the “ Divina Commedia” and “ Paradise Lost,” revolving the
mighty problems “concerning God, free will, and destiny,”
struck and wound their roots inextricably round the deepest
philosophic and religious thought of their time, while the very
structure of tragedy, consisting as it does, not in the blind
and insensate conflict of passion hurtling on passion (else the
commotion of waves and winds would be an equally tragic
spectacle), but of passion lashing in mutinous revolt the iron
front of the moral law, has its foundations laid in the ethical
convictions of mankind.
What then, we may well inquire, is to become of poetry if
cut off from influences of such vital importance to its two great
divisions—the Epos and the Drama. It is evident that the form
and manner, from the imperative necessity of which, however,
we would be the last to detract, would thus truly comprise the
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87
Alpha and Omega of a work of Art And thus the same care
would be lavished on the polishing of a pebble or a diamond, the
polishing and setting being considered the chief things needful.
This total misapprehension of its divine mission necessarily produces that blight of all true poetry—namely, mannerism. Far
, otherwise indeed was Shelley^s conception of poetry. Both in
I theory and practice be would have extended its limits to an
almost incredible extent, enclosing both science and philosophy
within its domain. In his “ Defence of Poetry,” he goes even so
far as to say that the distinction between poets and prose writers
is a vulgar error, and that not only Plato and Bacon, but “all the
authors of revolution in opinion are not only necessarily poets
as they are inventors, nor even as their words unveil the per
manent analogy of things by images which participate in the life
of truth, but as their periods are rounded and rhythmical, and
contain in themselves the elements of verse, being the echo of
the eternal music.”
L Considering how marked was Shelley’s bias towards this view,
we think Mr. Rossetti somewhat apt to undervalue what con
stitutes the true centre of gravity of all the poet’s divine crea
tions, when, as for example, in speaking of“ Alastor” with reference
to “Queen Mab” (of which, in our judgment, he speaks too irre
verently when he thinks it necessary to state that it is not
unmitigated rubbish), he remarks that in the former we have
at last “ the genuine, the immortal Shelley.” With all due
deference to Mr. Rossetti’s opinion, we must yet dissent from
this assertion; and while admitting the wonderful advance in
the perfection of form, in the exquisiteness of the language, and
greater musical subtlety in the rhythm of the blank verse, still
we think that in many respects “the genuine, the immortal
Shelley” can more truly be traced in “ Queen Mab” than even in
“ Alastor,” as it palpitates with that intense faith in progress, that
fiery love of liberty, that impetuous passion for reforming the
World, which are, after all, the distinguishing features of Shelley,
and which were brought out in their full glory in his “ Revolt of
Islam,” and “ Prometheus Unbound.” Shelley indeed, when
he launched that enfant terrible of a poem into the world, fully
believed in his power of making a breach in the solid rampart of
custom, so as to take by storm and overnight, as it were, that
great stronghold in which theology, monarchy, and matrimony
have hitherto braved even the sap of Time and Change. It is
with an emotion wavering between a smile and a tear that we
think of this frail, gentle, pure, and lofty being who, with
“ weak hands though mighty heart,” dared that triple-headed
power which rules the world. It is doubtless by the violent
recoil of hopes forced back upon his own mind, and debarred
�68
Shelley.
their natural fieiy action on the nation at large, that we must
interpret the sad and solemn harmonies of “Alastor.” These
spring from the revulsion of those impassioned aspirations to
which “ Queen Mab” owed its being, and the despair that broods
over them is but the shadow cast by the sun of hope itself. It
is therefore a total misapprehension of the dominant quality of
Shelley s mind, if, as is so often the case, those poems which
express, in however beautiful and inimitable a manner, his
melancholy or despondent moods, are considered as his most re
presentative poems; on the contrary, they are but the expressions
of that dominion which the momentary and the casual must
exercise over every mind still subject to the varying influences
of life; but that which indeed constitutes “the intense, the deep,
the imperishable” Shelley, which will exercise a constraining in
fluence over the centuries, is the aspiration after goodness no
dejection could quench—the faith in humanity which doubts
might assail, but never shake; the love which year after year
of the short life in which he met with so much persecution and
bitter hate, rounded to a fuller and more resplendent orb.
Let us, however, now turn our attention to the poem next in
chronological sequence, “ The Revolt of Islam/’ which Mr.
Rossetti has despatched in a few words, and which appears to us
to be a mine of inexhausted thought. The vast scope, gorgeous
imagination, and enchantment of rhythm and language which
mark this work are so widely known, that we proceed at once
to point out what appears to us to constitute its fundamental
idea, and one which hitherto has been overlooked. This is the
completely changed aspect in which the relation of the sexes
is regarded. Hitherto all poets creating ideals of woman, however
pure or lofty these might be, had depicted her invariably in her
relation as either wife or mistress, mother or daughter—that is,
as a supplement to man’s nature, or, as Milton plainly expresses
it—
“ He for God only, she for God in him
or, in other words, he raised to the contemplation of an infinite;
she condemned to that of his finite nature.
To Shelley belongs the honour of being the first poet who '
has embodied, in a shape of the loftiest loveliness, the most
momentous of all our modern ideas—that of the emancipation of
women from this subjection to men. He is thus the poetic fore
runner of John Stuart Mill, and has achieved in the world of the
ideal that which is now being realized practically by the man of
science. For by making his verse the receptacle of his bold and
lofty speculations on that subject, and by impregnating with
them the highest and most sensitive minds of the generation that
�Shelley.
89
succeeded his own, he has doubtless opened one of the paths
which have led to the present widespread movement regarding
this question.
In Cythna we hail a new female type, and one indeed which
I hitherto has been repugnant to poets, who, if they approached at
all that side of woman’s character which she represents, approached
it either to distort its features or to soften them down to the more
1 accepted standard. But Shelley, with his usual fearlessness, bates
not one jot of the idea. He holds that woman, just as man, is
or should be a being whose sympathies are too vast—whose
thoughts too multiform to converge to the one focus of personal
love, and that in the self-same way it is at once her right and
her duty to take an active share in the general concerns of
humanity, and to influence them, not only indirectly through
others, but directly by her own thoughts and actions. Thus
►Cythna, prophet, reformer, and martyr—invested with all the
glow and glory which the poet’s imagination could bestow on
her-—is a creation unique in the whole range of fiction.
The poet, with deep insight, indicates in canto ii. that the
task of the regeneration of woman can only be brought about by
woman herself; that it is she who must rouse man’s interest,and
kindle his enthusiasm in her cause, for, as Laon says—
“ This misery was but coldly felt, till she
Became my only friend, who had indued
My purpose with a wider sympathy;
Thus, Cythna mourned with me the servitude
In which the half of humankind were mewed,
Victims of lust and hate, the slave of slaves ;
She mourned that grace and power were thrown as food
To the hyaena lust, who, among graves
Over his loathed meal, laughing in agony, raves.
And I still gazing on that glorious child,
liven as these thoughts flushed o’er her :—‘ Cythna, sweet,
Well with the world art thou unreconciled ;
Never will peace and human nature meet,
Till free and equal man and woman greet
Domestic peace ; and ere this power can make
In human hearts its calm and holy seat,
This slavery must be broken.’ ”
Such an exalted ideal of woman necessarily produced a con
ception and expression of love which is simply supreme. The
sensuous and susceptible temperament which usually underlies
poetic genius has almost inevitably the tendency of stimulating
the passions too strongly in one direction, and from this point
of view Plato had doubtless a fair excuse for his verdict against
the poets as elements of disturbance and fiery insurrection in
�90
Shelley.
the serene atmosphere of his model state. Shelley, however,
forms in this respect a marvellous exception. His love, indeed,
would almost require the baptism of some new name to distin
guish it from the lower and lesser passion which currently goes
by that appellation, for it “ transcends the senses infinitely as
heaven does earth.” Unrivalled in this respect is the sixth
canto of the “ Revolt of Islam/’ where the poet, secure in the
“ golden purity” of bis nature, has fearlessly penetrated into the
fiery depths of human passion, blending it in strains of laby
rinthine music with the subtlest ecstasy which emanates from the
spirit. Between such a conception, embracing the whole circum
ference of love, and that of Keats, for example, who describes
it much in the same spirit of childlike sensuousness with which
he descants on “lucent syrops” and other “spiced dainties,” or
of Byron, to whom in some of his most powerful flights it revealed
no deeper aspect than that of being “youth’s madness,” what
an immeasurable distance! These remarks naturally lead us
to Epipsychidion, where Shelley, apparently bursting the last
link of “ dull mortality,” has not only sustained the inspiration
of his subject at a dizzy height, but, soaring ever higher in
miraculous ascent, lands us ultimately in the Empyrean of love
itself. We indeed cannot comprehend how Mr. Rossetti, after
some just remarks descriptive of the beauty of its poetry, could
actually bring himself to say of this most exquisitely lovely pro
duction, “ I may confess, however, to doubting whether it is quite
a justifiable poem to write. Its very mood tends towards the
intangible, and its framework of imagery and symbol remains to
this day an enigma to students of the poetry and the life of
¡Shelley /’ to which our only answer is that, to put such a question
with regard to such a poem is in our opinion equivalent to asking
whether the “Symposium” or the “Vita Nuova,” or any work,
in short, where that most delicate bloom of the emotions, neces
sarily the rare attribute of a “ sacred few,” finds its peculiar
expression, was a justifiable production. If Mr. Rossetti had not
shown in his criticism on Walt Whitman a remarkable power of
appreciating qualities of genius the most opposite to what con
stitutes the sculpturesque or the pictorial in poetry, we might
probably have inferred that his intimate appreciation of the
sister art of painting had had an influence in diminishing his
appreciation of works whose subject-matter belonging essentially
to the inward and incommensurable life of thought, necessitated
a mode of treatment which, adapting itself to this quality, occa
sionally verges on the border-land of mysticism ; but this would
evidently have been a wrong inference, and we are therefore at a
loss to account for Mr. Rossetti s estimate of Epipsychidion.
Ot the “Prometheus Unbound,” that greatest production of
�Shelley.
91
Shelley, Mr. Rossetti has given us such a powerful and correct
estimate, that nothing further remains to be said of it in a narrow
compass ; it is, indeed, such a noble specimen both of his style
and criticism that we cannot abstain from quoting it as it
stands—
“ There is, 1 suppose, no poem comparable in the fair sense of that
word to 8 Prometheus Unbound.’ The immense scale and boundless scope
<jf the conception; the marble majesty and extra-mundane passion of
the personages ; the sublimity of ethical aspiration • the radiance of
ideal and poetic beauty, which saturates every phase of the subject,
and almost (as it were) wraps it from sight, as it were, and transforms
it out of sense into spirit; the rolling river of great sound and lyrical
rapture, form a combination not to be matched elsewhere, and scarcely
to encounter competition. There is another source of greatness in
this poem neither to be foolishly lauded nor (still less) undervalued.
It is this—-that Prometheus Unbound, however remote the foundation
of its subject-matter and unactual its executive treatment, does in
reality express the most modern of conceptions, the utmost reach of
speculation of a mind which burst up all crusts of custom and pre
scription like a volcano, and imaged forth a future wherein man should
be indeed the autocrat and renovated renovator of his planet. This it
is, I apprehend, which places Prometheus clearly, instead of disputably,
at the summit of all latter poetry ; the fact that it embodies in forms
of truly ecstatic beauty, the dominant passion of the dominant intel
lects of the age, and especially of one of the extremest and highest
among them all, the author himself. It is the ideal poem of perpetual
and triumphant progression—the Atlantis of Man Emancipated.”
Owing to the necessary limits of our essay, we must pass over
the 88 Cenci,” that drama which is the most magnificent refutation
of the charge often brought against the poet, that he was unable
to conceive and embody any character out of himself, or portray
the dark and malignant passions of human nature, and content
ourselves with a few remarks on 88 Adonais”and “Hellas,” the poet's
last complete compositions, and which doubtless contain the best
and maturest expression of his philosophical thought. Indeed, we
think Mr. Rossetti's section on the religion and philosophy of
Shelley necessarily defective from his scanty recognition of these
two poems, and from his not rendering sufficient justice to the
intense earnestness on these matters, which so essentially cha
racterizes Shelley, as, for example, when he says, 88 The general
tenor of ‘ Adonais’ may seem to amount to the expression of a
positive belief in the immortality of Keats, as a separate individual
soul; but we must be on our guard against poetic abstractions
and (not to use the word disrespectfully) poetic machinery.”
One of the stanzas from which M r. Rossetti would draw such an
inference, where it is said—
�92
Shelley.
“ He is made one with Nature : there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder to the song of night’s sweet bird ;
He is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone
Spreading itself where’er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn his being to its own;
Which wields the world with never wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above—”
justifies, in our opinion, the direct opposite of this conclusion—
namely, that Shelley appears, first, to have held that death was
the cessation of the separate insulated consciousness of the
individual, and the redistribution of the atoms that build up
his existence into the general universe of things ; secondly, that
whatever form of ultimate development this separate entity had
attained, during its transit through life, reacted again on passing
thence on the general universe—
“ Compelling there
All new successions to the forms they wear.”
Any attempt, however, to range the swift and subtle spirit of
Shelley into a distinct school of philosophy, would, in our opinion,
be an undertaking as ill judged as assuredly futile : for, as he
primarily looks at the world with the eyes of the poet, he arrives
at his deepest convictions concerning it less through any sustained
chain of systematic reasoning, than through flashes of intuitive
perception, born of his intense absorption into, and passionate
worship of, the great Cosmos. As it is fabled that Pygmalion
was consumed by so potent a passion for the marble image that,
clasping it, he mastered the cold repose of the stone itself, and
won a response from its locked lips, even thus every true poet
stands in his relation to Nature, and besieges her with prayers,
tears, and entreaties, weary watches, and devouring aspirations,
till he feels at last the throb in the stony veins, hears the murmur
of the muffled voice, till, from the sun and the sea, the trees and
beasts, yea, the very stones, there burst awful manifestations,
opening glimpses, strange and sudden, into the vast dumb
mystery. To have cast the brilliant net of his language over
these divine but too fugitive moments of spiritual experience,
and thus for ever to have retained them in song, is one of the
highest of the many achievements of this transcendent genius.
But although we are thus convinced that Shelley’s philosophy
cannot, in the strict sense of that word, be classed under any
existing system of metaphysics, yet we think it evident that the
bent of his mind impelled him strongly towards an idealistic
conception of the universe ; and it is curious to note that, even
�Shelley.
93
in his days of rampant materialism, when saturated with the
study of Hume and the French encylopsedists, he sought a
vehicle for those views in “ Queen Mab,” he ever and anon, when
^wrought up to a pitch of high lyrical exaltation, bursts into ex
pressions that are the direct contrary of his professed opinions,
as when he says, for example, “ Soul is the only element.” This
of course by no means implies that Shelley’s thought was
stationary, but merely that his mind possessed an original bias
towards transcendentalism ; and there can be little doubt that
his positive assertions of atheism spring in great part, as is well
illustrated by an anecdote told in Mr. Rossetti’s Memoir, from
the deep conviction that every advance towards truth must be
painfully impeded, till the obstacles which an intolerant faith
opposed to it had been fairly demolished. Many of his asser
tions therefore should be considered relatively rather as missiles
used by a fearless combatant, than statements of an actual con
viction. It is evident however that, although there are passages
in “ Queen Mab” which certainly seem very much in harmony
with “ Hellas” and “Adonais,” yet the main philosophical concep
tion is in fact widely different, and we recognise the clearest
expression of this difference in the address to the “ Spirit of
Nature” (“Queen Mab,” p. 89). In this fine piece of declama
tion, the Spirit of Nature is represented as insensible to all
moral distinctions, and by a necessary consequence, as devoid of
moral beauty. It is therefore no object of adoration, love, or
even admiration : it is a mere machine, and what is still worse,
the human beings produced and controlled by it must be as
little the objects of affection or admiration. The spirit so
gloriously described in “ Adonais” is something widely different.
“Its smile kindles the universe;” “it wields the world with
never-wearied love.” It is compared to a fire, reflected with an
Infinite variety of intensity by an infinite multitude of mirrors;
if the reflection is imperfect, the fault is in the mirror, not in
the fire. In a word, the spirit of “ Queen Mab” is Necessity, and
is addressed as such ; the spirit of “ Adonais” is Love, and is
addressed as such. By so much higher as the idea of love is
than the idea of necessity, by so much better as the poetry of
“Adonais” is than the poetry of “Queen Mab,” by so much
higher and better are Shelley’s last thoughts than his first.
There is another noteworthy distinction. In “ Queen Mab” the
operation of the spirit is limited to the visible universe ; it is
expressly said to be “contained” by Nature. In “Adonais,” on
the other hand, it contains Nature ; it not merely pervades but
invests the universe—“ Sustains it from beneath and kindles it
above,” The same idea is still more forcibly expressed in the
prologue to “ Hellas”—
�94
Shelley.
“ Deem not thy worlds
Are more than furnace-sparks or rainbow-drops
Before the Power that wields and kindles them.”
Briefly, the spirit in “ Queen Mab” is contemplated as merely
immanent in the universe. In “Adonais” and “Hellas” it is im
manent still, but also transcendent., In this latter poem, indeed,
we find that the immaterialism of Shelley had reached its cul
minating point, and it is a significant fact that he was studying
Kant in September, 1821, and actually translating Spinoza in
November of the same year, at the time when “ Hellas” was
completed. How intently his mind must have been engaged on
these metaphysical speculations is evident from the fact that he
represents the Sultan in the midst of insurrection, whilst his
throne totters on the verge of ruin, as actually listening during
an interview with Ahasuerus to the most profound exposition
on the non-existence of matter. This is certainly carrying the
love of philosophizing to an incredible extent. But the passage
itself soars to such sublime heights of thought, and is moreover
such a complete resume of Shelley’s last convictions on these
subjects, that we are fain to crown these few inadequate remarks
with its surpassing splendour—
“ Sultan! talk no more
Of thee and me, the future and the past;
But look on that which cannot change—the One,
The Unborn, and the undying. Earth and ocean,
Space, and the isles of life or light that gem
The sapphire floods of interstellar air,
This firmament pavilioned upon chaos,
With all its cressets of immortal fire,
Whose out wall, bastioned impregnably
Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them
As Calpe the Atlantic clouds—this whole
Of suns and worlds, and men and beasts and flowers,
With all the silent or tempestuous workings
By which they have been, are, or cease to be,
Is but a vision ;—all that it inherits
Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams ;
Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less
The future and the past are idle shadows
Of thought’s eternal flight—they have no being ;
Nought is but that it feels itself to be.”
Is there not a strange significance in this fact, that the last
work of importance on which this restless inquirer was engaged
should have been cut off abruptly at this point of interrogation,
“Then what is Life?” Bewildered cry cast into space whose
mournful reverberations were straightway muffled in death !
Evidently projected on a colossal scale, and wrapped in an
�Shelley.
95
atmosphere of supernatural mystery, where dream is super
imposed on dream, there is in the “ Triumph of Life” a weird
labyrinth of gloom and glare, and amid the cloudy whirl of grey,
half-ghastly phantoms, gleams of a celestial radiance which
almost recd to us the visions of the Apocalypse. Its allegory
is still indeed, and we fear must in part probably remain, a
magnificent riddle; we nevertheless entertain the hope that a
minute comparison with passages both in the poetry and prose
Blight help us to discover coincidences of symbol and imagery
which should throw a ray of light on the dark intricacy. There
can be no doubt that “ the shape all light” which is described as
appearing to Rousseau gliding out of the deep cavern along the
river—
“ With palms so tender
Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow,”
is the Urania of which it is said in “ Adonais”—
“ Out of her secret paradise she sped
Through camp and cities rough with stone and steel,
And human hearts which to her aery tread
Yielding, not wounded, the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell.”
I On the other hand, the New Vision of the Car, wherein sits
a hooded figure crouching in the shadow of the tomb, represents
Life, and the Janus-visaged shadow who guides it with bandaged
eyes may be identified with
44 The world’s eyeless charioteer—
Destiny,”
spoken of in “ Hellas.” The excessive glare which is described
as proceeding from that chariot dims the fair shape, as hurrying
©n with solemn speed it whirls the loud million triumphantly
along with it. This probably means that all but a chosen few
are seized and preyed upon by the multitudinous passions of the
world, whose fiercer fires extinguish the celestial flame or aspira
tion after perfection. Rousseau himself is a type of those men
of genius who, having allowed the impure breath of earth to
alloy the spark with which their spirit had been kindled, have
thus in part subjected themselves to corruption. It also appears
probable that “ The Fable,” printed in the “ Relics of Shelley,”
and itself a remarkable fragment, written about the same time
as “ Epipsychidion,” affords a clue to that perplexing allegory of
the phantoms near the end of the poem. It is there said that
by the counsel of Life, Love left man in a savage place with
on|y the company of shrouded figures, of whom it is said,
“None can expound whether these figures were the spectres of
��
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Victorian Blogging
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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>
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2018
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The poetical works of Percy Bysshe Shelley ... by W.M. Rossetti
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Blind, Mathilde
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 75-97 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Westminster Review (Vol. 38, no. 1, July 1870). Reviewer not named in text; attribution: Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals, 1824-1900. A review by W.M. Rossetti of The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelly. A revised text with Notes and a Memoir. 2 vols. Moxon and Co., 1870. The Westminster Review was a quarterly British publication. Established in 1823 as the official organ of the Philosophical Radicals, it was published from 1824 to 1914. James Mill was one of the driving forces behind the liberal journal until 1828.
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Poetry
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Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Romantic poets
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Text
FIRST PAPER.
1 L’Art pour l’Art ’ is a motto that supplies us with a very satisfactory
definition of the aim and purport of the poetry of those early times
when men, not having lost their fresh childlike rejoicing in the present,
sang—if they had the power to sing—aimlessly ‘ wie der Vogel singt,’
just only because
Das Lied das aus der Kehle dringt
1st Lohn der reichli ch lohnet.
,
But every year is now carrying us farther away from a state of things
in which it is possible that there should be produced poetry of the kind
to which this definition is applicable. The great flood of subjectivity
which has made its way into all modern thought has brought with it
problems pressing for answer in such a crowd as to leave no room for
thinking or feeling to be exercised unconsciously and without purpose.
Of the poets now writing amongst us we cannot say that their work
is 1 pour l’Art.’ In the generation immediately preceding theirs there
was, indeed, one poet—Scott—who contrived to keep himself apart, as
on an island, nntouched by the waves of restless subjective thought
that had come over the intellectual life of his age, and who retained the
power of purposeless poetical utterance. But has there been produced,
since his, any poetry seeking no further office than to become a beauti
ful or noble piece of art ? Does not all, or by far the greater part of
that which is of recent origin, seem to be sent forth for the purpose of
gaining satisfaction of one kind or another for the craving self-con
sciousness of the writers, and of their contemporaries who are to share
in the results of their quest? Poetry, like every other power which
man has at command, has now been forced to take its part in supplying
the two great wants, Pleasure and Truth—which, little felt in simple
primitive times, become passionately urgent in a state of high civilisation
and culture. We have not now—and probably the world will never
have again—poets who are poets and nothing more. What we have
now is truth-seekers and pleasure-seekers gifted with the power of
�172
BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
artistic perception and imagination, of rhythmical or melodious ex«
pression, and using these gifts to seek what without them they would!
have sought by other means.
The school of thought which is content to regard pleasure as the
satisfaction for which all desires are craving, uses its poetry to go forth,
and bring in full richness of pleasures ; careless, if only there can be
found in them beauty and delight, from whence they come and of what
sort they are. Not the value of a man’s work as art, but the power it
has to awaken in writer or readers a stranger susceptibility to
pleasure of sense or imagination, is here the measure of his success.
There is a great deal of poetry which seems on its surface to be alto
gether the free playing of spontaneous instincts, but which we find,
if we look a little deeper into it, to have at bottom the principle of
utilitarianism, not of art.
Nor can the men whose desires are towards the satisfaction of truth
be poets more unconscious of a purpose. To find that satisfaction for
themselves and for others is the aim towards which all their faculties
are bent, and in proportion as their search is successful these men
become teachers and preachers. The poet on whose characteristics the
following pages will contain a few thoughts—Mr. Robert Browning—
is one whose gifts as a poet, strong and true as they are, are perhaps
oftener than any contemporary artist’s, merged in his character as
preacher of what he has gained as a truth-seeker. I cannot but think
that the full value of his work can only be estimated by recognising
him first in his office of preacher rathei’ than of poet.
Any reader who has had patience enough to force his way through
the bristling hedge of complicated sentences that forms so much of the
outer fence of Browning’s writings, and has gone in and got hold of
intelligible meaning, must surely perceive that he has to do with some
thing which cannot be judged of by aesthetic tests,. We feel that what
is to be found there is the work of a man who is bound by all the
impulses of his nature to preach what he believes and to persuade
other men. He seems to have chosen the office of poet voluntarily, for
the sake of this preaching ; partly because the rythmical form of words
will carry his doctrine where it might not otherwise reach and partly
because amongst the truths he would set forth, there are some which
are of the kind that to men’s present faculties must be always only
as sights half seen, as sounds half heard, and which become dimmer
and fainter if the attempt is made to define them into the accurate
form and articulate speech of ordinary prose. Browning’s place is
amongst the teachers whose words come forth allowed by their own
conscious will; not amongst the artists controlled by involuntarily
instincts.
His poetry is not a great artist utterance that has fulfilled its end—
or at least the only end with which the artist is concerned—when once
it has got outside the mind in which it originated into audible sound
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173
or visible form, whether that sound be heard or that form be seen or
not; but it is a message intended to travel (the sender hardly cares
how, provided that the end be reached) from the heart and brain of
one man to the hearts and brains of those who will hear him. The
necessity that is laid upon him, through his instincts, is the ‘ When
thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren ; ’ and the setting himself
to his work as a poet seems to be his choice of the way in which he
will obey that impulse. Not for his own sake does poetry seem to be
a necessity to him. As far as his own needs are concerned, such a man
could afford to be silent. It is neither for the relief nor for the pleasure
of self-utterance that he speaks. Nothing that he has written
betokens the weakness and incapacity of_reticence that have opened the
mouths of so many poets in a great strong bitter crying, which
they tuned into beautiful music whose sweetness might ease them of
their pain. Nor has he that irrepressible joy in beauty for its own
sake which forced Wordsworth to tell of the loveliness of the visible
world.
And we cannot attribute his becoming a poet to the pressure of
dramatic instincts. Though in power of imagining dramatic characters
it is he and he only who at all fills the office’of modern Shakespeare,
yet there is something in his manner of exercising that power which
tells us that in him it is subordinate to some other motive. This
difference there is between Browning and other poets who could
create ‘ men and women,’ that w’hereas with others the production
of life-like characters seems to be the aim and end, with him it is only
the means to a further end—namely, the arguing out and setting
forth of general truths. He cannot, as others have done, rest
satisfied with contemplating the children of his imagination, and find
the fulfilment of his aim in the fact of his having given them existence.
It seems always as if his purpose in creating them was to make them
serve as questioners and objectors and answerers in the great debate
of conflicting thoughts of which nearly all his poetry forms part. His
object in transferring (as he can do with such marvellous success)
his own consciousness, as it were, into the consciousness of some
imagined character, seems to be only to gain a new stand-point, from
which to see another and a different aspect of the questions concerning
which he could not wholly satisfy himself from his own point of view.
He can create characters with as strongly marked individualities as
had ever any that came out of the brain of dramatist or novelist, but
he cannot be content to leave them, as Shakespere did the characters
he created, to look, all of them, off in various directions according to
whatever chanced to suit best with the temper and disposition he had
imagined for them. Still less can he leave to any of his men and
women the vraisemblable attribute of having no steady outlook at
anything in particular. They are all placed by him with their eyes
turned in very much in the same direction, gazing towards the same class
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BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
of questions. And, somehow, Browning himself seems to he in com
pany with them all the time, hearing their different reports of the
various aspects which those questions present to each of them ; and
judging and choosing between all these different reports, in order to
give credence to the true one. The study of no individual character
would seem to him of much value, unless that character contained
something which should help to throw light upon matters common to
all humanity, upon the questions either as to what it is, or as to what are
its relations to the things outside humanity. Desire to know the truth,
and to make other men know it, seems to be the essential quality of
his nature, and his poetry only its separable accident — a garment
which it wears because if finds such best suited to it in the nineteenth
century, but which it might very likely have gone without, if placed
among the surroundings of some other age. If we can fancy him
transferred back some five hundred years ago, he would be found
surely not among the followers of the 1 gaye science/ as a trouvère
or troubadour, exercising his art to give pleasure at the court or the
knightly castle, but rather in the solitude of a monastic cell, gazing
with fixed eyes into the things of the unseen world, until they became
the real, and the shows of earth the unreal, things ; or, later on, would
surely have been a worker, not in the cause of the great art revival of
the sixteenth century but of its Reformation movement. One can fancy
how grandly he would then have preached his gospel of the sanctity
of things secular, in rough plain Luther-like prose, with the same
singleness of purpose with which he now, as a poet, sets himself to
preach a gospel—needed more than all others by his contemporaries—
of the reality and presence of things immaterial and extra-human.
Browning’s poetry has one characteristic which gives its teaching
peculiar influence over contemporary minds. I mean the way in which,
all the while being perfectly free from egoism, it brings its readers in
some inexplicable way into a contact with the real self of the author,
closer and more direct than that which we have with any other poets
through their writings. Once you succeed in construing the compli
cated thinking and feeling of this or that passage of his, you feel,
not that youtare seeing something that a man has made, but that you
are in the immediate presence of the man himself. I know of no other
writings (except J. H. Newman’s) having this peculiarity to such a
degree (it is in this that the secret of the fascination of those wonder
ful sermons of Newman’s consists). These two men, so different,
have yet this in common, that there is something in their written
words which communicates to the men who read them the thrill of
contact with the.pulsations of another human life. And the knowledge
that there is the real living mind of another man speaking to your
mind, gives a restful sense of reality that is the starting-point of all
belief and of all motive to action. Surely anyone who has received
this from Browning must feel as if there would be a miserable ingrati-
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175
tu.de in the sort of criticism which should carp at his poetry for its
lack of polish in style or prettiness in ideas.
Browning is greater than his art, and the best work which his poetry
does is to bring you into his own presence: and once there you no
longer care what brought you there, and feel as if it mattered very
little whether the means of communication had been poetry or other
form of words. Tennyson’s art is greater than Tennyson ; and it is
with it, and not with the man himself, that you have to do.
Of course, though Tennyson can have no direct influence as a teacher
over anyone who feels thus about him and his work, yet his indirect
influence over the minds of men is not to be lightly accounted of. His
poetry is what it is, and may be accepted by us as we accept a beauti
ful painting or piece of music, as an end in itself. Acting through our
aesthetic perceptions, it affects the tone and colour of our moods. And
most of us know by experience that the character of our thinking is in
a great measure dependent upon moods and feelings open to impres
sions of this sort. It is of course no slight gift that Mr. Tennyson has
given to his contemporaries when he has shown them ideas so pure and
calm and noble, by the contemplation of which their own lives may
unconsciously become purer and higher.
Acknowledging this influence that he has, and giving him due honour
for it, all I would say is that there is another kind of influence which
he cannot exercise, and that his poetry, though making nineteenth cen
tury problems so constantly its theme, is not to be reckoned amongst the
books that give any real availing help against the modern 1 spectres of
the mind.’ To the needs of vital doubt it is no more than if it told us
tales of fairy-land. And this because of its failing to give us that entire
satisfaction as to its being truth subjective, which alone could be our
guarantee for its being able to help in guiding us to truth objective. In
the times when neither our hearts nor brains can get hold of the sense
of reality in anything around us, we find that instead of aiding us ‘ aus
diesem Meer des Irrthums aufzutauchen,’ all that Tennyson’s poetry
seems to have done for us is to have made a beautiful word-phantom,
having a semblance of wise human counsel, to add another to the
number of the appearances that with aspects beautiful or horrible are
floating over and under and around us, and perpetually eluding our
grasp. Fai’ more is to be gained at such times from poetry even such
as Clough’s, which, though it carries you to no farther resting-place, at
least lets you take hold of one substantial thing—'the veritable mind of
a human being, doubting with its. own doubts and having its certaintainties its own, each of those certainties, however few and imperfect,
having a distinct place as independent testimony to truth.. . ?
Browning brings from out of his own individuality something which
he did not receive from his age, and which he offers to it as a gift, and
which is of a spirit so foreign to the atmosphere into which it comes
that he requires men to accept him as a. teacher before attaining to
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BROWNING- AS A PREACHER.
sympathy with. him. This that he has to give is some of the intense
earnestness of Puritanism, and the strenuousness of effort which gave
heroic grandeur to the old asceticism. He offers this to a state of
society, which along with all its practical vigour and perseverance in
the affairs of men’s outer lives, has so much of aimlessness and aban
donment of self-direction in all that concerns the life of inner thought
and feeling.
Other men of present and recent times have had a like gift to bestow,
but their manner of giving it was such as to make its acceptance for
the most part impossible. J. H. Newman and the company of men
who, with him, were the Puritans and ascetics of the nineteenth century,
have gained no permanent influence as teachers of their age. Teachers
of their age, indeed, they did not attempt to be, but only of whoever
should be willing to betake himself out of it back into mediaeval modes
cf thought; and with the thoughts and difficulties of the men who
refused to do this, they either could not or would not sympathise nor
have anything to do. Hence, the vigour and thoroughness of their
own individual lives was able only very partially to affect the thinking
and feeling of the world around them. But Browning undertakes the
work which they would not attempt. The chief glory of his labour is
that he has taken so much of what was good in the old Puritan spirit,
and has brought it into harmony with the wider knowledge and larger
life of later times. He devises for the fixedness of moral purpose and
power of asceticism, which are the inherent characteristics of his own
nature, another and a worthier use than the uses which in old times
men had been wont to make them serve. He sees in moral fixedness a
means that may be used not to check intellectual advance, but to help
it forward by steadying its aim; and he finds that asceticism is capable
of becoming, from having been the old monkish discipline of repression,
the nobler acncriaic of the mental athlete, which is to prepare him for
strenuous exertions whereby all parts of his human nature may
develop themselves to the full.
The idea of a struggle and a wrestling in which the wills of men are
to be engaged—the central idea of early and mediaeval Christian
thought—is recognised fully and distinctly by Browning in all that he
has written. He holds that men’s business in this world’is labour and
strife and conquest, and not merely free unconscious growth and
harmonious development. He differs thoroughly from the modern
thinking, which sees no moral evil distinct from and antagonistic to
good; and again and again, directly or indirectly, his poems let us see
how wide is his separation, both in belief and feeling, from the many
poets of these present days, who have returned to the idea round which
the old Greek poetry had all revolved, of the powerlessness of man’s
will and the drifting of his life before an unalterable destiny. In a
recent . criticism on Tennyson’s and Browning’s characteristics,1
1 Professor Dowden’s lecture on ‘ Mr. Tennyson and Mr. Browning,’ The Dublin
Afternoon Lectures on Literature and Art (1867-68). London: Bell & Daldy.
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BROWNING- AS A PREACHER.
Browning is distinguished as being pre-eminently the poet of impulse.
This he doubtless is, but it seems to me that his chief point of difference
from the majority of modern poets, is his being emphatically the poet
of the will.
That this is the characteristic feature of his poetry strikes one most
forcibly if one chances to take up a volume of it immediately after
reading his contemporary Matthew Arnold’s sufficiently to have let
one’s mood take the impress of his. The transition from the one man’s
conception of life to that of the other seems like the waking from one
of those nightmare dreams in which we have the sense of being for
ever passive (all the while struggling in vain not to be) under
some Compelling that is horrible and yet mockingly sweet; to find
Ourselves restored from this to the wide-awake state of things, in
which we regain the consciousness of freedom of action.
There is much in which he makes common cause with J. H. Newman
and the men who were imbued with his spirit. They and Browning alike
realise the individuality of each human life, and the struggle which is
for each man a separate work to be entered into by his self-determined
will, and feel the intense mysteriousness of human personality. And they
may be classed together as protesters against nineteenth-centuryism—
the habit of thought which makes so little account of these things.
The question on which they part company is the question as to whether
the impulses which men find within them are to be opposed by their
wills as enemies, or to be accepted by them as allies in the struggle
that has to be engaged in. While, on the one hand, by Newman and
those like-minded with him, the only guide internal to man which is
acknowledged as having the authority of a voice from the invisible
world, is the conscience—the sense of a law binding to the doing of
one sort of actions and the refraining from another sort (the law by
making its presence thus felt being in itself evidence for its giver) ;
by Browning, on the other hand, other mental phenomena to be found
in human nature are accepted, as having first their intellectual signifi
cance as evidences ‘ whence a world of spirit as of sense’ is made plain
to us, and afterwards their moral uses in raising us from the world of
sense into the world of spirit.
Our human impulses towards knowledge, towards beauty, towards
love—all these impulses, the feeling of which is common in various
degrees to all men, and the expression of which by some few among
them is Art—are reverenced by him as the signs and tokens of a world
not included in that which meets our senses, as the
Intuitions, grasps of guess,
That pull the more into the less,
Making the finite comprehend
Infinity.
j
-“-not of course that Browning does not also recognise the evidential
force of conscience as an internal witness, but still, I think, it is chiefly
VOL. IL—NO. VIII.
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BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
in the human impulses which in the world of sense are never satisfied,
that he considers the subjective evidence for the spirit world to lie.
And from this difference in the grounds of his and Newman’s beliefs
there results a difference in their whole conception of man’s life and its
aims. The part of human nature which alone Newman will acknow
ledge as a divine guide is a part which in itself furnishes no principle
of growth or progress (the conscience being only a power capable of
restraining and directing), and the ideal life in this world is therefore,
according to him, only a state of waiting, a walking warily in obedience,
until some other state shall be reached in which man shall be in a
condition to begin growth. According to him the business of the
earthly life is only to get safely out of it as out of an enemy’s country.
And as a natural result of his theory of the earthly life, we find that
Newman, even with all his vivid perception of each human soul’s
individual existence, becomes unable to sympathise with diversities of
individuality: no scope for human diversities being allowed by the
theory which sets all men to the same sort of work—the mere work of
escaping (each with his unused individualities) to some future condition
in’which life, in the sense of an active and growing state, may begin.
But Browning, on the other hand, having taken all the higher human
impulses and aspirations to be evidences whereby we discern an order
of things extending beyond the world of which sense is cognizant,
becomes able to conceive of the life that now is, as a condition, not of
mere waiting and watching—not as a struggle only on the defensive
against evil, in which safety is the only kind of success sought for—but
as a state in which growth and progress are to be things of the present
—in which the struggle is to be for acquisition and not alone for
defence. His recognition of impulse as a guide to be accounted divine,
makes him recognise human nature as being furnished with means of
self-evolving growth and action, and not merely of obedience to laws
given from without.
Browning’s theory of human impulse removes him from a sort of
asceticism which he would doubtless have been capable of exercising
(if his judgment had decided in favour of it) as unflinchingly and as
fiercely as mediaeval monk or modern ascetic, such as Newman or
Baber. He, like them, could have preached and practised the restraining
of human feelings and hopes, and the reducing of life to a toilsomelymaintained condition of high-wrought quiescence. He is too entirely
filled with the sense of the resolute human will to have ever let himself
be driven along, Swinburne-like, by mighty art impulses. He would
have been able to separate his thinking wholly from their influences,
had it not been that he had deliberately accepted them as guides which
ought to be followed. The moral half of him is stronger than the
eesthetic ; and the stronger could have crushed out the weaker if it had
not chosen to yield it willing honour. A mind such as his is solitary
and ascetic in its natural temperament; yet by his creed Browning
�BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
179
gains catholicity of thought and of interests. Wide sympathy with
^dissimilar types of human character would be a thing not to be looked
for in a thinker who realises so intensely the mysteries of his own indivi
dual existence, if it had not been that he had taken those very things in
which their dissimilarity lies—their multiform impulses—as the many
witnesses for the same truths, each witness requiring to be understood
by a reverent and appreciative sympathy. To a man whose whole
soul could be absorbed by the vividly realised vision of an Easter Day,
desires such as Abt Vogler’s towards ideal beauty of sound; as those
of Paracelsus towards knowledge; of Aprile towards love; and the
restless battle-ardour of Luria, would seem trivial, and not worthy of
detaining the eyes to search into them and analyse their peculiarities,
Were it not for his belief that in all such desires an infinite meaning’
could be discerned ; and that they were the varying pledges, given to
various human beings, of the individual immortality of each. Prom
this his belief there follows a wide development of human sympathy
which has a peculiar value, because of its not being the expression of
naturally gregarious tendencies, but of an originally self-concentrated
nature, transferring, as it were, its own consciousness, with all its
intensity, into the diverse human individualities that come under its
notice.
Very wide indeed is this sympathy. All human feelings and aspira
tions become precious in Browning’s eyes, not for what they are, but for
what they point to. He becomes capable of seeing a grandeur (poten
tial though not actual) in human aims whose aspect would be, to
Careless unsympathising eyes, ridiculous rather than sublime. For
instance, the instinctive craving after perfection and accuracy, which
had for its only visible result the expending of the energies of a lifetime
on the task of determining the exact force and functions of Greek
particles, is treated by Browning, in that very noble poem of his, ‘ The
Grammarian’s Funeral,’ with no contemptuous pity, but is honoured as
being a pledge of the limitless future, which, lying before all human
workers, renders it unnecessary that a man should slur over the
jjiinutiee of his work hastily, in the endeavour to compress into a life
time all that he aims at accomplishing.
The sort of asceticism which Browning’s theory of impulse
makes impossible to him, is that which fears to let the senses enjoy
¡tile whole fulness of earthly beauty, and seeks to narrow and enfeeble
¡the affections, and to stifle men’s noble ambitions. Yet his poetry
keeps for its characteristic spirit that other asceticism which implies
the using of the world’s material beauty and human passion, not as
ends in themselves, but as means whereby man’s spirit may reach to
the heights above them, there to find new steps by which to ascend.
He counsels no abstinence from beauty for the senses, but it is to be
to men not as a banquet, but as a draught which will give them
¡strength for labour, the fuller the draught the greater the strength.
k2
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BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
He, more than any other poet, has ever present with him these two
ideas : that the world—the material and the human—contains what is
‘very good;’ and also that ‘ the fashion of this world passeth away.’
His noble christianised Platonism takes ‘ all partial beauty as a pledge
of beauty in its plenitude.’ His mood the pledge never wholly suffices.
The earth is to him ‘ God’s ante-chamber ’—God’s, not a devil’s—yet
still only an ante-chamber.
Asceticism of this kind is the great glory of his doctrine as a preacher.
It may be that, considering him solely as a poet, he loses somewhat by
it. One sort of beauty there is of which it deprives his work, how
ever great may be the compensating gains. This is the artistic
beauty of pathos, of which Browning’s poetry is wholly, or almost
wholly, devoid. There are two kinds of pathos lying on opposite sides
of the position which Browning occupies as a thinker. One of these
is the pathos of mediaeval art, and the other the pathos of pagan art.
And with neither of these has he anything to do. The old ascetic
conception of the earthly life gives a strange yearning tenderness,
infinitely pathetic, to the manner in which the early and mediaeval
hymn writers and the modern mediaevallists, Newman and Faber, look
onward as if from out of a desert or an enemy’s country to the far-off
unseen world—their ‘ Urbs Beata Jerusalem,’ their ‘ Paradise,’ their
‘ Calm land beyond the sea.’ But Browning has no need nor room for
pathos of this sort: the tender ‘ Heimweh ’ of this has no place amongst
his feelings. He does not image to himself the life after death as a
home, in the sense of a state that shall be rested in and never ex
changed for a higher. He conceives of it as differing from the life
that now is, not in permanency, but in elevation and in increase of
capacities. And the earth has its own especial glory, which he will
not overlook, of being first of an infinite series of ascending stages,
showing even now, in the beauty and love that is abroad in it, the
tokens of the visitings of God’s free spirit.
The feeling which we commonly callpathos seems, when one analyses
it, to arise out of a perception of grand incongruities—filling a place
in one class of our ideas corresponding to that in another in which
the sense of the ludicrous is placed by Locke. And this pathos was
attained by mediaeval asceticism through its habit of dwarfing into
insignificance the earthly life and its belongings, and setting the mean
ness and wretchedness which it attributed to it in contrast to the faroff vision of glory and greatness. But by Browning no such incon
gruity is recognised between what is and what shall be.
Another sort of pathos—the Pagan—is equally impossible to him.
This is the sort which results from a full realising of the joy and th®
beauty of the earth, and the nobleness of men’s lives on it; and
from seeing a grand inexplicablenes in the incongruity between th©
brightness of these and the darkness which lies at either end of them
—the infinite contradiction between actual greatness and the apparent
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181
nothingness of its whence and whither—the mystery of strong and
beautiful impulses finding no adequate outcome now, nor promise of
ever finding it hereafter—human passion kindling into light and glow,
only to burn itself out into ashes—the struggle kept up by the will of
successive generations against Fate, ever beginning and ever ending in
defeat, to recommence as vainly as before—the never-answered ‘ Why ? ’
uttered unceasingly in myriad tones from out all human life.
The poetry of the Greeks gained from the contemplation of these
things a pathos, which, however gladly a Christian poet may forego
such gain for his art, was in its sadness inexpressibly beautiful. The
Iliad had a deep under-current of it even in the midst of all its healthy
childlike objectivity; and it was ever present amongst the great
tragedians’ introspective analysings of humanity.
High art of later times has for the most part retained this pagan
beauty. Though there is no reason to think that there was any
paganism in Shakespeare’s creed, yet we cannot help feeling that,
whether the cause is to be sought in his individual genius or in
Renaissance influences, the spirit of his art is in many respects pagan.
In his great tragedies he traces the workings of noble or lovely human
character on to the point—and no further—where they disappear into
the darkness of death ; and ends with a look back, never on towards
anything beyond. His sternly truthful realism will not, of course,
allow him to attempt a shallow poetical justice, and mete out to each
of his men and women the portion of earthly good which might seem
their due : and his artistic instincts'—positive rather than speculative
—prefer the majesty and infinite sadness of unexplainedness to any
attempt to look on towards a future solution of hard riddles in human
fates. ‘ King Lear,’ for instance, is pathetic because of its paganism ; and
would, be spoiled, or at all events changed into something quite differ
ent, by the introduction of any Christian hope. One of the chief artistic
effects of the story is the incongruity between the wealth of devotion
poured out by Cordelia’s impulses of love and the dreary nothingness
in which those beautiful impulses end. If there was anything in it to
leave with us the impression that this was not the end of all, and that
this expenditure of love was not in vain, but had its results yet to
come, the story could not call forth in us an emotion of such keen and
tender pity. And in this tragedy, as in Shakespeare’s others, one of its
greatest effects, as art, is produced by the idea which had acted so
mightily on the minds of old Greek poets—the powerlessness of man’s
moral agency against his destiny. Hamlet, for instance, ends in ac
complishing nothing of what he has set before him as his aim. Some
thing, over and above his own irresoluteness is hindering him. He
becomes, through no fault of his, the murderer of a harmless old man,
and breaks the innocent young heart of Ophelia, becoming to her
another link in the chain of involuntary evil, and being the cause of
her unconscious sin of self-destruction. (It is as sin that Shakespeare
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BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
regards Ophelia’s suicide ; and this parodox of his, of guilt without
moral volition is thoroughly Greek—akin, e.g. to the tragic aspect of
the crime of CEdipus.)
So too, in Othello’s character, there is no lack of noble impulses •
yet they are productive of no results. His fate, taking advantage of
the one vulnerable part of his nature, impels him to the destruction
of all his happiness by the murder of Desdemona. And the artist
breaks off, taking the murdered and the murderer out of our sight,
and leaving with us only the impression of the irreparableness of
the deed, and of the mysteriousness and inevitableness of the innocent
suffering and almost involuntary guilt that came upon two human
creatures. The effect of the tragedies depends upon the total absence
in them of anything which might suggest the possibility of a future
answer to the great ‘ Wherefore ? ’ which their endings evoke from our
hearts. Their pathos arises out of their tacit exclusion of hope.1
The contrast between the spirit (apart of course from any thought
as to the relative poetical rank) of Shakespeare’s tragedies, and of
Mr. Browning’s greatest tragic work, ‘ The Ring and the Book,’ is very
striking. The impression which the latter leaves upon the reader’s
mind is that of a great solemn looking forward, which absorbs into
itself all emotions of pity that might have been awakened by Pompilia’s
innocent suffering and Caponsacchi’s love ; and which mitigates the
hatred which we must feel for Guido, by the thought that even for him
a far-off possible good may be waiting. The spirit of Shakespeare’s
tragic art (however much the form may differ from the classical) has
much of the sort of completeness which was characteristic of Greek
art. There is no suggestiveness in it of a state of things out of the
reach of his art, and therefore he allows you to feel to the full (as far
as you are able) any emotion which the character and circumstances
of his dramatic creations should properly give rise to. When once he
has shaped and fashioned his men and women, he leaves them with
you—fixed as a sculptor might, leave his work—in attitudes which
appeal perpetually to one or other of your human feelings, with no
indication of such attitudes not being the only possible ones in which
they might appear. But Browning never completes, or would have
his readers complete, the emotions called forth by his dramatic art.
He checks them, while as yet only half realised, by his perpetual
suggestiveness that what his art represents is only a portion of a great
1 There is an analogy between the poetry of ancient and modern paganism, and
some of 'the greatest poems in the modern art—music. The spirit which seems
to pervade Beethoven’s is essentially pagan. He is the great musical poet of un
answered seeking. There is joyousness enough in his music to contrast with its
tones of mighty Faust-like despair; but I have never heard a passage of it that
suggested emotions of hope or deep restful happiness. Outside the world in which
Beethoven and his art move, there is for him only a ‘ dim gray lampless world.’
Outside the world of Mendelssohn, however, who is no pagan, there is an infinite
encircling love, to which he sings his ‘Lobgesang.’ He seeks—and finds.
�BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
183
unknown whole, without knowing, which neither he nor you can
determine, what the feelings with which you regard the portion ought
to b©. Considering, as he does, every human life as only a glimpse of
a beginning, its minglings of greatness and imperfection have not for
him the same aspect of pathetic mysterious paradox which they have
for those poets who, either from their creed or from their v’/tioc, regard
it as a rounaed whole.
The absence of any pagan spirit in Browning’s writings deprives
them also of a sort of beauty that belongs to so much of the modern
poetry of external nature. Paganism is the source whence many
poets have drawn their adoration of that loveliness of the earth—
serene and terrible, outlasting and unmoved by human struggles.
When these men behold the infinity of her beauty, they merge in their
adoration of it all dissatisfactions with human life ; attaining to one
kind of intellectual repose, by giving up hope to find satisfaction for
thought or moral feeling, and by taking instead, for solace, the
unmeasured pleasure of «esthetic perception.
Shelley’s creed, taking the visible world for its all in all, has for its
product the intense vividness with which he perceives the richness
and glory of the sights of that world. He looks at, rests in, the
beauty that he sees ; and it becomes more to him than it can be even
to Wordsworth, who, with all his devotion to external nature, looked
through rather than at her. And Shelley’s poetry derives its strange
intangible pathos from its having all this aesthetic brightness to set in
contrast over against the darkness that surrounds those ‘ obstinate
questionings ’ from within, which again and again, in spite of his own
desire, distract his mind from its joyous vision of what is without.
And there is a sort of passionate grasping, clutching rather, at the
light of the sun, and all the sights and sounds and fragrances of the
earth, which belongs especially to pagan poetry, ancient or modern,
and which tells of a prizing of these things not for their own mere
beauty’s sake, but chiefly because in the perception of them life is
implied, and the separation from them means extinction and dark
nothingness. This idea, so all-pervading in the old Greek feeling for
External nature, finds in our own days its chief exponent in Swinburne.
I know of nothing in contemporary poetry that is so supremely
pathetic as the perpetual alternations in those wonderful choruses in
his ‘ Atalanta in Calydon,’ between a wild revelling in the freshness
and exuberant gladness of the earth, in the rush of her joyance,
when—
‘ in green underwood and cover,
Blossom by blossom the spring begins ’—
and a wailing lamentation over the life of man who has for his portion
on the earth
* light in his ways,
And love and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,
And night and sleep in the night.’
�184
BROWNING AS A PREACHER.
Yet whose doom is only to abide there during a brief space, knowing
neither content nor hope.
‘ His speech is a burning fire,
With his lips he travaileth,
In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes fore-knowledge of death.
He weaves, and is clothed with derision,
Sows, and he shall not reap ;
His life is a watch or a vision,
Between a sleep and a sleep.’
The poem of ‘ Atalanta ’ is of course a direct utterance of modern
paganism, and not merely expressive of historical sympathy with ancient;
and is a specimen, most perfect of its kind, of that eesthetic beauty of
which Browning’s poetry is rendered incapable by the creed in which
his strong, earnest mind, never able to rest without getting down into
the realities that nnderlie the visible surface of things, finds the Sub
stantial reality that it seeks.
Yet it may indeed be that the feeling gained by Browning’s onward
gaze of expectation is higher, even if considered purely as an artist's
feeling, than that of the wistful pathos that comes to other poets
through their sense of a seeking baffled alike behind and before. And,
it may be that our inability instantly to recognise it as higher, is because
of our having, although contemporaries with Browning, lagged behind
him in thought and aspiration ; and not having as yet attained to tho
conception towards which his poetry reaches in its beautiful imperfect
grandeur, of a Christianity and Art—nowhere destructive of each other
—two parts of one great Revelation.
E.
Dicktnson West.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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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>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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Browning as a preacher. Part 1
Creator
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West, Elizabeth Dickinson
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 171-184 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From The Dark Blue 2: Attribution of journal title and date from Virginia Clark catalogue. The Dark Blue was a London-based literary magazine published monthly from 1871 to 1873.
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[s.n.]
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[1871]
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G5317
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Poetry
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<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 (Browning as a preacher. Part 1), 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>
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Text
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
Robert Browning
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Text
�“ They stood beside the coffin’s foot and head.
Both gazed in silence, with bowed faces—Grey
With bony chin pressed into bony throat.”
�/
449
BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI.
“ Perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart ; one of the
indivisible primary faculties or sentiments which give direction to the character of man.
—Edgar Poe.
Rain-washed for hours, the streets at last
were dried.
Profuse and pulpy sea-weed on the beach,
Pushed by the latest heavy tide some way
Across the jostled shingle, was too far
For washing back, now that the sea at ebb
Left an each time retreating track of foam.
There were the wonted tetchy and sidelong
crabs,
With fishes silvery in distended death.
No want of blue now in the upper sky:—
But also many piled-up flab grey clouds,
Threatening a stormy night-time; and the
sun
Sank, a red glare, between two lengthened
streaks,
Hot dun, that stretched to southward; and
at whiles
The wind over the water swept and swept.
The townspeople, and, more, the visitors,
Were passing to the sea-beach through the
streets,
To take advantage of the lull of rain.
The English “ Rainy weather” went from
mouth
To mouth, with “Very” answered, or a
shrug
Of shoulders, and a growl, and “Sure to bo!
Began the very day that we arrived.”
“ Yes,” answered one who met a travelling
friend;
“ I had forgotten that in England you
Must carry your umbrella every day.
An Englishman’s a centaur of his sort,
Man cross-bred with umbrella. All the same,
I say good-bye to France and Italy,
Now that I’m here again. Excuse me now,
As I was going up into the town
To feast my eyes on British tiles and slates.”
So on he walked, looking about him. Rows
Of houses were passed by, irregular ;
Many compacted of the shingle-stones,
Round, grey or white—with each its gar
den patch
VI.
Now as the outskirts neared; and down
the streets
Which crossed them he was catching
glimpses still
Of waves which whitening shattered out
at sea.
The road grew steep here, climbing up a
slope
Strewn with October leaves, which followed
him,
Or drifted edgeways on. The grey ad
vanced,
Half colour and half dusk, along the sky.
A dead leaf from a beech-tree loosed itself,
And touched across his forehead. As ho
raised
His eyes, they caught a window, and he
stopped—
An opened upper window of a house
With close-drawn blinds. A man was
settled there,
Eager in looking out, yet covertly.
He watched, nor moved his eyes from that
he watched.
The passenger drew close beside the rails,
Looking attentively. “ Why, Grey,” he
cried;
“ Can that be you, Grey ? I had thought
you’d been----- ”
The face turned sharply on him, and the
eyes
Glanced down, and both hands pulled the
window shut.
Pushing a wicket-gate, the other went
On to the door, expecting it to unclose.
The garden was but scantly stocked with
flowers,
And these were fading mostly, thinly leaved,
The earth-plots littered with the fall of
them.
Stately some dahlia-clusters yet delayed,
Crimson, alternating with flame-colour.
He stretched his fingers to the velvet bloom
Of one, and drew a petal ’twixt them. Then
29
�450
The plaited flower fell separate all to earth
By ring and ring; only the calyx stood
Upon its stalk. The autumn time was come.
Out of the bordering box stiff plantain
grew.
Scarce would the loose trees have afforded
shade,
So lessened was the bulk between their
boughs,
Had there been sun to cast it. In the grass
Bested the moisture of the recent rain.
No one seemed coming; so he walked some
steps
Backward, and peered: no sign of any one.
He knocked, and at the touch the door
unclosed.
“Don’t you remember, years ago, your
friend,
And correspondent since, John Harling ?”
“ Oh,
I know you, sir, of course—I did at once.”
“ Sir ! Why, how now ? Between old
friends like us ?
How many letters that begin ‘Dear John'
In your handwriting, I have asked after,
These eight years, in some scores of postesrestantes !
Too many, I should hope, for us to Sir
Each other now.
But only tell me,
Grey------”
Grey said, “ Come up, come up.”
There was a haste
About his words and manner, and he seemed
To half forget what first he meant to do.
He paused at the stairs’ foot; then, with a
glance
Thrown backward at his friend, who stayed
for him,
He mounted hurriedly, two steps at once.
They had not shaken hands yet. Harling
his
Had proffered with the words he uttered
first,
But Grey had not appeared to notice it.
Harling had caught the look of the other’s
face
Where twilight in the doorway glimmered
fresh,
And he had fancied it was pale and worn,
And anxious as with watchings through
the night.
But in the room the light no longer served
Eor one to see the other, how the weeks
Had changed him, and the months and
years. The room
Was dim between the window-blinds and
dusk.
Now seated—“As you see, John,” Grev
began,
“This is a bed-room. I have not had time
To trouble myself yet about the house.”
“ You are but just arrived, then ?”
“Yes, but just.”
He was about to say some more, but
stopped.
“ And now,” said Harling, “ you shall tell
me all
About yourself. And how and where’s
your wife ?
What is it brought you down here ? Have
you left
Oxford, in which your practice was so good?
Or are you here on holidays ? I come
Upon you by an unexpected chance.
There must be something to be learned, I
know;
Chances are not all chance-work. Tell me
all.”
His friend rose up at this; and Harling saw
His knuckles on his forehead, at his hair,
And thought his eyes grew larger through
the dark.
Grey touched him on the shoulder, draw
ing breath
To speak with, but he then again sat down.
“Why, first I ought to hear your news, I
think,”
At last he answered, swallowing the gasps
Which came into his mouth, and clipped
his words.
“ Though travellers have a vested right to
lie,
I’ll take it all on trust.” He forged a laugh.
Harling grew certain there was something
now
His friend had got to tell, and must, but
feared.
He knew how such a fear, by yielding
grows,
And would have had him speak it out at
once.
Nevertheless he answered, “ As you will.
And yeti have but little left to say
Since my last letter. But the whole is this.
But let us first have light before we talk,
That we may know each other once again.
I shall not flatter you if grizzled hairs
�ÎHrg; Wolmeg Æhqu
Prove to outnumber your original brown,
But tell you truth. Pou tell the truth of
me.
X am more than half a Frenchman, I be
lieve,
By this time. That’s no compliment, say I,
For a John Bull at heart, and I am one ;
Thank God, a Tory, and hang the Marseillaisel”
“No lights, no lights,” Grey answered,
moodily.
“ Can we not talk again as once we used,
Through twilight and through evening into
night,
Knowing, without a light, it was we two ?—
I little thought then it would come to this,”
He added, and his voice was only sad.
“ And it is well, too, that the light should
come,
jfor then perhaps you will hare made a
guess,
By seeing me, before I tell it you.
My dear old friend, it’s needless now to
attempt
To hide it. I am wretched—that’s the
word.
I am a fool not to have got the thing
Over already, for it has to come
At last. But there’s a minute’s respite still,
Ifor first you were to tell me of yourself;
So. Harling, you speak now. But first the
light.”
The other, leaning forward, took his hand,
And tried to speak some comfort; but the
words
Faltered between his lips. For he was sure
That, if he had already heard this grief,
He would not talk of comfort, but sit dumb.
The lights were come now, and each looked
on each.
The traveller’s face was bronzed, and his
hah’ crisp
And close, and his eyes steady—all himself
Compact and prompt to any chance. And
yet
He was essentially the same who went,
To find his level, forth eight years ago,
Unformed, florid - complexioncd, easytongued :
Travel and time had only mellowed him.
Grey was the same in feature, not in fact.
His face was paler that was always pale ;
The forehead something wrinkled, and the
lips
Aria and meagre, faded, marked with lines ;
The eyes had sunken further in the head,
451
With a dark ridge to each, and grizzled
brows ;
His hair, though as of old, was brown and
soft.
The difference was less, but more the
change.
Each looked on each some minutes : neither
spoke.
His friend was clothed in black, as Har
ling saw,
Who now resumed the thread of his dis
course.
“ As for my own adventures, they are few :
For, after I left Rome—the storm will
burst,
Be sure, at Rome, before the year is done—
I went straight back to Paris. Politics,
You know, I’ve stood aloof from all the
year ;
But even with me, ( oo, they have done
their work.
My poor Louise was dead—shot down, I
learned,
Upon the people’s barricades in June :
She turned up quite a Red Republican
After their twenty-fourth of February ;
And my successor in her graces fell
With her—both fighting and yelling side
by side.
I could not but curse at them through my
teeth
With her own sacré-Dieu's—the whole of
them
Who get up revolutions and revolts.
And then they swore I was an Orleanist,
An English spy, or something ; and indeed
I found myself, the scanty days I stopped,
A centre-piece for all the blackest looks.
At least I thought so. Many of my friends,
Besides, were gone, waiting for better times
When next they come to Paris. So I left
Disgusted, and crossed over. Why should I
Quit England and dear brother Tories?
still,
Although I do now think of settling here,
Perhaps, before another twelvemonth goes,
The South will tempt me back—sooner,
perhaps.
I must, I think, die travelling in the
South.”
He made an end of speaking. Grey looked
up.
“ Is there no more ?” he asked. He said,
“ No more.”
Grey’s face turned whiter, and his fingers
twitched.
�452
Mrs* Wohnes
“ It is my turn to speak, then” :—and he I Upon a prayer-book, open at the rite
rose,
I Of solemnizing holy matrimony.
Taking a candle: “ come this way v ith me.” Her marriage-ring was stitched into the
page.
They stepped aside into a neighbouring
room.
Grey stood a long while gazing. Then he
Grey walked with quiet footsteps, and he
set
turned
The candle on the ground, and on his knce3
So noiselessly the handle of the door
Close to her unringed shrouded hand, he
That Harling fancied some one lay asleep
prayed,
Inside. The hand recovered steadiness.
Silent. With eyes still dry, he rose un
changed.
The room was quite unfurnished, striking
chill.
They left the room again with heeded.steps.
A rent in the drawn window-blind betrayed On friendly Harling lay the awe of death
A sky unvaried, moonless, cloudless, black. And pity: he took his seat without a
Only two chairs were set against the wall,
sound.
And, not yet closed, a coffin placed on Some of the hackneyed phrases almost
them.
passed
Harling’s raised eyes inquired why he was His lips, but shamed him, and ho held his
peace.
brought
Hither, and should he still advance and “ Harling,” said Grey, after a pause, “ you
look.
think
“ It is my wife,” said Grey; “ look in her No doubt that this is all—her death is all.
face.”
Harling, when first I saw you in the street,
This in a whisper, holding Harling’s arm,
I feared you meant to come and speak
And tightened fingers clenched the whis
to me;
pering.
So hid myself and waited till you knocked ;
Darling could feel his forehead growing Waited behind the door until you knocked,
Longing that you, perhaps, would go.
moist,
When I
And sought in vain his friend's averted Had opened it, I think I called you Sir—
eyes.
Did you not chide me ? Do you know, it
Their steps, suppressed, creaked on the un
seemed
covered boards:
So strange to me that any one I knew
They stood beside the coffin’s foot and Before this happened should be here the
head.
same,
Both gazed in silence, with bowed faces— And know me for the same that once I was,
Grey
I could not quite imagine we were friends.
With bony chin pressed into bony throat.
It is not merely death would make one
feel
The woman’s limbs were straight inside her
Like this—no, there is something more
shroud.
behind
The death which brooded glazed upon her
Harder than death, more cruel. Let me
eyes
wait
Was hidden underneath the shapely lids ;
Some moments ; then no help but I must
But the mouth kept its anguish. Combed
tell.”
and rich
The hair, which caught the light within its lie gathered up his face into his hands
strings,
Brom chin to temples, only just to think
Golden about the temples, and as fine
And not be seen. He had not seated him,
And soft as any silk-web ; and the brows
But leaned against the chair. Nor Harling
A perfect arch, the forehead undisturbed ;
spoke.
B ut the mouth kept its anguish, and the
“ Two months are gone now,” Grey pur
lips,
sued. “We two
Closed after death, seemed half in act to
Lived lovingly. I had to come down here,
speak.
And here I met a surgeon of the town.
Covered the hands and feet; the head was
Hell only knows—I cannot tell you—why,
laid
�fHrs, Wolrnes
453
I asked him to return with me, and spend I So that would make her sad. I thought it
strange
A fortnight at our house. Perhaps I wrote
Th® whole of this to you when it occurred. She had not so informed me from the first.
Her cousin, when I named the point, ap
His name is Luton.”
peared
Here he chose to pause.
Surprised ; but then to recollect herself,
“Perhaps: I am not certain.” Harling And answered—I could see, a little piqued—
said.
She should not cry again because of her.
“ I think you might be certain,” answered “ These fits of tears continued. We were
Grey,
now
“If you’re my friend.” But then he Alone together, for the cousin went
checked himself,
Away soon after. Then I could not help
Adding : “ Forgive me. I am not, you see,
Seeing her health and strength were giving
Myself to-night—this night, nor many
way :
nights,
Her mind, too, seemed oppressed. She’d
Nor many nights to come. Well, he agreed.
hardly leave
Of course, he must agree; else I should At nights the chair she sat in, for she said
not
‘ This is the only place where I can sleep.’
Have been like this, disgraced, made al Yet her affection for me seemed to grow
most mad.”
A kind of pity for its tenderness.
Oh ! what is now become of her, that I,
At this he found his passion would be near
After to-morrow, shall not see her more,
To drive him to talk wildly : so he kept
Silence again some moments—then re But have to hide her always from my
sight ?”
sumed.
He took some steps, meaning to go again
“ How should I recollect the days we passed
Together ? There must surely have been And see her corpse; but, meeting Harling’s
eye,
enough
Turned and sat down.
To see, and yet I never saw it once.
Besides, my patients kept me out all day
“ Is it not,” he pursued,
Sometimes. It was in August, John, was
With fioorward gaze, “ hard on me I mustthis—
tell
The end of AuguBt, reaping just begun.
This business word by word, the whole of it,
We’ve had a splendid harvest, you’ll have While I can see it all before me there,
heard.”
And it is clear one word could tell it all ?
Can you not guess the rest, and spare inc
“ Indeed!” the other said, shifting the while
now ?”
His posture—and he knew not what to say.
“ I will not guess; but you,” said Harling,
“ Yes, you detect me,” Grey cried bitterly ;
“keep
“ You know I am afraid of what’s to come— All that remains unspoken ; for it wrings
A coward. Now I do hope I shall speak,
My heart, dear Grey, dear friend, to see
And tell you all of it without a stop.
you thus.”
There was a lady staying with us then,
“ No, it is better I should speak it out,
A cousin of my wife’s—but older, much;
For you would fancy something; and at
So that you understand how I could ask
least
This Luton down. Before his time was up,
You will not need to fancy w’hen you know.
He seemed to grow uneasy, and he left,-—■
She came to me one morning—(this was
Merely explaining, business called him
like
home.
A fortnight after he had gone away,.
_ I said I had not noticed anything
This Luton)—saying that she found it vain
Unusual; and yet I sometimes found
Attempting to compose her mind at home ;
Mary in tears, and could not gather why.
One day she told me when I questioned her That every place made her remember what
The baby had done or looked there, and
It was for thinking of our girl that died
ilie felt
Months back—for that her cousin would
Too weak for that, and meant to see -ier
begin
friends
Often to talk to her about her own;
�454
Mrs. Woltw
(That is, two sisters some few miles from
here).
She spoke more firmly than I had heard
her talk
A long time past—because I thought it
long—
And I believed she had determined right,
And so consented. But she only said
‘ I have made up my mind ’—thus waiving
all
Consent on my part—mere sick wilfulness
I took it for. She left the house. I might
Have told you she’d a lilac dress, and hair
Worn plain. And so I saw her the last
time—
The last time, God in heaven!” He seized
his fists
Together, and he clutched them toward his
throat.
“Many days passed. She had begged me,
feeling sure
It would excite her, not to write a line,
And said she would not write, nor let her
friends.
I think I did not tell you, though, how pale
Her cheeks were ; and, in saying this, she
sobbed,
For such a lengthened silence looked like
death.
“ Three weeks, or nearly that, had passed
away:
A letter on black-bordered paper came.
It was from Luton. Then I did not know
The hand, but shall now, if it comes again.
He wrote that I must go immediately,
That I was ‘to prepare myself’—some
trash :
He ‘ dared not trust his pen to tell me
more.’
“ On Thursday I arrived here. I cannot
Attempt to tell you all about it. When
You’ve read this, only call me, and I’ll
come;
But I will not be by you while you road.
On the first day I heard it all from him,
And loathe him for it. I am left alone,
And all through him.”
He took a newspaper
From underneath his pillow, and he showed
The place to read at. Then he left the
room ;
And Harling caught his footfall toward the
corpse,
And touching of his knees upon the boards.
And this is what ho feverishly perused:—
“ Coroner's Inquest—A Distressing Case.
An inquest was held yesterday, before
The County Coroner, into the cause
Of the decease of Mrs. Mary Grey,
A married lady. Public interest
Was widely excited.
“ When the Jury came
From viewing the corpse, in which are seen
remains
Of no small beauty, witnesses were called.
“ Mr. Holmes Grey, surgeon, deposed : ‘ I
live
In Oxford, where I practise, and deceased
Had been my wife for upwards of three
years.
About the middle of September, she
Was suffering much from weakness, and a
weight
Seemed on her mind. The symptoms had
begun
Nearly a month before, and still increased,
Until at last they gave me great alarm,
Of which we often spoke. On the eighteenth
She told me she would like to stay awhile
With two of her sisters, living on the coast,
At Barksedge House, not far from here.
She went
Next day. I cannot speak to any more.’
“ The Coroner: ‘ How were you first ap
prised
Of this most melancholy event ?’—‘ By
note
Addressed to me by Mr. Luton here.’
“A Juror : ‘ Could your scientific skill
Assign some cause for this debility ?’
‘No. I believed it was occasioned (so
She intimated) by a domestic grief
Quite unconnected with the present case.’
“The Coroner: ‘You’ll know how to ex
cuse
The question which I feel compelled to
put:
I have a public duty to perform.
Had you, before the period you described,
Any suspicions ever?’—‘ Never once :
There was no cause for any, I swear to
God.’
“ The witness had, throughout his testi
mony,
Preserved his calm—though clearly not
without
An effort, which augmented towards the
close.
�Wolmeg
455
“Jane Langley: ‘I keep lodgings in the The same thing happened ; but she spoke
town.
of love
On the nineteenth September the deceased
Now, and the very word half passed her lips.
Engaged a bed-room and a sitting-room.
Our talk ended abruptly. Mrs. Gwyllt
The name I knew her by was Mrs. Grange;
Came in, and by her face I saw she had
I saw but very little of her; she kept,
heard.
As much as that ■well could be, to herself,
“ ‘ This instance was the last we talked
And she would frequently leave home for
alone.
hours.
And I began to hear from -Mr. Grey
I cannot say I made any remark
His wife was far from well, and had the
Especially. I found a letter once—
tears
Just a few words, torn up. ‘ Holmes,’ it
Now often in her eyes. This made me feel
began.
Hampered and restless : so I took my leave
{ This letter is the last you ever will. . .’
After my first eleven days’ stay was gone,
No more, I think. I threw the bits away.
Saying I had affairs that could not wait.
That was, perhaps, four days before her
death.
“ £ Between the seventh of September, when
On that day, I suppose, as usual,
We parted, and the twenty-third, I saw
She left the house : I did not see her, though.
No more of the deceased. Towards seven
She was brought home quite dead.’
o’clock
That evening, I was told a lady wished
“ Upon the name
To speak with me. She entered : it was
Of the next witness being called, some stir
she—
Arose through persons pressing on to look.
Deceased. I can’t describe how pained I
After it had been silenced, and the oath
was
Duly administered, the evidence
At finding she had left her home like this.
Proceeded.
She said she loved me, and conjured me
“Mr. Edward Luton, surgeon :
much
‘ I lately here began for the first time
Not to desert her; that she loved me
In my profession. I was introduced
young;
To Mr. Grey in August. When he left
That, after we had ceased to meet, she
The seaside, he invited me to pass
knew
A fortnight at his house, and I agreed.
And married Mr. Grey. Also, that when
On seeing Mrs. Grey, I recognized
He wrote to her in August I should come,
In her a lady I had known before
Guessing who I must be, she thought it
Her marriage, a Miss Cbalsted. We had
well
met
To treat me as a stranger—dreading lest
In company, and, in particular,
Her love (so she assured me) should revive.
At some so-called “mesmeric evenings,”
All this through sobs and blushes. I could
held
not
At her remote connection’s house, the late
Make up my mind what conduct to pursue :
Dr. Duplatt. But now, as Mrs. Grey
I begged her to be calm, and wait awhile.
Allowed my presentation to pass off
And I would write. Sae left unnerved
Without a hint of knowing me, I left
and weak.
This point to her, and seemed a stranger :
till
“ ‘ I took five days, bewildered how to act.
We chanced, the sixth day, to be left alone.
But on the evening of the fifth, I saw,
I talked on just the same, but she was silent.
While looking out of window—(it was
At last she answered, and began to speak
dusk,
Familiarly of when she knew me first;
And almost nightfall)—Mrs. Grey, who
Without explaining—merely as one might
paced,
talk
Muffled in clothes, before my door. I knew
Changing the subject. But I let it pass.
By this how dangerous it must be to wait
And yet, when we were next in company,
For a day longer; so I wrote at once
Once more she acted new acquaintanceship.
She absolutely must return to her home.
Then, two days after, I believe—one time
Nothing was known as yet—all might be
Her cousin, Mrs. Gwyllt, was out by
well;
chance—
In time she would forget me ; and besides
�456
ÍBrsí. Colmes
I was engaged to marry, and must regard
Our intercourse as ended.
“ ‘ She returned
Next day, the twenty-ninth; and, falling
down
Upon her knees, she cried, with hardly a
word,
Some while, and kept her face between her
hands;
But at the last she swore she would not go,
But rather die here. It continued thus
Six days. For she would come and seat
herself,
When I was present, in my room, and sit,
An hour or near, quite silent; or break
out
Into a flood of words—and then, perhaps
Between two syllables, stop short, and turn
Round in her chair, and sob, and hide her
tears.
“ * The sixth day, after she had left the
house,
I had an intimation we were watched,
And certain persons bad begun to talk.
I thought it indispensable to write
Once more, and tell her she could not re
main—
I owed it to myself not to allow
This state of things to last; that I had
given
The servant orders to deny me, should
She still persist in calling.
“‘Towards mid-day
Of the sixth instant, the deceased once more
Was at my house, however;—darted
through
The door, which happened to be left ajar,
And flung herself right down before my feet.
This day she did not shed a single tear,
Nor talk at all at random, but was firm :
I mean, unalterably resolute
In purpose, and her passion more uncurbed
Than ever: swore it was impossible
She should return to live with Mr. Grey
Again ; that, were she at her latest hour,
She still would say so, and die saying so :
‘Because’ (I recollect her words) ‘this
flame
All eats me up while I am here with you;
I hate it, but it eats me—eats me up,
Till I have now no will to wish it quenched.’
I hope to be excused repeating ail
That I remember to have heard her say.
She bitterly upbraided me for what
I last had written to her, and declared
She hated me and loved me all at once
With perfect hate as well as burning love.
This must have lasted fully half an hour.
However fearful as to the results,
I told her simply I could not retract,
And she must go, or I immediately
Would write to Mr. Grey. I rose at this
To leave the room.
“ ‘ She staggered up as well.
And screamed, and caught about her with
her hands :
I think she could not see. I dreaded lest
She might be falling, and I held her arm,
Trying to guide her out. As I did so,
She, in a hurry, faced on me, and screamed
Aloud once more, and wanted, as I thought,
To speak, but, in a second, fell.
“ ‘ I raised
Her body in my arms, and found her dead.
I had her carried home without delay,
And a physician called, whose view con
curred
With mine—that instant death must have
ensued
Upon the rupture of a blood-vessel.’
“ This deposition had been listened to
Tn the most perfect silence. At its close
We understand a lady was removed
Fainting.
“ The Coroner: ‘You said just now
That, in your former letter to deceased,
You told her nothing yet was known. Was
not
Her absence traced, then, and suspicion
roused ?
Did she inform you ?’ ‘ She informed me
that
Would not be, for that Mr. Grey and she
Had mutually consented not to write.
I have forgotten why.’
“ The Coroner:
‘ Is Mr. Grey still present ?’ Mr. Grey ;
‘Yes, I am here.’ ‘You heard the last
reply;
Was such the case?’ ‘It was; we had
agreed
To exchange no letters, that her mind
might have
The benefit of more complete repose.’
“A J uror to the witness : ‘ Did no acts
Of familiarity occur between
Deceased and you ?’
“ Here Mr. Grey addressed
The Coroner, demurring to a reply.
“ The Coroner : ‘ It grieves me very much
�dMrs. Pointes
To pain your feelings; but I feel com
pelled
To say the question is a proper one.
It is the Jury’s duty to gain light
On this exceedingly distressing case ;
The public mind has to be satisfied;
I owe a duty to the public. Let
The witness answer.’
“ Witness: ‘ She would clasp
Her arms around me in speaking tenderly,
And kiss me. She has often kissed my
hands.
Not beyond that.’
“ The Juror: ‘ And did you
Respond----- ’ The Coroner; ‘The wit
ness should,
I think, be pressed no further. He has
given
His painful evidence most creditably.’
“The Juror: ‘Did deceased, in all these
days,
Not write to you at all ?’ ‘ She sent me this :
It is the only letter I received.’
“A letter here was handed in and read.
It ran as follows, and it bore the date
Of twenty-sixth September.
“ ‘ Dearest Friend,—
Where is your promise you would write me
»©on
My sentence, death or life ? This is the
third
Of three long days since last I saw you. Oh!
To press your hand again, and talk to you,
And see the moving of your lips and eyes !
lidward, I’m certain that you cannot know
How much I love you; you must not
decide
Until convinced of it----- But words are
dead.
That, Edward, is a love in very truth
Which can avail to overcome such shame
As kept me four whole days from seeing
you—
Four days after my coming quite resolved
To strive no more, but tell you all my heart.
As daylight passed, and night devoured the
dusk,
The first time, and the second, and the third,
I doubted whether I could ever wait
Till dawn—yet waited all the fourth day
too,
Staring upon myhands,andlooking strange;
Yes, and the fifth day’s twilight hastened
oa.
But love began then driving me about
457
Between my house and your house, to and
fro.
At last I could no more delay, but wept,
And prayed of Christ (for He discerns it
all),
That, if this thing were sinful unto death,
He would Himself be first to throw the
stone.
So then I came and saw you, and I spoke.
Did I not make you understand how I
Had loved you in the budding of my youth ;
And how, when we divided, all my hope
Went out from me for all the future days,
And how I married, just indifferent
To whom I took ? Perhaps I did not clear
This up enough, or cried and troubled
you.
Why did I ever see your face again ?
I had forgotten you; I lived content,
At peace. Forgotten you! that now ap
pears
Impossible, yet I believe I had.
Then see what now my life must be—con
sumed
With inner very fire, merely to think
Of you, and having lost my heartless peace.
How shall I dare to live except with you ?’
“ TheCoroner to Witness: ‘ Had you known
When you were first acquainted with
deceased,
Before her marriage, that she entertained
These feelings for you?’—‘Friends of mine
would talk
In a light way about it—nothing more—
And in especial as to mesmerism.
I knew that such a match could never be;
Her friends would have been sure to break
it off—
Our prospects were so very different.
I did not think about it seriously.’
‘“The letter says that you divided : how
Did that occur?’—‘I left the neighbour
hood
On account solely of my own affairs.’
“ ‘ You have deposed that you received a
hint
Your meetings with deceased had been
observed.
How did you learn this ?’—‘ Through the
brother-in-law
Of a young lady that’s engaged to me.’
“ The witness here retired. He looks about
The age of twenty-seven,—in person, tall
And elegant. His tone at times betrayed
Much feeling.
�458
holmes
“Mrs. Celia Frances Gwyllt:
‘ Deceased and I were cousins. In the
month
Of August last I spent a little time
With her and Mr. Grey. In the first
week
Of last month, I remember hearing her
Speak in a manner I considered wrong
To Mr. Luton, and she seemed confused
When she perceived me. Shortly after
wards,
I took occasion to inform her so.
This she at first made light of, and alleged
It was a mere flirtation. I replied,
I deemed it was my duty to acquaint
Her husband; when she begged that I
would not,
So that at length I yielded. Then came on
Some crying fits, which Mr. Grey was led
To ascribe to things I chanced to talk
about.
This and my pledge of silence vexed me
much,
And so, soon after that, I took my leave.’
“ Anne Gorman: ‘ I am Mr. Luton’s
servant.
On Tuesday wa3 the sixth I had to go
Out on an errand, with the door ajar,
When I remembered something I had left
Behind. On coming back, I saw deceased
Race through the lobby, and whisk into
the room.
I had been ordered not to let her in.’
“ The evidence of Dr. Wallinger
Ended the case. ‘ I was called in to see
The body of deceased upon the sixth :
Life then was quite extinct; the cause of
death,
Congestion and effusion of the ventricle.
Death would be instantaneous. Any strong
Emotion might have led to that result-.’
“ The Coroner, in course of summing up,
Commented on the evidence, and spoke
Of deceased’s conduct in appropriate terms;
Observing that the Jury would decide
Upon their verdict from the testimony
Of the professional witness—which was
clear,
And seemed to him conclusive. He could do
No less than note the awful suddenness
With which the loss of life had followed
such
A glaring sacrifice of duty’s claims.
“ The Jury gave their verdict in at once:
‘Died by the visitation of God.’
“ We learn
On good authority that the deceased
Belonged to a distinguished family.
Her husband’s scientific eminence
Is fully and most widely recognized.”
As Hurling finished reading this, he rose
To call his friend; but, shrinking at the
thought,
He read it all again and lingeringly.
But, after that, he called in undertone;
And he received the answer, “ Come in
here.”
He entered therefore.
Grey was huddled o’er
The coffin, looking hard iuto her face.
“ You know it now,” he said, but did not
move.
“ We long have been old friends,” Harling
replied.
“ Words are of no avail, and worse than
none.
I need not try to tell you what I feel.”
Grey now stood straight. “I am to bury her
The day after to-morrow : I alone
Shall see her covered in beneath the earth.
Maj' God be near her in the stead of men,
And let her rest. Yet there is with her that
Which she shall carry down into the grave;
Still in the dark her broken marriage-vow
Under her head: they shall remain together.
How can I talk like this ?” And he
broke off.
“ This is a crushing grief indeed, I know,”
Said Harling; “yet be brave against it.
When
This few days’ work is over, Grey, go home,
And mind to be so occupied as must
Prevent your dwelling on it. If you choose,
I will accompany and stay with you.”
But he replied: “ My home will now be
here;”
And all the angles of his visage thinned.
“He is here I mean to ruin. Shall he still
Be free to laugh me in his sleeve to scorn,
And show me pity—pity '.—when we meet ?
I have no means of harming him, you
think ?
There’s such a thing, though, as profes
sional fame,—
I have it. Where’s the name of Luton
known?
is is my home : I mean to ruin him.”
“Why, he,” objected Harling, “never did
�Wtfltw ©reg.
One hair’s-breadth wrong to you: his hands
are clean
Of all offence to you and yours-. For shame!
It was blind anguish spoke there—not
yourself.”
“ Ah! you can talk like that! But it is I
Who have to feel—I who can see his house
From here, and sometimes watch him out
and in,
And think she used to be with him inside.
And he could bear her coming day by day,
And see the sobs collecting in her throat,
And tresses out of order, as she fell
Before his feet, and made her prayers, and
wept!
He bore this! What a heart he must
have had!
Must I be grateful for it ? Bid he not
Admit inopportune eyes were watching
him?
He was engaged to marry—yes, and one
For whom he’s bound to keep himself in
check,
And crouch beneath her whims and
jealousy:—
Not that I ever saw her, but I’m sure.
Besides, he told me she would not be his
Unless he gains the standing deemed her
due,—
And I’ll take care of that.”
His friend was loath,
459
Seeing the burden of his agony,
To harass him with argument and blame ;
Yet would he not be by to hear him rave,
And said he now must go.
“ One moment more,”
Said Grey, and oped the window. Overhead
The sky was a black veil drawn close as
death;
The lamps gave all the light, prolonged in
rows:
And chill it blew upon them as they gazed,
Mixed with thin drops of rain, which
might not fall
Straight downward, but kept veering in
the wind.
There was a sounding of the sea from far.
Grey pointed. “ That beyond there is the
house,
Turning the street—that where a candle
burns
In the left casement of the upper three.
That is, no doubt, his shadow on the blind.
Often I get a glimpse of it from here,
As when you saw me first this afternoon.
Shall he not one day pay me down in full ?
John, I can wait ; but when the moment
comes . . .!”
He shut the sash. Harling had seen ths.
night,
Equal, unknown, and desolate of stars.
1849*
* The reader will observe the already remote date at which this poem was written.
Those were the days when the prge-Raphaelite movement in painting was first started. I,
who was as much mixed up and interested in it as any person not practically an artist
could well be, entertained the idea that the like principles might be carried out in
poetry; and that it would be possible, without losing the poetical, dramatic, or even
tragic tone and impression, to approach nearer to the actualities of dialogue and narration
tnan had ever yet been done. With an unpractised hand I tried the experiment; and
the. result is this blank-verse tale, which is now published, not indeed without some
revision, but without the least alteration in its general character and point of view.—
vv at t?
°
r
�
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Title
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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
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Pamphlet
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Title
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Mrs. Holmes Greg
Creator
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Rossetti, William Michael
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: 452, 449-459 p. : ill. (engraving) ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Broadway 1 (1868). Attribution of journal title and date: Virginia Clark catalogue. A poem in blank verse. The illustration, page number 452, is at the front of the poem. The first page of the verse is numbered 449.
Publisher
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[s.n.]
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[1868]
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G5343
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Poetry
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<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 (Mrs. Holmes Greg), 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>
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application/pdf
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
-
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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.
�
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Title
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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
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Pamphlet
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Title
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"Key notes"
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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
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Thomas Scott
Date
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1876
Identifier
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CT168
Subject
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Poetry
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<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>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/892c3ca7cf204dbcc9f2a67dca90f500.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=X3dqCxcJ1gVB8RVMCKkUvXOaoHJxc-UVti5Blxzqtlbf4q-SyUvmpancF-CAuwnH8oq7pGGZ1jZGETfWZr9oLoVRbWCtr7vKzXXuswxVtcRutcVtrEa%7E2FrU7KfDXCpVJohJVNo9bn4eF2dxR56g6H6iLHgYrr3DqmqYP665CYo7AJwwjinjaD1HKe-tMgHR8T6Ys5gofYYvIkCuJQFJo7FUZSOiUMUGf3YwfXlXYr6ZCSoOdbEhEOVszBlYBzJdCgGwsd7DpYnsC2uy2sc02mtbvupSaM--rxpOIfM7n-0pInfIrk6IgHHHKRRn8pJVLMNfG7DWaaakzWIi-hC7sA__&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.
�
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Title
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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
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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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
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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
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Down Stream
Creator
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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
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[s.n.]
Date
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[1871]
Identifier
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G5320
Subject
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Poetry
Rights
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<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
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
English Poetry
Ford Madox Brown
Poetry in English
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/2ad833567bffd8c38a9a31707e49ae73.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=lKr-ww9HvUTuYVR2K5NyW6LF0DMoooPthyUwqeGKucEjSzNzADSsV%7Eon56hfSFAdEcWKn9ESzIWft5AQDyOiyU7UT1hB0Wpn0%7EZuZxzbPE3gZF7Mr-dXZGmN2pxcRCQOAh9z1uqWI6qNeMZxAsxeLZKcc8k2X8eSow9ofmmVP0MJQb36U5nKE-6AXJc4G%7EI%7EvUjp73yOYlyoc%7Ec0ZdP3YVyh8RFFAfJNowhft-EyxvaZKGbY9jfVRL3wtcFco38gFaNh%7EmAXFIAFTMyr2kC5rqgjLajYHrBLetdWOHUqNwJBWjhHtwplQB8cLyquPe8pg4JOgIdr3p2gSaHLSTf5vQ__&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 ! ”
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Il
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T
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36, Moorgate Street, near the Railway Station, London, E.C. (late of 4, Copthall Buildings).
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�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
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��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,
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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
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Other habits, polonaises, ladies’ Ulsters,
with hood and cape—so contrived that the wearer may detach them if
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Canadian winter. We are not prepared to say if the garment known of
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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
*
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WINTER OVERCOATS, 35s. to 100s.
TTLSTER and HIGHLAND
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SHOOTING and FISHING.
‘^^’ITH BREEKS, Knicks, or Pants, 70J. to 905.
ITH all the LATEST IMPROVEMENTS, including
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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
*
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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
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ceen so much m request of late.—Oct. 3 rst, 1874
THERTrTrTdING HABITj^r^rto^/yTT:--------------
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'T'HE ULSTER and HIGHLAND PLEATED & KILTED
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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.
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�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.
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�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.
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J
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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.
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:
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
»
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�1 »"
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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?
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•
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Brixton................ B. Little & Co., near the Church.
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,,
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,,
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„
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,,
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Tottenham) Lower) H. Woodcock.
Westbourne Grove W. Whiteley ; Edw. Cox.
Winchmere Hill .. H. Austin.
Wood Green........ W. B. Edwards.
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Birmingham .... Powell & Co., Bullring.
Belfast............... R. Patterson & Co.
„
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Bournemouth .... T. F. Short.
Brighton ............The Supply Association.
Cheltenham........ A. Jack.
Clevedon ..............J. R. Lovegrove.
Colchester........ H. Joslen.
Exmouth............J. Plimsoll.
Glasgow ........ Graham & Son.
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Hastings ............ R. Spencer.
................ Liddeard & Co.
,,
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Henley-on-Thames A. W. Pescud.
,,
,,
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�yON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS^
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All who wish to preserve health, and thus prolong
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Concerning this book, which contains 168 pages, the
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�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
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Victorian Blogging
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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>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Jon Duan: a twofold journey with manifold purposes by the authors of "The Coming K---" and "The Siliad"
Description
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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.
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Weldon & Co.
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1874
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G5455
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Poetry
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English
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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
�
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Victorian Blogging
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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>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Rossetti, the painter and poet
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Stillman, W.J.
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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.
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[G. P. Putnam's Sons]
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[1870]
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G5303
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Poetry
Art
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English
Conway Tracts
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
English Poetry
Painting
Poetry in English
Poets
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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.
�
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Title
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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>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
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Title
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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
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[s.n.]
Date
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1874
Identifier
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CT34
Subject
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Poetry
Scotland
Monarchy
Creator
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W.G.
Rights
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<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
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
James I of Scotland
Scotland