Part 3
The difficulty which has existed since Lord Tennyson's dramatic death, of choosing a successor to the Laureateship, has partly arisen from the presence of so many minor poets, and the absence, with one remarkable exception, of any monarch of song.
The exception is, of course, Mr. Swinburne, who stands alone as the greatest living master of English verse. The objections to his appointment may, in some eyes, have importance, but time has sobered his more erratic flights, leaving a large residuum of fine work, both in poetry and prose, which would make him a worthy successor to any of those gone before.
Of the smaller fry, it is difficult to prophesy which will hereafter come to the front, and what of their work may live.
As Oliver Wendell Holmes so pathetically says:--
"Deal gently with us, ye who read! Our largest hope is unfulfilled; The promise still outruns the deed; The tower, but not the spire we build.
Our whitest pearl we never find; Our ripest fruit we never reach; The flowering moments of the mind, Lose half their petals in our speech."
The late Lord Lytton (Owen Meredith) was very unequal in all he produced. Perhaps the following ballad from his volume of "Selected Poems," published in 1894 by Longmans, is one of the best and most characteristic he has written:--
THE WOOD DEVIL.
1.
"In the wood, where I wander'd astray, Came the Devil a-talking to me, O mother! mother! But why did ye tell me, and why did they say, That the Devil's a horrible blackamoor? He Black-faced and horrible? No, mother, no! And how should a poor girl be likely to know That the Devil's so gallant and gay, mother? So gentle and gallant and gay, With his curly head, and his comely face, And his cap and feather, and saucy grace, Mother! mother!
II.
And 'Pretty one, whither away? And shall I come with you?' said he. O mother! mother! And so winsome he was, not a word could I say, And he kiss'd me, and sweet were his kisses to me, And he kiss'd me, and kiss'd till I kiss'd him again, And O, not till he left me I knew to my pain 'Twas the Devil that led me astray, mother! The Devil so gallant and gay, With his curly head, and his comely face, And his cap and feather, and saucy grace, Mother! mother!"
Mr. Edmund Gosse's work is always scholarly and well thought out, framed in easy, pleasant English. In some of his poems he reminds one of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." His song of the "Wounded Gull" is very like Dr. Holmes, both in subject and treatment:--
"The children laughed, and called it tame! But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wing Hung by its side; the gull was lame, A suffering and deserted thing.
With painful care it downward crept; Its eye was on the rolling sea; Close to our very feet, it stept Upon the wave, and then--was free.
Right out into the east it went Too proud, we thought, to flap or shriek; Slowly it steered, in wonderment To find its enemies so meek.
Calmly it steered, and mortal dread Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume; It could but die, and being dead, The open sea should be its tomb.
We watched it till we saw it float Almost beyond our furthest view; It flickered like a paper boat, Then faded in the dazzling blue.
It could but touch an English heart To find an English bird so brave; Our life-blood glowed to see it start Thus boldly on the leaguered wave."
A few fortunate persons possess copies of Mr. Gosse's catalogue of his library, and it is, I rejoice to say, on the Foxwold shelves. It is a most charming work, reflecting on every page, by many subtle touches, the refined humour and wide knowledge of the collector. Mr. Austin Dobson wrote for the final fly-leaf as follows:--
"I doubt your painful Pedants who Can read a dictionary through; But he must be a dismal dog, Who can't enjoy this Catalogue!"
Of the little mutual admiration and log-rolling society, whose headquarters are in Vigo Street, no serious account need be taken. Time will deal with these very minor poets, and whether kindly or not, Time will prove. They may possibly be able to await the verdict with a serene and confident patience--and so can we. An exception may perhaps be made for some of Mr. Arthur Symon's "Silhouettes," as the following extract will show:--
"Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air, Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile, Come to me out of the past, and I see her there As I saw her once for a while.
Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright, Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook, And still I hear her telling us tales that night, Out of Boccaccio's book.
There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall, Leaning across the table, over the beer, While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball, As the midnight hour drew near.
There with the women, haggard, painted, and old, One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale, She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told Tale after shameless tale.
And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled, Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun, And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child, Or ever the tale was done.
O my child, who wronged you first, and began First the dance of death that you dance so well? Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man Shall answer for yours in hell."
Mr. Austin Dobson and the late Mr. Locker-Lampson are perhaps the finest writers of _vers de Société_ since Praed; whilst in the broader school of humour C. S. Calverley, Mr. Dodgson (of "Alice in Wonderland" fame), and the late James Kenneth Stephen, stand alone and unchallenged; and Mr. Watson, if health serve, will go far; and so with some pathetic words of one of these moderns we will end this somewhat aimless chat:--
"My heart is dashed with cares and fears, My song comes fluttering and is gone; Oh, high above this home of tears, Eternal joy,--sing on."
Chat No. 8.
"_Punch! in the presence of the passengers._"
Within the past year certain gentle disputes and friendly discussions as to the origin of _Punch_, and who its first real editor was, and whether or no Henry Mayhew evolved it with the help of suitable friends in a debtor's prison, remind us that Foxwold possesses some rather curious "memories" of this famous paper.
These disputes should now be put to rest for ever by Mr. Spielmann's exhaustive "History of Mr. Punch," which, it may safely be supposed, appeared with some sort of authority from "Mr. Punch" himself.
One of our "Odds and Ends" is a kit-kat portrait in oil of Horace Mayhew, "Ponny," excellent both as a likeness and a work of art, which should eventually find hanging space in the celebrated _Punch_ dining-room. There is also a pencil drawing of him, in which "the Count," as he was called, is dressed in the smartest fashion of that day, and crowned with a D'Orsay hat, resplendent, original, and gay.
He made a rather unhappy marriage late in his life, and found that habits from which he was not personally free showed themselves rather frequently in his wife's conduct. One day, in a state of emotion and whisky and water, he pressed Mark Lemon's hand, and, bursting into tears, murmured, "My dear friend, she drinks! she drinks!!" "All right," was the editor's cheery reply, "my dear boy; cheer up, so do you!"
Near by hangs a characteristic pencil sketch of Douglas Jerrold, who, if small, was no hunchback (as has been lately stated), but was a very neatly made, active little man, with a grand head covered with a profusion of lightish hair, which he had a trick of throwing back, like a lion's mane, and a pair of bright piercing blue eyes. There is an engraving of a bust of him prefixed to his life (written by his son, Blanchard Jerrold), which well conveys the nobility of the well-set head. Then comes a capital drawing of Kenny Meadows in profile, and a thoroughly characteristic Irish phiz it is.
These pencil portraits are all from the gifted hand of Mr. George Augustus Sala, and formerly belonged to Horace Mayhew himself. Mr. Sala, as is now well known by means of his autobiography, was once an artist and book-illustrator, and Foxwold is the proud possessor of the only picture in oil extant from his brush. It is called "Saturday Night in a Gin-Palace": it is full of a Hogarthian power, and by its execution, drawing, and colour shows that had Mr. Sala made painting his profession instead of literature, he would have gone far and fared well. The little picture is signed "G. A. Sala," and was found many years ago in an old house in Brompton, when the present owner secured it for a moderate sum, and then wrote to Mr. Sala asking if the picture was authentic. A reply was received by the next post, in the beautiful handwriting for which he is famous, and runs as follows:---
46 Mecklenburgh Square, W.C., _Tuesday, Twenty-fifth June 1878_.
"Dear Sir,
I beg to acknowledge receipt of your courteous and (to me) singularly interesting note.
"Yes, the little old oil-picture of the 'Gin-Palace Bar' is mine sure enough. I can remember it as distinctly as though it had been painted yesterday. Great casks of liquor in the background; little stunted figures (including one of a dustman with a shovel) in the foreground. Details executed with laborious niggling minuteness; but the whole work must be now dingy and faded to almost total obscuration, since I remember that in painting it I only used turpentine for a medium, the spirit of which must have long since 'flown,' and left the pigment flat or 'scaly.'
"The thing was done in Paris six-and-twenty years ago (Ap. 1852), and being brought to London, was sold to the late Adolphus Ackermann, of the bygone art-publishing firm of Ackermann & Co., 96 Strand (premises now occupied by E. Rimmel, the perfumer), for the sum of five pounds. I hope that you did not give more than a few shillings for it, for it was a vile little daub. I was at the time when I produced it an engraver and lithographer, and I believe that Mr. Ackermann only purchased the picture with a view to encourage me to 'take up' oil-painting. But I did not do so. I 'took up' literature instead, and a pretty market I have brought my pigs to! At all events, _you_ possess the only picture in oil extant from the brush of
Yours very faithfully,
George Augustus Sala."
_To_ H. N. Pym, Esq.
When Mr. Sala afterwards called to see the picture, he altered his mind as to its being "a vile little daub," and found the colours as fresh and bright as when painted. We greatly value it, if only as the cause of a lasting friendship it started with the artist.
His own portrait by Vernet, in pen and ink, now graces our little gallery; it is a back view, taken amidst his books, and a most characteristic and excellent likeness of this accomplished and versatile gentleman.[1]
One of our guest-chambers is solemnly dedicated to the honour and glory of "Mr. Punch," and on its walls hang some original oil sketches by John Leech, drawings by Charles Keene, Mr. Harry Furniss, Randolph Caldecote, Mr. Bernard Partridge, Mr. Anstey Guthrie, and Mr. Du Maurier; whilst kindly caricatures of some of the staff, and a print of the celebrated dinner-table, signed by the contributors, complete the decoration of a very cheery little room.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Whilst these pages are passing through the press, George Augustus Sala has been mercifully permitted to rest from his labours. An unfortunate adventure with a new paper brought about serious troubles, physical and financial, and ended his useful and hard-working life in gloom: as Mr. Bancroft (a mutual friend) observed to the editor of this volume, "It is so sad when the autumn of such a life is tempestuous."--_December 8, 1895._
Chat No. 9
"_Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast--- Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last, A sorry breaking-up._" --Thomas Hood.
It was my good fortune some short time since to revisit that most educational of English towns, Bedford, and having many years ago had the extreme privilege of being a Bedford schoolboy, I was able to draw a comparison between then and now.
In the good old days these admirable schools were managed in the good old way--plenty of classics, plenty of swishing, plenty of cricket and boating, and plenty of holidays. We sometimes turned out boys who afterwards made their mark in the big world, and the School Registers are proud to contain the names of such men as Burnell, the Oriental scholar, who out-knowledged even Sir William Jones in this respect; Colonel Fred. Burnaby, brave soldier and attractive travel writer; Inverarity, the lion-hunter and crack shot; Sir Henry Hawkins, stern judge and brilliant wit, and many others of like degree. Nor must we forgot that John Bunyan here learnt sufficient reading and writing to enable him in after years to pen his marvellous Book during his imprisonment in Bedford Gaol, which was then situated midway on the bridge over the river Ouse.
In that wonderful monument to the courage and enterprise of Mr. George Smith (kindest of friends and best of publishers), "The National Dictionary of Biography," the record is frequent of men who owed their education and perhaps best chance in the life they afterwards made a success, to Bedford School, but,--
"Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted, As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred, Yet still with their music is memory haunted, And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard."
But if the good old School was a success in those bygone days, what must be said for it now, when, under the Napoleon-like administration of its present chief, the school-house has been rebuilt in its own park, upon all the best and latest known principles of comfort and sanitation, where a boy can, besides going through the full round of usual study, follow the bent of his own peculiar taste, and find special training, whether it be in horse-shoeing or music, chemistry or wood-carving, ambulance work or drawing from the figure; whilst the beautiful river is covered with boats, the cricket-fields and football yards are crowded, and the bathing stations are a constant joy?
Truly the present generation of Bedford boys are much blessed in their surroundings; and whilst they remember with gratitude the pious founder, Sir William Harper, should strive to do credit to his name and memory by the exercise of their powers in the battle of after-life, having received so thorough and broad-minded a training in the happy and receptive days of their youth.
Bedford town is now one of the most strikingly attractive in England, with its fine river embankment, its grand old churches, its statues erected to the memory of the "inspired tinker," Bunyan, and the prison philanthropist, Howard, both of whom lived about a mile or so from the town, the former at Elstow, the latter at Cardington. It was very good and heart-restoring to revisit the hospitable old school with its pleasant surroundings and to find, as Robert Louis Stevenson says, that,--
"Home from the Indies, and home from the ocean, Heroes and soldiers they all shall come home; Still they shall find the old mill-wheel in motion, Turning and churning that river to foam."
* * * * *
Since printing our last little "Tour Round the Bookshelves," in which we ventured to include some capital lines by our evergreen and many-sided friend Rudolf Chambers Lehmann, he has again added to the interest of our Visitors' Book under the following circumstances. Guests and home-birds were all resting after the exhausting idleness of an Easter holiday when they were suddenly aroused from their day-dreams by loud cries of "Fire!" accompanied by the sound of horses and chariots approaching the house at full speed. On looking out, like Sister Anne or a pretty page, we were able to assuage our guests' natural alarm by explaining that the local fire brigade were practising upon our vile bodies and dwelling, and if fear existed, danger did not. On their ultimately retiring, satisfied with their mock efforts, and fortified by beer, our welcome guest wrote with his usual flying pen the following characteristic lines to commemorate their visit:--
"FIRE! FIRE!!"
(AN EASTER MONDAY INCIDENT.)
"A day of days, an April day; Cool air without, and cloudless sun; Within, upon the ordered tray, Cakes, and the luscious Sally-Lunn. Since Pym has walked, and Guthrie climbed To rob some feathered songster's nest, Their toil needs tea, the hour has chimed-- Pour, lady, pour, and let them rest.
But hark! what sound disturbs their tea, And clatters up the carriage drive? A dinner guest? it cannot be; No, no, the hour is only five. What sight is this the fates disclose, That breaks upon our startled view? Two horses, countless yards of hose, Nine firemen, and an engine too.
Where burns the fire? Tush, 'tis but sport; The horses stop, the men descend, Take hoses long, and hoses short, And fit them deftly end to end. Attention! lo their chieftain calls-- They run, they answer to their names, And hypothetic water falls In streams upon imagined flames.
Well done, ye braves, 'twas nobly done; Accept, the peril past, our thanks; Though all your toil was only fun, And air was all that filled your tanks: No, not for nought you came and dared, Return in peace, and drink your fill; It was, as Mrs. Pym declared, 'A highly interesting drill.'"
_April 3, 1893._
Another poet whose pen sometimes gilds our modest Record of Angels' Visits, is a well-beloved cousin, Harry Luxmoore by name, at Eton known so well. His Christmas greeting for 1890 shall here appear, and prove to him how deep is Foxwold's affectionate obligation for wishes so delightfully expressed:--
"Glooms overhead a frozen sky, Rings underfoot a snow-ribbed earth, Yet somewhere slumbering sunbeams lie, And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.
Folded in root and grain is lying, The bud, the bloom we soon may see, And in the old year now a-dying Is hid the new year that shall be.
O what if snows be deep? so shrouded Matures the soil with promise rife And sap, for all the skies be clouded, Ripens at heart a lustier life.
Then welcome winter--while we shiver Strength harbours deeper, and the blast Of sounder, manlier force the giver Strips off betimes our withered past.
Come bud and bloom, come fruit and flower, Come weal, come woe, as best may be, Still may the New Year's hidden dower Be good for you and Horace, and all the little ones, and good for me."
Chat No. 10.
"_My ears are deaf with this impatient crowd: Their wants are now grown mutinous and loud._" --Dryden.
The following graphic account of the rising in Paris in 1848 was written by John Poole to Charles Dickens, and was recently found amongst the papers of Mrs. John Forster, the widow of the well-known writer, Dickens' friend and biographer, and is, I think, worthy of print.
John Poole was a sometime celebrated character, having written that evergreen play "Paul Pry," as well as "Little Pedlington," and other humorous works mostly now forgotten.
As he grew old poverty came to bear him company, and was only prevented from causing him actual suffering by the usual generosity of Dickens and other members of that charmed circle, further aided by a small Government grant, obtained for him by the same faithful friend from Lord John Russell.
The letter is addressed to
CHARLES DICKENS, Esq., No. 1 Devonshire Terrace, York Gate, Regent's Park, LONDON,
and deals with the celebrated uprisal of the French mob, when a force of 75,000 regulars and nearly 200,000 National Guards was massed round Paris to resist it. The carnage was terrible, some 8000 persons being killed on both sides, and 14,000 insurgents made prisoners.
It was only by General Cavaignac's firmness and tactful management under Lamartine's directions, that the mob was reduced and the Republican Government established. The general was afterwards nearly elected President of the French Republic, receiving 1,448,000 votes, but Prince Louis Napoleon beat him, and, as history tells, held the reins in various capacities for the next twenty eventful years.
Poole's letter, as that of an eye-witness, gives a remarkably clear impression of the scene as it appeared in his orbit. Dickens, on receiving it, evidently sent it the round of his friends, and it then remained in John Forster's possession until his death.
"(Paris), _Saturday, 8 Jul 1848_.
"My dear Dickens,
I wrote to you through the Embassy on the 22nd June, giving you an address for the three last Dombeys, and enclosing a catalogue of the ex-King's wine; and on the 16th I sent you a word in a letter to Macready. Dombeys not yet arrived, and I shall wait no longer to acknowledge their arrival (as I have been doing), but at once proceed to give you a few lines. Since the day of my writing to you I have lived four years: Friday (the 23rd), Saturday, Sunday, Monday, each a year.
"The proceedings of the three days of February were mere child's-play compared with these. Never shall I forget them, for they showed me scenes of blood and death. Friday morning the '_rappel_' was beat--always a disagreeable hint. Presently I heard discharges of musketry, then they beat the '_générale._' My _concierge_ ran into my room, and, with a long white face, told me the mob had erected huge barricades in the Faubourg-Saint-Denis, and above, down to the Porte St. Denis, and that tremendous fighting was going on there. (The Porte St. Denis bears marks of the fray.) 'Then, Madame Blanchard,' I said, 'as you seem to be breaking out again, I shall take a _sac-de-nuit_, and say adieu to you till you shall have returned to your good behaviour.'--'But monsieur could not get away for love or money--the insurgents have possession of the Chemin de Fer, and had torn up the rails as far as St. Denis.' This was what she had been told, so I went out to ascertain the fact.
"Impossible to approach that quarter, and difficult to turn the corner of a street without interruption--groups of fifteen, twenty, thirty, fifty, in blouses, dotted all about. Towards evening matters seemed rather more tranquil, and between six and seven o'clock I contrived (though not easily) to make my way to Sestels, in the Rue St. Honoré (one of the very best of the second-rate restaurateurs in Paris, 'which note'). The large saloon was filled with men in uniform, National Guards chiefly, and only two women there. I was there about an hour, and in that time three dead bodies were carried past on covered litters. It was thought the disturbances were pretty well over, as a powerful body of troops had been ordered down to the scene of action.