Chapter 15

Unaffected simplicity is the everyday picture of Nature. Thus, little children's favourites of "Cock Robin," "Little Red Riding Hood," and "Babes in the Wood," have impressions at the core that grow up with manhood and are always dear. Poets anxious after common fame, as some of the "naturals" seem to be, imitate these things by affecting simplicity, and become unnatural. These things found fame where the greatest names are still oblivious. A literary man might enquire after the names of Spenser and Milton in vain in half the villages in England, even among what are called its gentry, but I believe it would be difficult to find a corner in any county where the others are not known, nor an old woman in any hamlet with whom they are not familiar.

In my days, some of the pieces of the modern poets have gained this common popularity, which must be distinguished from fame as it may only live for a season.

Wordsworth's beautiful, simple ballad of "We are seven" I have seen hawked about for a penny, and Tannahill's song of "Jessy" has met with more popularity among the common people than all other songs, English and Scottish, put together. Lord Byron's hasty fame may be deemed a contradiction to the above opinion that popularity is not true fame, though at its greatest extent it is but an exception, and scarcely that, for his great and hurried popularity, that almost trampled on its own heels in its haste, must drop into a less bustling degree, and become cool and quiet, like the preaching of Irving. Shakespeare was hardly noticed in his lifetime by popularity, but he is known now, and Byron is hardly the tenth part of a Shakespeare. Every storm must have its calm, and Byron took fame by storm. By a desperate daring he over-swept petty control like a rebellious flood, or a tempest worked up into madness by the quarrel of the elements, and he seemed to value that daring as the attainment of true fame. He looked upon Horace's "Art of Poetry" no doubt with esteem as a reader, but he cared no more for it in the profession of a poet than the weather does for an almanack. He looked upon critics as the countryman does on a magistrate. He beheld them as a race of petty tyrants that stood in the way of genius. They were in his eyes more of stumbling-blocks than guides, and he treated them accordingly. He let them know there was another road to Parnassus without taking theirs, and being obliged to do them homage. Not stooping to the impediments of their authorities, like the paths of a besieged city encumbered with sentinels, he made a road for himself, and, like Napoleon crossing the Alps, he let the world see that even in the eye of a mortal their greatest obstacles were looked on "as the dust in a balance." He gained the envied eminence of living popularity by making a breach where it was thought impregnable. Where others had laid siege for a lifetime, and lost their hopes and their labour at last, he gained the heights of popularity by a single stride, and looked down as a free-booter on the world below, scorning the applause his labours had gained him, and scarcely returning a compliment for the laurels which fashion so eagerly bound round his brows, while he saw the alarm of his leaden-footed enemies, and withered them to nothings with his sneer. He was an Oliver Cromwell with the critics. He broke up their long-standing Parliament and placed his own will in the Speaker's chair, and his will they humbly accepted. They submitted to one that scorned to be shackled, and champed the bit in his stead. They praised and respected him, nay, they worshipped him. He was all in all in their mouths and in their writings, but I suspect their hearts had as much love for him as the peasantry had for witches in the last century, who spoke well of them to their faces because they dared not do other-wise for fear of meeting an injury. Whether Byron hath won true fame or not I cannot say; my mind is too little to grasp that judgment. To say that he was the first of his age in his way is saying nothing, but we have sufficient illustration for the argument in saying that popularity is not the forerunner of fame's eternity. Among all the bustle of popularity there must be only a portion of it accepted as fame. Time will sift it of its drossy puffs and praises. He has been with others extolled as equal to Shakespeare, and I dare say the popular voice of "readers" thought him superior. But three centuries will wither every extravagance, and sober the picture of its glaring colours. He is no doubt one of the eternals, but he is one of those of the 19th century, and if all its elements be classed together in the next they would make but a poor substitute for a Shakespeare. Eternity will not rake the bottom of the sea of oblivion for puffs and praises, and all their attendant rubbish, the feelings that the fashion of the day created, and the flatteries uttered. Eternity will estimate things at their proper value, and no other. She will not even seek for the newspaper praise of Walter Scott. She will not look for Byron's immortality in the company of Warren's blacking, Prince's kalydor, and Atkinson's bear's grease. She looks for it in his own merit, and her impartial judgment will be his best reward.

Wordsworth has had little share of popularity, though he bids fair to be as great in one species of poetry as Byron was in another, but to acknowledge such an opinion in the world's ear would only pucker the lips of fashion into a sneer against it. Yet his lack of living praise is no proof of his lack of genius. The trumpeting clamour of public praise is not to be relied on as the creditor of the future. The quiet progress of a name gaining ground by gentle degrees in the world's esteem is the best living shadow of fame to follow. The simplest trifle and the meanest thing in nature is the same now as it shall continue to be till the world's end.

Men trample grass and prize the flowers in May, But grass is green when flowers do fade away.

SCRAPS FOR AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM AND FASHION

None need be surprised to see these two false prophets in partnership or conjunction for an essay, as they may be called brothers, for the one attests what it pleases and the other takes it for granted. Criticism is grown a sort of book milliner, who cuts a book to any pattern of abuse or praise, and Fashion readily wears the opinion. How many productions whose milk-and-water merits, or unintelligible stupidity, have been considered as novelties, have by that means gained the admiration of Criticism and the praise of Fashion, until a more absurd novelty pushed them from their preferments and caused them to be as suddenly forgotten! The vulgar, tasteless jargon of "Dr. Syntax," with all the above-mentioned excellencies to excite public notice from the butterflies of fashion, soon found what it sought, though some of the plates or illustrations possess the disadvantageous merit of being good. Yet the letter-press doubly made up for all, for it was prose trebly prosified into wire-drawn doggrel, and consequently met with a publicity and sale unprecedented. Edition multiplied on edition, till it was found needless to number the title page, and it was only necessary to say "A New Edition;" while the poems of Wordsworth scarcely found admirers enough to ensure a second edition. What will the admirers of poetry in the next age think of the taste of this, which has been called "the Golden Age of criticism, poetry, taste, and genius"?

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Fashion is like a new book "elegantly bound and lettered." It cannot endure dust and cobwebs; but true criticism is like a newly-planted laurel: it thrives with age and gathers strength from antiquity, till it becomes a spreading tree and shelters the objects of its praise under its shadow. Just Criticism is a stern but laudable prophet, and Time and Truth are the only disciples who can discern and appreciate his predictions.

SCRAPS FOR AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM

Flowers must be sown and tended with care, like children, to grow up to maturity, but weeds grow of themselves and multiply without any attention, choking up those flowers that require it; and lies are propagated as easily as weeds, and choke up the blossoms of truth in the same manner. But the evils and misrepresentations of false criticism, though great and many, are not lasting.

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Upon its principles fashion and flattery have made many Shakespeares, and these false prophets have flourished and will flourish for a season, for truth, when she cannot be heard by the opposition of falsehood, remains silent and leaves time to decide the difference, who cometh quietly and impartially to her assistance, hurling without ceremony, century after century, usurper after usurper from the throne of the mighty, and erasing their names from his altar as suddenly and as perfectly as the sunbeam passes over and washes away the stains of a shadow on the wall. Fame hath weighed the false criticisms and pretensions of centuries already, and found nothing as yet but dust in the balance. Shadows of Shakespeare are cast away as profane idols, and reality hath fallen short of even a trinity. She acknowledges as sacred but one, and I fear that when she shall calculate the claims of ten centuries she will find the number of the mighty a unit. But why should fear be expressed for a repetition which we neither hope for nor need? We have but one sun in our firmament, and upwards of six thousand years have neither added to nor diminished its splendour, neither have vain desires been expressed for the existence of another. Needless wishes create painful expectations. When a man is warm and comfortable on a cold day he cannot wish for an excess that would burn him. Therefore we need neither hope for more Shakespeares nor regret that there is but one. When the Muses created him a poet they created him the sun of the firmament of genius, and time has proved, and will prove, that they glory in their creation, deeming it sufficient, without striving to find or create another, for nature knows the impossibility. There have been, both before and after, constellations of great and wonderful beauty, and many in this age will be found in the number who shine in their own light with becoming splendour, but whenever flattery or vanity places them near the great luminary their little lights lose their splendour and they vanish in his brightness as the stars are lost at noon.

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The falling stars leave a stream of splendour behind them for a moment; then utter darkness follows, and not a spark is left to show where they fell.

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It is said that Byron is not to have a monument in Westminster Abbey. To him it is no injury. Time is his monument, on whose scroll the name of Byron shall be legible when the walls and tombs of Westminster Abbey shall have mingled with the refuse of ruins, and the sun, as in scorn, be left free again to smile upon the earth so long darkened with the pompous shadows of bigotry and intolerance.

OLD SONGS AND BALLADS

Respecting these compositions Clare says:--

"I commenced sometime ago with an intention of making a collection of Old Ballads, but when I had sought after them in places where I expected to find them, namely, the hayfield and the shepherd's hut on the pasture, I found that nearly all those old and beautiful recollections had vanished as so many old fashions, and those who knew fragments seemed ashamed to acknowledge it, as old people who sung old songs only sung to be laughed at; and those who were proud of their knowledge in such things knew nothing but the senseless balderdash that is bawled over and sung at country feasts, statutes and fairs, where the most senseless jargon passes for the greatest excellence, and rudest indecency for the finest wit. So the matter was thrown by, and forgotten, until last winter, when I used to spend the long evenings with my father and mother, and heard them by accident hum over scraps of the following old melodies, which I have collected and put into their present form."

Two of the collection are omitted from this volume: the well-known ballad of "Lord Randall," and a second the subject of which appeared to render its inclusion inexpedient.

ADIEU TO MY FALSE LOVE FOREVER

The week before Easter, the days long and clear, So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air, I went in the meadow some flowers to find there, But the meadow would yield me no posies.

The weather, like love, did deceitful appear, And I wandered alone when my sorrow was near, For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year, When the bush it is naked of roses.

I courted a girl that was handsome and gay, I thought her as constant and true as the day, Till she married for riches and said my love "Nay," And so my poor heart got requited.

I was bid to the bridal; I could not say "No:" The bridemen and maidens they made a fine show; I smiled like the rest but my heart it was low, To think how its hopes they were blighted.

The bride started gaily, the weather was fine, Her parents looked after, and thought her divine; She smiled in their faces, but looked not in mine, Indeed I'd no heart to regard her.

Though love like the poplar doth lift its head high, The top it may fade and the root it may die, And they may have heart-aches that now live in joy, But Heaven I'll leave to reward her.

When I saw my false love in the merry church stand, With her ring on her finger and her love in her hand, Smiling out in the joy of her houses and land, My sighs I strove vainly to smother.

When my false love for dinner did dainties partake, I sat me down also, but nothing could eat; I thought her sweet company better than meat, Although she was tied to another.

When my false love had gone to her bride bed at night, My eyes filled with water which made double my sight; I thought she was there when she'd bade us "Good night" And her chair was put by till the morrow.

I drank to her joy with a tear on my face, And the wine glass as usual I pushed on the space, Nor knew she was gone till I looked at the place, Such a fool was I made of by sorrow.

Now make me a bed in yon river so deep, Let its waves be my mourners; nought living will weep, And there let me lie and take a long sleep, So adieu to my false love for ever.

O SILLY LOVE! O CUNNING LOVE!

O silly love! O cunning love! An old maid to trepan: I cannot go about my work For loving of a man. I cannot bake, I cannot brew, And, do the best I can, I burn the bread and chill the mash, Through loving of a man.

Shrove Tuesday last I tried, and tried, To turn the cakes in pan, And dropt the batter on the floor, Through thinking of a man. My mistress screamed, my master swore, Boys cursed me in a troop; The cat was all the friends I had, Who helped to clean it up.

Last Christmas eve, from off the spit I took the goose to table, Or should have done, but teasing Love Did make me quite unable; And down slipt dish, and goose, and all With din and clitter-clatter; All but the dog fell foul on me; He licked the broken platter.

Although I'm ten years past a score, Too old to play the fool, My mistress says I must give o'er My service for a school. Good faith! What must I do, and do, To keep my service still; I'll give the winds my thoughts to love, Indeed and so I will.

And if the wind my love should lose, Right foolish were the play, For I should mourn what I had lost, And love another day. With crosses and with losses Right double were the ill, So I'll e'en bear with love and all, Alack, and so I will.

NOBODY COMETH TO WOO

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark, And I opened the window to see, When every maiden went by with her spark, But ne'er a one came to me. And O dear what will become of me? And O dear what shall I do, When nobody whispers to marry me-- Nobody cometh to woo?

None's born for such troubles as I be: If the sun wakens first in the morn, "Lazy hussy" my parents both call me, And I must abide by their scorn, For nobody cometh to marry me, Nobody cometh to woo, So here in distress must I tarry me-- What can a poor maiden do?

If I sigh through the window when Jerry The ploughman goes by, I grow bold; And if I'm disposed to be merry, My parents do nothing but scold; And Jerry the clown, and no other, E'er cometh to marry or woo; They think me the moral of mother, And judge me a terrible shrew.

For mother she hateth all fellows, And spinning's my father's desire, While the old cat growls bass with the bellows If e'er I hitch up to the fire. I make the whole house out of humour, I wish nothing else but to please, Would fortune but bring a good comer To marry, and make me at ease!

When I've nothing my leisure to hinder, I scarce get as far as the eaves; Her head's instant out of the window, Calling out like a press after thieves. The young men all fall to remarking, And laugh till they're weary to see 't, While the dogs at the noise begin barking, And I slink in with shame from the street.

My mother's aye jealous of loving, My father's aye jealous of play, So what with them both there's no moving, I'm in durance for life and a day. O who shall I get for to marry me? Who will have pity to woo? 'T is death any longer to tarry me, And what shall a poor maiden do?

FARE THEE WELL

[Clare's note:--"Scraps from my father and mother, completed."]

Here's a sad good bye for thee, my love, To friends and foes a smile: I leave but one regret behind, That's left with thee the while, But hopes that fortune is our friend Already pays the toil.

Force bids me go, your friends to please. Would they were not so high! But be my lot on land or seas, It matters not where by, For I shall keep a thought for thee, In my heart's core to lie.

Winter shall lose its frost and snow, The spring its blossomed thorn, The summer all its bloom forego, The autumn hound and horn Ere I will lose that thought of thee, Or ever prove forsworn.

The dove shall change a hawk in kind, The cuckoo change its tune, The nightingale at Christmas sing, The fieldfare come in June-- Ere I do change my love for thee These things shall change as soon.

So keep your heart at ease, my love, Nor waste a joy for me: I'll ne'er prove false to thee, my love, Till fish drown in the sea, And birds forget to fly, my love, And then I'll think of thee.

The red cock's wing may turn to grey, The crow's to silver white, The night itself may be for day, And sunshine wake at night: Till then--and then I'll prove more true Than Nature, life, and light.

Though you may break your fondest vow, And take your heart from me, And though my heart should break to hear What I may never see, Yet never can'st thou break the link That binds my love to thee.

So fare-thee-well, my own true love; No vow from thee I crave, But thee I never will forego, Till no spark of life I have, Nor will I ever thee forget Till we both lie in the grave.

MARY NEELE

[Notwithstanding the company in which it is found, this poem may safely be attributed to Clare.]

My love is tall and handsome; All hearts she might command; She's matchless for her beauty, The queen of all the land. She has my heart in keeping, For which there's no repeal, For the fairest of all woman kind Is my love, Mary Neele.

I felt my soul enchanted To view this turtle dove, That lately seems descended From heavenly bowers of love; And might I have the fortune My wishes could reveal, I'd turn my back on splendour And fly to Mary Neele.

She is the flower of nations, The diamond of my eye; All others are but gloworms That in her splendour die. As shining stars all vanish When suns their light reveal, So beauties shrink to shadows At the feet of Mary Neele.

I ask no better fortune Than to embrace her charms; Like Plato I would laugh at wealth While she was in my arms; And if I cannot gain her From grief there's no appeal; My joy, my pain, my life, my all Are fixed with Mary Neele.

The stone of vain philosophers, That wonder-working toy, The golden fleece of Jason, That Helen stole from Troy, The beauty and the riches That all these fames unseal, Are nothing all, and less than that, Compared to Mary Neele.

O if I cannot gain her Right wretched must I be, And caves and lonely mountains Must be the life for me, To pine in gloom and sorrow, And hide the deaths I feel, For light nor life I may not share When lost to Mary Neele.

LOVE SCORNED BY PRIDE

O far is fled the winter wind, And far is fled the frost and snow, But the cold scorn on my love's brow Hath never yet prepared to go.

More lasting than ten winters' wind, More cutting than ten weeks of frost, Is the chill frowning of thy mind, Where my poor heart was pledged and lost.

I see thee taunting down the street, And by the frowning that I see I might have known it long ere now, Thy love was never meant for me.

And had I known ere I began That love had been so hard to win, I would have filled my heart with pride, Nor left one hope to let love in.

I would have wrapped it in my breast, And pinned it with a silver pin, Safe as a bird within its nest, And 'scaped the trouble I am in.

I wish I was a happy bird, And thou a true and timid dove: O I would fly the land of grief, And rest me in the land of love.

O I would rest where I love best; Where I love best I may not be: A hawk doth on that rose-tree sit, And drives young love to fear and flee.

O would I were the goldfinch gay! My richer suit had tempted strong. O would I were the nightingale! Thou then had'st listened to my song.

Though deep my scorn I cannot hate, Thy beauty's sweet though sour thy pride; To praise thee is to love thee still, And it doth cheer my heart beside.

For I could swim the deepest lake, And I could climb the highest tree, The greatest danger face and brave, And all for one kind kiss of thee.

O love is here, and love is there: O love is like no other thing: Its frowns can make a king a slave, Its smiles can make a slave a king.

BETRAYED

Dream not of love, to think it like What waking love may prove to be, For I dreamed so and broke my heart, When my false lover slighted me.

Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green; The rose in bud aye best appears; And she that loves a handsome man Should have more wit than she has years.

I put my finger in a bush, Thinking the sweeter rose to find; I pricked my finger to the bone, And left the sweetest rose behind.

I threw a stone into the sea, And deep it sunk into the sand, And so did my poor heart in me When my false lover left the land.

I watched the sun an hour too soon Set into clouds behind the town; So my false lover left, and said "Good night" before the day was down.

I cropt a lily from the stalk, And in my hand it died away; So did my joy, so will my heart, In false love's cruel grasp decay.

THE MAIDEN'S WELCOME

Of all the swains that meet at eve Upon the green to play, The shepherd is the lad for me, And I'll ne'er say him nay. Though father glowers beneath his hat, And mother talks of bed, I'll take my cloak up, late or soon, To meet my shepherd lad.

Aunt Kitty loved a soldier lad, Who left her love for war; A sailor loved my sister Sue, Whose jacket smelt of tar; But my love's sweet as land new ploughed; He is my heart's delight, And he ne'er leaves his love so far But he can come at night.