Chapter 2
'Twas at the May Term Races That first I met her eye: Amid a thousand Graces No form with her's could vie. On Grassy's sward enamelled She reigned fair Beauty's Queen; And every heart entrammell'd With the charms of sweet eighteen.
Once more I saw that Bonnet-- 'Twas on the King's Parade-- Once more I gazed upon it, And silent homage paid. She knew not I was gazing; She passed unheeding by; While I, in trance amazing, Stood staring at the sky.
The May Term now is over: That Bonnet has 'gone down'; And I'm myself a rover, Far from my Cap and Gown. But I dread the Long Vacation, And its work by night and day, After all the dissipation Energetic of the May.
For _x_ and _y_ will vanish, When that Bonnet I recall; And a vision fair will banish, Newton, Euclid, and Snowball. And a gleam of tresses golden, And of eyes divinely blue, Will interfere with Holden, And my Verse and Prose imbue.
* * * *
These sweet girl graduate beauties, With their bonnets and their roses, Will mar ere long the duties Which Granta wise imposes. Who, when such eyes are shining, Can quell his heart's sensations; Or turn without repining To Square Root and Equations?
And when conspicuous my name By absence shall appear; When I have lost all hopes of fame, Which once I held so dear; When 'plucked' I seek a vain relief In plaintive dirge or sonnet; Thou wilt have caused that bitter grief, Thou beautiful Pink Bonnet!
(1866).
THE MAY TERM.
Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis: Scena ioci morem liberioris habet.
OV. FAST. IV. 945, 946.
I wish that the May Term were over, That its wearisome pleasures were o'er, And I were reclining in clover On the downs by a wave-beaten shore: For fathers and mothers by dozens, And sisters, a host without end, Are bringing up numberless cousins, Who have each a particular friend.
I'm not yet confirmed in misogyny-- They are all very well in their way-- But my heart is as hard as mahogany, When I think of the ladies in May. I shudder at each railway-whistle, Like a very much victimized lamb; For I know that the carriages bristle With ladies invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparation For reading I sported my door, With surprise and no small indignation, I picked up this note on the floor-- 'Dear E. we are coming to see you, 'So get us some lunch if you can; 'We shall take you to Grassy, as Jehu-- 'Your affectionate friend, Mary Ann.'
Affectionate friend! I'm disgusted With proofs of affection like these, I'm growing 'old, tawny and crusted,' Tho' my nature is easy to please. An Englishman's home is his castle, So I think that my friend Mary Ann Should respect, tho' she deem him her vassal, The rooms of a reading young man.
In the days of our fathers how pleasant The May Term up here must have been! No chignons distracting were present, And scarcely a bonnet was seen. As the boats paddled round Grassy Corner No ladies examined the crews, Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner-- 'Look, _how_ Mr. Arculus screws!!
But now there are ladies in College, There are ladies in Chapels and Halls; No doubt 'tis a pure love of knowledge That brings them within our old walls; For they talk about Goldie's 'beginning'; Know the meaning of 'finish' and 'scratch,' And will bet even gloves on our winning The Boat Race, Athletics, or Match.
There's nothing but music and dancing, Bands playing on each College green; And bright eyes are merrily glancing Where nothing but books should be seen. They tell of a grave Dean a fable, That reproving an idle young man He faltered, for on his own table He detected in horror--a fan!
Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums, These Prussian-like Amazons rush, Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums, With equal intensity gush. Then making their due 'requisition,' From 'the lions' awhile they refrain, And repose in the perfect fruition Of ices, cold fowl, and champagne.
Mr. Editor, answer my question-- When, O when, shall this tyranny cease? Shall the process of mental digestion Ne'er find from the enemy peace? Above all if my name you should guess, Sir, Keep it quite to yourself, if you can; For I dread, more than words can express, Sir, My affectionate friend Mary Ann.
(1871).
A TRAGEDY OF THE 19TH CENTURY.
"Et potis es nigrum vitio praefigere Delta."--PERSIUS.
It was a young Examiner, scarce thirty were his years, His name our University loves, honours, and reveres: He pondered o'er some papers, and a tear stood in his eye; He split his quill upon the desk, and raised a bitter cry-- 'O why has Fortune struck me down with this unearthly blow? "Why doom'd me to examine in my lov'd one's Little-go? "O Love and Duty, sisters twain, in diverse ways ye pull; "I dare not 'pass,' I scarce can 'pluck:' my cup of woe is full. "O that I ever should have lived this dismal day to see"! He knit his brow, and nerved his hand, and wrote the fatal D.
* * * * * *
It was a lovely maiden down in Hertford's lovely shire; Before her on a reading-desk, lay many a well-filled quire: The lamp of genius lit her eyes; her years were twenty-two; Her brow was high, her cheek was pale, her bearing somewhat blue: She pondered o'er a folio, and laboured to divine The mysteries of "_x_" and "_y_," and many a magic sign: Yet now and then she raised her eye, and ceased awhile to ponder, And seem'd as though inclined to allow her thoughts elsewhere to wander, A step was heard, she closed her book; her heart beat high and fast, As through the court and up the stairs a manly figure passed. One moment more, the opening door disclosed unto her view Her own beloved Examiner, her friend and lover true. "Tell me, my own Rixator, is it First or Second Class?" His firm frame shook, he scarce could speak, he only sigh'd "Alas!" She gazed upon him with an air serenely calm and proud-- "Nay, tell me all, I fear it not"--he murmured sadly "Ploughed." She clasped her hands, she closed her eyes as fell the word of doom; Full five times round in silence did she pace her little room; Then calmly sat before her books, and sigh'd "Rixator dear, "Give me the list of subjects to be studied for next year."
"My own brave Mathematica, my pupil and my pride, "My persevering Student whom I destine for my bride; "Love struggled hard with Duty, while the lover marked you B; "In the end the stern Examiner prevailed and gave you D. "Mine was the hand that dealt the blow! Alas, against my will "I plucked you in Arithmetic--and can'st thou love me still?" She gazed upon him and her eye was full of love and pride-- "Nay these are but the trials, Love, by which true love is tried.
"I never knew your value true, until you marked me D: "D stands for dear, and dear to me you evermore shall be."
* * * * * *
A year had passed, and she had passed, for morning, noon, and night, Her Euclid and her Barnard-Smith had been her sole delight. Soon "Baccalaurea Artium" was added to her name, And Hitchin's groves, and Granta's courts resounded with her fame; And when Rixator hurried down one day by the express, And asked if she would have him, I believe she answered "Yes." For now they live together, and a wiser, happier pair, More learned and more loving, can scarce be found elsewhere; And they teach their children Euclid, and their babies all can speak French and German in their cradles, and at five can write good Greek; And he is a Professor and she Professoress, And they never cease the Little-go in gratitude to bless; When love could not the Lover from the path of duty sway, And no amount of plucking could his Student fair dismay.
MORAL.
Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, if in love you would have luck, In wooing, as in warfare, trust in nothing else than pluck.
(1871).
"NUNC TE BACCHE CANAM."
'Tis done! Henceforth nor joy nor woe Can make or mar my fate; I gaze around, above, below, And all is desolate. Go, bid the shattered pine to bloom; The mourner to be merry; But bid no ray to cheer the tomb In which my hopes I bury!
I never thought the world was fair; That 'Truth must reign victorious'; I knew that Honesty was rare; Wealth only meritorious. I knew that Women _might_ deceive, And _sometimes_ cared for money; That Lovers who in Love believe Find gall as well as honey.
I knew that "wondrous Classic lore" Meant something most pedantic; That Mathematics were a bore, And Morals un-romantic. I knew my own beloved light-blue Might much improve their rowing: In fact, I knew a thing or two Decidedly worth knowing.
But thou!--Fool, fool, I thought that thou At least wert something glorious; I saw thy polished ivory brow, And could not feel censorious. I thought I saw thee smile--but that Was all imagination; Upon the garden seat I sat, And gazed in adoration.
I plucked a newly-budding rose, Our lips then met together; We spoke not--but a lover knows How lips two lives can tether. We parted! I believed thee true; I asked for no love-token; But now thy form no more I view-- My Pipe, my Pipe, thou'rt broken!
Broken!--and when the Sun's warm rays Illumine hill and heather, I think of all the pleasant days We might have had together. When Lucifer's phosphoric beam Shines e'er the Lake's dim water, O then, my Beautiful, I dream Of thee, the salt sea's daughter.
O why did Death thy beauty snatch And leave me lone and blighted, Before the Hymeneal match Our young loves had united? I knew thou wert not made of clay, I loved thee with devotion, Soft emanation of the spray! Bright, foam-born child of Ocean!
One night I saw an unknown star, Methought it gently nodded; I saw, or seemed to see, afar Thy spirit disembodied. Cleansed from the stain of smoke and oil, My tears it bade me wipe, And there, relieved from earthly toil, I saw my Meerschaum pipe.
Men offer me the noisome weed; But nought can calm my sorrow; Nor joy nor misery I heed; I care not for the morrow. Pipeless and friendless, tempest-tost I fade, I faint, I languish; He only who has loved and lost Can measure all my anguish.
A ROMANCE IN REAL (ACADEMIC) LIFE.
By the waters of Cam, as the shades were descending, A Fellow sat moaning his desolate lot; From his sad eyes were flowing salt rivulets, blending Their tide with the river which heeded them not--
"O! why did I leave,"--thus he wearily muttered-- "The silent repose, and the shade of my books, Where the voice of a woman no sound ever uttered, And I ne'er felt the magic of feminine looks?
"Then I rose when the east with Aurora was ruddy; Took a plunge in my Pliny; collated a play; No breakfast I ate, for I found in each study A collation which lasted me all through the day.
"I know not what temptress first came to my garden Of Eden, and lured me stern wisdom to leave; But I rather believe that a sweet 'Dolly Varden' Came into my rooms on a soft summer eve.
"From that hour to this, dresses silken and satin Seem to rustle around me, like wings in a dream; And eyes of bright blue, as I lecture in Latin, Fill my head with ideas quite remote from my theme.
"My life was once lonely, and almost ascetic; But now, if I venture to walk in the street, With her books in her hand, some fair Peripatetic Is sure to address me with whisperings sweet.
"O, dear DR. OXYTONE, tell me the meaning Of this terrible phrase, which I cannot make out; And what is the Latin for "reaping" and "gleaning?" Is "podagra" the Greek, or the Latin for "gout?"
"'And what do you mean by "paroemiac bases?" Did the ladies in Athens wear heels very high? _Do_ give me the rules for Greek accents, and Crasis? Did CORNELIA drive out to dine in a fly?
"'When were bonnets first worn? was the toga becoming? Were woman's rights duly respected in Rome? What tune was that horrible Emperor strumming, When all was on fire--was it _Home, Sweet Home_?"
"Such questions as these (sweetest questions!) assail me, When I walk on our Trumpington-Road-Rotten-Row; The voice of the charmer ne'er ceases to hail me (Is it _wisely_ she charmeth?) wherever I go.
"Locked up in my rooms, I sigh wearily '_ohe!_' But cards, notes, and letters pour in by each post; From PHYLLIS, EUPHROSYNE, PHIDYLE, CHLOE, AMARYLLIS and JANE, and a numberless host.
"And now, I must take either poison or blue-pill, For things cannot last very long as they are." He ceased, as the exquisite form of a pupil Dawned upon him, serene as a beautiful star.
Much of syntax and "accidence moving" our Fellow Discoursed as they sat by the murmuring stream, Till, as young _Desdemona_ was charmed by _Othello_, She listened, as one who is dreaming a dream.
* * * * * * Now he, who was once a confirmed woman-hater, Sees faces around him far dearer than books; And no longer a Coelebs, but husband and "pater," Lauds in Latin and Greek MRS. OXYTONE'S looks.
(1871)
THE SENIOR FELLOW.
When the shades of eve descending Throw o'er cloistered courts their gloom, Dimly with the twilight blending Memories long forgotten loom. From the bright fire's falling embers Faces smile that smiled of yore; Till my heart again remembers Hopes and thoughts that live no more.
Then again does manhood's vigour Nerve my arm with iron strength; As of old when trained with rigour We beat Oxford by a length. Once again the willow wielding Do I urge the flying ball; Till "lost ball" the men who're fielding Hot and weary faintly call.
Then I think of hours of study, Study silent as the tomb, Till the rays of morning ruddy Shone within my lonely room. Once again my heart is burning With ambition's restless glow; And long hidden founts of learning O'er my thirsty spirit flow.
Soon fresh scenes my fancy people, For I see a wooded hill; See above the well-known steeple; Hear below the well-known rill; Joyous sounds each gale is bringing, Wafted on its fragrant breath; Hark! I hear young voices singing, Voices silent now in death.
Brothers, sisters, loved and loving, Hold me in their fond embrace; Half forgiving, half reproving, I can see my Mother's face, Mid a night of raven tresses, Through the gloom two sad eyes shine; And my hand a soft hand presses, And a heart beats close to mine.
In mine ears a voice is ringing, Sweeter far than earthly strain, Heavenly consolation bringing From the land that knows no pain, And when slowly from me stealing Fades that vision into air, Every pulse beats with the feeling That a Spirit loved was there.
A VALENTINE.
O how shall I write a love-ditty To my Alice on Valentine's day? How win the affection or pity Of a being so lively and gay? For I'm an unpicturesque creature, Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze Without a respectable feature, With a squint and a very queer nose.
But she is a being seraphic, Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth; Who can talk in a manner most graphic Every possible language on earth. When she's roaming in regions Italic, You would think her a fair Florentine; She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic Better far than Rousseau or Racine.
She sings--sweeter far than a cymbal (A sound which I never have heard); She plays--and her fingers most nimble Make music more soft than a bird. She speaks--'tis like melody stealing O'er the Mediterranean sea; She smiles--I am instantly kneeling On each gouty and corpulent knee.
'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven (Where else it should shine I don't know), And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven Are winking at mortals below: Let them wink, if they like it, for ever, My heart they will ne'er lead astray; Nor the soft silken memories sever, Which bind me to Alice De Grey.
If I roam thro' the dim Coliseum, Her fairy form follows me there; If I list to the solemn "Te Deum," Her voice seems to join in the prayer. "Sweet spirit" I seem to remember, O would she were near me to hum it; As I heard her in sunny September, On the Rigi's aërial summit!
O Alice where art thou? No answer Comes to cheer my disconsolate heart; Perhaps she has married a lancer, Or a bishop, or baronet smart; Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room, She is dancing, nor thinking of me; Or riding in front of a small groom; Or tossed in a tempest at sea;
Or listening to sweet Donizetti, In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala; Or walking alone on a jetty; Or buttering bread in a parlour; Perhaps, at our next merry meeting, She will find me dull, married, and gray; So I'll send her this juvenile greeting On the Eve of St. Valentine's day.
A CURATE'S COMPLAINT.
Where are they all departed, The loved ones of my youth, Those emblems white of purity, Sweet innocence and truth? When day-light drives the darkness, When evening melts to night, When noon-day suns burn brightest, They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces Around my neck and throat, The thousand winning graces Whereon I used to dote. I know I may find markets Where love is bought and sold, But no such love can equal The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman, I know that you are true; The least shade of suspicion Can never fall on you. Then fear me not, as fiercely I fix on thee stern eyes, And ask in terms emphatic, "Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen, Yet scarce a year is gone, Ere, looking in my ward-robe, I find that I have none. I don't believe in magic, I know that you are true, Yet say, my washer-woman, What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar To regions far elope, Regions by starch untainted, And innocent of soap? I know not; but in future I'll buy no more white ties, But wear the stiff 'all-rounder' Of Ritualistic guise.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There once was a time when I revelled in rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old hoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, duns me for this or that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse and of prose I am stripped to the very last particle.
What shall I write of? What subject indite of? All my _vis viva_ is failing;
_Emeritus sum_; Mons Parnassus is dumb, and my prayers to the Nine unavailing.--
Thus in vain have I often attempted to soften the hard heart of Mr. Arenae;
Like a sop, I must throw him some sort of a poem, in spite of unwilling Camenae.
* * * * * *
No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no more in the "wilderness" wander;
And absence we know, for the Poet says so, makes the heart of the lover grow fonder.
I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb that misses his woolly-backed mother;
I can find no relief for my passionate grief, nor my groanings disconsolate smother.
Say, how are you all in our old College Hall? Are the dinners more costly, or plainer?
How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and Pewters, and how is my friend, the Complainer?
Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton, increasing in numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded or vain? Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How's the party of stormers, our so-called Reformers? Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men's Minds? Who the money now finds, for Museums, and all their appliances?
Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense reviving? Is high-table talk metaphysic?
Will dark blue or light have the best of the fight, at Putney and Mortlake and Chiswick?
I often importune the favour of Fortune, that no misadventure may cross us,
And Rhodes once again on the watery plain, may prove an aquatic Colossus.
[N.B. since I wrote I must add a short note, by means of new fangled devices,
Our "Three" was unseated, and we were defeated, and robbed of our laurels by Isis.]--
O oft do I dream of the muddy old stream, the Father of wisdom and knowledge,
Where ages ago I delighted to row for the honour and praise of my College.
I feel every muscle engaged in the tussle, I hear the wild shouting and screaming;
And as we return I can see from the stern Lady Margaret's red banner streaming;
Till I wake with a start, such as nightmares impart, and find myself rapidly gliding,
And striving in vain at my ease to remain on a seat that is constantly sliding.
Institutions are changed, men and manners deranged, new systems of rowing and reading,
And writing and thinking, and eating and drinking, each other are quickly succeeding.
Who knows to what end these new notions will tend? No doubt all the world is progressing,
For Kenealy and Odgers, those wide-awake dodgers, the wrongs of mankind are redressing.
No doubt we shall soon take a trip to the moon, if we need recreation or frolic;
Or fly to the stars in the New Pullman Cars, when we find the dull earth melancholic.
We shall know the delights of enjoying our _rights_ without any _duties_ to vex us;
We shall know the unknown; the Philosopher's stone shall be ours, and no problems perplex us;
For all shall be patent, no mysteries latent; man's mind by intuitive notion,
The circle shall square, _x_ and _y_ shall declare, and discover perpetual motion.
Meanwhile till the Earth has accomplished its birth, mid visions of imminent glory,
I prefer to remain, as aforetime, a plain and bloated and bigoted Tory.
* * * * * * Dear Mr. Editor, lately my creditor, now fully paid and my debtor,
I wonder what you will be minded to do, when you get this rhapsodical letter.
If you listen to me (I shall charge you no fee for advice) do not keep or return it;
To its merits be kind, to its faults rather blind; in a word, Mr. Editor, burn it!
(1875).
[1] '_iam fervenimus usque ad umbilicos_.' Martial iv. 91.
SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS
(OR, WHAT SHOULD A MAIDEN BE?)
[NOTE.--The following lines were written by request, to be read at a Meeting of the "Girls' Friendly Society."]
What should a maiden be? Pure as the rill, Ere it has left its first home in the hill; Thinking no evil, suspecting no guile, Cherishing nought that can harm or defile.
What should a maiden be? Honest and true, Giving to God and to neighbour their due; Modest and merciful, simple and neat, Clad in the white robe of innocence sweet.
What should a maiden be? She should be loath Lightly to give or receive loving troth; But when her faith is once plighted, till breath Leave her, her love should be stronger than death.