bringing my dreams to earth. My collection of little wooden egg-cups
and tables grew apace; often I nearly made myself sick by trying to find
some consolation in the abominable pink sweets. My elders laughed at me,
and I was the scorn of my youthful playmates. Yet I think those pennies
were well expended, for I moved, unknowingly, in great company--among
the happy simpletons on the one hand and the fantastic dreamers on the
other. Don Quixote, Parson Adams, Pickwick, and the rest at one elbow;
Lully, Paracelsus, and all the other seekers of Philosophers’ Stones,
Elixirs of Life, and Lands of Gold jostling me on the other side.
So I was in my innocence, and even now when I am ‘if a man speak truly,
little better than one of the wicked,’ I have not changed so much.
Though the pennies do not come so easily as of old, the dreams have not
yet faded, the magical lights have not yet been quite extinguished; the
solid pennyworths still fail to satisfy me, who have been on the very
frontiers of El Dorado. So, though the disappointments still come thick
and fast, I have my moments, perhaps you, too----?
But I fear my name will never head a subscription list or cause a
commotion in Lombard Street. I sometimes think I shall never even be
asked to open a bazaar.
GRIGSBY--A RECORD AND AN APPRECIATION
(_Being an attempt to capture an admired manner._)
It was, I think, Mr. S. P. B. Mais who told us that we live ‘in an age
of amazing geniuses.’ The observation is so profoundly true, and one
owes so much to this critic’s sane and luminous appreciations of
contemporary writers, that one cannot help feeling surprised that he
nowhere makes any mention of Grigsby. Certainly, in these fruitful
times, a man cannot criticise all his fellow-authors; there are other
omissions, notably D. S. Ballowby, Geoffrey Domsteen, Hilda Perkstone
(who wrote _Wherefore?_), and Anna Lummit; nevertheless, a lover of
contemporary letters can hardly forgive the critic’s strange neglect of
Grigsby. Therefore, although making no pretence of being specially
fitted for the task, I feel that my long admiration for the poet and my
several years’ acquaintance with the man himself, render it a duty on
my part to try and give a sketch, however slight, of his career,
personality, aims and achievements.
Harold Hopkins Grigsby, poet and littérateur, was born sometime in the
late seventies of the last century in the pleasant old town of
Channingford. Like many other famous men of letters, he came from a
family that showed no particular devotion to literature or the other
arts; his father, a not very prosperous corn-merchant, spent his leisure
hours breeding fox-terriers, while his mother was chiefly occupied with
domestic duties. Grigsby himself, troubled maybe by painful memories,
has said little of these early days, so little that I am unable to state
where it was he received his education, but tuition of some sort he
undoubtedly had. When we next see him, he is nearing the threshold of
manhood, and is far removed from Channingford, being at Wolverhampton,
apprenticed to an oil and colour merchant. There, in the oil and colour
shop, he was indeed a caged soul; even yet he cannot speak of those
Wolverhampton days without a trace of bitterness: ‘The oil did not make
my path more smooth; the colour did not make my world less drab,’ he has
said to me more than once. Then it was that his fancy began to take
wing; he turned to literature. Friendless, away from home, misunderstood
by those about him, he turned to the poets for consolation. ‘I owe more
than man can repay,’ he has frankly confessed to me, ‘to Snipper’s
fourpenny “Flowers of Poesie” series!’ He became an ardent student of
the poet’s craft, and it was not long before he himself began to write.
Several little things of his found their way into the Poets’ Corner of
the local journal, and shortly after his twenty-second birthday, there
appeared the first volume from his pen, _Blossoms of Sorrow_ (West
Midland Almanac and Railway Guide Publishing Co.). It was not a success,
being rather an immature production and quite unlike the poet’s later
work; indeed, for years, he was ashamed of the volume, and refused to
speak of it even to his intimate friends. Yet those of us who are
fortunate enough to possess a copy (it is very scarce now, and must
fetch a good price), can turn to _Blossoms of Sorrow_ and find, here and
there, the definite promise of what has since been so magnificently
achieved, can discover among so much immature writing more than a few
hints of what was to come, the occasional note of the real Grigsby.
Lines like these:
‘The withered flowers of an outworn passion
Trodden under the feet of the dawn....’
Or
‘...You and I
Are weary of life and enamoured of death,
The end of the travail of blood, the labour of breath,’
are not without their significance now, when we know to what fulness of
meaning and felicity of phrase such things are leading us.
About this time came the darkest hour of Grigsby’s early struggles. The
volume, as I have said, was a failure; meanwhile, the poet’s father had
died, owing money; and there had been a quarrel with the oil and colour
merchant. Grigsby had now neither employment nor friends to whom he
could turn. But the good fortune that has attended some few of our poets
(notably Wordsworth) waited upon Grigsby when he had almost given up
hope. He learned to his surprise that an aunt, whom he had not seen for
years, had died leaving him a considerable sum of money, for the most
part safely invested in Imperial Mineral Waters Pref. He was now free to
devote all his time to the pursuit of letters, and it was not long
before he did what most young geniuses do sooner or later, he went up to
London. I have not space to chronicle his early years there, though a
full record would make a very fascinating chapter in the literary life
of the time; let it suffice to say that he moved as far as was possible
in the literary and artistic world, formed many valuable friendships,
yet never let a day pass without taking up his pen. Like many other
brilliant young literary men, he soon came under the influence of R. U.
Bortwith, the editor of the _Pale Review_ and the literary oracle of his
day. It was in the _Pale Review_ that Grigsby’s first narrative poem,
‘Palomides,’ appeared, along with occasional lyrics. He also edited _The
Apothecary in English Literature_ in the well-known series published by
Messrs. Downe & Cashe, wrote a monograph on Henry Kirke White, and
contributed some excellent criticisms and reviews to various
periodicals. All this time, though he was becoming known to a small but
influential group of critics and editors, no second volume of verse had
come from his pen.
His friendship with Bortwith, however, soon brought him into touch with
several other young poets, Robert Blorridge, Geoffrey Domsteen, Anna
Lummit, and others, and it was not long before the famous ‘No Verb’
group was formed, a group of which, I have reason to know, he was the
leading member. Whatever may be said to the contrary, there is no doubt
that it was Grigsby, and Grigsby alone, who kept the ‘No Verbs’
together. By this time, everyone knows the aims and achievements of this
enthusiastic little band of writers; how they triumphed in spite of a
storm of hostile criticism is now ancient history; and we are only
concerned with the movement so far as it affected Grigsby. To him most
of the credit is due, for the original idea was his: I have had the
story from his own lips. They were talking late one night at Domsteen’s,
some four or five young poets, and the subject was, as usual, their art.
It was agreed upon by all present that the old forms of verse were
outworn, and that if the fresh beauty of English poetry was to be
restored, there would have to be a change of form. It was then that
Grigsby, in a flash, saw a solution to the problem--the Verb!--English
verse must be shorn of its verbs to recover its beauty and arise
rejuvenated. The idea was quickly outlined, and all his hearers took it
up with enthusiasm. There and then, it was decided to eliminate the
verb, and the group dispersed to begin experiments with the new form.
Who can forget the battle that followed--the indignant letters, the
replies, the hisses of derision and disapproval from pedantic critics,
the answering battle-cry of ‘Down with the Verb!’? But we are not
concerned now with the movement itself, but with what was its finest
fruit--Grigsby’s second volume, _Nullity_, the book that made his
reputation. It was only to be expected that a volume by a writer so
original, and, moreover, written in the ‘No Verb’ manner, would be
ignored or derided by conservative critics; nevertheless, it met with a
warm welcome in some influential quarters. A review that appeared in THE
BELLMAN’S JOURNAL was particularly enthusiastic, and did credit to its
author, who, by a singular coincidence, chanced to be no less than
Grigsby’s cousin. All good judges would not hesitate now to agree with
the concluding remarks of the review: ‘By his sincerity, courage,
extraordinary wealth of imagery and happiness of phrase, force of
passion and depth of thought, Mr. Grigsby in _Nullity_ has shown himself
not only a writer to be reckoned with, but one who has gained for
himself, in one bound, a foremost place among contemporary poets.’ No
sooner does one recall the volume than countless wonderful lines leap
to the memory, passages of such sombre beauty as:
‘Faint press of worn etiolated feet
Upon the dun mephitic street,
Under a bulging reasty sky....’
or such well-remembered things as:
‘Spring!--the breezy spinster, sour-apple green,
Acidulous virgin, lengthy and lean,
And all our red-flannelled days at an end....’
or the familiar lines from ‘Decayed Trades,’ with all its quaint
symbolism:
‘Weary of butchers with hands as heavy as lead,
And fruiterers, fulsome as their old wares;
Weary of bakers, sweaty with paste, and seemingly dead
To all higher things, to all nobler cares.’
Though opinions may differ as to the value of the ‘No Verb’ manner, none
can deny the beauty of the verse in _Nullity_. Indeed, the only just
complaint that can be urged against Grigsby in this volume concerns
itself with the note of pessimism that undoubtedly finds its way into
the majority of the poems. But this, I have reason to know, was not the
result of a foolish pose; Grigsby has always been too sincere an artist
for that; but he himself was journeying through the ‘valley of the
shadow’ at the time when the book was written, and the verses are the
genuine expression of his moods and thoughts. There is no trace of
pessimism or bitterness in his later work.
It was shortly after the appearance of _Nullity_, if my memory serves
me, that I met the poet for the first time. I had dropped into the habit
of looking in at Ivorstein’s studio, and it was on one of my visits
there that I found a group of artists and men of letters listening
intently to a tall, slim young man in their midst. He was declaiming, if
I remember rightly, against Miss Sylvia Sylcox, the popular poetess,
whose _Noughts and Kisses_ was then going through edition after edition.
The speaker was no other than Grigsby; and when afterwards I had the
fortune to make my way homewards in his company, I counted myself a
lucky man. Nor was I wrong, for after years of--what he has been good
enough to call--friendship, my admiration for the artist is only
equalled by my respect for the man. A brilliant conversationalist, witty
yet always kindly, with a fund of just comment upon authors living and
dead always to hand, I know no man of letters who makes such a genial,
wise companion. But this is by the way. A little later, the great
happiness of his life came to him, his marriage, which in itself did
not a little to widen his outlook and touch his work to even finer
issues. The lady of his choice, who has proved herself an invaluable
helpmate and a very charming hostess, was Miss Cecilia Snorks, daughter
of the late Canon Snorks, and herself the writer of two well-known
books, _Humble Hearts in Many Mansions_ and _The Heptameron Retold for
Children_. But we must pass lightly over the next few years, during
which time, however, Grigsby’s pen was not idle. He published two slim
volumes, _Palomides and Other Poems_ and _Buckingham: A Tragedy_, which
did not attract so much attention as _Nullity_, but yet commanded
respect and doubtless added to their author’s reputation. Also, as
before, he was engaged in periodical work, for the most part critical
essays and reviews, many of which he afterwards collected and published
in _A Poet--And Some Others_ (Downe and Cashe). Then, after a prolonged
retreat in South Lancashire, he produced the work his friends had long
been expecting, the work that many of us believe has given him--or will
give him--a high place in English literature. I refer, of course, to
_The Golden Garnering_, a volume of lyrics of no great size, but yet
packed with poetry of the highest order. Here, at last, we have the
true Grigsby, self-confident, matured, in full command of his powers.
All that had gone before, his childhood at Channingford, the early
struggles at Wolverhampton, the days and nights with his brilliant set
in London, the ripeness of later, quieter years, all lead to _The Golden
Garnering_; and not in vain, for it is one of the few enduring
contributions of this age to letters. In these lyrics of Grigsby’s, one
discovers all the best qualities of our older English verse, along with
a great deal that is new, being native to the poet. Over and above the
beautiful lyrical flow, the sharply etched phrase, the abundant fine
imagery, familiar to all lovers of our verse, there is a touch of
restless modernity, an increasing burden of thought, that mark the true
poet of our own time. Dropping the ‘No Verb’ manner and returning with
increased power to the older forms, Grigsby, in this volume, presents us
with an extraordinary variety of measures, alike only in their
marvellous fitness for each subject and mood. At times, he will move us
with exquisite cadences, perfectly wedded to the matter, as in--
‘Sleep, gentle sleep, I know not whence it comes,
Sleep from the dusk of some immortal dream,
Clouds to the eyes and hazes o’er the mind....’
At other times, we are roused and delighted by one startling yet just
image, as in--
‘Day, a white pack, chases the black fox, Night,
And faster than horse and hound, the fled-away shades....’
Again, the poet will express himself with force and passion, yet seem to
be singing a carelessly beautiful song, as, for example, in the
oft-quoted ‘Hymn to the Clubmen’--
‘Men of wrath, your tongues are burning
With the angry words unspoken;
And all love and beauty spurning,
Nature has for you no token....’
Or in the less lyrical but still more forceful and characteristic lines
beginning:
‘The dust of noonday shall be cursed
To him: and he shall slake his thirst
In many a public place....’
And, here and there, we see the poet using the full compass of his
instrument, as in the now famous ‘To the Ox,’ and particularly the
familiar fourth stanza, beginning:
‘Thou know’st naught of our bitterness, grave beast;
No angry Pharisees can frown thee down;
For thee, the hills have spread their dewy feast
Of agelong green, outlasting road and town....’
But one could go on quoting until the volume was exhausted. There is,
however, something still to be said before leaving _The Golden
Garnering_. There is no doubt that Grigsby shows himself in this book as
one in the true tradition of our great English poets; he takes his place
in that magnificent procession which includes Shakespeare, Milton,
Wordsworth, Shelley and all the other masters of the craft; and his
verse has so clearly the same qualities as that of his great
predecessors that perhaps it is not surprising that some critics, of
more ill-will than knowledge or judgment, have gone so far as to accuse
Grigsby of plagiarism. The accusation is, of course, so unjust, nay, so
utterly absurd, that it merely recoils on the heads of those who have
been foolish enough to make it. But as some of the passages quoted above
have been actually cited as instances of the so-called plagiarism,
readers who have not already dismissed these charges have here an
opportunity of discovering what importance need be attached to them.
Those of us who know the poet have no fear of the result. And here, this
slight sketch of Grigsby’s life and work must end. He has much yet to
offer a public that is looking to him more and more for vision and hope;
there is, to my knowledge, at least one volume still in manuscript that
will surprise even the most ardent lovers of _The Golden Garnering_. We
may be sure that what follows from his pen will not fall below the very
high standard he has set himself. And pondering over the poet’s career,
still happily unfinished, though none of us can hope to claim such
genius, we may at least try to emulate the other virtues that, in this
rare instance among men of letters, go along with it, the patience and
perseverance, the unselfish, even temper, and, not least, that devotion
to a high ideal which is not so uncommon among men of our race as our
enemies would have us believe.
A PARAGON OF HOSTS
Mr. Max Beerbohm, in his delightful essay on _Hosts and Guests_,
declared that ‘In life or literature there has been no better host than
Old Wardle.’ It is an affirmation that does him credit, and I, for one,
would not readily tilt against this or any other judgment of his.
Nevertheless, I have just discovered a man who, considered simply as a
host, seems to me greater than even Old Wardle himself. Life has a knack
of over-reaching letters, and so it chances that my candidate is no mere
character of fiction, dispensing the vast but insubstantial hospitality
born of a novelist’s flow of fancy and ink, but one who was a real--a
very real--person in his day. And I account him the greatest of hosts
because he dedicated his life to the business, or rather to the noble
service, of hospitality: he seems to have had no other passion in life,
no other motive for living, apart from this desire to entertain his
friends as friends should be entertained; he aimed at perfection and
achieved it, and so remains the host unblemished, immaculate, a luminous
ideal. Once out of the brutish state, man is a hospitable creature; his
records are crowded with instances of unsparing bounty, of prodigal
feasts and fortunes squandered upon entertainment: the table groans
through the ages. But neither legend nor history shows us the fellow of
him whom I praise. Even in the most magnificent figures of hospitality
there is some flaw; emperor or oligarch, merchant-prince or baron, not
one but shows some motive outside pure benevolence, some speck of pride,
some touch of self-seeking. He alone is unspotted, hospitality
incarnate, the perfect host, whose story I have lately read in an old
volume that is a gallery of strange forgotten figures. There, it is
true, he appears only as a man of whims, an eccentric, an oddity in a
collection of oddities; but it takes time for a man to come into his
own. But though nearly two hundred years have gone over his grave, Mr.
Mathew of Thomastown, for such was his designation, shall take his true
place yet as the pattern of hosts and the idol of all who go out as
guests.
Mathew, whose Christian name has not come down to us, was an Irish
gentleman who inherited a large estate at Thomastown, in the county of
Tipperary, a patrimony that was worth some eight thousand a year. This
was a good income even in England at the beginning of the eighteenth
century. In Ireland, where things were cheaper, it was almost princely.
No sooner had Mathew taken over his estate than he determined to build a
large mansion, after a design of his own, for the special purpose of
entertaining, and to surround it with grounds, laid out in the newly
adopted mode of English gardening and comprising some 1500 acres of his
best land. This meant an enormous outlay, and so, in order to avoid
incurring any debt on the estate, he did what few other Irish gentlemen
of his or any other day have done--he deliberately cut down his own
expenditure. For seven years (how these significant numbers crop up!) he
retired to the Continent and lived on six hundred a year, while the
remainder of his income was used to carry out his great scheme, or, if
you like, to nurture his most glorious hobby-horse. Already, you see, he
plainly shows himself no ordinary man. His great plan, his long view,
his voluntary exile--these things mark him off from the common run of
men. He was a man with a purpose, with a vision that kept his feet
travelling along one straight road. Most men of this type, men with a
purpose, have looked to vastly different ends; their purpose has been to
gain as much power, to obtain as much of other people’s money, as
possible; on the other hand, the end that he proposed was the spending
of money on other people. Irish gentlemen of his day were, of course,
hospitable and generous to the point of eccentricity, but then they
differed from him in having no vision to which they shaped their
destiny. They were capable of spending all, and more than all, their
incomes on entertaining, but they were certainly not capable of doing
what Mathew did, of living for seven years on less than a twelfth part
of their incomes for the sake of future hospitality. It is clear that
Mathew had qualities that are rarely combined in one person; he could
not only dream, plan, and try to shape his destiny, he could also afford
to wait; and people who have ideas and can afford to wait are very
seldom found either in his day or since, particularly in the county of
Tipperary. He was a great man, and we cannot know too much about him.