"On her face, then and for ever, was the seriousness within.
Her sweetest smiles (and sweeter did a lover never win)
_Ere half-done grew so absent, that they made her fair cheek thin._
"On her face, then and for ever, thoughts unworded used to live;
So that when she whisper'd to me, 'Better joy earth cannot give'--
Her lips, though shut, continued, 'But earth's joy is fugitive.'
"For there a _nameless something_, though suppress'd, still spread
around;
The same was on her eyelids, if she look'd towards the ground;
When she spoke, you _knew directly_ that the same was in the sound;"
By and by, a young gentleman, of the name of Winton, comes to visit
Lilian and her father:--
"A formerly-loved companion--he was fresh from sprightly France,
And with many volumes laden, essay, poem, and romance."
He, and his pursuits after leaving school, are thus elegantly
described:--
"When free, all healthy study was put by, that he might rush
To his favourite books, French chiefly, that his blood might boil
and gush
Over scenes which set his visage glowing crimson--_not a blush_."
This gentleman and Lilian's lover strike up a strong friendship for one
another, and the latter makes Winton his confidant. As yet no suspicions
arise to break the blind sleep of the infatuated dreamer.
"Delights were still remaining--hate--shame--rage--_I can't tell what_,
Comes to me at their memory; none that, _more or less_, was not
The soul's _unconscious incest_, on creations self-begot."
He still continues to doat on Lilian.
"Oh friend, if you had seen her! heard her speaking, felt her grace,
When serious looks seem'd filling with the smiles which, in a space,
Broke, sweet as Sabbath sunshine, and lit up her _shady_ face.
"Try to conceive her image--does it make your brain reel round?
But all of this is over. Well, friend--various signs (I found
Too late on rumination) then and thenceforth did abound,
"Wherefrom--but that all lovers look too closely to see clear--
I might have gather'd matter fit for just and jealous fear.
From her face, _the nameless something_ now began to disappear.
"What I felt for her I often told her boldly to her face;
_Blushes used to blush at blushes flushing on in glowing chace!_
But latterly she listen'd, bending full of bashful grace.
"It was to hide those blushes, I thought then, _but I suspect
It was to hide their absence_."
How great this writer is on the subject of blushing we shall have
another opportunity of showing.--(See Lady Mabel's shoulders, in the
poem of Sir Hubert.) Meanwhile, the fair deceiver is now undergoing a
course of French novels, under the tuition of young Winton. The
consequence was,
"_Her voice grew louder_"--no great harm in that--
"Her voice grew louder--losing the much meaning it once bore,
_The passion in her carriage_, though it every day grew more,
Was now the same to all men--and that was not so before."
We suppose that there was now "heavy passion in her walk," whoever the
man might be that approached her.
"And grosser signs, _far grosser_ I remember now; but these
I miss'd of course, and counted _with those light anomalies,
Too frequent to disturb us into searching for their keys_."
These misgivings, which might have ripened into suspicions, are suddenly
swept away by a stroke of duplicity on the part of his mistress,
inconceivable in any woman except one inclined naturally, and without
any prompting, to practise the profoundest artifices of vice.
"Even the dreadful glimpses now began to fade away,
And disappear'd completely, when my Lilian asked one day,
If I knew what reason Winton had to make so long a stay
"In England--'For,' said Lilian, with untroubled countenance,
'Winton of course has told you of the love he left in France.'
I seized her hand, and kiss'd it--joy had left no utterance."
Winton, according to the account of the false Lilian, having _a love_ in
France, could not, of course be supposed to be paying court to her. Thus
the lover is thrown off the scent, and his doubts are entirely laid
asleep. He is again in the seventh heavens of assured love, and
continues thus:--
"Another calm so perfect I should think is only shed
On good men dying gently, who recall a life well led,
Till they cannot tell, _for sweetness_, if they be alive or dead.
"_I'll stop here._ You already have, I think, divined the rest.
There's a prophetic moisture in your eyes:--yet, tears being blest
And delicate nutrition, apt to cease, too much suppress'd,
"_I'll go on_; but less for your sake than my own:--my skin is hot,
And there's an arid pricking in my veins; their currents clot:
Tears sometimes soothe such fever, where the letting of blood will
not."
At length his eyes are opened, and the whole truth flashes upon him, on
overhearing an acquaintance ask Winton whether his suit with Lilian has
been successful. Upon this he writes out his opinion of the lady's
behaviour, presents it to her, and watches her while she peruses it,
occupying himself at intervals as follows:--
"I turn'd a volume, waiting her full leisure to reply,
The book was one which Winton had ask'd me to read, and I
Had stopp'd halfway for horror, _lest my soul should putrify_."
When Lilian has finished the perusal of the document, she endeavours at
first to stand on the defensive,--
"She stood at bay, _depending on that crutch made like a stilt_,
The impudent vulgarity wherewith women outstare guilt."
But she finally succumbs under the influence of the following refined
vituperation:--
"Don't speak! You would not have me unacquainted with what led
To this result? No! listen, and let _me_ relate what bred
Thy tears and cheapen'd chasteness--(_we may talk now as if wed._)
"This book here, that lay open when I came in unaware,
Is not the first--I thought so!--but the last of many a stair
Of easy fall. Such only could have led you to _his lair_.
"These drugs, at first, had scarcely strength to move your virgin
blood;
They slowly rose in action, till they wrought it to a flood,
Fit for their giver's purpose, who--_who turn'd it into mud!_"
The lover then leaves Lilian to her own meditations, and commences to
rant and rave against her seducer in good set terms, of which the
following is a specimen:--
"Pardon, Heaven! that I doubted whether there was any hell.
Oh! but now I do believe it! Firmly, firmly! I foretell
Of one that shall rank high there: he's a scoffer, and must dwell
"Where worms are--ever gnawing scoffers' hearts into belief;
Where weepings, gnashings, wailings, thirstings, groanings, ghastly
grief,
For ever and for ever pay the price of pleasures brief;
"Where Gallios, who while living knew but cared for none of these,
Now amazed with shame, would gladly, might it God (_Fate there_)
appease,
Watch and pray a million cycles for a single moment's ease."
After having thus breathed his passion, in a diatribe which beats in
abomination any slang that was ever ranted out of a tub by a mountebank
saint, he harps back upon the prodigious attractiveness of his mistress,
in the following pathetic, though not very consistent terms--
"Ah but had you known my Lilian! (a sweet name?) Indeed, indeed,
I doted on my Lilian. None can praise her half her meed.
Perfect in soul; too gentle--others' need she made her need;
"_Quite passionless_, but ever bounteous-minded even to waste;
Much tenderness in talking; very urgent, yet no haste;
_And chastity--to laud it would have seem'd almost unchaste._
"Graced highly, too, with knowledge; versed in tongues; a queen of
dance;
An artist at her playing; a most touching utterance
In song; her lips' mild music could make sweet the _clack_ of France."
Amid such outpourings of feculent folly, it is scarcely worth our while
to take notice of the minor offences against good taste that abound in
these poems; yet we may remark, that the writer who here condescends to
use such a word as _clack_, and who, on other occasions, does not
scruple to talk of _a repeat_ and _a repay_, instead of "a repetition,"
and "a repayment," does not consider the word _watch-dog_ sufficiently
elevated for his compositions. Whenever he alludes to this animal, he
calls him a _guard-hound_--a word which we do not remember ever to have
encountered either in conversation or in books, but which, for ought we
know, may be drawn from those "pure wells of English undefiled," which
irrigate with their fair waters the provincial districts of the modern
Babylon.
The author of "Lillian" evidently piques himself on the fidelity with
which he has adhered to nature in his treatment of that story. But there
are two ways in which nature may be adhered to in verse; and it is only
one of these ways which can be considered poetical. The writer may
adhere to the truth of _human_ nature, while he elevates the emotions of
the heart in strains which find a cordial echo in the sentiments of all
mankind. Or, if his whole being is sicklied over with silliness and
affectation, he may adhere to the truth of _his own_ nature, and while
writing perfectly naturally _for him_, he may unfold his delineations of
character in such a manner as shall strip every passion of its dignity,
and every emotion of its grace. Now, it is only by reason of their
adherence to the latter species of nature, that "Lillian" and the other
compositions of Mr Patmore can be considered natural, and, viewed under
this aspect, they certainly are natural exceedingly.
The story of "Sir Hubert" finishes the volume. This tale is versified
from Boccacio's story of the Falcon, with which many of our readers may
be acquainted; if not, they will find it in the fifth day, novel ninth,
of the _Decameron_. We can only afford space for a short outline of its
incidents, and shall substitute Mr Patmore's names for those of the
personages who figure in Boccacio's story. This will save both ourselves
and readers the trouble of threading the _minutiae_ of Mr Patmore's
senseless and long-winded version of the tale. A few specimens will
suffice to exhibit the manner in which he deals with it. Sir Hubert is a
rich gentleman, who squanders almost all his substance in giving grand
entertainments to the Lady Mabel, whom he makes love to without meeting
with any return. Finding his suit unsuccessful, and his money being all
spent, he retires to a small and distant farm, having nothing left but
one poor hawk, upon which he depends for his means of subsistence.
Meanwhile, the Lady Mabel marries, and has a son. After a time, (her
husband being dead,) she comes to reside in a castle in the
neighbourhood of Sir Hubert's cottage, where her son, who has often
remarked the prowess and beauty of the above-mentioned hawk, falls sick,
assuring his mother that nothing can save his life except the possession
of the bird. The lady very reluctantly pays a visit to Sir Hubert, and
tells him that she has a request to proffer, which she will make known
to him after dinner. Though Sir Hubert is delighted to see her, the
mention of dinner throws him into a state of great perplexity, as he has
nothing in the house which they can make a meal of. Going out of doors,
"he espies his hawk upon the perch, which he seizes, and finding it very
fat, judges it might make a dish not unworthy of such a lady. Without
further thought, then, he pulls his head off, and gives it to a girl to
dress and roast carefully."
This being done, the lady and her admirer sit down to dinner, and make
an excellent repast. When their meal is over, then comes the
_eclaircissement_. The lady proffers her petition for the hawk; and
discovers from Sir Hubert's answer, and to her own consternation, that
she has eaten the very article she came in quest of, and which she had
expected to carry home alive; as the only means of saving the life of
her son. The young gentleman dies on finding that he cannot obtain what
he wants; and Mabel marries Sir Hubert, and settles upon him all her
possessions, as a reward for his magnanimity in sacrificing that which
(next to herself) he held dearest in the whole world, rather than that
she should go without a dinner.
Such is a short sketch of Boccacio's tale of the Falcon--a good enough
story in its way; and more creditable than many that were circulated
among the loose fish, male and female, that play their parts in the
_Decameron_. This novel has been versified by Mr Patmore, and versified
(as our specimens shall show) as he alone could have versified it. The
following is his description of the much-longed-for, but
sorely-ill-treated, hawk of Sir Hubert.
"It served him, too, of evenings:
On a sudden he would rise,
From book or simple music,
And awake his hawk's large eyes,
(_Almost as large as Mabel's_)
Teasing out its dumb replies,
"In sulky sidelong glances,
And reluctantly flapp'd wings,
Or looks of slow communion,
To the lightsome questionings
That broke the drowsy sameness,
And the sense, like fear, which springs
"At night, when we are conscious
Of our distance from the strife
Of cities; and the memory
Of the spirit of all things rife,
_Endues the chairs and tables
With a disagreeable life_."
A Scotch lyrist, who, we are told, sings his own songs to perfection,
has also recorded the very singular fact of various articles of
household furniture (not exactly tables) being occasionally endued "with
a disagreeable life." One of his best ballads, in which he describes the
bickerings which, even in the best-regulated families, will at times
take place between man and wife, and in which various domestic missiles
come into play, contains the following very excellent line--
"_The stools pass the best o' their time i' the air_"--
than which no sort of life appertaining to a stool can be more
disagreeable, we should imagine--to the head which it is about to come
in contact with. We doubt whether Mr Patmore's, or rather Sir Hubert's,
chairs and tables ever acquired such a vigorous and unpleasant vitality
as that. What may have happened to the "stools" after Mabel was married
to Sir Hubert, we cannot take it upon us to say. At any rate, we prefer
the Scotch poet's description, as somewhat the more pithy, and graphic,
and intelligible of the two. The coincidence, however, is remarkable.
After Sir Hubert has retired to his farm, the state of his feelings is
described in the following stanzas. We suspect that the metaphysical
acumen of Boccacio himself would have been a good deal puzzled to
unravel the meaning of some of them.
"He gather'd consolation,
As before, where best he might:
But though there was the difference
That he now could claim a right
To grieve as much as pleased him,
It was six years, since his sight
"Had fed on Mabel's features;
So that Hubert scarcely knew
What traits to give the vision
Which should fill his eyes with dew:--
For she must needs, by that time,
Have become another, who,
"In girlhood's triple glory,
(For a higher third outflows
Whenever Promise marries
With Completion,) troubled those
That saw, with trouble sweeter
Than the sweetest of repose.
"It, therefore, was the business
Of his thoughts to try to trace
The probable fulfilment
Of her former soul and face,--
From buds deducing blossoms.
For, although an easy space
"Led from the farm of Hubert
To where Mabel's castle stood,
Closed in, a league on all sides.
With wall'd parks and wealthy wood,
No chance glimpse could be look'd for,
So recluse her widowhood.
"Hence seasons past, and Hubert
Earn'd his bread, but leisure spent
In loved dissatisfaction,
Which he made his element
Of choice, as much as, till then,
He had sought it in content."
If the verses above would have baffled the sagacity of the father of
Italian literature, what would he have thought of the following, in
which the interview between Sir Hubert and Mabel is described, when the
lady comes to negotiate with him about the hawk? She accosts him, "Sir
Hubert!" and then there is presented to our imaginations such a picture
of female loveliness, as (thank Heaven!) can only be done justice to in
the language which is employed for the occasion.
"'Sir Hubert!'--and, that instant,
_Mabel saw the fresh light flush
Out of her rosy shoulders_,
And perceived her sweet blood _hush
About her_, till, all over,
_There shone forth a sumptuous blush_--
"'Sir Hubert, I have sought you,
Unattended, to request
A boon--the first I ever
Have entreated.' Then she press'd
_Her small hand's weight of whiteness
To her richly-sloping breast_."
At first we thought that it should have been Hubert, and not Mabel, who
saw "the fresh light flush out of her rosy shoulders"--particularly if
the blush extended, as no doubt it did, to the lady's back: but on
further consideration we saw that we were wrong; for Sir Hubert could
not have perceived "her sweet blood _hush_ about her"--this _hushing_ of
the blood about one being, as all great blushers know, a fact
discernible only by the person more immediately concerned in the blush.
The propriety, therefore, of making Mabel perceive the blush, rather
than Sir Hubert, is undeniable. The writer must either have left out the
_hushing_ altogether, which would have been a great blemish in the
picture, or he must have written as he has done. How profoundly versed
in the physiology of blushing he must be! We are doubtful, however,
whether the costume of the picture is altogether appropriate; for we
question very much whether the Italian ladies of the thirteenth, or any
other century, were in the habit of paying forenoon visits in low-necked
gowns; and whether Mabel could have walked all the way from her castle
to Sir Hubert's cottage, in an attire which revealed so many of her
charms, without attracting the general attention of the neighbourhood.
She had no time, be it observed, to divest herself of shawl or mantilla
in order to show how _sumptuously_ she could blush--for her salutation
is made to Sir Hubert, and its roseate consequences ensue the very first
moment she sees him. But let that pass. We should have been very sorry
if such a "splendiferous" phenomenon had been obscured by envious boa or
pelisse, or lost to the proprieties of costume. The Lady then
"Said that she was wearied
With her walk--would stay to dine,
And name her wishes after."