When next I met Swinburne, nearly twelve months had gone by, and, in
spite of the eager way in which at our first meeting he had talked of
the men and women and things within his own mental horizon, I should
not have been in the least surprised to find that he had practically
forgotten me. I do not say this in any spirit of mock modesty, but
because I remembered that, at that first meeting, I had mentioned,
in the course of conversation, a book by a certain author who to my
knowledge had been a visitor to The Pines on several occasions, and
so must personally have been well known to Swinburne.
“Oh, really!” he said. “Yes, now that you mention it, I believe that
someone of that name has been so good as to come and see us. I seem
to recall him. And I seem to remember hearing someone say that he had
written something, though I don’t remember exactly what. So he has
published a book upon the subject of which we are talking. Really? I
did not know.”
This was said with perfect courtesy, and without the remotest
intention of administering a snub either to me or to the literary
reputation of the writer in question. It meant no more than that
Swinburne lived so apart from the rest of the world, had such power
of detachment, and kept so habitually the company only of his books
and of his peers, that the personality of the rest of us left no
impression on him.
On this occasion, only Watts-Dunton, Miss Teresa Watts, his sister,
Swinburne, and myself were present, and the talk turned at first upon
William Rossetti, with whom, in his home at St. Edmund’s Terrace,
Regent’s Park, I had spent an hour or two on the previous afternoon.
Both Swinburne and Watts-Dunton were interested to hear news of their
old friend whom both regretted seeing so seldom. They plied me with
innumerable questions in regard to his health, his plans, even in
regard to trivial details about his home life, not omitting mention
of his sister Christina’s beloved cat “Muff,” and the red plush
sofa on which Shelley was supposed to have slept, the night before
his death, and that now stands in the library. Both my hearers were
touched when I spoke of Rossetti’s affectionate words about William
Morris, for whom, though “Topsy” (as he called Morris) and he had
not met five times in twenty years, Rossetti to the last entertained
the old affection. Rossetti’s vivid recollection of the day of the
funeral of Watts-Dunton’s mother, some fifteen years before, when
there was so terrible a blizzard that he could get no conveyance
to Endsleigh Gardens--where he was then living--and had to fight
his way home on foot in a blinding snowstorm, was naturally of
special interest to Watts-Dunton. Much more was said, and many other
questions were asked, upon which I do not propose here to linger,
passing on, instead, to speak of the sudden flaming up of Swinburne
at the mention by Rossetti of William Bell Scott as having once been
a drawing master.
“Perfectly true! Perfectly true!” interpolated Swinburne angrily,
“and a drawing master he remained to his life’s end.”
For the remainder of my stay he talked vivaciously, and here I
should like to say that in all that has been written about his
personality--his eccentricities, excitability and exclusiveness;
his passionate love of the sea and of little children; the changes
that his political views underwent; his chivalrous championship of
his friends against all comers, and the savage onslaught upon Robert
Buchanan; his sturdy patriotism, and his historic friendships--very
little has been said of the lighter side of his nature. That he
could wield in controversy the lash of satire and irony, and wield
it mercilessly, more than one combatant has had cause to know, and
there are alive to-day ancient enemies of his whose backs must still
tingle at memory of some of his onslaughts. But of his wit and humour
in daily life and the sunny playfulness of his banter in conversation
with his friends, one seldom hears. I have known him keep the table
alive for an hour at a time by whimsical and deliciously humorous and
caustic comments on the topics--political, literary, or artistic--of
the day.
On this particular morning he was anxious to show me a review
of _Kriegspiel_, that most remarkable novel by the late Francis
Hinde Groome, son of the famous archdeacon, the intimate of Edward
FitzGerald, with whom Frank Groome had himself been well acquainted
as a boy.
With Groome--who, as my readers know, was, like Watts-Dunton and the
late Charles Godfrey Leland, an accomplished student of Gipsy Life,
Gipsy Language, and Gipsy Lore--I was myself on terms of friendship,
and indeed had been of some small service to him in regard to the
publication of _Kriegspiel_, knowing which, Swinburne was anxious to
hear whether I thought the review could be used to assist the sale of
the book, and so elected to go upstairs to his room to get it.
He returned with a face like that of a schoolboy intent upon
mischief, and with a rolled up journal in his hand. After I had
read the review of _Kriegspiel_, and proposed sending it on to
the publisher, Watts-Dunton inquired, pointing to the roll which
Swinburne was still holding:
“What have you got there?”
“To-day’s _Graphic_,” was the reply. “I noticed it sticking out of
the pocket of your greatcoat, hanging in the hall, and peeping
inside saw that there was an illustrated supplement, _Poets of the
Day_, so I wouldn’t even look to see whether you and I are included,
but brought it here that we might all go through it together.
What heart-burning and hair-tearing there will be in the poetical
dovecotes, in regard to who is in, and who is out! Why didn’t you
tell me of it before?”
“Because I didn’t know anything about it,” was the reply. “It was
from Kernahan’s coat, not mine, that you took it. We all pick each
other’s brains in Grub Street, but picking pockets is quite another
matter.”
Swinburne apologised, but held on to the _Graphic_ tenaciously. Then
he opened it, smoothed out the page, and ran through the pictured
poets, cataloguing them, complimenting them or chaffing them upon
their appearance or their poetry, even improvising suitable epitaphs
for their obsequies in Westminster Abbey, or composing, on the
spur of the moment, Nonsense Verses and Limericks that hit off
with delicious humour or mordant irony the personal or poetical
peculiarities of the different “bards,” as he called them.
Now that he, and so many of these “bards” are, alas, gone, I
hesitate to repeat in cold blood, and so long after, what was said
on the spur of the moment, and among friends. But, tantalising as
it may be to the reader, especially if that reader be a poet, and
so possibly an interested party, to be told merely of witty sayings
of which no specimen is forthcoming, I must hold my hand, as I have
been compelled to hold it in other pages of these Recollections.
We have it on the authority of Mr. Clement Shorter that one must be
indiscreet to be entertaining, and I agree with him so far as to
admit that, in Recollections, the best must always be that which
remains unwritten.
After Swinburne had exhausted the _Graphic_, I produced, from the
pocket of the pirated greatcoat, yet another journal, to which
a certain critic had contributed a somewhat feeble article upon
the work and poetry of Swinburne himself. I read it aloud, to the
accompaniment of ironic laughter on the part of Watts-Dunton, Miss
Watts and myself, but Swinburne, though he had hugely enjoyed it, and
had interpolated sly comments of exaggerated gratitude, said, when I
had made an end and with a wave of dismissal:
“It is meant kindly, and when the intention is so obviously kind one
must not be too ungenerously critical.”
Thereafter we talked of Ireland, Swinburne having only recently
learned or recently realised that I hailed from that land of poets
turned politicians. I suspect that the fact of my nationality was
responsible for much of his kindness to me, for, laugh at us as
many Englishmen may and do, in their hearts they have a sneaking
liking for men and women of Irish birth. I had said that I should be
leaving soon after lunch, and after he had bidden me good-bye, and
had retired for his afternoon sleep, he returned, not once, but two
or three times, and with an impulsiveness which was almost Irish, to
speak again and yet again of Ireland and especially of Irish poetry.
It had been my good fortune the night before to take in Mrs. Lynn
Linton to dinner at the beautiful and hospitable home of Sir Bruce
and Lady Seton at Chelsea, and Mrs. Lynn Linton and I had talked much
of Ireland. Mentioning this to Swinburne, he said that he had once
written to Mrs. Lynn Linton remonstrating violently with her about
an article of hers on Ireland, and he had reason to believe that his
words had not been without effect, as, since then, Mrs. Lynn Linton
had come to think as he had on that question, and was of opinion that
Gladstone, Morley and Harcourt ought to have been impeached for high
treason. Reverting to books, he said that nothing so beautiful about
Ireland had been written as the Hon. Emily Lawless’s novel _Grania_,
then fresh from the press. He had bought a number of copies to send
to his own friends, as well as some to send to his aunt, Lady Mary
Gordon, for distribution in her circle. He went on to say that his
old friend, Dr. Whitley Stokes, had shown him some of the Irish songs
which were sung to the tunes to which Tom Moore afterwards wrote his
“mawkish and sentimental songs.” One of these, Swinburne said, had
since been reprinted in the _Academy_.
“And as poetry I can only compare it to the Book of Job--and what
more superlatively splendid praise can I offer than that?”
Here Watts-Dunton put in a word for Wales and incidentally for
Scotland, which reminds me that I ought to say that Watts-Dunton’s
share in this, and in other conversations, was no less interesting,
though less erratic and more considered than Swinburne’s.
Switched off thus from Ireland to Scotland, Swinburne launched
out into enthusiastic praise of the islands of Rum and Eig, the
nomenclature of which, he said, was phonetically and fatally
suggestive of a nourishing, if nauseous drink, not to be despised, he
understood, after an early morning swim, and declared that the one
thing which made him regret he was not a man of wealth was that he
could not afford to yield to the desire of his heart, and spend half
his time cruising in a yacht around the western islands of Scotland.
V
Perhaps the most treasured possession on my bookshelves is a volume
in which Swinburne has inscribed my name and his own. The volume in
question is his _Studies in Prose and Poetry_, and as, among the
contents, there is an article devoted entirely to a consideration
of the merits and defects of _Lyra Elegantiarum_, in the editorial
work of the last edition of which it was my honour and privilege
to collaborate with the original compiler, the late Mr. Frederick
Locker-Lampson, I may perhaps be pardoned for referring to it here.
The fact that Swinburne was making _Lyra Elegantiarum_ the subject of
an important article (it appeared first in the _Forum_) was told to
me when I was lunching one day at The Pines, and naturally I carried
the news of the compliment which his book was to receive to Mr.
Locker-Lampson.
“Compliment!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it will be a compliment. Any
editors might well be proud that the result of their labours should
be the subject of an article by Swinburne. But pray heaven he be
merciful, for I fear our expected compliment is like to turn out to
be something of a castigation.”
Mr. Locker-Lampson was not far wrong, for, when the article appeared,
we found that Swinburne had as roundly rated the editors as he had
generously praised.
I sent Swinburne a copy of the édition de luxe, a gift with which he
was delighted, and indeed procured other copies to give to friends
and relations, one in a binding of his own designing being, I think,
for his mother. When next I was at The Pines, he inquired whether Mr.
Locker-Lampson and I were pleased with his review.
“How could we be otherwise than pleased by any article upon the book
by the author of _Atalanta in Calydon_?” I replied.
“But you were pleased with what I said?”
“Of course, but you must forgive me if I say that it was very much as
if a schoolmaster had called up a boy out of the class, and, after
lavishing undeserved praise upon him for good behaviour, had then
taken him across his knee and thrashed him soundly for abominably bad
conduct.”
He dived among the litter of papers, reviews, letters and manuscripts
upon the floor, for a copy of his article, and then read aloud:
“‘There is no better or completer anthology in the language. I doubt
indeed if there be any so good or so complete. No objection or
suggestion that can reasonably be offered, can in any way diminish
our obligation, either to the original editor, or to his evidently
able assistant Mr. Kernahan.’
“Doesn’t that please you?” he enquired.
“Immeasurably,” I said.
“And there is more of it,” he went on, reading detached passages
aloud. “‘The editors to their lasting honour ... the instinctive good
sense, the manly and natural delicacy of the present editors ... this
radiant and harmonious gallery of song.’ And so on and so on.”
“Yes,” I said, “it is the so ons that I’m thinking of. Suppose we
dip into them.” Then I took the article from his hand and read as
follows: “‘If elegance is the aim or the condition of this anthology,
how comes it to admit such an unsurpassably horrible example as the
line--I refrain from quoting it--which refers to the “settling” of
“Gibson’s hash”?... The worst positive blemish--and a most fearful
blemish it is ... will unluckily be found, and cannot be overlooked,
on the fourth page. Sixth on the list of selected poems, is a copy
of verses attributed to Shakespeare--of all men on earth!--by the
infamous pirate, liar, and thief, who published a worthless little
volume of stolen and mutilated poetry, patched up and padded out
with dreary and dirty doggrel, under the preposterous title of _The
Passionate Pilgrim_.... Happily there is here no second instance--but
naturally there could not have been a second--of such amazing
depravity of taste.’
“In fact,” I said, “your review of the book recalls to my mind the
familiar lines by Bickerstaff, which are to be found in this very
volume:
When late I attempted your pity to move
What made you so deaf to my prayers?
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love,
But why did you kick me downstairs?
You remember Jeffery Prowse’s lines about someone being
‘problematically sober, but indubitably drunk’?” I went on. “The
‘dissembling’ of ‘your love’ in the opening sentences of your article
may be ‘problematical,’ but the ‘kicking’ of us ‘downstairs,’ and out
of the door later on, is as ‘indubitable’ as is the fact that the
book is profoundly honoured by being reviewed by Algernon Charles
Swinburne at all.”
With that parting shot, at which he laughed heartily, I bade him
good-bye and came away, to find on returning to my home, a letter
from Mr. Locker-Lampson which, as it has no word that can be
considered private, and deals with matters of general literary
interest, as well as with some of the strictures by Swinburne that
have been quoted above, I venture to append:
NEWHAVEN COURT, CROMER,
_17th Oct._