I may tell the origin of “Madeline” in a brief sentence. I had framed
and delivered a lecture, scientifically treated, on “Sleep, Dreams,
Sleep-walking, Sleep-talking and the Mesmeric State,” which last I
explained by the facts of hypnotism. It was many years after this that
I conceived the idea of conducting a character, in metre, through all
these states of the human soul, and “Madeline” became that character.
Dr. Marston said, and I think truly, that the poem had too much
machinery—a mistake which I have now corrected by erasure, in case an
edition of the work should ever be required.
Watts is a man of many rich endowments; he has a fine poetic faculty,
logical, yet warm; with an imagination not introspective only, but one
that ranges over nature, and which might be called circumspective. His
sonnets will bear the analysis to which I have submitted Shakespeare,
Coleridge, and Wordsworth, in a previous page.
Watts is now one of our most esteemed critics.
I had a close acquaintance with Harrison Ainsworth among novelistic
editors; he tried to obtain for me the separate publication of
“Valdarno,” and, failing, wrote me his confident belief that it must be
resuscitated one day.
Ainsworth was a manly and handsome-looking person. His romances gave
great pleasure to the readers of his time, which showed how willing
people are to live others’ lives without the penalties, though they would
very firmly decline living their own over again, without the experience
they had too late acquired.
I suppose, in reading every novel, one tastes of all the vices and
virtues that have ever been indulged in. One likes to be great and
generous vicariously; one even enjoys the sufferings of the wicked at
second hand, and to commit even murder on the like terms.
We have all the character, in _substrata_, not only of the savage, but
of the wild beast, of the vulture, of the shark, of the boa constrictor,
of the clawed crab, of the animalcule itself. Some feel this, some are
wholly unconscious of it until it is accidentally roused, some possess it
only in a state of inanimate suppression.
A novel founded on vulture life would have a great run. It should dwell
on the domestic virtues of the bird, and show how it held an appointment
under Providence to follow in the wake of armies.
One of the finest novels I have read of late years is that of Mr.
Eden, entitled “George Donnington,” a work replete with experiences,
sympathetic in character, in purpose wise; less a fiction than a
narrative of true Russian life, and written with as firm a hand as was
ever trained for literary success.
Though I could wish to have done with the “strange eventful history” of a
life, thus lived over again, I must not rush on too fast, but must revert
to “Parables and Tales.”
The publisher of “Madeline” asked me to add four more poems to “Old
Souls,” and the three others of the same metre, for an illustrated
work; accordingly, I gave him “Mother and Child,” “The Blind Boy,” “The
Cripple,” and “Old Morality.”
One morning at Cheyne Walk I read “The Cripple” to Rossetti and Hüffer,
and saw them both in tears.
I had written “The Blind Boy” before the new volume was contemplated, and
I sent it to Rossetti. In answer he wrote to me, saying that he was on
the point of going out when it reached him, but that he stayed in to read
it, and was so impressed on doing so, that he at once sat down and wrote
to Mr. John Morley, advising its insertion in the _Fortnightly Review_.
But Morley had recently printed in that vehicle a long poem of W. B.
Scott’s, and had thereupon resolved never to admit again another verse of
any author whatsoever.
When “Parables and Tales” appeared Rossetti selected the _Fortnightly_
for his review of the new volume. He never wrote any reviews except of my
poems. All the notices I ever received of my writings were by strangers,
except those kindly given of them by Rossetti and his brother: that is
all I owe to friendship.
At this time I was personally free from professional engagements. Lady
Ripon was no more, greatly to my sorrow, so I went for a few weeks to
Bath.
It was a great pleasure to me when staying in that beautiful and
healthful city to visit the grave of Beckford, the wonderful author of
“Vatec.”
The cemetery and tomb of Beckford would have been a scene for Volney,
though it is not a ruin, unless it be regarded as one of human vanity.
“Vatec” is monument enough without a sarcophagus of polished porphyry,
and a tower lined with the same costly stone.
A medical friend of Mr. Beckford’s told me some curious details
respecting that gentleman’s will. He had sunk his remaining property in
an annuity, with the exception of a unique collection of pictures and
statues valued at £100,000, destined for Hamilton Palace, his daughter’s
home. The result is one of many instances which show how little influence
the dead exercise over the living.
There was an insuperable difficulty in the dead being buried in his own
beautiful cemetery, which was unconsecrated ground, so the heir, the
then Duke of Hamilton, had the sarcophagus deposited in the cemetery on
the opposite side of the river. The grounds of the one laid out with so
much loving care by the deceased, with their tower and exquisitely carved
gateway and their finely wrought palings, the porphyry of the tower alone
having been brought from Egypt at an expense of £50,000, were sold for
£1500, and were about to be converted into a tea-garden for the Lansdown
races held hard by.
These preliminaries got through, of course by the duke’s agents,
preparations were made for the removal of the pictures and sculptures,
but the executors of the will stepped in, and announced that those
treasures were not to be given up until Mr. Beckford’s cemetery held his
remains.
This was a cruel dilemma, for the property had to be repurchased at an
enormous advance on the price paid; but it was done, and the terms of the
bishop to consecrate the soil, previously declined, were acceded to.
These were that the cemetery should become the property of the Church!
The game was thus cleverly won and profitably; the cemetery is
fashionable, people pay high prices for being buried in such good
company. Every one visits Beckford’s tomb, and the Church, in acquiring
the freehold, will be thought by many to have done well for religion.
But my mind is of a perverse nature, and is apt to wander. It sometimes
comes across the word “infernal,” in relation to things on high, and is
sometimes arrested, as by an erratic block, by the word “humbug,” but
it would not like to see the two words in juxtaposition in reference to
Church doings.
Beckford had desired that his sarcophagus should be placed on the summit
of his tower, whence, should he open his eyes again, and be able to see
through porphyry, he would behold Fonthill Abbey.
But this pleasure was denied him, and he only lies above the grass
instead of below.