framed in easy, pleasant English. In some of his poems he reminds one
of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." His song of the "Wounded
Gull" is very like Dr. Holmes, both in subject and treatment:--
"The children laughed, and called it tame!
But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wing
Hung by its side; the gull was lame,
A suffering and deserted thing.
With painful care it downward crept;
Its eye was on the rolling sea;
Close to our very feet, it stept
Upon the wave, and then--was free.
Right out into the east it went
Too proud, we thought, to flap or shriek;
Slowly it steered, in wonderment
To find its enemies so meek.
Calmly it steered, and mortal dread
Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume;
It could but die, and being dead,
The open sea should be its tomb.
We watched it till we saw it float
Almost beyond our furthest view;
It flickered like a paper boat,
Then faded in the dazzling blue.
It could but touch an English heart
To find an English bird so brave;
Our life-blood glowed to see it start
Thus boldly on the leaguered wave."
A few fortunate persons possess copies of Mr. Gosse's catalogue of his
library, and it is, I rejoice to say, on the Foxwold shelves. It is a
most charming work, reflecting on every page, by many subtle touches,
the refined humour and wide knowledge of the collector. Mr. Austin
Dobson wrote for the final fly-leaf as follows:--
"I doubt your painful Pedants who
Can read a dictionary through;
But he must be a dismal dog,
Who can't enjoy this Catalogue!"
Of the little mutual admiration and log-rolling society, whose
headquarters are in Vigo Street, no serious account need be taken.
Time will deal with these very minor poets, and whether kindly or not,
Time will prove. They may possibly be able to await the verdict with a
serene and confident patience--and so can we. An exception may perhaps
be made for some of Mr. Arthur Symon's "Silhouettes," as the following
extract will show:--
"Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air,
Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,
Come to me out of the past, and I see her there
As I saw her once for a while.
Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright,
Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,
And still I hear her telling us tales that night,
Out of Boccaccio's book.
There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,
Leaning across the table, over the beer,
While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,
As the midnight hour drew near.
There with the women, haggard, painted, and old,
One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,
She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told
Tale after shameless tale.
And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,
Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,
And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,
Or ever the tale was done.
O my child, who wronged you first, and began
First the dance of death that you dance so well?
Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man
Shall answer for yours in hell."
Mr. Austin Dobson and the late Mr. Locker-Lampson are perhaps the
finest writers of _vers de Société_ since Praed; whilst in the
broader school of humour C. S. Calverley, Mr. Dodgson (of "Alice in
Wonderland" fame), and the late James Kenneth Stephen, stand alone and
unchallenged; and Mr. Watson, if health serve, will go far; and so with
some pathetic words of one of these moderns we will end this somewhat
aimless chat:--
"My heart is dashed with cares and fears,
My song comes fluttering and is gone;
Oh, high above this home of tears,
Eternal joy,--sing on."
Chat No. 8.
"_Punch! in the presence of the passengers._"
Within the past year certain gentle disputes and friendly discussions
as to the origin of _Punch_, and who its first real editor was, and
whether or no Henry Mayhew evolved it with the help of suitable friends
in a debtor's prison, remind us that Foxwold possesses some rather
curious "memories" of this famous paper.
These disputes should now be put to rest for ever by Mr. Spielmann's
exhaustive "History of Mr. Punch," which, it may safely be supposed,
appeared with some sort of authority from "Mr. Punch" himself.
One of our "Odds and Ends" is a kit-kat portrait in oil of Horace
Mayhew, "Ponny," excellent both as a likeness and a work of art,
which should eventually find hanging space in the celebrated _Punch_
dining-room. There is also a pencil drawing of him, in which "the
Count," as he was called, is dressed in the smartest fashion of that
day, and crowned with a D'Orsay hat, resplendent, original, and gay.
He made a rather unhappy marriage late in his life, and found that
habits from which he was not personally free showed themselves rather
frequently in his wife's conduct. One day, in a state of emotion and
whisky and water, he pressed Mark Lemon's hand, and, bursting into
tears, murmured, "My dear friend, she drinks! she drinks!!" "All
right," was the editor's cheery reply, "my dear boy; cheer up, so do
you!"
Near by hangs a characteristic pencil sketch of Douglas Jerrold, who,
if small, was no hunchback (as has been lately stated), but was a
very neatly made, active little man, with a grand head covered with a
profusion of lightish hair, which he had a trick of throwing back, like
a lion's mane, and a pair of bright piercing blue eyes. There is an
engraving of a bust of him prefixed to his life (written by his son,
Blanchard Jerrold), which well conveys the nobility of the well-set
head. Then comes a capital drawing of Kenny Meadows in profile, and a
thoroughly characteristic Irish phiz it is.
These pencil portraits are all from the gifted hand of Mr. George
Augustus Sala, and formerly belonged to Horace Mayhew himself. Mr.
Sala, as is now well known by means of his autobiography, was once an
artist and book-illustrator, and Foxwold is the proud possessor of
the only picture in oil extant from his brush. It is called "Saturday
Night in a Gin-Palace": it is full of a Hogarthian power, and by its
execution, drawing, and colour shows that had Mr. Sala made painting
his profession instead of literature, he would have gone far and fared
well. The little picture is signed "G. A. Sala," and was found many
years ago in an old house in Brompton, when the present owner secured
it for a moderate sum, and then wrote to Mr. Sala asking if the picture
was authentic. A reply was received by the next post, in the beautiful
handwriting for which he is famous, and runs as follows:---
46 Mecklenburgh Square, W.C.,
_Tuesday, Twenty-fifth June 1878_.
"Dear Sir,
I beg to acknowledge receipt of your courteous and (to me)
singularly interesting note.
"Yes, the little old oil-picture of the 'Gin-Palace Bar' is mine
sure enough. I can remember it as distinctly as though it had been
painted yesterday. Great casks of liquor in the background; little
stunted figures (including one of a dustman with a shovel) in the
foreground. Details executed with laborious niggling minuteness;
but the whole work must be now dingy and faded to almost total
obscuration, since I remember that in painting it I only used
turpentine for a medium, the spirit of which must have long since
'flown,' and left the pigment flat or 'scaly.'
"The thing was done in Paris six-and-twenty years ago (Ap. 1852),
and being brought to London, was sold to the late Adolphus
Ackermann, of the bygone art-publishing firm of Ackermann & Co.,
96 Strand (premises now occupied by E. Rimmel, the perfumer), for
the sum of five pounds. I hope that you did not give more than
a few shillings for it, for it was a vile little daub. I was at
the time when I produced it an engraver and lithographer, and I
believe that Mr. Ackermann only purchased the picture with a view
to encourage me to 'take up' oil-painting. But I did not do so. I
'took up' literature instead, and a pretty market I have brought
my pigs to! At all events, _you_ possess the only picture in oil
extant from the brush of
Yours very faithfully,
George Augustus Sala."
_To_ H. N. Pym, Esq.
When Mr. Sala afterwards called to see the picture, he altered his mind
as to its being "a vile little daub," and found the colours as fresh
and bright as when painted. We greatly value it, if only as the cause
of a lasting friendship it started with the artist.
His own portrait by Vernet, in pen and ink, now graces our little
gallery; it is a back view, taken amidst his books, and a most
characteristic and excellent likeness of this accomplished and
versatile gentleman.[1]
One of our guest-chambers is solemnly dedicated to the honour and glory
of "Mr. Punch," and on its walls hang some original oil sketches by
John Leech, drawings by Charles Keene, Mr. Harry Furniss, Randolph
Caldecote, Mr. Bernard Partridge, Mr. Anstey Guthrie, and Mr. Du
Maurier; whilst kindly caricatures of some of the staff, and a print of
the celebrated dinner-table, signed by the contributors, complete the
decoration of a very cheery little room.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Whilst these pages are passing through the press, George Augustus
Sala has been mercifully permitted to rest from his labours. An
unfortunate adventure with a new paper brought about serious troubles,
physical and financial, and ended his useful and hard-working life
in gloom: as Mr. Bancroft (a mutual friend) observed to the editor
of this volume, "It is so sad when the autumn of such a life is
tempestuous."--_December 8, 1895._
Chat No. 9
"_Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast---
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last,
A sorry breaking-up._"
--Thomas Hood.
It was my good fortune some short time since to revisit that most
educational of English towns, Bedford, and having many years ago had
the extreme privilege of being a Bedford schoolboy, I was able to draw
a comparison between then and now.
In the good old days these admirable schools were managed in the good
old way--plenty of classics, plenty of swishing, plenty of cricket
and boating, and plenty of holidays. We sometimes turned out boys who
afterwards made their mark in the big world, and the School Registers
are proud to contain the names of such men as Burnell, the Oriental
scholar, who out-knowledged even Sir William Jones in this respect;
Colonel Fred. Burnaby, brave soldier and attractive travel writer;
Inverarity, the lion-hunter and crack shot; Sir Henry Hawkins, stern
judge and brilliant wit, and many others of like degree. Nor must we
forgot that John Bunyan here learnt sufficient reading and writing
to enable him in after years to pen his marvellous Book during his
imprisonment in Bedford Gaol, which was then situated midway on the
bridge over the river Ouse.
In that wonderful monument to the courage and enterprise of Mr. George
Smith (kindest of friends and best of publishers), "The National
Dictionary of Biography," the record is frequent of men who owed their
education and perhaps best chance in the life they afterwards made a
success, to Bedford School, but,--
"Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted,
As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred,
Yet still with their music is memory haunted,
And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard."
But if the good old School was a success in those bygone days, what
must be said for it now, when, under the Napoleon-like administration
of its present chief, the school-house has been rebuilt in its own
park, upon all the best and latest known principles of comfort and
sanitation, where a boy can, besides going through the full round
of usual study, follow the bent of his own peculiar taste, and find
special training, whether it be in horse-shoeing or music, chemistry
or wood-carving, ambulance work or drawing from the figure; whilst the
beautiful river is covered with boats, the cricket-fields and football
yards are crowded, and the bathing stations are a constant joy?
Truly the present generation of Bedford boys are much blessed in
their surroundings; and whilst they remember with gratitude the pious
founder, Sir William Harper, should strive to do credit to his name and
memory by the exercise of their powers in the battle of after-life,
having received so thorough and broad-minded a training in the happy
and receptive days of their youth.
Bedford town is now one of the most strikingly attractive in England,
with its fine river embankment, its grand old churches, its statues
erected to the memory of the "inspired tinker," Bunyan, and the prison
philanthropist, Howard, both of whom lived about a mile or so from
the town, the former at Elstow, the latter at Cardington. It was very
good and heart-restoring to revisit the hospitable old school with its
pleasant surroundings and to find, as Robert Louis Stevenson says,
that,--
"Home from the Indies, and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers they all shall come home;
Still they shall find the old mill-wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam."
* * * * *
Since printing our last little "Tour Round the Bookshelves," in
which we ventured to include some capital lines by our evergreen and
many-sided friend Rudolf Chambers Lehmann, he has again added to the
interest of our Visitors' Book under the following circumstances.
Guests and home-birds were all resting after the exhausting idleness
of an Easter holiday when they were suddenly aroused from their
day-dreams by loud cries of "Fire!" accompanied by the sound of horses
and chariots approaching the house at full speed. On looking out, like
Sister Anne or a pretty page, we were able to assuage our guests'
natural alarm by explaining that the local fire brigade were practising
upon our vile bodies and dwelling, and if fear existed, danger did not.
On their ultimately retiring, satisfied with their mock efforts, and
fortified by beer, our welcome guest wrote with his usual flying pen
the following characteristic lines to commemorate their visit:--
"FIRE! FIRE!!"
(AN EASTER MONDAY INCIDENT.)
"A day of days, an April day;
Cool air without, and cloudless sun;
Within, upon the ordered tray,
Cakes, and the luscious Sally-Lunn.
Since Pym has walked, and Guthrie climbed
To rob some feathered songster's nest,
Their toil needs tea, the hour has chimed--
Pour, lady, pour, and let them rest.
But hark! what sound disturbs their tea,
And clatters up the carriage drive?
A dinner guest? it cannot be;
No, no, the hour is only five.
What sight is this the fates disclose,
That breaks upon our startled view?
Two horses, countless yards of hose,
Nine firemen, and an engine too.
Where burns the fire? Tush, 'tis but sport;
The horses stop, the men descend,
Take hoses long, and hoses short,
And fit them deftly end to end.
Attention! lo their chieftain calls--
They run, they answer to their names,
And hypothetic water falls
In streams upon imagined flames.
Well done, ye braves, 'twas nobly done;
Accept, the peril past, our thanks;
Though all your toil was only fun,
And air was all that filled your tanks:
No, not for nought you came and dared,
Return in peace, and drink your fill;
It was, as Mrs. Pym declared,
'A highly interesting drill.'"
_April 3, 1893._
Another poet whose pen sometimes gilds our modest Record of Angels'
Visits, is a well-beloved cousin, Harry Luxmoore by name, at Eton known
so well. His Christmas greeting for 1890 shall here appear, and prove
to him how deep is Foxwold's affectionate obligation for wishes so
delightfully expressed:--
"Glooms overhead a frozen sky,
Rings underfoot a snow-ribbed earth,
Yet somewhere slumbering sunbeams lie,
And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.
Folded in root and grain is lying,
The bud, the bloom we soon may see,
And in the old year now a-dying
Is hid the new year that shall be.
O what if snows be deep? so shrouded
Matures the soil with promise rife
And sap, for all the skies be clouded,
Ripens at heart a lustier life.
Then welcome winter--while we shiver
Strength harbours deeper, and the blast
Of sounder, manlier force the giver
Strips off betimes our withered past.
Come bud and bloom, come fruit and flower,
Come weal, come woe, as best may be,
Still may the New Year's hidden dower
Be good for you and Horace, and all the little
ones, and good for me."
Chat No. 10.
"_My ears are deaf with this impatient crowd:
Their wants are now grown mutinous and loud._"
--Dryden.
The following graphic account of the rising in Paris in 1848 was
written by John Poole to Charles Dickens, and was recently found
amongst the papers of Mrs. John Forster, the widow of the well-known
writer, Dickens' friend and biographer, and is, I think, worthy of
print.
John Poole was a sometime celebrated character, having written that
evergreen play "Paul Pry," as well as "Little Pedlington," and other
humorous works mostly now forgotten.
As he grew old poverty came to bear him company, and was only prevented
from causing him actual suffering by the usual generosity of Dickens
and other members of that charmed circle, further aided by a small
Government grant, obtained for him by the same faithful friend from
Lord John Russell.
The letter is addressed to
CHARLES DICKENS, Esq.,
No. 1 Devonshire Terrace,
York Gate, Regent's Park,
LONDON,
and deals with the celebrated uprisal of the French mob, when a force
of 75,000 regulars and nearly 200,000 National Guards was massed round
Paris to resist it. The carnage was terrible, some 8000 persons being
killed on both sides, and 14,000 insurgents made prisoners.
It was only by General Cavaignac's firmness and tactful management
under Lamartine's directions, that the mob was reduced and the
Republican Government established. The general was afterwards nearly
elected President of the French Republic, receiving 1,448,000 votes,
but Prince Louis Napoleon beat him, and, as history tells, held the
reins in various capacities for the next twenty eventful years.
Poole's letter, as that of an eye-witness, gives a remarkably clear
impression of the scene as it appeared in his orbit. Dickens, on
receiving it, evidently sent it the round of his friends, and it then
remained in John Forster's possession until his death.
"(Paris), _Saturday, 8 Jul 1848_.
"My dear Dickens,
I wrote to you through the Embassy on the 22nd June, giving you an
address for the three last Dombeys, and enclosing a catalogue of
the ex-King's wine; and on the 16th I sent you a word in a letter
to Macready. Dombeys not yet arrived, and I shall wait no longer
to acknowledge their arrival (as I have been doing), but at once
proceed to give you a few lines. Since the day of my writing to
you I have lived four years: Friday (the 23rd), Saturday, Sunday,
Monday, each a year.
"The proceedings of the three days of February were mere
child's-play compared with these. Never shall I forget them, for
they showed me scenes of blood and death. Friday morning the
'_rappel_' was beat--always a disagreeable hint. Presently I
heard discharges of musketry, then they beat the '_générale._' My
_concierge_ ran into my room, and, with a long white face, told me
the mob had erected huge barricades in the Faubourg-Saint-Denis,
and above, down to the Porte St. Denis, and that tremendous
fighting was going on there. (The Porte St. Denis bears marks of
the fray.) 'Then, Madame Blanchard,' I said, 'as you seem to be
breaking out again, I shall take a _sac-de-nuit_, and say adieu to
you till you shall have returned to your good behaviour.'--'But
monsieur could not get away for love or money--the insurgents have
possession of the Chemin de Fer, and had torn up the rails as far
as St. Denis.' This was what she had been told, so I went out to
ascertain the fact.
"Impossible to approach that quarter, and difficult to turn the
corner of a street without interruption--groups of fifteen,
twenty, thirty, fifty, in blouses, dotted all about. Towards
evening matters seemed rather more tranquil, and between six and
seven o'clock I contrived (though not easily) to make my way
to Sestels, in the Rue St. Honoré (one of the very best of the
second-rate restaurateurs in Paris, 'which note'). The large
saloon was filled with men in uniform, National Guards chiefly,
and only two women there. I was there about an hour, and in that
time three dead bodies were carried past on covered litters. It
was thought the disturbances were pretty well over, as a powerful
body of troops had been ordered down to the scene of action.
"At about eight o'clock I went out for the purpose of making
a visit in the Rue d'Enghien, but found the whole width of
the Boulevard Montmartre, which, as you know, leads to the
Boulevard St. Denis, defended by a compact body of National
Guards--impassable! Between nine and ten o'clock three regiments
of cavalry, with cannon--a long, long procession--marched in the
direction of the scene of insurrection. This was a comforting
sight, and as such everybody seemed to consider it, and I went
home. And this was Midsummer Eve!--Walpurgis Night!
"The next day, Saturday, Midsummer Day, I never shall forget!
Sleep had been hopeless--the night had been disturbed by the
frequent beating of the '_générale_' and the cry '_Aux Armes!_'
Every now and then I looked up at the sky, expecting to see it
red from some direful conflagration. Day came, and soon the
firing of musketry was heard, now from the direction of the
Faubourg-Saint-Antoine, now from the Faubourg-Saint-Marceaux.
Then came the heavy booming of cannon--death in every echo! From
twelve till nearly one, and again after a pause, it was dreadful.
(I cannot make 'fun' of this, like the facetious correspondent of
the _Morning Post_. Who is he? Surely he must be an ex-reporter
for the Cobourg Play-house, with his vulgar, ill-timed play-house
quotations. I am utterly disgusted and revolted at the tasteless
levity with which he describes scenes of blood and destruction and
death, and so treats of matters, all of which require grave and
sober handling. And then he describes, as an eye-witness, things
which, happen though they did, I am certain he could not have been
present to see.)
"Well, as we were soon to be in a state of siege, and strictly
confined to home, I can tell you nothing but what I saw here on
this very spot. One event is a remembrance for life. In this
house lived General de Bourgon, one of what they call the 'old
Africans.' In the course of the morning General Korte (another
of them) called on him, and said, 'I dare say Cavaignac has
plenty to do. I will go and ask him if we can be of any service
to him. If we can, I will send for you, so keep yourself in the
way.' He was in Paris 'on leave,' and had no horse with him, so
he sent Blanchard (the _concierge_) to the _manège_, which is in
the next street, to inquire whether they had a horse that would
'stand fire.' Yes; but they would not let it go out. The next
message intimated that they must send it, or it would be taken by
force. At about two o'clock, going out, I met, coming out of his
apartments on the second floor (I, you know, am on the fourth),
General de Bourgon, in plain clothes, accompanied by his wife and
his sister-in-law--the latter a very beautiful woman, somewhat in
the style of Mrs. Norton. As usual, we exchanged _bon-jours_ in
passing. I went as far as the boulevard at the end of the street.
There was a strong guard at the 'Hôtel des Affaires Étrangères,'
and there I was stopped. An officer of the National Guard asked
me whether I was proceeding in the direction of my residence.
Answering in the negative, he said (but with great courtesy),
'Then, sir, I advise you to return; it is in your interest I do
so; besides' (pointing in the direction where was heard a heavy
firing), 'd'ailleurs, monsieur, ce n'est pas aujourd'hui un jour
de promenade.'