The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLauds and libels

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLauds and libelsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Lauds and libelsAuthor: Charles L. GravesRelease date: July 8, 2018 [eBook #57467]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by JoAnn Greenwood, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAUDS AND LIBELS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Lauds and libelsAuthor: Charles L. GravesRelease date: July 8, 2018 [eBook #57467]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by JoAnn Greenwood, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

Title: Lauds and libels

Author: Charles L. Graves

Release date: July 8, 2018 [eBook #57467]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by JoAnn Greenwood, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAUDS AND LIBELS ***

Logo of Sidgwick & Jackson Ltd.

BY THE SAME AUTHORTHE HAWARDEN HORACEMORE HAWARDEN HORACEHUMOURS OF THE FRAYPARTY PORTRAITSTHE BRAIN OF THE NATIONWAR’S SURPRISES

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

LAUDS AND LIBELS

BYC. L. GRAVES

LONDONSIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.1918

NOTE

Acknowledgment is due to the Proprietors and Editor of “Punch”for their courtesy in allowing me to reprint these pieces.

C. L. G.

Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze,The whirring of wheels and the murmur of trees;By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly.Thus carolledFred Locker, just sixty years back,In a year (’57) when the outlook was black,And even to-day the war-weariest WillieRecovers his spirits in dear Piccadilly.We haven’t the belles with their Gainsborough hats,Or the Regency bucks with their wondrous cravats,But now that the weather no longer is chillyThere’s much to enchant us in New Piccadilly.As I sit in my club and partake of my “ration,”No longer I’m vexed by the follies of fashion;The dandified Johnnies so precious and silly—You seek them in vain in the New Piccadilly.The men are alert and upstanding and fit,They’ve most of them done or they’re doing their bit;With the eye of a hawk and the stride of a gillieThey add a new lustre to Old Piccadilly.And the crippled but gay-hearted heroes in blueAre a far finer product than wicked “old Q,”Who ought to have lived in a prison on skillyInstead of a palace in mid Piccadilly.The women are splendid, so quiet and strong,As with resolute purpose they hurry along—Excepting the flappers, who chatter as shrillyAs parrots let loose to distract Piccadilly.Thus I muse as I watch with a reverent eyeThe New Generation sweep steadily by,And judge him an ass or a born Silly BillyWho’d barter the New for the Old Piccadilly.

Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze,The whirring of wheels and the murmur of trees;By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly.

Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze,

The whirring of wheels and the murmur of trees;

By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,

Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly.

Thus carolledFred Locker, just sixty years back,In a year (’57) when the outlook was black,And even to-day the war-weariest WillieRecovers his spirits in dear Piccadilly.

Thus carolledFred Locker, just sixty years back,

In a year (’57) when the outlook was black,

And even to-day the war-weariest Willie

Recovers his spirits in dear Piccadilly.

We haven’t the belles with their Gainsborough hats,Or the Regency bucks with their wondrous cravats,But now that the weather no longer is chillyThere’s much to enchant us in New Piccadilly.

We haven’t the belles with their Gainsborough hats,

Or the Regency bucks with their wondrous cravats,

But now that the weather no longer is chilly

There’s much to enchant us in New Piccadilly.

As I sit in my club and partake of my “ration,”No longer I’m vexed by the follies of fashion;The dandified Johnnies so precious and silly—You seek them in vain in the New Piccadilly.

As I sit in my club and partake of my “ration,”

No longer I’m vexed by the follies of fashion;

The dandified Johnnies so precious and silly—

You seek them in vain in the New Piccadilly.

The men are alert and upstanding and fit,They’ve most of them done or they’re doing their bit;With the eye of a hawk and the stride of a gillieThey add a new lustre to Old Piccadilly.

The men are alert and upstanding and fit,

They’ve most of them done or they’re doing their bit;

With the eye of a hawk and the stride of a gillie

They add a new lustre to Old Piccadilly.

And the crippled but gay-hearted heroes in blueAre a far finer product than wicked “old Q,”Who ought to have lived in a prison on skillyInstead of a palace in mid Piccadilly.

And the crippled but gay-hearted heroes in blue

Are a far finer product than wicked “old Q,”

Who ought to have lived in a prison on skilly

Instead of a palace in mid Piccadilly.

The women are splendid, so quiet and strong,As with resolute purpose they hurry along—Excepting the flappers, who chatter as shrillyAs parrots let loose to distract Piccadilly.

The women are splendid, so quiet and strong,

As with resolute purpose they hurry along—

Excepting the flappers, who chatter as shrilly

As parrots let loose to distract Piccadilly.

Thus I muse as I watch with a reverent eyeThe New Generation sweep steadily by,And judge him an ass or a born Silly BillyWho’d barter the New for the Old Piccadilly.

Thus I muse as I watch with a reverent eye

The New Generation sweep steadily by,

And judge him an ass or a born Silly Billy

Who’d barter the New for the Old Piccadilly.

(After reading “Irish Memories.”)

Two Irish cousins greet us hereFromBushe“the silver-tongued” descended,Whose lives for close on thirty yearWere indistinguishably blended;Scorning the rule that holds for cooks,They pooled their brains and joined their forces,And wrote a dozen gorgeous booksOn men and women, hounds and horses.They supersededHandley Cross;They glorified the “hunting fever”;They purged their pages of the dross,While bettering the fun, ofLever;With many a priceless turn of phraseThey stirred us to Homeric laughter,When painting Ireland in the daysBefore Sinn Fein bewitched and “strafed” her.With them we watched goodMajor YeatesContending with litigious peasants,With “hidden hands” within his gates,With claims for foxes and for pheasants;We sawLeigh Kelwaydrop his chin—That precious English super-tripper—In shocked amazement drinking inThe lurid narrative ofSlipper.Philippa’spiercing peacock squeals,Uttered in moments of expansion;The grime and splendour of the mealsOfMrs. Knoxand of her mansion;The secrets of horse-coping lore,The loves ofSallyand ofFlurry—All these delights and hundreds moreAre not forgotten in a hurry.Yet the same genial pens that freightOur memories with joyous magicGave us the tale ofFrancie’sfate—So vulgar, lovable and tragic;Just to the land that gave them birthThey showed her smiling, sad and sullen,And turning from the paths of mirthProbed the dark soul ofCharlotte Mullen.Alas! the tie, so close, so dear,Two years ago death rent asunder;Hushed is the voice so gay and clearWhich moved us once to joy and wonder;Yet, though they chronicle a lossWhose pang no lapse of time assuages,The spirit of brave “Martin Ross”Shines like a star throughout these pages.Here in her letters may one traceThe generous scorn, the gentle pity,The easy unaffected grace,The wisdom that was always witty;Here, mirrored in a sister soul,One sees the comrade, strong yet tender,Who marched unfaltering to her goalThrough sacrifice and self-surrender.

Two Irish cousins greet us here

FromBushe“the silver-tongued” descended,

Whose lives for close on thirty year

Were indistinguishably blended;

Scorning the rule that holds for cooks,

They pooled their brains and joined their forces,

And wrote a dozen gorgeous books

On men and women, hounds and horses.

They supersededHandley Cross;They glorified the “hunting fever”;They purged their pages of the dross,While bettering the fun, ofLever;With many a priceless turn of phraseThey stirred us to Homeric laughter,When painting Ireland in the daysBefore Sinn Fein bewitched and “strafed” her.

They supersededHandley Cross;

They glorified the “hunting fever”;

They purged their pages of the dross,

While bettering the fun, ofLever;

With many a priceless turn of phrase

They stirred us to Homeric laughter,

When painting Ireland in the days

Before Sinn Fein bewitched and “strafed” her.

With them we watched goodMajor YeatesContending with litigious peasants,With “hidden hands” within his gates,With claims for foxes and for pheasants;We sawLeigh Kelwaydrop his chin—That precious English super-tripper—In shocked amazement drinking inThe lurid narrative ofSlipper.

With them we watched goodMajor Yeates

Contending with litigious peasants,

With “hidden hands” within his gates,

With claims for foxes and for pheasants;

We sawLeigh Kelwaydrop his chin—

That precious English super-tripper—

In shocked amazement drinking in

The lurid narrative ofSlipper.

Philippa’spiercing peacock squeals,Uttered in moments of expansion;The grime and splendour of the mealsOfMrs. Knoxand of her mansion;The secrets of horse-coping lore,The loves ofSallyand ofFlurry—All these delights and hundreds moreAre not forgotten in a hurry.

Philippa’spiercing peacock squeals,

Uttered in moments of expansion;

The grime and splendour of the meals

OfMrs. Knoxand of her mansion;

The secrets of horse-coping lore,

The loves ofSallyand ofFlurry—

All these delights and hundreds more

Are not forgotten in a hurry.

Yet the same genial pens that freightOur memories with joyous magicGave us the tale ofFrancie’sfate—So vulgar, lovable and tragic;Just to the land that gave them birthThey showed her smiling, sad and sullen,And turning from the paths of mirthProbed the dark soul ofCharlotte Mullen.

Yet the same genial pens that freight

Our memories with joyous magic

Gave us the tale ofFrancie’sfate—

So vulgar, lovable and tragic;

Just to the land that gave them birth

They showed her smiling, sad and sullen,

And turning from the paths of mirth

Probed the dark soul ofCharlotte Mullen.

Alas! the tie, so close, so dear,Two years ago death rent asunder;Hushed is the voice so gay and clearWhich moved us once to joy and wonder;Yet, though they chronicle a lossWhose pang no lapse of time assuages,The spirit of brave “Martin Ross”Shines like a star throughout these pages.

Alas! the tie, so close, so dear,

Two years ago death rent asunder;

Hushed is the voice so gay and clear

Which moved us once to joy and wonder;

Yet, though they chronicle a loss

Whose pang no lapse of time assuages,

The spirit of brave “Martin Ross”

Shines like a star throughout these pages.

Here in her letters may one traceThe generous scorn, the gentle pity,The easy unaffected grace,The wisdom that was always witty;Here, mirrored in a sister soul,One sees the comrade, strong yet tender,Who marched unfaltering to her goalThrough sacrifice and self-surrender.

Here in her letters may one trace

The generous scorn, the gentle pity,

The easy unaffected grace,

The wisdom that was always witty;

Here, mirrored in a sister soul,

One sees the comrade, strong yet tender,

Who marched unfaltering to her goal

Through sacrifice and self-surrender.

(Professor of Political Economy at McGill University, Montreal, and author of “Further Foolishness” and other notable works of humour.)

The life that is flagrantly double,Conflicting in conduct and aim,Is seldom untainted by troubleAnd commonly closes in shame;But no such anxieties pesterYour dual existence, which linksThe functions of don and of jester—High thoughts and high jinks.Your earliest venture perhaps isUnique in the rapture intenseDisplayed in these riotous LapsesFrom all that could savour of sense,Recalling the “goaks” and the gladnessOf one whom we elders adored—The methodical midsummer madnessOfArtemus Ward.With you, O enchanting Canadian,We laughed till you gave us a stitchIn our sides at the wondrous ArcadianExploits of the indolent rich;We loved your satirical sniping,And followed, far over “the pond,”The lure of your whimsical pipingBehind the Beyond.In place of the squalor that stretchesUnchanged o’er the realist’s page,The sunshine that glows in your SketchesIs potent our griefs to assuage;And when, on your mettlesome charger,Full tilt against reason you go,Your Lunacy’s finer and LargerThan any I know.The faults of ephemeral fiction,Exotic, erotic or smart,The vice of delirious diction,The latest excesses of Art—You flay in felicitous fashion,With dexterous choice of your tools,A scourge for unsavoury passion,A hammer for fools.And yet, though so freakish and dashing,You are not the slave of your fun,For there’s nobody better at lashingThe crimes and the cant of the Hun;Anyhow, I’d be proud as a peacockTo have it inscribed on my tomb:“He followed the footsteps ofLeacockIn banishing gloom.”

The life that is flagrantly double,

Conflicting in conduct and aim,

Is seldom untainted by trouble

And commonly closes in shame;

But no such anxieties pester

Your dual existence, which links

The functions of don and of jester—

High thoughts and high jinks.

Your earliest venture perhaps isUnique in the rapture intenseDisplayed in these riotous LapsesFrom all that could savour of sense,Recalling the “goaks” and the gladnessOf one whom we elders adored—The methodical midsummer madnessOfArtemus Ward.

Your earliest venture perhaps is

Unique in the rapture intense

Displayed in these riotous Lapses

From all that could savour of sense,

Recalling the “goaks” and the gladness

Of one whom we elders adored—

The methodical midsummer madness

OfArtemus Ward.

With you, O enchanting Canadian,We laughed till you gave us a stitchIn our sides at the wondrous ArcadianExploits of the indolent rich;We loved your satirical sniping,And followed, far over “the pond,”The lure of your whimsical pipingBehind the Beyond.

With you, O enchanting Canadian,

We laughed till you gave us a stitch

In our sides at the wondrous Arcadian

Exploits of the indolent rich;

We loved your satirical sniping,

And followed, far over “the pond,”

The lure of your whimsical piping

Behind the Beyond.

In place of the squalor that stretchesUnchanged o’er the realist’s page,The sunshine that glows in your SketchesIs potent our griefs to assuage;And when, on your mettlesome charger,Full tilt against reason you go,Your Lunacy’s finer and LargerThan any I know.

In place of the squalor that stretches

Unchanged o’er the realist’s page,

The sunshine that glows in your Sketches

Is potent our griefs to assuage;

And when, on your mettlesome charger,

Full tilt against reason you go,

Your Lunacy’s finer and Larger

Than any I know.

The faults of ephemeral fiction,Exotic, erotic or smart,The vice of delirious diction,The latest excesses of Art—You flay in felicitous fashion,With dexterous choice of your tools,A scourge for unsavoury passion,A hammer for fools.

The faults of ephemeral fiction,

Exotic, erotic or smart,

The vice of delirious diction,

The latest excesses of Art—

You flay in felicitous fashion,

With dexterous choice of your tools,

A scourge for unsavoury passion,

A hammer for fools.

And yet, though so freakish and dashing,You are not the slave of your fun,For there’s nobody better at lashingThe crimes and the cant of the Hun;Anyhow, I’d be proud as a peacockTo have it inscribed on my tomb:“He followed the footsteps ofLeacockIn banishing gloom.”

And yet, though so freakish and dashing,

You are not the slave of your fun,

For there’s nobody better at lashing

The crimes and the cant of the Hun;

Anyhow, I’d be proud as a peacock

To have it inscribed on my tomb:

“He followed the footsteps ofLeacock

In banishing gloom.”

(From a grateful Landsman.)

Although the movements of the seaHave always been a grief to meAnd still at times disastrouslyAffect mycorpus vile,Sailors of high and low degreeI long have honoured highly.But now we honour them far moreThan ever in the days of yoreFor all they’re doing in the WarTo guard and shield and free us;And this is where the man on shoreCan learn from “Bartimeus.”For lately, when I couldn’t stickA “fearless” book which made me sickAnd positively long to kickThe author to the ceiling,By luck I chanced on yourLong TrickAnd found immediate healing.Relentless realists protestYou only have one type—the best,Drawn from the Islands of the Blest—Of comrades, sons and mothers;They’d rather see you foul your nestThan praise the “band of brothers.”No matter; leave their ink to flow;It cannot work you weal or woe;The verdict of the men who knowThe truth in its essentialsShould make the armchair critic slowTo challenge your credentials.The naval officer you paintIs not at all a plaster saint;He doesn’t always brook restraint;He isn’t prim or stolid;But still he’s void of any taintThat’s mean or low or squalid.And then you write of wondrous thingsThat pluck our hearts’ most secret strings—The tender grace that childhood flingsOn scenes of stern endeavour;The news that joy and comfort bringsOr chills the heart for ever.So when young writers, void of ruth,Portray the flower of England’s youthAs ill-conditioned and uncouth—In short as Huns might see us—I turn for solace and for truthTo you, good “Bartimeus.”

Although the movements of the seaHave always been a grief to meAnd still at times disastrouslyAffect mycorpus vile,Sailors of high and low degreeI long have honoured highly.

Although the movements of the sea

Have always been a grief to me

And still at times disastrously

Affect mycorpus vile,

Sailors of high and low degree

I long have honoured highly.

But now we honour them far moreThan ever in the days of yoreFor all they’re doing in the WarTo guard and shield and free us;And this is where the man on shoreCan learn from “Bartimeus.”

But now we honour them far more

Than ever in the days of yore

For all they’re doing in the War

To guard and shield and free us;

And this is where the man on shore

Can learn from “Bartimeus.”

For lately, when I couldn’t stickA “fearless” book which made me sickAnd positively long to kickThe author to the ceiling,By luck I chanced on yourLong TrickAnd found immediate healing.

For lately, when I couldn’t stick

A “fearless” book which made me sick

And positively long to kick

The author to the ceiling,

By luck I chanced on yourLong Trick

And found immediate healing.

Relentless realists protestYou only have one type—the best,Drawn from the Islands of the Blest—Of comrades, sons and mothers;They’d rather see you foul your nestThan praise the “band of brothers.”

Relentless realists protest

You only have one type—the best,

Drawn from the Islands of the Blest—

Of comrades, sons and mothers;

They’d rather see you foul your nest

Than praise the “band of brothers.”

No matter; leave their ink to flow;It cannot work you weal or woe;The verdict of the men who knowThe truth in its essentialsShould make the armchair critic slowTo challenge your credentials.

No matter; leave their ink to flow;

It cannot work you weal or woe;

The verdict of the men who know

The truth in its essentials

Should make the armchair critic slow

To challenge your credentials.

The naval officer you paintIs not at all a plaster saint;He doesn’t always brook restraint;He isn’t prim or stolid;But still he’s void of any taintThat’s mean or low or squalid.

The naval officer you paint

Is not at all a plaster saint;

He doesn’t always brook restraint;

He isn’t prim or stolid;

But still he’s void of any taint

That’s mean or low or squalid.

And then you write of wondrous thingsThat pluck our hearts’ most secret strings—The tender grace that childhood flingsOn scenes of stern endeavour;The news that joy and comfort bringsOr chills the heart for ever.

And then you write of wondrous things

That pluck our hearts’ most secret strings—

The tender grace that childhood flings

On scenes of stern endeavour;

The news that joy and comfort brings

Or chills the heart for ever.

So when young writers, void of ruth,Portray the flower of England’s youthAs ill-conditioned and uncouth—In short as Huns might see us—I turn for solace and for truthTo you, good “Bartimeus.”

So when young writers, void of ruth,

Portray the flower of England’s youth

As ill-conditioned and uncouth—

In short as Huns might see us—

I turn for solace and for truth

To you, good “Bartimeus.”

In days when Bellona less madlyThe wheels of her chariot drave,To you, Father Anthony, gladlyMy doggerel homage I gave;And again uncontrollably yearningFor solace in desolate hoursI find a brief respite in turningToBarchester Towers.How good are the women, how various,As slowly their natures unfold!—The feudalMiss Thorne; the gregariousAnd amiableEleanor Bold;Mrs. Quiverful, dauntless though dowdy,With fourteen young ravens to feed,Who managed to meltMrs. Proudie,So great was her need.Mrs. Proudie, of course, is prodigious,A terror to friends and to foes,Ambitious, correctly religious,Yet leading her lord by the nose;Very far from an angel or jewel,Very near to a feminine Pope,And priceless in waging the duelThat smashedMr. Slope.And who would not willingly lingerWith you, OSignora, who twirledRound the tip of your white little fingerStaid clerics and men of the world!Commanding the spells of a Circe;Bewitching, though crippled and lame;Redeeming your malice with mercyAnd playing the game.The clergy—Tractarian, Erastian,Low Churchmen—you faithfully paintReveal to our view noSebastian,No martyr, and hardly a saint;Though perhaps, by so freely discardingPreferment and riches and fame,The guileless and goodMr. HardingIs worthy the name.You looked upon country and cityWith kindly and tolerant eyes;You never set out to be witty,Though seldom you failed to be wise;You were neither ornate nor elliptic,But most unaffectedly shrewd,For the art that is consciously crypticYou strictly tabooed.Your outlook is certainly narrowedTo lives that are never sublime;Our hearts are not haunted or harrowedWith desperate anguish or crime;But a mutual trust is for ever’Twixt author and reader maintained,And we know all along we shall neverBe wantonly pained.

In days when Bellona less madly

The wheels of her chariot drave,

To you, Father Anthony, gladly

My doggerel homage I gave;

And again uncontrollably yearning

For solace in desolate hours

I find a brief respite in turning

ToBarchester Towers.

How good are the women, how various,As slowly their natures unfold!—The feudalMiss Thorne; the gregariousAnd amiableEleanor Bold;Mrs. Quiverful, dauntless though dowdy,With fourteen young ravens to feed,Who managed to meltMrs. Proudie,So great was her need.

How good are the women, how various,

As slowly their natures unfold!—

The feudalMiss Thorne; the gregarious

And amiableEleanor Bold;

Mrs. Quiverful, dauntless though dowdy,

With fourteen young ravens to feed,

Who managed to meltMrs. Proudie,

So great was her need.

Mrs. Proudie, of course, is prodigious,A terror to friends and to foes,Ambitious, correctly religious,Yet leading her lord by the nose;Very far from an angel or jewel,Very near to a feminine Pope,And priceless in waging the duelThat smashedMr. Slope.

Mrs. Proudie, of course, is prodigious,

A terror to friends and to foes,

Ambitious, correctly religious,

Yet leading her lord by the nose;

Very far from an angel or jewel,

Very near to a feminine Pope,

And priceless in waging the duel

That smashedMr. Slope.

And who would not willingly lingerWith you, OSignora, who twirledRound the tip of your white little fingerStaid clerics and men of the world!Commanding the spells of a Circe;Bewitching, though crippled and lame;Redeeming your malice with mercyAnd playing the game.

And who would not willingly linger

With you, OSignora, who twirled

Round the tip of your white little finger

Staid clerics and men of the world!

Commanding the spells of a Circe;

Bewitching, though crippled and lame;

Redeeming your malice with mercy

And playing the game.

The clergy—Tractarian, Erastian,Low Churchmen—you faithfully paintReveal to our view noSebastian,No martyr, and hardly a saint;Though perhaps, by so freely discardingPreferment and riches and fame,The guileless and goodMr. HardingIs worthy the name.

The clergy—Tractarian, Erastian,

Low Churchmen—you faithfully paint

Reveal to our view noSebastian,

No martyr, and hardly a saint;

Though perhaps, by so freely discarding

Preferment and riches and fame,

The guileless and goodMr. Harding

Is worthy the name.

You looked upon country and cityWith kindly and tolerant eyes;You never set out to be witty,Though seldom you failed to be wise;You were neither ornate nor elliptic,But most unaffectedly shrewd,For the art that is consciously crypticYou strictly tabooed.

You looked upon country and city

With kindly and tolerant eyes;

You never set out to be witty,

Though seldom you failed to be wise;

You were neither ornate nor elliptic,

But most unaffectedly shrewd,

For the art that is consciously cryptic

You strictly tabooed.

Your outlook is certainly narrowedTo lives that are never sublime;Our hearts are not haunted or harrowedWith desperate anguish or crime;But a mutual trust is for ever’Twixt author and reader maintained,And we know all along we shall neverBe wantonly pained.

Your outlook is certainly narrowed

To lives that are never sublime;

Our hearts are not haunted or harrowed

With desperate anguish or crime;

But a mutual trust is for ever

’Twixt author and reader maintained,

And we know all along we shall never

Be wantonly pained.

There was a time when, posing as a purist,I thought it fine to criticize and crabCharles Dickensas a crude caricaturist,Who laid his colours on too thick and slab,Who lacked the temper of a judge or juristAnd made life lurid when it should be drab;In short I branded as a brilliant dauberThe man who gave usPecksniffandMicawber.True, there are blots—like spots upon the sun—And genius, lavish of imagination,In sheer profusion always has outrunThe bounds of strict artistic concentration;But when detraction’s worst is said and done,How much remains for fervent admiration,How much that never palls or wounds or sickens(Unlike some moderns) in great generousDickens!And inBleak House, the culminating storyThat marks the zenith of his swift career,The sovereign qualities that won him glory,As writer and reformer, all appear:Righteous resentment of abuses hoary,Of pomp and cant, self-centred, insincere;And burning sympathy that glows uncheckedFor those who sit in darkness and neglect.Who, if his heart be not of steel or stone,Can read unmoved ofCharleyor ofJo;Of dearMiss Flite, who, though her wits be flown,Has kept a soul as pure as driven snow;Of the fierce “man from Shropshire” overthrownBy Law’s delays; ofCaddy’sinky woe;Or of the alternating fits and flusterThat harass the unhappy slavey,Guster?And there are scores of characters so vividThey make us friends or enemies for life:Hortense, half-tamed she-wolf, with envy livid;The patientSnagsbyand his shrewish wife;The amorousGuppy, who poorEstherchivvied;TempestuousBoythorn, revelling in strife;Skimpole, the honey-tongued artistic cadger;And that tremendous woman,Mrs. Badger.No wonder then that, when we seek awhileRelief and respite from War’s strident chorus,Few books more swiftly charm us to a smile,Few books more truly hearten and restore usThan his, whose art was potent to beguileThousands of weary souls who came before us—No wonder, when the Huns, who ban our fiction,Were fain to free him from their malediction.

There was a time when, posing as a purist,

I thought it fine to criticize and crab

Charles Dickensas a crude caricaturist,

Who laid his colours on too thick and slab,

Who lacked the temper of a judge or jurist

And made life lurid when it should be drab;

In short I branded as a brilliant dauber

The man who gave usPecksniffandMicawber.

True, there are blots—like spots upon the sun—And genius, lavish of imagination,In sheer profusion always has outrunThe bounds of strict artistic concentration;But when detraction’s worst is said and done,How much remains for fervent admiration,How much that never palls or wounds or sickens(Unlike some moderns) in great generousDickens!

True, there are blots—like spots upon the sun—

And genius, lavish of imagination,

In sheer profusion always has outrun

The bounds of strict artistic concentration;

But when detraction’s worst is said and done,

How much remains for fervent admiration,

How much that never palls or wounds or sickens

(Unlike some moderns) in great generousDickens!

And inBleak House, the culminating storyThat marks the zenith of his swift career,The sovereign qualities that won him glory,As writer and reformer, all appear:Righteous resentment of abuses hoary,Of pomp and cant, self-centred, insincere;And burning sympathy that glows uncheckedFor those who sit in darkness and neglect.

And inBleak House, the culminating story

That marks the zenith of his swift career,

The sovereign qualities that won him glory,

As writer and reformer, all appear:

Righteous resentment of abuses hoary,

Of pomp and cant, self-centred, insincere;

And burning sympathy that glows unchecked

For those who sit in darkness and neglect.

Who, if his heart be not of steel or stone,Can read unmoved ofCharleyor ofJo;Of dearMiss Flite, who, though her wits be flown,Has kept a soul as pure as driven snow;Of the fierce “man from Shropshire” overthrownBy Law’s delays; ofCaddy’sinky woe;Or of the alternating fits and flusterThat harass the unhappy slavey,Guster?

Who, if his heart be not of steel or stone,

Can read unmoved ofCharleyor ofJo;

Of dearMiss Flite, who, though her wits be flown,

Has kept a soul as pure as driven snow;

Of the fierce “man from Shropshire” overthrown

By Law’s delays; ofCaddy’sinky woe;

Or of the alternating fits and fluster

That harass the unhappy slavey,Guster?

And there are scores of characters so vividThey make us friends or enemies for life:Hortense, half-tamed she-wolf, with envy livid;The patientSnagsbyand his shrewish wife;The amorousGuppy, who poorEstherchivvied;TempestuousBoythorn, revelling in strife;Skimpole, the honey-tongued artistic cadger;And that tremendous woman,Mrs. Badger.

And there are scores of characters so vivid

They make us friends or enemies for life:

Hortense, half-tamed she-wolf, with envy livid;

The patientSnagsbyand his shrewish wife;

The amorousGuppy, who poorEstherchivvied;

TempestuousBoythorn, revelling in strife;

Skimpole, the honey-tongued artistic cadger;

And that tremendous woman,Mrs. Badger.

No wonder then that, when we seek awhileRelief and respite from War’s strident chorus,Few books more swiftly charm us to a smile,Few books more truly hearten and restore usThan his, whose art was potent to beguileThousands of weary souls who came before us—No wonder, when the Huns, who ban our fiction,Were fain to free him from their malediction.

No wonder then that, when we seek awhile

Relief and respite from War’s strident chorus,

Few books more swiftly charm us to a smile,

Few books more truly hearten and restore us

Than his, whose art was potent to beguile

Thousands of weary souls who came before us—

No wonder, when the Huns, who ban our fiction,

Were fain to free him from their malediction.

Weary ofMacaulay, never nodding,Weary of the stodginess ofStubbs,Weary of the scientific ploddingOf the school that only digs and grubs;I salute, with grateful admirationForeign to the hireling eulogist,Chesterton’sred hot self-revelationIn the guise of England’s annalist.Here is no parade of erudition,No pretence of calm judicial tone,But the stimulating ebullitionOf a sort of humanized cyclone;Unafraid of flagrant paradoxes,Unashamed of often seeing red,Here’s a thinker who the compass boxesStanding most at ease upon his head.Yet with all this acrobatic frolicThere’s a core of sanity behindMadness that is never melancholic,Passion never cruel or unkind;And, although his wealth of purple patchesSome precisians may excessive deem,Still the decoration always matchesSomething rich and splendid in the theme.Not a textbook—that may be admitted—Full of dates and Treaties and of Pacts,For our author cannot be acquittedOf a liberal handling of his facts;But a stirring proof of Britain’s title,Less in Empire than in soul, of “Great,”And a frank and generous recitalOf “the glories of our blood and State.”

Weary ofMacaulay, never nodding,

Weary of the stodginess ofStubbs,

Weary of the scientific plodding

Of the school that only digs and grubs;

I salute, with grateful admiration

Foreign to the hireling eulogist,

Chesterton’sred hot self-revelation

In the guise of England’s annalist.

Here is no parade of erudition,No pretence of calm judicial tone,But the stimulating ebullitionOf a sort of humanized cyclone;Unafraid of flagrant paradoxes,Unashamed of often seeing red,Here’s a thinker who the compass boxesStanding most at ease upon his head.

Here is no parade of erudition,

No pretence of calm judicial tone,

But the stimulating ebullition

Of a sort of humanized cyclone;

Unafraid of flagrant paradoxes,

Unashamed of often seeing red,

Here’s a thinker who the compass boxes

Standing most at ease upon his head.

Yet with all this acrobatic frolicThere’s a core of sanity behindMadness that is never melancholic,Passion never cruel or unkind;And, although his wealth of purple patchesSome precisians may excessive deem,Still the decoration always matchesSomething rich and splendid in the theme.

Yet with all this acrobatic frolic

There’s a core of sanity behind

Madness that is never melancholic,

Passion never cruel or unkind;

And, although his wealth of purple patches

Some precisians may excessive deem,

Still the decoration always matches

Something rich and splendid in the theme.

Not a textbook—that may be admitted—Full of dates and Treaties and of Pacts,For our author cannot be acquittedOf a liberal handling of his facts;But a stirring proof of Britain’s title,Less in Empire than in soul, of “Great,”And a frank and generous recitalOf “the glories of our blood and State.”

Not a textbook—that may be admitted—

Full of dates and Treaties and of Pacts,

For our author cannot be acquitted

Of a liberal handling of his facts;

But a stirring proof of Britain’s title,

Less in Empire than in soul, of “Great,”

And a frank and generous recital

Of “the glories of our blood and State.”

(Aged six weeks.)

Small bundle, enveloped in laces,For whom I stood sponsor last week,When you slept, with the pinkest of faces,And never emitted a squeak;Though vain is the task of illumingThe Future’s inscrutable scroll,I cannot refrain from assumingA semi-propheticalrôle.I predict that in paths MontessorianYour infantile steps will be led,And with modes which are Phrygian and DorianYour musical appetite fed;You’ll be taught how to dance by a Russian,“Eurhythmics” you’ll learn from a Swiss,How not to behave like a Prussian—No teaching is needed for this!Will you learn Esperanto at Eton?Or, if Eton by then is suppressed,Be sent to grow apples or wheat onA ranche in the ultimate West?Will you aim at a modern diplomaIn civics or commerce or stinks?Inhale the Wisconsin aromaOr think as the humanist thinks?Will you learn to play tennis fromCoveyOr model your stroke onJay Gould?Will you play the piano likeToveyOr by gramophone records be schooled?Will you golf, or will golfing be banishedTo answer the needs of the plough,And links from the landscape have vanishedTo pasture the sheep and the cow?Your taste in the region of lettersI only can dimly foresee,But guess that from metrical fettersThe verse you’ll affect must be free;And I shan’t be surprised or astoundedIf your generation rebelsAgainst adulation unboundedOfShawand ofBennettandWells.Upholding ancestral traditionYour uncle has booked you at Lord’s,But I doubt if you’ll sate your ambitionAthletic on well-levelled swards;No, I rather opine that you’ll followThe lead that we owe to theWrights,And soar like the eagle or swallowOn far and adventurous flights.But no matter—in joy and affliction,In seasons of failure or fame,I cherish the certain convictionYou’ll never dishonour your name;For the love of the mother that bore you,The life and the death of your sireWill shine as a lantern before you,To guide and exalt and inspire.

Small bundle, enveloped in laces,

For whom I stood sponsor last week,

When you slept, with the pinkest of faces,

And never emitted a squeak;

Though vain is the task of illuming

The Future’s inscrutable scroll,

I cannot refrain from assuming

A semi-propheticalrôle.

I predict that in paths MontessorianYour infantile steps will be led,And with modes which are Phrygian and DorianYour musical appetite fed;You’ll be taught how to dance by a Russian,“Eurhythmics” you’ll learn from a Swiss,How not to behave like a Prussian—No teaching is needed for this!

I predict that in paths Montessorian

Your infantile steps will be led,

And with modes which are Phrygian and Dorian

Your musical appetite fed;

You’ll be taught how to dance by a Russian,

“Eurhythmics” you’ll learn from a Swiss,

How not to behave like a Prussian—

No teaching is needed for this!

Will you learn Esperanto at Eton?Or, if Eton by then is suppressed,Be sent to grow apples or wheat onA ranche in the ultimate West?Will you aim at a modern diplomaIn civics or commerce or stinks?Inhale the Wisconsin aromaOr think as the humanist thinks?

Will you learn Esperanto at Eton?

Or, if Eton by then is suppressed,

Be sent to grow apples or wheat on

A ranche in the ultimate West?

Will you aim at a modern diploma

In civics or commerce or stinks?

Inhale the Wisconsin aroma

Or think as the humanist thinks?

Will you learn to play tennis fromCoveyOr model your stroke onJay Gould?Will you play the piano likeToveyOr by gramophone records be schooled?Will you golf, or will golfing be banishedTo answer the needs of the plough,And links from the landscape have vanishedTo pasture the sheep and the cow?

Will you learn to play tennis fromCovey

Or model your stroke onJay Gould?

Will you play the piano likeTovey

Or by gramophone records be schooled?

Will you golf, or will golfing be banished

To answer the needs of the plough,

And links from the landscape have vanished

To pasture the sheep and the cow?

Your taste in the region of lettersI only can dimly foresee,But guess that from metrical fettersThe verse you’ll affect must be free;And I shan’t be surprised or astoundedIf your generation rebelsAgainst adulation unboundedOfShawand ofBennettandWells.

Your taste in the region of letters

I only can dimly foresee,

But guess that from metrical fetters

The verse you’ll affect must be free;

And I shan’t be surprised or astounded

If your generation rebels

Against adulation unbounded

OfShawand ofBennettandWells.

Upholding ancestral traditionYour uncle has booked you at Lord’s,But I doubt if you’ll sate your ambitionAthletic on well-levelled swards;No, I rather opine that you’ll followThe lead that we owe to theWrights,And soar like the eagle or swallowOn far and adventurous flights.

Upholding ancestral tradition

Your uncle has booked you at Lord’s,

But I doubt if you’ll sate your ambition

Athletic on well-levelled swards;

No, I rather opine that you’ll follow

The lead that we owe to theWrights,

And soar like the eagle or swallow

On far and adventurous flights.

But no matter—in joy and affliction,In seasons of failure or fame,I cherish the certain convictionYou’ll never dishonour your name;For the love of the mother that bore you,The life and the death of your sireWill shine as a lantern before you,To guide and exalt and inspire.

But no matter—in joy and affliction,

In seasons of failure or fame,

I cherish the certain conviction

You’ll never dishonour your name;

For the love of the mother that bore you,

The life and the death of your sire

Will shine as a lantern before you,

To guide and exalt and inspire.

Four years I spent beneath his rule,For three of which askance I scanned him,And only after leaving schoolCame thoroughly to understand him;For he was brusque in various waysThat jarred upon the modern mother,And scouted as a silly crazeThe theory of the “elder brother.”Renowned at Cambridge as an oarAnd quite distinguished as a wrangler,He felt incomparably morePride in his exploits as an angler;He held his fishing on the TestAbove the riches of the Speyers,And there he lured me, as his guest,Into the ranks of the “dry-flyers.”He made no fetish of the caneAs owning any special virtue,But held the discipline of pain,When rightly earned, would never hurt you;With lapses of the normal brandI think he dealt most mercifully,But chastened with a heavy handThe sneak, the liar and the bully.We used to criticize his boots,His simple tastes in food and fiction,His everlasting homespun suits,His leisurely old-fashioned diction;And yet we had the savingnousTo recognize no worse disasterCould possibly befall the HouseThan the removal of its Master.For though his voice was deep and gruff,And rumbled like a motor-lorry,He showed the true angelic stuffIf anyone was sick or sorry;So when pneumonia, doubly dread,Of breath had nearly quite bereft me,He watched three nights beside my bedUntil the burning fever left me.He served three Heads with equal zealAnd equal absence of ambition;He knew his power, and did not feelThe least desire for recognition;But shrewd observers, who could traceBack to their source results far-reaching,Saw the true spirit of the raceEmbodied in his life and teaching.The War’s deep waters o’er him rolledAs he beheld Young England givingLife prodigally, while the oldLived on without the cause for living;And yet he never heaved a sighAlthough his heart was inly riven;He only craved one boon—to dieIn harness, and the boon was given.

Four years I spent beneath his rule,

For three of which askance I scanned him,

And only after leaving school

Came thoroughly to understand him;

For he was brusque in various ways

That jarred upon the modern mother,

And scouted as a silly craze

The theory of the “elder brother.”

Renowned at Cambridge as an oarAnd quite distinguished as a wrangler,He felt incomparably morePride in his exploits as an angler;He held his fishing on the TestAbove the riches of the Speyers,And there he lured me, as his guest,Into the ranks of the “dry-flyers.”

Renowned at Cambridge as an oar

And quite distinguished as a wrangler,

He felt incomparably more

Pride in his exploits as an angler;

He held his fishing on the Test

Above the riches of the Speyers,

And there he lured me, as his guest,

Into the ranks of the “dry-flyers.”

He made no fetish of the caneAs owning any special virtue,But held the discipline of pain,When rightly earned, would never hurt you;With lapses of the normal brandI think he dealt most mercifully,But chastened with a heavy handThe sneak, the liar and the bully.

He made no fetish of the cane

As owning any special virtue,

But held the discipline of pain,

When rightly earned, would never hurt you;

With lapses of the normal brand

I think he dealt most mercifully,

But chastened with a heavy hand

The sneak, the liar and the bully.

We used to criticize his boots,His simple tastes in food and fiction,His everlasting homespun suits,His leisurely old-fashioned diction;And yet we had the savingnousTo recognize no worse disasterCould possibly befall the HouseThan the removal of its Master.

We used to criticize his boots,

His simple tastes in food and fiction,

His everlasting homespun suits,

His leisurely old-fashioned diction;

And yet we had the savingnous

To recognize no worse disaster

Could possibly befall the House

Than the removal of its Master.

For though his voice was deep and gruff,And rumbled like a motor-lorry,He showed the true angelic stuffIf anyone was sick or sorry;So when pneumonia, doubly dread,Of breath had nearly quite bereft me,He watched three nights beside my bedUntil the burning fever left me.

For though his voice was deep and gruff,

And rumbled like a motor-lorry,

He showed the true angelic stuff

If anyone was sick or sorry;

So when pneumonia, doubly dread,

Of breath had nearly quite bereft me,

He watched three nights beside my bed

Until the burning fever left me.

He served three Heads with equal zealAnd equal absence of ambition;He knew his power, and did not feelThe least desire for recognition;But shrewd observers, who could traceBack to their source results far-reaching,Saw the true spirit of the raceEmbodied in his life and teaching.

He served three Heads with equal zeal

And equal absence of ambition;

He knew his power, and did not feel

The least desire for recognition;

But shrewd observers, who could trace

Back to their source results far-reaching,

Saw the true spirit of the race

Embodied in his life and teaching.

The War’s deep waters o’er him rolledAs he beheld Young England givingLife prodigally, while the oldLived on without the cause for living;And yet he never heaved a sighAlthough his heart was inly riven;He only craved one boon—to dieIn harness, and the boon was given.

The War’s deep waters o’er him rolled

As he beheld Young England giving

Life prodigally, while the old

Lived on without the cause for living;

And yet he never heaved a sigh

Although his heart was inly riven;

He only craved one boon—to die

In harness, and the boon was given.

A stone’s-throw from the College gateThere lives a very noble lady;A cottage-lawn her whole estate,Without a tree to keep it shady;For thirty years she served the schoolIn quite a number of positions,And by her character and ruleUpheld its very best traditions.School generations came and went,Head followed Head—but in this story’Tis foreign to my main intentTo say which gained the greatest glory;Enough that minds of every size,Hustlers and scholars, bloods and boobies,All came in time to recognizeHer price was far above all rubies.For, though immersed in household caresAnd such extremely mundane mattersAs washing, packing and repairsOf wardrobes normally in tatters,She found with unobtrusive tactA hundred ways of help and healing,And never overlooked an actOf cruelty or double-dealing.Her office and her Spartan breedForbade her to be sentimental,But in an hour of real needShe could be wonderfully gentle;To fashion, to the swift or strongShe was incapable of truckling,But helped the lonely soul alongAnd comforted the ugly duckling.Robust in body and in mind,Free from all feminine caprices,Seeing the best in all her kind,Though loving nephews more than nieces,She made no pets; if haply oneAppealed to her beyond another,It was the orphan or the sonNeglected by a selfish mother.Too fond to quit a scene so dear,Too wise to fancy she was slighted,Loth to intrude or interfere,Though always helpful when invited,She is the first whom boys on leaveGreet when they seek theiralma mater,The last they part from on the eveOf their return to trench and crater.For in her strong and homely face,Her life serene and self-forgetting,They see the Genius of the PlaceIncarnate in a human setting;And, though they readily would ownTheir debt to Founder, Saint and Patron,Keep in their heart of hearts a throneOf special glory for the Matron.

A stone’s-throw from the College gate

There lives a very noble lady;

A cottage-lawn her whole estate,

Without a tree to keep it shady;

For thirty years she served the school

In quite a number of positions,

And by her character and rule

Upheld its very best traditions.

School generations came and went,Head followed Head—but in this story’Tis foreign to my main intentTo say which gained the greatest glory;Enough that minds of every size,Hustlers and scholars, bloods and boobies,All came in time to recognizeHer price was far above all rubies.

School generations came and went,

Head followed Head—but in this story

’Tis foreign to my main intent

To say which gained the greatest glory;

Enough that minds of every size,

Hustlers and scholars, bloods and boobies,

All came in time to recognize

Her price was far above all rubies.

For, though immersed in household caresAnd such extremely mundane mattersAs washing, packing and repairsOf wardrobes normally in tatters,She found with unobtrusive tactA hundred ways of help and healing,And never overlooked an actOf cruelty or double-dealing.

For, though immersed in household cares

And such extremely mundane matters

As washing, packing and repairs

Of wardrobes normally in tatters,

She found with unobtrusive tact

A hundred ways of help and healing,

And never overlooked an act

Of cruelty or double-dealing.

Her office and her Spartan breedForbade her to be sentimental,But in an hour of real needShe could be wonderfully gentle;To fashion, to the swift or strongShe was incapable of truckling,But helped the lonely soul alongAnd comforted the ugly duckling.

Her office and her Spartan breed

Forbade her to be sentimental,

But in an hour of real need

She could be wonderfully gentle;

To fashion, to the swift or strong

She was incapable of truckling,

But helped the lonely soul along

And comforted the ugly duckling.

Robust in body and in mind,Free from all feminine caprices,Seeing the best in all her kind,Though loving nephews more than nieces,She made no pets; if haply oneAppealed to her beyond another,It was the orphan or the sonNeglected by a selfish mother.

Robust in body and in mind,

Free from all feminine caprices,

Seeing the best in all her kind,

Though loving nephews more than nieces,

She made no pets; if haply one

Appealed to her beyond another,

It was the orphan or the son

Neglected by a selfish mother.

Too fond to quit a scene so dear,Too wise to fancy she was slighted,Loth to intrude or interfere,Though always helpful when invited,She is the first whom boys on leaveGreet when they seek theiralma mater,The last they part from on the eveOf their return to trench and crater.

Too fond to quit a scene so dear,

Too wise to fancy she was slighted,

Loth to intrude or interfere,

Though always helpful when invited,

She is the first whom boys on leave

Greet when they seek theiralma mater,

The last they part from on the eve

Of their return to trench and crater.

For in her strong and homely face,Her life serene and self-forgetting,They see the Genius of the PlaceIncarnate in a human setting;And, though they readily would ownTheir debt to Founder, Saint and Patron,Keep in their heart of hearts a throneOf special glory for the Matron.

For in her strong and homely face,

Her life serene and self-forgetting,

They see the Genius of the Place

Incarnate in a human setting;

And, though they readily would own

Their debt to Founder, Saint and Patron,

Keep in their heart of hearts a throne

Of special glory for the Matron.

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