THE HOOTAWA VANDYCK.

Of course it was dreadful for him. If he exposed Dr. Groschen, his own reputation as an expert would be gone, and the Doctor was already paid half the purchase money. Monteagle was so agitated that it was with difficulty I could get his story out of him, and to this day I have never quite learned the truth. Controlling my laughter, I sent a note round to ProfessorGirdelstone, asking him to come to my rooms. In about ten minutes he appeared, looking as draggled and sheepish as poor Monteagle. In his bosom he carried the fateful MS., which I now saw for the first time. If it was a forgery (and I have never been convinced) it was certainly a masterpiece. From what Girdelstone said to me, then and since, I think that the Aulus Gellius portion was genuine enough, and the Book of Jasher possibly the invention of Groschen; however, it will never be discovered if one or neither was genuine. Monteagle thought the ink used was a compound of tea and charcoal, but both he and Girdelstone were too suspicious to believe even each other by this time.

I tried to console them, and promised all help in my power. They were rather startled and alarmed when I laid out my plan of campaign. In the first place, I was to withdraw all opposition to the purchase of the MS. Girdelstone and Monteagle, meanwhile, were to set about having the Aulus Gellius printed and facsimiled; for I thought it was a pity such a work should be lost to the world. The facsimile was only to beannounced; andpublication by the University Press to be put in hand at once. The text of Aulus Gellius can still be obtained, and a translation of those portions which can be rendered into English forms a volume of Mr. Bohn’s excellent classical library, which will satisfy the curious, who are unacquainted with Latin. Professor Girdelstone was to write a preface in very guarded terms. This will be familiar to all classical scholars.

It was with great difficulty that I could persuade Girdelstone and Monteagle of the sincerity of my actions; but the poor fellows were ready to catch at any straw for hope from exposure, and they listened to every word I said. As the whole University knew I was not on speaking terms with Girdelstone, I told him to adopt a Nicodemus-like attitude, and to come to me in the night-time, when we could hold consultation. To the outer world, during these anxious evenings, when I would see no one, I was supposed to be preparing my great syllabus of lectures on the ichthyosaurus. I communicated to my fellow-curators my plans bit by bit only, for I thought it would be better for their nerves. I made Monteaglesend round a notice to the press:—‘That the MS. about to become the property of the University Museum was being facsimiled prior to publication, and at the earliest possible date would be on view in the Galleries where Dr. Groschen’s collections are now exhibited.’ This was to quiet the complaints already being made by scholars and commentators about the difficulty of obtaining access to the MS. The importunities of several religious societies to examine the Book of Jasher became intolerable. The Dean of Rothbury, an old friend of Girdelstone’s, came from the north on purpose to collate the new-found work. With permission he intended, he said, to write a small brochure for the S.P.C.K. on the Book of Jasher, though I believe that he also felt some curiosity in regard to Aulus Gellius. I may be wronging him. The subterfuges, lies, and devices to which we resorted were not very creditable to ourselves. Girdelstone gave him a dinner, and Monteagle and I persuaded the Senate to confer on him an honorary degree. We amused him with advance sheets of the commentary. He was quite a month at Oxbridge, but at last wasrecalled on business to the north by some lucky domestic family bereavement. Our next difficulty was the news that Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, was about to visit England to attend an Anglican Synod. I thought Girdelstone would go off his head. Monteagle’s hair became grey in a few weeks. Sarpedon was sure to be invited to Oxbridge. He would meet Dr. Groschen and then expose him. Our fears, I soon found out, were shared by thesavant, who left suddenly on one of those mysterious visits to the East. I saw that our action must be prompt; or Girdelstone and Monteagle would be lost. They were horrified when I told them I proposed placing the MS. on public view in the museum immediately. A large plate-glass case was made by my orders, in which Girdelstone and Monteagle, who obeyed me like lambs, deposited their precious burden. It was placed in the Groschen Hall of the FitzTaylor. The crush that afternoon was terrible. All the University came to peer at the new acquisition. I must tell you that Dr. Groschen’s antiquities occupied a temporary and fire-proof erection built of wood and tin,at the back of the museum, with which it was connected by a long stone gallery, adorned with plaster casts.

I mingled with the crowd, and heard the remarks; though I advised Girdelstone and Monteagle to keep out of the way, as it would only upset them. Various dons came up and chaffed me about the opposition I made to the MS. being purchased. A little man of dark, sallow complexion asked me if I was Professor Girdelstone. He wanted to obtain leave to examine the MS. I gave him my card, and asked him to call on me, when I would arrange a suitable day. He told me he was a Lutheran pastor from Pomerania.

I was the last to leave the museum that afternoon. I often remained in the library long after five, the usual closing hour. So I dismissed the attendants who locked up everything with the exception of a small door in the stone gallery always used on such occasions. I waited till six, and as I went out opened near this door a sash window, having removed the iron shutters. After dinner I went round to Monteagle’s rooms. He andGirdelstone were sitting in a despondent way on each side of the fire, sipping weak coffee and nibbling Albert biscuits. They were startled at my entrance.

‘Whathaveyou decided?’ asked Girdelstone, hoarsely.

‘All is arranged. Monteagle and I set fire to the museum to-night,’ I said, quietly.

Girdelstone buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

‘Anything but that—anything but that!’ he cried. And Monteagle turned a little pale. At first they protested, but I overcame their scruples by saying they might get out of the mess how they liked. I advised Girdelstone to go to bed and plead illness for the next few days, for he really wanted rest. At eleven o’clock that night, Monteagle and myself crossed the meadows at the back of our college, and by a circuitous route reached the grounds surrounding the museum, which were planted with rhododendrons and other shrubs. The pouring rain was, unfortunately, not favourable for our enterprise. I brought however a small box of combustibles from the University Laboratories, and a dark lantern.When we climbed over the low wall not far from the stone gallery, I saw, to my horror, a light emerging from the Groschen Hall. Monteagle, who is fearfully superstitious, began chattering his teeth. When we reached the small door I saw it was open. A thief had evidently forestalled us. Monteagle suggested going back, and leaving the thief to make off with the MS.; but I would not hear of such a proposal.

The door opening to the Groschen Hall at the end of the gallery was open, and beyond, a man, whom I at once recognised as the little Lutheran, was busily engaged in picking the lock of the case where were deposited the Book of Jasher and Aulus Gellius. Telling Monteagle to guard the door, I approached very softly, keeping behind the plaster casts. I was within a yard of him before he heard my boots creak. Then he turned round, and I found myself face to face with Dr. Groschen. I have never seen such a look of terror on any one’s face.

‘You scoundrel!’ I cried, collecting myself, ‘drop those things at once!’ and I made for him with my fist. He dodged me. I ranafter him; but he threaded his way like a rat through the statues and cases of antiquities, and bolted down the passage out of the door, where he upset Monteagle and the lantern, and disappeared in the darkness and rain. I then returned to the scene of his labours. Monteagle was too frightened, owing to the rather ghostly appearance of the museum by the light of a feeble oil-lamp. In a small cupboard there was some dry sacking I had deposited there for the purpose some days before. This I ignited, along with certain native curiosities of straw and skin, wicker-work, and other ethnographical treasures.

Some new unpacked cases left by the attendants the previous afternoon materially assisted the conflagration.

It was an impressive scene, to witness the flames playing round the pedestals of the torsos, statues, and cases. I only waited for a few moments to make sure that my work was complete. I shut the iron door between the gallery and the hall to avoid the possibility of the fire spreading to the rest of the building. Then I seized Monteagle by the arm and hurried him through the rhododendrons,over the wall, into the meadows. I turned back once, and just caught a glimpse of red flame bursting through the windows. Having seen Monteagle half-way back to the college, I returned to see if any alarm was given. Already a small crowd was collecting. A fire-engine arrived, and a local pump was almost set going. I returned to college, where I found the porter standing in the gateway.

‘The FitzTaylor is burning,’ he said. ‘I have been looking out for you, sir.’

* * * * *

There is nothing more to tell. To this day no one suspects that the fire was the work of an incendiary. The Professor has returned from the East, but lives in great retirement. His friends say he has never quite recovered the shock occasioned by the loss of his collection. The rest of the museum was uninjured.

The death of Sarpedon, Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, at Naples, was a sudden and melancholy catastrophe, which people think affected Dr. Groschen more than the fire. Strangely enough, he had just been diningwith the Doctor the evening before. They met at Naples purposely to bury the hatchet. Sometimes I ask myself if I did right in setting fire to the museum. You see, it was for the sake of others, not myself, and Monteagle was an old friend.

‘My own experience,’ said an expert to a group of mostly middle-aged men, who spent their whole life in investigating spiritual phenomena, ‘is a peculiar one.

‘It was in the early autumn of 1900. I was at Rome, where I went to investigate the relative artistic affinity between Pietro Cavallini and Giotto (whose position, I think, will have to be adjusted). There were as yet only a few visitors at the Hôtel Russie, chiefly maiden ladies and casual tourists, besides a certain Scotch family and myself. Colonel Brodie, formerly of the 69th Highlanders, was a retired officer of that rather peppery type which always seems to belong to the stage rather than real life, though you meet so many examples on the Continent. He possessed an extraordinary topographical knowledge of modern Rome, the tramway system, and the hours at which churches and galleries were open. He wouldwaylay you in the entrance-hall and inquire severely if you had been to the Catacombs. In the case of an affirmative answer he would describe an unvisited tomb or ruin, far better worth seeing; in that of a negative, he would smile, tell you the shortest and cheapest route, and the amount which should be tendered to the Trappist Father. Later on in the evening, over coffee, if he was pleased with you, he would mention in a very impressive manner, “I am, as you probably know, Colonel Brodie, of Hootawa.” His wife, beside whom I sat at table d’hôte, retained traces of former beauty. She was thin, and still tight-laced; was somewhat acid in manner; censorious concerning the other visitors; singularly devoted to her tedious husband, and fretfully attached to the beautiful daughter, for whose pleasure and education they were visiting Rome. I gathered that they were fairly well-to-do.

It was Mrs. Brodie who first broke the ice by asking if I was interested in pictures. Miss Brodie, who sat between her parents, turned very red, and said, “Oh, mamma, you are talking to one of the greatest experts inEurope!” I was surprised and somewhat gratified by her knowledge (indeed, it chilled me some days later when she confessed to having learnt the information only that day by overhearing an argument between myself and a friend at the Colonna Gallery on Stefano de Zevio, and the indebtedness of Northern Italian art to Teutonic influences).

Mrs. Brodie took the intelligence quite calmly, and merely inspected me through her lorgnettes as if I were an object in a museum.

“Ah, you must talk to Flora about pictures. I have no doubt that she will tell you a good deal that evenyoudo not know. We have some very interesting pictures up in Scotland. My husband is Colonel Brodie of Hootawa (no relation to the Brodie of Brodie). His grandfather was a great collector, and originally we possessed seven Raphaels.”

“Indeed,” I replied, eagerly, “might I ask the names of the pictures? I should know them at once.”

“I have never seen them,” said Mrs. Brodie; “they were not left to my husband, who quarrelled with his father. Fortunatelynone of us cared for Raphaels; but the most valuable pictures, including a Vandyck, were entailed. Flora is particularly attached to Vandyck. He is always so romantic, I think.”

Flora, embarrassed by her mother’s eulogy of family heirlooms, leaned across, as if to address me, and said, “Oh, mamma, I don’t think they really were Raphaels; they were probably only by pupils—Giulio Romano, Perino del Vaga, or Luca Penni.”

“As you never saw them, my dear,” said Mrs. Brodie, severely, “I don’t think you can possibly tell. Your grandfather” (she glared at me) “was consideredthegreatest expert in Europe, and described them in his will as Raphaels. It would be impious to suggest that they are by any one else. There weretwoHoly Families. One of them was given to your grandfather by the King of Holland in recognition of his services; and a third was purchased direct from the Queen of Naples. But your father is getting impatient for his cigar.”

They rose, and bowed sweetly. I joined them in the glass winter-garden a few minutes later.

“Have you been to the Pincio? But I forgot, of course you know Rome. I do love the Pincio,” sighed Mrs. Brodie over some needlework, and then, as an afterthought, “Do you know the two things that have impressed me most since I came here?”

“I could not dare to guess any more than I dare tell you what has impressed me most,” I replied, gazing softly at Flora.

“The two things which have really and truly impressed me most,” continued Mrs. Brodie, “more than anything else, more than the Pantheon, or the Forum, are—St. Peter’s and the Colosseum.” She almost looked young again.

The next day we visited the Borghese; and I was able to explain to Flora why the circular “Madonna and Angels” was not by Botticelli. And, indeed, there was hardly a picture in Rome I was unable to reattribute to its rightful owner. In the apt Flora I found a receptive pupil. She even grew suspicious about the great Velasquez at the Doria, in which she fancied, with all the enthusiasm of youth, that she detected thehandling of Mazo. I soon found that it was better for her training to discourage her from looking at pictures at all—we confined ourselves to photographs. In a photograph you are not disturbed by colour, or by impasto. You are able to study the morphic values in a picture, by which means you arrive at the attribution without any disturbing æsthetic considerations.

One afternoon, returning from some church ceremony, Flora said to me, “Oh, Aleister” (we were already engaged secretly), “papa is going to ask you next winter to stay at Hootawa. Before I forget, I want to warn you never to criticise the pictures. They are mostly of the Dutch and English School, and I dare say you will find a great many of the names wrong; but, you know, papa is irritable, and it would offend him if you said that the ‘Terborch’ was really by Pieter de Hooghe. You can easily avoid saying anything—and then, you will really admire the Vandyck.”

“Darling Flora, of course I promise. By the way, you never speak of your family ghost, although Mrs. Brodie always refers to it as if I knew all about it; and the Colonel hasoften told me of Sir Rupert’s military achievements.”

“Oh, Aleister, I don’t know whether you believe in ghosts: itisvery extraordinary. Whenever any disaster, or any good fortune happens to our family, Sir Rupert Brodie’s figure, just as he appears in the Vandyck, is seen walking in the Long Gallery; and every night he appears at twelve o’clock in the green spare bedroom; but only guests and servants ever see him there. We have a saying at Hootawa, that servants will not stay unless they are able to see Sir Rupert the first month after their arrival. Only members of the family are able to see him in the Long Gallery, and, of course, we never know whether he betokens good or ill luck. The last time he appeared there, papa was so nervous that he sold out of Consols, which went down an eighth the day after. We were all very much relieved. But he invested the money in some concern called “The Imperial Federation Stylograph Pen Company,” and lost most of it; so it was not of much use.”

“Tell me, darling, of your father’s other investments,” I asked anxiously.

“Oh, you must ask papa about them, I don’t understand business; but I want to tell you about Sir Rupert. The Society for Psychical Research sent down a Committee to inquire into the credibility of the ghost, and recorded four authentic apparitions in the spare bedroom; and on family evidence accepted at least three events in the Long Gallery. It was just after their report was issued that papa was invited to lease the house to some Americans for the summer. He always gets a good price for it now, simply on account of the ghost. I always think that rather horrid. I don’t believe poor Sir Rupert would like it.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know,” I suggested.

“Of course, you don’t believe in him,” she said in rather an offended way.

“My darling, of course I do; I have always believed in ghosts. Most of the pictures in the world, as I am always saying, were painted byghosts.”

“Oh, no, Aleister, you’re laughing at me; but when you see Sir Rupert, as you will, in the spare bedroom, you will believe too.”

At the end of January, I became Flora’s accepted fiancé.

In February, I moved with the Brodies to Florence, where I was able to introduce them to all my kind and hospitable friends,—the Berensons, Mr. Charles Loeser, Mr. Herbert Horne, and Mr. Hobart Cust. Flora was in every way a great success, and commenced a little book on Nera di Bicci for Bell’s Great Painters Series. She was invited to contribute to theBurlington Magazine. It was quite a primavera. Our marriage was arranged for the following February. The Brodies were to return to Hootawa after it was vacated by the American summer tenants. I was to join them for Christmas on my return from America, where I was compelled to go in order to settle my affairs. My father, Lorenzo Q. Sweat, of Chicago, evinced great pleasure at my approaching union with an old Scotch family; he promised me a handsome allowance considering his recent losses in the meat packing swindle—I mean trade. I was able to dissuade him from coming to Europe for the ceremony. After delivering two successful lectures on Pietro Cavallini in the early fall at mothers’ soirées, I sailed for Liverpool.

There was deep snow on the ground when I arrived at Hootawa in the early afternoon of a cold December day. The Colonel met me at the station in the uniform of the 69th, attended by two gillies holding torches.

“There will just be enough light to glance at the pictures before tea,” he said gaily, and in three-quarters of an hour I was embracing Flora and saluting her mother, who were in the hall to greet me. For the most part Hootawa was a typical old Scotch castle, with extinguisher turrets; an incongruous Jacobean addition rather enhancing its picturesque ensemble.

“You’ll see better pictures here than anything in Rome,” remarked the Colonel; but Flora giggled rather nervously.

In the smoking-room and library, I inspected, with assumed interest, works by the little masters of Holland, and some more admirable examples of the English Eighteenth Century School. Faithful to my promise, I pronounced every one of them to be little gems, unsurpassed by anything in the private collections of America or Europe. We passed into the drawing-room and parlour with the same success. In the latter apartment theColonel, grasping my arm, said impressively: “Now you will see our great treasure, the Brodie Vandyck, of which Flora has so often told you. I have never lent it for exhibition, for, as you know, we are rather superstitious about it. Sir Joshua Reynolds, in 1780, offered to paint the portraits of the whole family in exchange for the picture. Dr. Waagen describes it in his well-known work. Dr. Bode came from Berlin on purpose to see it some years ago, when he left a certificate (which was scarcely necessary) of its undoubted authenticity. I was so touched by his genuine admiration, that I presented him with a small Dutch picture which he admired in the smoking-room, and thought not unworthy of placing in the Berlin Gallery. I expect you know Dr. Bode.”

“Not personally,” I said, as we stepped into the Long Gallery.

It was a delightful panelled room, with oak-beamed ceiling. Between the mullioned windows were old Venetian mirrors and seventeenth-century chairs. At the end, concealed by a rich crimson brocade, hung the Vandyck, the only picture on the walls.

It was the Colonel himself who drew aside the curtain which veiled discreetly the famous picture of Sir Rupert Brodie at the age of thirty-two, in the beautiful costume of the period. The face was unusually pallid; it was just the sort of portrait you would expect to walk out of its frame.

“You have never seen a finer Vandyck, I am sure,” said Mrs. Brodie, anxiously. I examined the work with great care, employing a powerful pocket-glass. There was an awkward pause for about five minutes.

“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, sternly, “have you nothing to say?”

“It is a very interesting and excellent work, thoughnotby Vandyck; it is by Jamieson, his Scotch pupil; the morphic forms . . .”—but I got no further. There was a loud clap of thunder, and Flora fainted away. I was hastening to her side when her father’s powerful arm seized my collar. He ran me down the gallery and out by an egress which led into the entrance hall, where some menial opened the massive door. I felt one stinging blow on my face; then, bleeding and helpless, I was kicked down the steps into the snowfrom which I was picked up, half stunned, by one of the gillies.

“Eh, mon, hae ye seen the bogles at Hootawa?” he observed.

“It will be very civil of you if you will conduct me to the depôt, or the nearest caravanserai,” I replied.

I never saw Flora again.’

* * * * *

‘But what has happened about the ghost, Mr. Sweat? You never told us anything about it. Did you ever see it?’ asked one of the listeners in a disappointed tone.

‘Oh, I forgot; no, that was rather tragic.Sir Rupert Brodie never appeared again, not even in the spare bedroom; he seemed offended. Eventually his portrait was sent up to London, where Mr. Lionel Cust pointed out that it could not have been painted until after Vandyck’s death, at which time Sir Rupert was only ten years old. Indeed, there was some uncertainty whether the picture represented Sir Rupert at all. Mr. Bowyer Nichols found fault with the costume, which belonged to an earlier date prior to Sir Rupert’sbirth. Colonel Brodie never recovered from the shock. He resides chiefly at Harrogate. Gradually the servants all gave notice, and Hootawa ceased to attract Americans. Poor Flora! I ought to have remembered my promise; but the habit was too strong in me. Sir Oliver Lodge, I believe, has an explanation for the non-appearance of the phantom after the events I have described. He regards it as a good instance ofbypsychic duality—the fortuitous phenomenon by which spirits are often uncertain as to whom they really represent. But I am only an art critic, not a physicist.’

ToHerbert Horne, Esq.

In the closing years of the last century I held the position of a publisher’s hack. Having failed in everything except sculpture, I became publisher’s reader and adviser. It was the age of the ‘dicky dongs,’ and, of course, I advised chiefly the publication of deciduous literature, or books which dealt with the history of decay. The business, unfortunately, closed before my plans were materialised; but there was a really brilliant series of works prepared for an ungrateful public. A cheap and abridged edition of Gibbon was to have heralded the ‘Ruined Home’ Library, as we only dealt with the decline and fall of things, and eschewed Motley in both senses of the word. ‘Bad Taste in All Ages’ (twelve volumes edited by myself) would have rivalled some of Mr. Sidney Lee’s monumental undertakings. It was a memory of these unfulfilled designs which has turned my thoughts to an old notebook—the skeleton of what was destined never to be a book in being.

I have often wondered why no one has evertried to form an anthology of bad poetry. It would, of course, be easy enough to get together a dreary little volume of unreadable and unsaleable song. There are, however, certain stanzas so exquisite in their unconscious absurdity that an inverted immortality may be claimed for them. It is essential that their authors should have been serious, because parody and light verse have been carried to such a state of perfection that a tenth muse has been created—the muse of Mr. Owen Seaman and the late St. John Hankin for example. When the Anakim, men of old, which were men of renown—Shelley, Keats, or Tennyson—become playful, I confess to a feeling of nervousness: the unpleasant, hot sensation you experience when a distinguished man makes a fool of himself. Rossetti—I suppose from his Italian origin—was able to assume motley without loss of dignity, and that wounded Titan, the late W. E. Henley, was another exception. Both he and Rossetti had the faculty of being foolish, or obscene, without impairing the high seriousness of their superb poetic gifts.

But I refer to more serious folly—that ofthe disciples of Silas Wegg. Some friends of mine in the country employed a ladies’-maid with literary proclivities. She was never known to smile; the other servants thought her stuck up; she was a great reader of novels, poetry, and popular books on astronomy. One day she gave notice, departed at the end of a month, left no address, and never applied for a character. Beneath the mattress of her bed was found a manuscript of poems. One of these, addressed to our satellite, is based on the scientific fact (of which I was not aware until I read her poem) that we see only one side of the moon. The ode contains this ingenious stanza:—

O beautiful moon!When I gaze on thy faceCareering among the boundaries of space,The thought has often come to my mindIf I ever shall see thy glorious behind.

It was my pleasure to communicate this verse to our greatest living conversationalist, a point I mention because it may, in consequence, be already known to those who, like myself, enjoy the privileges of his inimitable talk. I possess the original manuscript of thepoem, and can supply copies of the remainder to the curious.

In a magazine managed by the physician of a well-known lunatic asylum I found many inspiring examples. The patients are permitted to contribute: they discuss art and literature, subject of course to a stringent editorial discretion. As you might suppose, poetry occupies a good deal of space. It was from that source of clouded English I culled the following:—

His hair is red and blue and white,His face is almost tan,His brow is wet with blood and sweat,He steals from where he can:And looks the whole world in the face,A drunkard and a man.

I think we have here a Henley manqué. In robustious assertion you will not find anything to equal it in the Hospital Rhymes of that author. I was so much struck by the poem that I obtained permission to correspond with the poet. I discovered that another Sappho might have adorned our literature; that a mute inglorious Elizabeth Barrett was kept silent in Darien—for the asylum was inthe immediate vicinity of the Peak in Derbyshire. Of the correspondence which ensued I venture to quote only one sentence:

‘I was brought up to love beauty; my home was more than cultured; it was refined; we took in theArt Journalregularly.’

Of all modern artists, I suppose that Sir Edward Burne-Jones has inspired more poetry than any other. A whole school of Oxford poets emerged from his fascinating palette, and he is the subject of perhaps the most exquisite of all thePoems and Ballads—the ‘Dedication’—which forms the colophon to that revel of rhymes. I sometimes think that is why his art is out of fashion with modern painters, who may inspire dealers, but would never inspire poets. For who could write a sonnet on some uncompromising pieces of realism by Mr. Rothenstein, Mr. John, or Mr. Orpen? Theirs is an art which speaks for itself. But Sir Edward Burne-Jones seems to have dazzled the undergrowth of Parnassus no less than the higher slopes. In a long and serious epic called ‘The Pageant of Life,’ dealing with every conceivable subject, I found:—

With some the mention of Burne-JonesElicits merely howls and groans;But those who know each inch of artBelieve that he can bear his part.

I don’t remember what he could bear. Perhaps it referred to his election at the Royal Academy. Then, again, in a ‘Vision’ of the next world, a poet described how—

Byron, Burne-Jones, and Beethoven,Charlotte Bronte and Chopin are there.

I wonder if this has escaped the eagle eye of Mr. Clement Shorter. Though perhaps the most delightful nonsense, for which, I fear, this great painter is partly responsible, may be found in a recent poem addressed to the memory of my old friend, Simeon Solomon:—

More of Rossetti? Yes:You follow’d than Burne-Jones,Your depth of colour histhan that of monochromes!Yes; amber lilies poured, I say,A joy for thee, than poet’s bay.But while true art refinesand often stimulates,Artdoes, at times, I say,sit grief within our gates!Art causes men to weep at times—If you may heed these falt’ring rhymes.

More of Rossetti? Yes:You follow’d than Burne-Jones,Your depth of colour histhan that of monochromes!Yes; amber lilies poured, I say,A joy for thee, than poet’s bay.

But while true art refinesand often stimulates,Artdoes, at times, I say,sit grief within our gates!Art causes men to weep at times—If you may heed these falt’ring rhymes.

A small volume of lyrics once sent to me for review afforded another flower for my garland:—

Where in the spring-time leaves are wet,Oh, lay my love beneath the shades,Where men remember to forget,And are forgot in Hades.

But I have given enough examples for what would form Part I. of the English anthology. Part II. would consist of really bad verses from really great poetry.

Auspicious Reverence, hush all meaner song,

is one of the most pompously stupid lines in English poetry. Arnold did not hesitate to quote instances from Shakespeare:—

Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof,Confronted him with self-comparisons.

You would have to sacrifice Browning, because it might fairly be concluded—well, anything might be concluded about Browning. Byron is, of course, a mine. Arthur Hugh Clough is, perhaps, the ‘flawless numskull,’ as, I think, Swinburne calls him. Tennyson surpassed

A Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman,

in many of his serious poems.

To travellers indeed the seaMust always interesting be

I have heard ascribed to Wordsworth, but wrongly, I believe. I should, of course, exclude from the collection living writers; only the select dead would be requisitioned. They cannot retort. And the entertaining volume would illustrate that curious artistic law—the survival of the unfittest, of which we are only dimly beginning to realise the significance. It is like the immortality of the invalid, now recognised by all men of science. You see it manifested in the plethora of memoirs. All new books not novels are about great dead men by unimportant little living ones. When I am asked, as I have been, to write recollections of certain ‘people of importance,’ as Dante says, I feel the force of that law very keenly.

ToFrederick Stanley Smith, Esq.

Every student of Blake has read, or must read, Mr. Swinburne’s extraordinary essay,William Blake: a critical study, of which a new edition was recently published. It would be idle at this time of day to criticise. Much has been discovered, and more is likely to be discovered, about Blake since 1866. The interest of the book, for us, is chiefly reflex.And does not the great mouth laugh at a gift, if scheduled in an examination paper with the irritating question, ‘From what author does this quotation come?’ would probably elicit the reply, ‘Swinburne.’ Yet it occurs in one of Blake’s prophetic books.

How fascinated Blake would have been with Mr. Swinburne if by some exquisite accident he had livedafterhim. We shouldhave had, I fancy, another Prophetic Book; something of this kind:

Swinburne roars and shakes the world’s literature—The English Press, and a good many contemporaries—Tennyson palls, Browning is found—Only a brownie—The mountains divide, the Press is unanimous—Aylwin is born—On a perilous path, on the cliff of immortality—I met Theodormon—He seemed sad: I said, ‘Why are you sad—Are you writing the long-promised life—Of Dante Gabriel Rossetti?’—He sighed and said, ‘No, not that—Not that, my child—I consigned the task to William Michael—Pre-Raphaelite memoirs are cheap to-day—You can have them for a sextet or an octave.’—I brightened and said, ‘Then you are writing a sonnet?’He shook his head and said it was symbolical—For six and eightpence!—A golden rule: Never lend only George Borrow—

A new century had begun, and I asked Theodormon what he was doing on that path and where Mr. Swinburne was. Beneath us yawned the gulf of oblivion.

‘Be careful, young man, not to tumble over; are you a poet or a biographer?’

I explained that I was merely a tourist. He gave a sigh of relief: ‘I have an appointment here with my only disciple, Mr. Howlglass; if you are not careful he may write an appreciation of you.’

‘My dear Theodormon, if you will show me how to reach Mr. Swinburne I will help you.’

‘I swear by the most sacred of all oaths, by Aylwin, you shall see Swinburne.’

Just then we saw a young man coming along the path with a Kodak and a pink evening paper. He seemed pleased to see me, and said, ‘May I appreciate you?’

I gave the young man a push and he fell right over the cliff. Theodormon threw down after him a heavy-looking book which, alighting on his skull, smashed it. ‘My preserver,’ he cried, ‘you shall see what you like, you shall do what you like, except write my biography. Swinburne is close at hand, though he occasionally wanders. His permanent address is the Peaks, Parnassus. Perhaps you would like to pay some other calls as well.’

I assented.

We came to a printing-house and found William Morris reverting to type and transmitting art to the middle classes.

‘The great Tragedy of Topsy’s life,’ said Theodormon, ‘is that he converted the middle classes to art and socialism, but he never touched the unbending Tories of the proletariat or the smart set. You would have thought, on homœopathic principles, that cretonne would appeal to cretins.’

‘Vale, vale,’ cried Charles Ricketts from the interior.

I was rather vexed, as I wanted to ask Ricketts his opinions about various things and people and to see his wonderful collection. Shannon, however, presented me with a lithograph and a copy of ‘Memorable Fancies,’ by C. R.

How sweet I roamed from school to school,But I attached myself to none;I sat upon my ancient DialAnd watched the other artists’ fun.Will Rothenstein can guard the faith,Safe for the Academic fold;’Twas very wise of William Strang,What need have I of Chantrey’s gold?Let the old masters be my share,And let them fall on B. B.’s corn;Let the Uffizi take to Steer—What do I care for Herbert HorneOr the stately Holmes of England,Whose glories never fade;The Constable of Burlington,Who holds the Oxford Slade.It’s Titian here and Titian there,And come to have a look;But ‘thanks of course Giorgione,’With Mr. Herbert Cook.For MacColl is an intellectual thing,And Hugh P. Lane keeps Dublin awake,And Fry to New York has taken wing,And Charles Holroyd has got the cake.

How sweet I roamed from school to school,But I attached myself to none;I sat upon my ancient DialAnd watched the other artists’ fun.

Will Rothenstein can guard the faith,Safe for the Academic fold;’Twas very wise of William Strang,What need have I of Chantrey’s gold?

Let the old masters be my share,And let them fall on B. B.’s corn;Let the Uffizi take to Steer—What do I care for Herbert Horne

Or the stately Holmes of England,Whose glories never fade;The Constable of Burlington,Who holds the Oxford Slade.

It’s Titian here and Titian there,And come to have a look;But ‘thanks of course Giorgione,’With Mr. Herbert Cook.

For MacColl is an intellectual thing,And Hugh P. Lane keeps Dublin awake,And Fry to New York has taken wing,And Charles Holroyd has got the cake.

After turning round a rather sharp corner I began to ask Theodormon if John Addington Symonds was anywhere to be found. He smiled, and said: ‘I know why you are asking. Of course heishere, but we don’t see much of him. He published, at the Kelmscott, the other day, “An Ode to a Grecian Urning.” The proceeds of the sale went to the Arts and Krafts Ebbing Guild, but the issue of “Aretino’s Bosom, and other Poems,” has been postponed.’

We now reached a graceful Renaissance building covered with blossoms; on each side of the door were two blue-breeched gondoliers smoking calamus. Theodormon hurried on, whispering: ‘Thatis where he lives. If you want to see Swinburne you had better make haste, as it is getting late, and I want you to inspect the Castalian spring.’

The walking became very rough just here; it was really climbing. Suddenly I became aware of dense smoke emerging with a rumbling sound from an overhanging rock.

‘I had no idea Parnassus was volcanic now,’ I remarked.

‘No more had we,’ said Theodormon; ‘it is quite a recent eruption due to the Celtic movement. The rock you see, however, is not a real rock, but a sham rock. Mr. George Moore has been turned out of the cave, and is still hovering about the entrance.’

Looming through the smoke, which hung like a veil of white muslin between us, I was able to trace the silhouette of that engaging countenance which Edouard Manet and others have immortalised. ‘Go away,’ he said: ‘I do not want to speak to you.’‘Come, come, Mr. Moore,’ I rejoined, ‘will you not grant a few words to a really warm admirer?’—but he had faded away. Then a large hand came out of the cavern and handed me a piece of paper, and a deep voice with a slight brogue said: ‘If you see mi darlin’ Gosse give this to him.’ The paper contained these verses:—

Georgey Morgie, kidden and sly,Kissed the girls and made them cry;Whatthe girls came out to sayGeorge never heard, for he ran away.W. B. Y

Georgey Morgie, kidden and sly,Kissed the girls and made them cry;Whatthe girls came out to sayGeorge never heard, for he ran away.

W. B. Y

We skirted the edge of a thick wood. A finger-post pointed to the Castalian spring, and a notice-board indicatedTrespassers will be prosecuted.The lease to be disposed of. Apply to G. K. Chesterton.

Soon we came to an open space in which was situated a large, rather dilapidated marble tank. I noticed that the water did not reach further than the bathers’ stomachs. Theodormon anticipated my surprise. ‘Yes, we have had to depress the level of the water during the last few years out of compliment to someof the bathers, and there have been a good many bathing fatalities of a very depressing description.’

‘You don’t mean to say,’ I replied, ‘Richard le Gallienne?’

‘Hush! hush! he was rescued.’

‘Stephen Phillips?’ I asked, anxiously.

‘Well, he couldn’t swim, of course, but he floated; you see he had the Sidney Colvin lifebelt on, and that is always a great assistance.’

‘Not,’ I almost shrieked, ‘my favourite poet, the author of “Lord ’a Muzzy don’t you fret. Missed we De Wet. Missed we De Wet”?’

Theodormon became very grave. ‘We do not know any of their names,’ he said. ‘I will show you, presently, the Morgue. Perhaps you will be able to identify some of your friends. The Coroner has refused to open an inquest until Mr. John Lane can attend to give his evidence.’

I saw the Poet Laureate trying very hard to swim on his back. Another poet was sitting down on the marble floor so that the water might at least come up to his neck. Gazingdisconsolately into the pellucid shallows I saw the revered and much-loved figures of Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Austin Dobson, and Mr. Edmund Gosse. ‘Going for a dip?’ said Theodormon. ‘Thanks, we don’t care about paddling,’ Mr. Lang retorted.

‘I hope it is notalwaysso shallow,’ I said to my guide.

‘Oh, no; we have a new water-supply, but as the spring is in the nature of a public place, we won’t turn on the fresh water until people have learnt to appreciate what is good. That handsome little marble structure which you see at the end of the garden is really thenewCastalian Spring. At all events, that is where all the miracles take place. The old bath is terribly out of repair, in spite of plumbing.’

We then inspected a very neat little apartment mosaiced in gold. Round the walls were attractive drinking-fountains, and on each was written the name of the new water—I mean the new poet. Some of them I recognised: Laurence Binyon, A. E. Housman, Sturge Moore, Santayana, Arthur Symons, Herbert Trench, Henry Simpson, LaurenceHousman, F. W. Tancred, Arthur Lyon Raile, William Watson, Hugh Austin.

‘You see we have the very latest,’ said Theodormon, ‘provided it is always the best. I am sorry to say that some of the taps don’t give a constant supply, but that is because the machinery wants oiling. Try some Binyon,’ said my guide, filling a gold cup on which was wrought by some cunning craftsman the death of Adam and the martyrdom of the Blessed Christina. I found it excellent and refreshing, and observed that it was cheering to come across the excellence of sincerity and strength at a comparatively new source . . .

Mr. Swinburne was seated in an arbour of roses, clothed in a gold dalmatic, a birthday gift from his British Peers. Their names were embroidered in pearls on the border. I asked permission to read my address:—

There beats no heart by Cam or Isis(Where tides of poets ebb and flow),But guards Dolores as a crisisOf long ago.A crisis bringing fire and wonder,A gift of some dim Eastern Mage,A firework still smouldering underThe feet of middle age.For you could love and hate and tell usOf almost everything,You made our older poets jealous,For you alone could sing.In truth it was your splendid praisesWhich made us wakeTo glories hidden in the phrasesOf William Blake.No boy who sows his metric saladsHis tamer oats,But always steals from Swinburne’s balladsThe stronger notes.

There beats no heart by Cam or Isis(Where tides of poets ebb and flow),But guards Dolores as a crisisOf long ago.

A crisis bringing fire and wonder,A gift of some dim Eastern Mage,A firework still smouldering underThe feet of middle age.

For you could love and hate and tell usOf almost everything,You made our older poets jealous,For you alone could sing.

In truth it was your splendid praisesWhich made us wakeTo glories hidden in the phrasesOf William Blake.

No boy who sows his metric saladsHis tamer oats,But always steals from Swinburne’s balladsThe stronger notes.

‘Do you play golf?’ said Mr. Swinburne, handing me two little spheres such as are used in the royal game. And I heard no more; for I received a blow—whether delivered by Mr. Swinburne or the ungrateful Theodormon I do not know, but I found myself falling down the gulf of oblivion, and suddenly, with a dull thud, I landed on the remains of Howlglass. The softness of his head had really preserved me from what might havebeen a severe shock, because the distance from Parnassus to Fleet Street, as you know, is considerable, and the escalade might have been more serious. I reached my rooms in Half Moon Street, however, having seen only one star, with just a faint nostalgia for the realms into which for one brief day I was privileged to peep.

(1906.)

In the closing years of my favourite last century, when poetry was more discussed than it is now (at all events as a marketable commodity), few verse-writers were overlooked. Bosola’s observation about ‘the neglected poets of your time’ could not be quoted with any propriety. Mr. John Lane would make long and laborious journeys on the District Railway, armedbag-à-pied, in order to discover the new and unpublished. Now he has shot over all the remaining preserves; laurels and bays, so necessary for the breed ‘of men and women over-wrought,’ have withered in the London soot. There was one bright creature, however, who escaped his rifle; she was brought down by another sportsman, and thus missed some of the fame which might have attached to her had she been trussed and hung in the Bodley Head. Poaching in the library at Thelema, I came across her by accident. Her song is not without significance.

In 1878 Georgiana Farrer mentioned onpage 190 of herMiscellaneous Poems, ‘I am old by sin entangled;’ but this was probably a pious exaggeration. Only some one young and intellectually very vigorous could have penned her startling numbers. I suggest that she retained more of her youth than, from religious motives, she thought it proper to admit. In the ’eighties, when incense was burned in drawing-rooms, and people were talking about ‘The Blessed Damozel,’ she could write of Paradise:—

A home where Jesus Christ is King,A home where e’en Archangels sing,Where common wealth is shared by all,And God Himself lights up the Hall.

She was philosemite, and from the reference to Lord Beaconsfield we can easily date the following:—

You who doubt the truth of Scripture,Pray tell me, then, who are the Jews?Scattered in all lands and nations,Pray why their evidence refuse?It seems to me you must be blind;Are they not daily gaining ground?We find them now in every land,And well-nigh ruling all around.Their music is most sweet to hear;Jews were Rossini and Mozart,Mendelssohn, too, and Meyerbeer;Grisi in song could charm the heart.The funds their princes hold in hand;Their merchants trade both near and far;Ill-used and robbed they long have been,Yet wealthy now they surely are.In Germany who has great sway?Prince Bismarck, most will answer me;Our own Prime Minister retainsA name that shows his pedigree.Who after this will dare to sayThey nought in these strange people see;Do they not prove the Scripture true,And throw a light on history?

You who doubt the truth of Scripture,Pray tell me, then, who are the Jews?Scattered in all lands and nations,Pray why their evidence refuse?

It seems to me you must be blind;Are they not daily gaining ground?We find them now in every land,And well-nigh ruling all around.

Their music is most sweet to hear;Jews were Rossini and Mozart,Mendelssohn, too, and Meyerbeer;Grisi in song could charm the heart.

The funds their princes hold in hand;Their merchants trade both near and far;Ill-used and robbed they long have been,Yet wealthy now they surely are.

In Germany who has great sway?Prince Bismarck, most will answer me;Our own Prime Minister retainsA name that shows his pedigree.

Who after this will dare to sayThey nought in these strange people see;Do they not prove the Scripture true,And throw a light on history?

The twenty-five years that have elapsed since the poem was written must have convinced those innocent persons who ‘saw nought’ in our Israelitish compatriots. I never heard before that Prince Bismarck or Mozart was of Jewish extraction!

Mrs. Farrer was, of course, an evangelical, somewhat old-fashioned for so late a date; and fairly early in her volume she warns us of what we may expect. She is anxious todamp any undue optimism as to the lightness of her muse. When worldly, foolish people like Whistler and Pater were talking ‘art for art’s sake,’ she could strike a decisive didactic blow:—

My voice like thunder may appear,Yet oft-times I have shed a tearBehind the peal, like rain in storm,To moisten those I would reform.Then pardon if my stormy mood,Instead of blighting, does some good.Sooner a thunder-clap, think me,Than sunstroke sent in wrath on thee.

My voice like thunder may appear,Yet oft-times I have shed a tearBehind the peal, like rain in storm,To moisten those I would reform.

Then pardon if my stormy mood,Instead of blighting, does some good.Sooner a thunder-clap, think me,Than sunstroke sent in wrath on thee.

With a splendid Calvinism, too rare at that time, she would not argue beyond acertainlimit; there was an edge, she realised, to every platform; an ounce of assertion is worth pounds of proof. Religious discussion after a time becomes barren:—

Then hundredfolds to sinnersMust be repaid in Hell.If you think such men winners,We disagree. Farewell.

But to the person whoisright (and Mrs. Farrer was never in a moment’s doubt, though her prosody is influenced sometimes by thesceptical Matthew Arnold) there is no mean reward:—

I sparkle resplendent,A star in His crown,And glitter for ever,A gem of renown.

From internal evidence we can gauge her social position, while her views of caste appear in these radical days a trifledemodé. Her metaphors of sin are all derived from the life of paupers:—

Paupers through their sinful follyAre workers of iniquity,Living on Jehovah’s bounty,Wasting in abject poverty.A pauper’s funeral their end,No angels waft their souls on high;Rich they were thought on earth, perhaps,Yet far from wealth accursed they lie.Who are the rich? God’s Word declares,The men whose treasure is above—Those humble workinggentlefolkWhose life flows on in deeds of love.Despised in life I may remain,Misunderstood by rich and poor;An entrance yet I hope to gainTo wealthy plains on endless shore.No paupers in that heavenly land,The sons of God are rich indeed;His daughters all His treasures share;It will their highest hopes exceed.

Paupers through their sinful follyAre workers of iniquity,Living on Jehovah’s bounty,Wasting in abject poverty.

A pauper’s funeral their end,No angels waft their souls on high;Rich they were thought on earth, perhaps,Yet far from wealth accursed they lie.

Who are the rich? God’s Word declares,The men whose treasure is above—Those humble workinggentlefolkWhose life flows on in deeds of love.

Despised in life I may remain,Misunderstood by rich and poor;An entrance yet I hope to gainTo wealthy plains on endless shore.

No paupers in that heavenly land,The sons of God are rich indeed;His daughters all His treasures share;It will their highest hopes exceed.

Those paupers who are ‘saved’ are rewarded by material comforts such as graced the earthly home of Georgiana herself, one of the ‘humble workinggentlefolk.’ She enjoys her own fireside with an almost Pecksniffian relish, and she profoundly observes, as she sits beside her hearth:—

Like forest trees men rise and grow:Good timber some will prove,Others decayed as fuel piled,Prepared are for that stoveThat burns for ever, Tophet called,Heated by jealous heat,Adapted to destroy all chaff,And leaves unscorched the wheat.

Like forest trees men rise and grow:Good timber some will prove,Others decayed as fuel piled,Prepared are for that stove

That burns for ever, Tophet called,Heated by jealous heat,Adapted to destroy all chaff,And leaves unscorched the wheat.

Excellent Georgiana! She could not stand very much chaff of any kind, I suspect.

The alarming progress of ritualism in the ’eighties disturbed her considerably, though it inspired some of her more weighty verses.They should be favourites with Dr. Clifford and Canon Hensley Henson:—

Some men in our days cover overA body deformed with their sin:A cross worked in various colours,Forgetting that God looks within.Alas! in our churches at presentSimplicity seems quite despised;To represent things far above usAre heathenish customs revived.This evil is spreading among us,And where will it end, can you tell?Join not with the misled around us,Take warning, my readers . . .

Some men in our days cover overA body deformed with their sin:A cross worked in various colours,Forgetting that God looks within.

Alas! in our churches at presentSimplicity seems quite despised;To represent things far above usAre heathenish customs revived.

This evil is spreading among us,And where will it end, can you tell?Join not with the misled around us,Take warning, my readers . . .

The veneration of the Blessed Virgin goaded her into composition of stanzas unparalleled in the whole literature of Protestantism:—

My readers, can you nowhere seeA parallel to Israel’s sin?The House of God, at home, abroad:Idols are there—that house within.Who incense burns? are strange cakes made?What woman’s chapel, decked with gold,Stands full of unchecked worshippersLike those idolaters of old?The Blessed Virgin—blest she isThat does not make her Heaven’s Queen!Yet some are taught to worship her;What else does all this teaching mean?

My readers, can you nowhere seeA parallel to Israel’s sin?The House of God, at home, abroad:Idols are there—that house within.

Who incense burns? are strange cakes made?What woman’s chapel, decked with gold,Stands full of unchecked worshippersLike those idolaters of old?

The Blessed Virgin—blest she isThat does not make her Heaven’s Queen!Yet some are taught to worship her;What else does all this teaching mean?

What she denied to the Mother of God she accorded (rather daringly, I opine) to one Harriet, whose death and future are recorded in the following lines:—

Declining like the setting sunAfter a course divinely run,I saw a maiden passing fairReposing on an easy chair.A Bridegroom of celestial mienCame forth and claimed her for His Queen;One with His Father on His throneShe lives entirely His own.

Declining like the setting sunAfter a course divinely run,I saw a maiden passing fairReposing on an easy chair.

A Bridegroom of celestial mienCame forth and claimed her for His Queen;One with His Father on His throneShe lives entirely His own.

Harrietolatry, I thought, was confined to the members of the defunct Shelley Society. But every reader will feel the poignant truth of Mrs. Farrer’s view of the Church of England—truer to-day than it could have been in the ’eighties:—

The Church of England—grand old ship—Toss’d is on a troubled sea!Her sails are rent, her decks are foul’d,Mutiny on board must be.The winds of discord howl around,Wild disputers throw up foam,From high to low she’s beat about;Frighten’d some who love her roam.

The Church of England—grand old ship—Toss’d is on a troubled sea!Her sails are rent, her decks are foul’d,Mutiny on board must be.

The winds of discord howl around,Wild disputers throw up foam,From high to low she’s beat about;Frighten’d some who love her roam.

I do not know if the last word is intended for a pun, but I scarcely think it is likely.

I would like to reconstruct Mrs. Farrer’s home, with its stiff Victorian chairs, its threaded antimacassars, its pictorial paper-weights, its wax flowers under glass shades, and the charming household porcelain from the Derby and Worcester furnaces. There must have been a sabbatic air of comfort about the dining-room which was soothing. I can see the engravings after Landseer: ‘The Stag at Bay,’ ‘Dignity and Impudence’; or those after Martin: ‘The Plains of Heaven,’ and ‘The Great Day of His Wrath’; and ‘Blucher meeting Wellington,’ after Maclise. I can see on each side of the mirror examples of the art of Daguerre, which have already begun to produce in us the same sentiment that we get from the early Tuscans; and on the mantelpiece a photograph of Harriet in a plush frame, the one touch of modernity in a room which was otherwise severely 1845. Then, on a bookshelf whichhung above the old tea-caddy and cut-glass sugar-bowl, Georgiana’s library—‘Line upon Line,’ ‘Precept upon Precept,’ ‘Jane the Cottager,’ ‘Pinnock’s Scripture History,’ and a few costly works bound in the style of the Albert Memorial. The drawing-room, just a trifle damp, must have contained Mr. Hunt’s ‘Light of the World,’ which Mrs. Farrer never quite learned to love, though it was a present from a missionary, and rendered fire and artificial light unnecessary during the winter months. Would that Mrs. Farrer’s home-life had come under the magic lens of Mr. Edmund Gosse, for it would now be classic, like the household of Sir Thomas More.

Whatever its attractions, Mrs. Farrer was at times induced to go abroad, visiting, I imagine, only the Protestant cantons of Switzerland. She stayed, however, in Paris, which she apostrophises with Sibyllic candour:—

O city of pleasure, what did I seeWhen passing through or staying in thee.Bright shone the sun above, blue was the sky,Everywhere music heard, none seemed to sigh.Beautiful carriages in Champs ElyséeFilled with fair maidens on cushions easy.Such was the outer side; what was within?Most I was often told revelled in sin.Sad its fate since I left, sadder ’twill beIf they go on in sin as seen by me.Let us hope, ere too late, warned by the past,They may seek pleasures more likely to last,Or, like to Babylon, it must decline,And o’er its ruins its lovers repine.

But London hardly fares much better, in spite of Mrs. Farrer’s own residence, at Campden Hill, if I may hazard the locality:—

To the tomb they must go,Rich and poor all in woe,Strange motley throng.Wealth in its splendour weeps,Poverty silence keeps;None last here long. . . .So much for thee, London.

Except in a spiritual sense, her existence was not an eventful one. It was, I think, the loss of some neighbour’s child which suggested:—

Nellarina, forced exotic,Born to bloom in region fair,Thou wert to me a narcotic,Hope I did thy lot to share.

Any near personal sorrow she does not seem to have experienced, I am glad to say, else she might have regarded it as a grievance the consequences of which one dares not contemplate; you feel thatSome Onewould have heard of it in no measured terms. Certainty and content are, indeed, the dominating notes of her poetry rather than mere commonplace hope:—

I am bound for the land of Beulah,There all the guests sing Hallelujah.No longer time here let us squander,But on the good things promised ponder.

It would be futile to discuss the exact position on Parnassus of a lady whose throne was secured on a more celestial mountain, even more difficult of access. But I think we may claim for her an honourable place in that new Oxford school of poetry of which Professor Mackail officially knows little, and of which Dr. Warren (the President of Magdalen) is the distinguished living protagonist. With all her acrid Evangelicalism she was a good soul, for she was fond of animals and children, and kind to them both in her own way; so I am sure some ofher dreams have been realised, even if there has reached her nostrils just a whiff of those tolerating purgatorial fires which, spelt differently, she believed to bepermanentlyprepared for the vast majority of her contemporaries.

ToMrs. Carew.

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