by Mortimer Collins.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.3 #12 (Oct 1867).
I have a friend who is a poet, and whom, as he is a Scot, and always "good at need," I will for present purposes baptise Deloraine, in honour of Sir William. He is much more than a poet, be it observed; but his poetic tendency brought him down to my village on a brief holiday; for he has written a great work, which partakes of the nature of Goethe's Faust, Mr. Bailey's Festus, Mrs. Browning's Aurora Leigh, and Mr. Alexander Smith's Life Drama; and, desirous of obtaining an impartial opinion of it, he has ventured to send it me to read. But, like Charles Lamb, I detest reading manuscript, finding it unpleasantly raw. So the poem was unread, and the poet resolved to come and compel me to read it. He came, but failed.
My village is a quaint, pleasant, forgotten corner of the world, scattered round a hill-common, with the old London road running right through it. Alas, there are no coaches now, though thirty-six in the old time passed these gates daily. Is it not refreshing, by the way, to look from the windows of Hatchett's in Piccadilly on that well-appointed stage-coach that runs down to "Piccadilly-super-Mare" three times a week; and to see his Grace of Beaufort, or the Most Noble Marquis who is his co-partner, mount to the box and handle the ribbons lovingly? But to return to my village. It is in two parishes; and as the common is not in my parish, I have no right of pasture or piscary, of turbary or estovers; but I have free right to wander over its breezy turf, where the wild wind right away from the Hampshire coast comes fresh and filled with ozone; and I want nothing farther. At the foot of the hill is the little church, twenty years old or so, built, as an architectural critic remarked, on the principle combining a Noah's ark with a pepper-castor. The parson, a Cambridge man, whilom of the 'Varsity eight, is one of the right sort—a thorough gentleman, earnest, without either vanity or cant. There are plenty of them, thank Heaven! in the Church of England. From the hill there is a noble view—royal and ducal residences, colleges and churches, are visible in various directions; but higher hills, crowned with beech-woods, populous with pheasant and hare, hide the Thames gliding through its sinuous valley only a mile or two away. A delightful walk hence to the royal river, where now the swans are leading out their young flotillas of dusky cygnets, and where a novel-writing friend of mine sits in a punt and meditates impossible stories about "dark squires" and fatuous princesses. A rare style hath he—a pace over the paper like Gladiateur's gallop; but of human nature he knoweth no whit.
Yonder graceful spire in the distance, with scaffolding around it, belongs to a beautiful little fourteenth-century church, a miniature cathedral. The spire is somewhat shaky just now, and requires renovation. There is an old legend, that when it was finished the architect went to the summit to place the last stone, and called for a flagon of wine to drink the king's health, and while drinking fell to the ground and was dashed to pieces. "0! O!"—the loyal architect's cry as he fell—was engraved, they say, upon his tomb.
A volume might be filled with descriptions of what one sees from this trivial tumulus, so rich is old England in historic recollections. But let us keep nearer home. There, below, is the old wayside inn,—the Seven Horseshoes,—and in front of it stands the burly landlord, who weighs about twenty stone. On the other side of the byeroad is the quiet haunt of this present essayist. A cottage, no more; a lawn surrounded by umbrageous trees; pigeons tumbling in the clear air; girls and dogs romping on turf undesecrated by croquet. Yet
"Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes
Angulus ridet."
What our friend Horace, who wrote so thoroughly in the vein of an English country gentleman, goes on to remark about the honey of Hymettus, is true here also. Under these limes, whose leafage attracts honeydew, and whose multitudinous blossoms are drowsy in July with fragrance and murmurs, it would be a sin not to keep bees. A glass of virgin honey, full of the sweet essences of thyme and gorse, of eglantine and melilot, is as beautiful as it is nutritious; and besides, what a study are the bees for poet, philosopher, politician! The first can only account for their marvellous doings by imagining them
"Possessors of some godlike spirit—drinkers
Of divine ether."
It is Virgil who theorises thus, having watched the mysterious insects in their vernal vagrancy:
"Then do they wander through
Copses and meadows, robbing ruddy flowers,
Sipping the streamlets. Hence delightedly
Their progeny and homes do they supply
With unknown sweetness; hence most artfully
The yellow wax and glutinous honey mould.
Hence when thou seest swim toward the stars of heaven
Through the clear summer a departing swarm,
And wonderest at the vague cloud drawn along
By the wind's impulse, watch them: they will seek
Sweet waters, leafy roofs."
Very keen was the eye and delicate the touch of the Roman idyllist, Mr. Tennyson's great forerunner. No country scene is more pleasant and picturesque than the issuing forth of the young insect colony, following their queen. Then the children ring bells or make some sort of tintinnabulation to detain them. Then, if they settle high on some perilous branch, a vigorous climber has to ascend, hive in hand, and offer them a new habitation. He must be daring enough to disdain their acupuncture—which is really a trifle when you are used to it. Besides, bees will never sting save under provocation, and the worst provocation you can give them is an unpleasant odour. The unwashen lout who "sweats i' th' eye of Phœbus" will seldom go nearer a beehive than he can help; and he is right. I am not going to lucubrate about the polity of the bees, or their architecture, or their practical geometry, though their attachment to female sovereignty, and the nonchalant way in which they annually massacre all the males, are temptingly suggestive. One word, however, concerning their antenne, which seem to be the organs of a sixth sense, to us unknown and inconceivable. Without them the insect is bewildered and incapable; with them it finds its way through the dark hive, and by their touch seems to do almost as much as the articulate race of men can do by the great gift of utterance.
Bees, themselves wide wanderers, have made me also wander. Pigeons and doves and dogs are, at present, my only other intimate friends out of what may be called human society. Pigeons have many recommendations; they give life to a place, flying far and fast in the sunny ether; they are extremely good broiled for breakfast with rashers and vine-leaves, or made into a pie with much rump-steak. I never met with any one who ate doves; but have heard that it is done in Scotland. Their musical murmuring coo, which Mr. Tennyson mistakenly calls a moan, is very pleasant amid the foliage. As to pigeons, far-flyers though they are when necessary, they are ineffably lazy. How they enjoy sleep on the roof in the sunshine! Strickland proved, at the British Association, that the wonderful dodo of the Portuguese navigators was only a huge pigeon, grown almost wingless by abstinenece from flight: as Professor Forbes sang at a Red Lion meeting—
"Though it was plain he a bird was by his bill,
Devil a wing was on either side vis'ble."
I really think that even carriers and dragoons, if not forced to fly, would degenerate to something like the dodo from sheer indolence.
If only I had the pen of Washington Irving—or of Mary Mitford, whose prose idyls are fragrant of may-bloom and of hay new mown—how pleasantly could I sketch the population of this village and its vicinage! The country people, dull and decorous, and amusingly patronising, do not come much in my way; an unambitious essayist in a cottage of Lilliput is not likely to attract the attention of the Lord of the Manor, hard up on his thirty thousand a year, or of Captain Dashwood, who looks and dresses like a groom, or of the young heir to a baronetcy dating from a scrivener under the Stuarts—an effeminate foolish boy, who ogles schoolgirls at church, and looks so delighted with life that one can hardly help thinking of the laconism of king Agesilaus. At that age even Priam was happy. Then there are the opulent folk who would like to be thought country people, but who are not; who carefully avoid, and are carefully avoided; whose sole notion of enjoyment seems to be playing croquet from breakfast till it is time to dress for dinner. Wonderful dressers are the ladies of this set; magnificent in multitudinous colours; but their voices are not like Cordelia's, and the road is littered with their dropped h's. Bad taste it may be, but I prefer the farmers and the peasantry. It is the fashion of the day to call these people stupid and boorish. I have found them quite otherwise. They are sincerely courteous in their own fashion; they are thorough masters of their own science. They know how to grow wheat and mutton—no trivial things; they understand the language wherein clouds and winds prophesy the weather to come; they have a closer intimacy with old Mother Earth than pertains to any other of her children. Demeter shows them her mysteries, but denies them utterance, lest they betray them. Of Stuart Mill they are ignorant; they know not Browning; they have not the remotest idea of "the nine-point circle;" their utmost literature is the Bible and the county paper. Yet καλλεδτεθανοξ Δημητηρ, whose golden wheat is now piled in heavy sheaves upon our sloping fields, has for them greater favours than for mortals more articulate of speech.
But where is Deloraine the poet all this while? I met him at the train laden with newspapers, which he generously handed to me under the impression that the Times does not reach these remote latitudes. I gave them to a railway porter at once. Then, followed by many dogs, we started, not cigarless, on our homeward walk, the distance being about three miles. All the way we met nobody, except half-a-dozen tramps, and a wagoner with a mighty team. Deloraine was disappointed; he imagined that the country here in England was populous with pretty girls in picturesque costumes, ready for poetic flirtation. The Highlands, he urged, were full of barefooted silk-snooded lassies, who washed their linen in silver streams, and read the Noctes Ambrosianæ. Did I mean to say there was nothing of the kind in what we called a much more civilised country? He had actually composed a lyric to the air of "Coming through the rye," which he intended to let off at the first pretty girl he saw; and the only feminine thing we encountered was an elderly Irishwoman, who whined most pathetically till she found we had no coppers, and then objurgated with unparalleled ferocity. However, she did not assault us, for which we felt grateful.
No adventure of greater moment delayed us, and afternoon beheld us sitting on the prostrate trunk of an old elm, with a small round table whereon lay "the poem," et cetera. The great work was elegantly written, and enclosed in an elegant leathern case, and carefully tied up with red tape. I am not permitted to give a specimen of its surpassing beauty, for fear of making my readers too wildly eager for its publication. We smoked several cigars, and admired the case. Then we took to a discussion of the topics of the day, political and literary. They were words of wisdom which we spoke. We agreed, for example, that Mr. Chastelar, the poet, was a very extraordinary young gentleman, with much versifying power, and an ear attuned to classic melodies. A marvel, rather, that any man of real intellectual power should look upon the altar of Venus Pandemos as the only shrine in the world worthy of his verse. Landor and Byron both, whom this young poet professedly admires, were masters of Erato's music, of Aphrodite's passion; but how far wider is their field! Anent Mr. Chastelar this wicked couplet was improvised by Deloraine:
"He thinks he belongs to the Byron and Shelley lot;
But he's only a drone that is drowsing in melilot."
The notion was brought to him in this fashion. A girl-voice, very sweet to my ear, announced a commotion at the abode of the bees. To the apiary we made our way, and found that the massacre of the drones had commenced. The big buzzing stingless monsters were in troops at the mouth of each hive; the little wicked industrious bees were falling upon them in pairs, and stinging them to death. Every now and then a drone in his agony would fly off with a tormentor on his back, stinging him all the way, no doubt.
The poet was horrified. "Birds in their little nests agree," he remarked; "but what about the busy bee?" He was still more horrified when I informed him that these luckless drones were the males of the hive, and that their murderers (or murderesses) were undeveloped female bees—something like the old maids of the human race. The idea of a state in which the strong-minded females annually put to death all the males (Stuart Mills included) filled him with ineffable disgust. And while he ruminated, the massacre was going on before his eyes.
"This won't do," he exclaimed; "you must interfere and put a stop to it."
This I declined, but told him that if he would like to interfere, I would not baulk his Quixotism. We would go to the farthest corner of the lawn while he tried the adventure, and if the bees settled on him, we would be prepared to rub him with spirits of hartshorn when they were gone again. This did not seem to suit him precisely; so we left the bees to their murderous work, and at the same moment found ourselves summoned to dinner. It is a good plan to dine early in the country, as it affords an opportunity for supper, which meal is the day's pleasantest. And now occurred a dire event. I keep pigeons—carriers and tumblers. When I leave home, I usually carry half-a-dozen of these in my coat-pockets, and let them loose at intervals, in order that they may take back news of my safety. If I start one at Paddington just before I start myself, he is at home with warning of my arrival a good hour before me. Now, to do honour to my friend Deloraine, I had for the first time put to death some of the younger members of my winged family; and their claws picturesquely protruded through a hole in the roof of a pie. Boccaccio's knight, who broiled his pet falcon for his lady-love, paid her no higher compliment than I to my friend. But lo! his poetic instinct rebelled. He could not tolerate the thought of eating those winged messengers. He quoted Béranger with indignation:
"L'Aï brillait, et ma jeune maîtresse
Chantait les dieux dans la Grèce oubliés;
Nous comparions notre France a la Grèce,
Quand un pigeon vint s'abattre à nos pieds.
Næris découvre un billet sous son aile;
Il le portait vers des foyers chéris—
Bois dans ma coupe, ô messager fidèle!
Et dors en paix sur le sein de Næris."
In vain did I urge that this was a myth; that no pigeon ever flew from Athens to Paris; that if he did, he wouldn't drink champagne; that Béranger himself was fond of pigeon-pies, and would have eaten Venus's doves if neat-handed Næris had put them in a terrine. The poet was imperturbable, implacable, and resolutely dined on the cold shoulder. Who shall say that there is no sentiment left in the world?
Claret is an excellent wine; but the Englishman,
"Cujus octavum trepidavit ætas
Clausere lustrum,"
has generally obtained a preference for fine old port. Filberts therewith are not to be despised, especially when you pluck them yourself from the laden boughs. Over a decanter of port and the fresh filberts aforesaid, Deloraine dolorously lectured on the cruelty of bees and men, and on the degeneracy of the English nation, while I cracked my filberts and sipped my port, and finally proposed that we should walk to a certain point at which a ferry crosses the Thames. He is not a good pedestrian, this poet; but I informed him that the ferry-boat was under the guidance of a charming little girl:
"Rose a seize ans, et son joli visage
Semble un bouquet cueilli sur le rivage."
So we started. I am fond of ferries. One of the freaks of my hot youth was to hire a ferry over one of the most delightful of Cumbrian rivers for a month of the Long. The old ferryman went for a holiday, and I dwelt in his cottage by the river-side (having laid in a barrel of Bass and a stock of Fortnum and Mason's pies), and did his duties. There was a border castle on my side of the stream, with a village at its gates; on the opposite side another village, and a great cathedral city four miles off. So I had passengers of all sorts: often the fine old Catholic aristocrat of the castle; now and then a dean or a canon, with a group of pretty daughters, graceful in their flutter of silk as a flock of doves; once the bishop, a low churchman of tremendous calibre, who evidently found me out the moment he saw me; once also, a great poet, who was in search of traces of king Arthur, who accepted a tankard of Bass, and gave me in return some of the best tobacco I ever smoked. But O, the Saturday mornings! To go to bed on Friday nights was simply absurd. Long before sunrise came the travellers to market—male and female—as full of life and vigour as if it suited them to get up a little after midnight. Luckily for me they came back again proportionately early in the afternoon. Only now and then some belated farmer, detained by the strong ale for which the city is famous, would howl himself hoarse on the farther bank long after Sunday had begun. He needed strong lungs, for I always slept soundly after Saturday's work.
Certes the lady of the Thames ferry is very nice:
"Her face is a cluster of roses—
The sweetest of buds is her mouth—
She's the nicest of little Greek noses,
And breath like a breeze from the south."
So sang Deloraine; but how in the world he should know any thing of her breath's fragrance transcends my conjecture.
We crossed the royal stream. On the other side is the Ferry Inn, beloved by anglers, and close thereby the ruins of a Benedictine Abbey, with pleasant lawns by the Thames, whereon refection can be conveniently served. Deloraine was too smitten by Miss Rose to care about antiquities or comestibles; but I ordered some champagne (you can always get a bottle of Moët at this unpretentious hostelry), and compelled him to come and listen to the history of the famous monastic establishment amid whose ruins we were refreshing ourselves. It is a very curious history, and I know it better than most men; have indeed read before the Wheatshire Archæological Society a paper upon it, which I was unanimously requested to publish at my own expense; but there are certain editorial regulations which effectually prevent my inserting it here.
As Deloraine is a Scotchman, he of course always carries a flask of Scotch whisky when on his travels. So the little lady of the ferry brought hot water and sugar and lemon upon the lawn, and the Moët was followed by an infusion which we Southrons abominate. The abbey did not interest our poet; but he saw on the opposite shore an exquisite cottage or maisonnette—a doll's house almost, with plate-glass windows and emerald lawn dotted with sapphire, ruby, turquoise, chalcedony flower-borders. On the lawn stood a board with the magic words—"To Let, Furnished." At his third tumbler Deloraine had made up his mind. He would take that cottage, and marry the Lady of the Ferry, and be happy ever after. It was an idea worthy of a poet.
Well, sunset was streaking the sky with saffron, and we reëntered the ferry-boat, Sir William suggesting that I should punt them across—I was nicknamed "punter" once, but not for that sort of punting. I did my best; the poet whispered to Rose; my dogs swam after us. It was a pleasant scene enough, as the river gleamed in the divine light of sunset. Presently a fierce male swan, having a brown family of cygnets to guard, bore down on my little terrier Growl. Growl loves the water, but doesn't understand being pecked by swans; he barked dogfully; I, getting as near him as I could, was obliged to fling the punting-pole at the enraged bird to prevent his drowning the dog. It was the only pole in the punt, and we could not regain it; so we were obliged to float helplessly mid-stream till a boat came to our aid. Deloraine rather seemed to like it.
We got ashore at last, just in time for Rose la batelière to take back a stalwart miller, about five-and-twenty years old, considerably over six feet high, with the vigorous blood reddening every vein of his fine manly face and mighty hands. Little Rose took charge of this magnificent monster without any fear; and I asked the poet how he had succeeded.
"Why, she's going to marry that giant!" said Deloraine furiously, pointing to the big miller half way across. "Confound your ferrywomen! I shall go back to town to-night."
"Better inquire the rent of the cottage," I suggested maliciously.
Off he stalked, and soon returned.
"What do you think?" he asked; "for that wretched little hole they have the impudence to ask eight guineas a week!"
"Nothing to you, my dear fellow," I replied, "when you sell your epic. And enormous advantages—the river, the abbey, the inn, and your little friend Rose. Cheap, I think. Take it, and I'll come and dine with you."
But the poet sulked, though I quoted to him his own verse:
"O carol, young girl with the chestnut hair!
Over the ferry's the world of care."