Produced by Al Haines
SAGITTULAE,
RANDOM VERSES
BY
E. W. BOWLING,
RECTOR OF HOUGHTON CONQUEST, AND LATE FELLOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
Si dulce est desipere in loco,
ignosce nostro, blande lector, ioco.
LONDON:
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
CAMBRIDGE: W. METCALFE & SON, TRINITY STREET.
1885.
PREFACE.
A very few of the following pieces appeared in "Punch," during the Consulship of Plancus. The rest have been written by me during the past twenty-five years, under the signature of "Arculus," for "The Eagle," the Magazine of St. John's College, Cambridge. I hope their reappearance will be welcome to a few of my old College friends.
The general reader will probably think that some apology is due to him from me for publishing verses of so crude and trivial a character.
I can only say that the smallest of bows should sometimes be unstrung, and that if my little arrows are flimsy and light they will, I trust, wound no one.
E. W. BOWLING.
CONTENTS.
THE BATTLE OF THE PONS TRIUM TROJANORUM
JULIA
CLIO FATIDICA
ATHLETES AND AESTHESIS
A VISION
A MAY TERM MEMORY
THE MAY TERM
A TRAGEDY OF THE 19TH CENTURY
"NUNC TE BACCHE CANAM"
A ROMANCE IN REAL (ACADEMIC) LIFE
THE SENIOR FELLOW
A VALENTINE
A CURATE'S COMPLAINT
TEMPORA MUTANTUR
SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS
TURGIDUS ALPINUS
THE ALPINE CLUB MAN
THE MODERN CLIMBER
THE CLIMBER'S DREAM
THE BEACONSFIELD ALPHABET
THE GLADSTONE ALPHABET
SOLITUDE IN SEPTEMBER
MEDITATIONS OF A CLASSICAL MAN ON A MATHEMATICAL
PAPER DURING A LATE FELLOWSHIP EXAMINATION
THE LADY MARGARET 5TH BOAT (May, 1863)
IN CAMUM
FATHER CAMUS
IN MEMORIAM G. A. P.
GRANTA VICTRIX
THE GREAT BOAT RACE
LINES BY A CAMBRIDGE ANCIENT MARINER
THE SORROWS OF FATHER CAM
THE COMING BOAT RACE
A BALLAD
AN APRIL SQUALL
BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—I.
BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—II.
BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—III.
BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—IV.
[Transcriber's note: The poems "In Camus" and "Father Camus" appear to be the same poem, the former in Latin; the latter in English. In the original book, they are printed on facing pairs of pages, the left-hand page Latin, the right-hand page English. In this e-text, each poem is together, and are in the same order as shown in the Table of Contents.]
THE BATTLE OF THE PONS TRIUM TROJANORUM:
A lay sung in the Temple of Minerva Girtanensis.
[NOTE.—On Thursday, February 24th, 1881, three Graces were submitted to the Senate of the University of Cambridge, confirming the Report of The Syndicate appointed June 3rd, 1880, to consider four memorials relating to the Higher Education of Women. The first two Graces were passed by majorities of 398 and 258 against 32 and 26 respectively; the third was unopposed. The allusions in the following lay will probably be understood only by those who reside in Cambridge; but it may be stated that Professor Kennedy, Professor Fawcett, and Sir C. Dilke gave their votes and influence in favour of The Graces, while Dr. Guillemard, Mr. Wace, Mr. Potts, Professor Lumby, Dr. Perowne, Mr. Horne and Mr. Hamblin Smith voted against The Graces.]
I
Aemilia Girtonensis,
By the Nine Muses swore
That the great house of Girton
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Muses Nine she swore it,
And named a voting day,
And bade her learned ladies write,
And summon to the impending fight
Their masters grave and gay.
II.
East and West and South and North
The learned ladies wrote,
And town and gown and country
Have read the martial note.
Shame on the Cambridge Senator
Who dares to lag behind,
When light-blue ladies call him
To join the march of mind.
III.
But by the yellow Camus
Was tumult and affright:
Straightway to Pater Varius
The Trojans take their flight—
'O Varius, Father Varius,
'To whom the Trojans pray,
'The ladies are upon us!
'We look to thee this day!'
IV.
There be thirty chosen Fellows,
The wisest of the land,
Who hard by Pater Varius
To bar all progress stand:
Evening and morn the Thirty
On the Three Graces sit,
Traced from the left by fingers deft
In the great Press of Pitt.
V.
And with one voice the Thirty
Have uttered their decree—
'Go forth, go forth, great Varius,
'Oppose the Graces Three!
'The enemy already
'Are quartered in the town,
'And if they once the Tripos gain,
'What hope to save the gown?'
VI.
'To Hiz, [1] the town of Offa,
'Their classes first they led,
'Then onward to Girtonia
'And Nunamantium sped:
'And now a mighty army
'Of young and beardless girls
'Beneath our very citadel
'A banner proud unfurls.'
VII.
Then out spake Father Varius,
No craven heart was his:
'To Pollmen and to Wranglers
'Death comes but once, I wis.
'And how can man live better,
'Or die with more renown,
'Than fighting against Progress
'For the rights of cap and gown?'
VIII.
'I, with two more to help me,
'Will face yon Graces Three;
'Will guard the Holy Tripod,
'And the M.A. Degree.
'We know that by obstruction
'Three may a thousand foil.
'Now who will stand on either hand
'To guard our Trojan soil?'
IX.
Then Parvue Mariensis,
Of Bearded Jove the Priest,
Spake out 'of Trojan warriors
'I am, perhaps, the least,
'Yet will I stand at thy right hand.'
Cried Pottius—'I likewise
'At thy left side will stem the tide
'Of myriad flashing eyes.
X.
Meanwhile the Ladies' Army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came clad in silks and satins bright,
With seal-skins and with furs bedight,
And gems and rings of gold.
Four hundred warriors shouted
'Placet' with fiendish glee,
As that fair host with fairy feet,
And smiles unutterably sweet,
Came tripping each towards her seat,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
XI.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And frowned upon their foes,
As a great shout of laughter
From the four hundred rose:
And forth three chiefs came spurring
Before their ladies gay,
They faced the Three, they scowled and scoffed,
Their gowns they donned, their caps they doffed,
Then sped them to the fray.
XII.
Generalis Post-Magister,
Lord of the Letter-bags;
And Dilkius Radicalis,
Who ne'er in combat lags;
And Graecus Professorius,
Beloved of fair Sabrine,
From the grey Elms—beneath whose shade
A hospitable banquet laid,
Had heroes e'en of cowards made.—
Brought 'placets' thirty-nine.
XIII
Stout Varius hurled 'non placet'
At Post-Magister's head:
At the mere glance of Pottius
Fierce Radicalis fled:
And Parvus Mariensis—
So they who heard him tell—
Uttered but one false quantity,
And Professorius fell!
* * * *
XIV.
But fiercer still and fiercer
Fresh foemen sought the fray.
And fainter still and fainter
Stout Varius stood at bay.
'O that this too, too solid
Flesh would dissolve,' he sighed;
Yet still he stood undaunted,
And still the foe defied.
XV.
Then Pollia Nunamensis,
A student sweetly fair,
Famed for her smiles and dimples
Blue eyes and golden hair,
Of Cupid's arrows seized a pair,
One in each eye she took:
Cupid's best bow with all her might
She pulled—each arrow winged its flight,
And straightway reason, sense, and sight
Stout Varius forsook.
XVI.
'He falls'—the Placets thundered,
And filled the yawning gap;
In vain his trusty comrades
Avenge their chief's mishap—
His last great fight is done.
'They charge! Brave Pottius prostrate lies,
No Rider helps him to arise:
They charge! Fierce Mariensis dies.
The Bridge, the Bridge is won!
XVII.
In vain did Bencornutus
Flash lightnings from his beard;
In vain Fabrorum Maximus
His massive form upreared;
And Lumbius Revisorius—
Diviner potent he!—
And Peronatus robed in state,
And fine old Fossilis sedate,
All vainly stemmed the tide of fate—
Triumphed the Graces Three!
XVIII.
But when in future ages
Women have won their rights,
And sweet girl-undergraduates
Read through the lamp-lit nights;
When some, now unborn, Pollia
Her head with science crams;
When the girls make Greek Iambics,
And the boys black-currant jams;
XIX.
When the goodman's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom,
And the good wife reads her Plato
In her own sequestered room;
With weeping and with laughter
Still shall the tale be told,
How pretty Pollia won the Bridge
In the brave days of old.
(1881).
[1] The ancient name of Hitchin.
JULIA.
An Ode.
[NOTE.—The following imitation of Cowper's Boadicea was written in 1858; most of its predictions have since been fulfilled.]
When the Cambridge flower-show ended,
And the flowers and guests were gone,
And the evening shades descended,
Roamed a man forlorn alone.
Sage beside the River slow
Sat the Don renowned for lore
And in accents soft and low
To the elms his love did pour.
"Julia, if my learned eyes
Gaze upon thy matchless face:
'Tis because I feel there lies
Magic in thy lovely grace.
"I will marry! write that threat
In the ink I daily waste:
Marry—pay each College debt—
College Ale no more will taste.
"Granta, far and wide renowned,
Frowns upon the married state;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! Reform is at the gate.
"Other Fellows shall arise,
Proud to own a husband's name:
Proud to own their infants' cries—
Harmony the path to fame.
"Then the progeny that springs
From our ancient College walls,
Armed with trumpets, noisy things,
Shall astound us by their squalls.
"Sounds no wrangler yet has heard,
Our posterity shall fright:
E'en 'the Eagle,' [1] valiant bird,
Shall betake itself to flight."
Such the thoughts that through him whirl'd
Pensively reclining there:
Smiling, as his fingers curled
His divinely-glowing hair.
He, with all a lover's pride,
Felt his manly bosom glow,
Sought the Bull, besought the Bride,
All she said was "No, Sir, No!"
Julia, pitiless as cold,
Lo the vengeance due from Heaven!
College Living he doth hold;
Single bliss to thee is given.
[1] "The Eagle" is the well-known Magazine of St. John's College, Cambridge.
CLIO FATIDICA.
[NOTE.—The following lines were written to celebrate the 'bump' by which the Lady Margaret 1st Boat became "Head of the River" in 1871. On the next evening Professor Selwyn delighted the eyes and the hearts of all Johnians by sculling down the river to salute the Head of the River. The title of psychroloutes [*] needs no explanation to those who know the Selwyns, who are no less renowned as swimmers than as oarsmen.]
"Tell me, Muse, what colour floateth round
the River's ancient head:
Is it white and black, or white and blue, is it
scarlet, blue, or red?"
Thus I prayed, and Clio answered, "Why, I thought
the whole world knew
That the red of Margareta had deposed the flag
of blue!
Babes unborn shall sing in rapture how, desiring
Close [1] affinity,
Goldie, rowing nearly fifty, overlapped, and bumped
First Trinity.
I myself was at the Willows, and beheld the victory won;
Saw the victor's final effort, and the deed of daring done.
I myself took off my bonnet, and forgetful of my years,
Patting Goldie on the shoulder, gave him three
times thrice three cheers.
Ne'er, oh! ne'er, shall be forgotten the excitement
of that night;
Aged Dons, deem'd stony-hearted, wept with
rapture at the sight:
E'en the Master of a College, as he saw them overlap,
Shouted 'Well rowed, Lady Margaret,' and took
off his College cap;
And a Doctor of Divinity, in his Academic garb,
Sang a solemn song of triumph, as he lashed his
gallant barb;
Strong men swooned, and small boys whistled,
sympathetic hounds did yell
Lovely maidens smiled their sweetest on the men
who'd rowed so well:
Goldie, Hibbert, Lang, and Bonsey, Sawyer,
Burnside, Harris, Brooke;
And the pride of knighthood, Bayard, who the
right course ne'er forsook,
But the sight which most rejoiced me was the
well-known form aquatic
Of a scholar famed for boating and for witticisms Attic.
Proud, I ween, was Lady Margaret her Professor
there to view,
As with words of wit and wisdom he regaled the
conquering crew.
Proud, I ween, were Cam and Granta, as they
saw once more afloat
Their Etonian psychroloutes [*], in his "Funny"
little boat.
Much, I ween, their watery spirits did within
their heart's rejoice,
As they listened to the music of that deep and
mellow voice.
Ah! 'tis well, to sing of boating, when before
my swimming eyes
Baleful visions of the future, woes unutterable rise.
All our palmy days are over; for the fairer, feebler sex
Has determined every College in succession to annex;
And before another decade has elapsed, our eyes shall see
College Tutors wearing thimbles o'er convivial cups of tea.
For 'golden-haired girl-graduates,' with 'Dowagers
for Dons,'
Shall tyrannize in Trinity, and domineer in 'John's.'
Then, instead of May Term races in the science grand
of rowing,
There'll be constant competition in the subtle art
of sewing.
Soon the modern undergraduate, with a feather in her hat,
Shall parade the streets of Cambridge, followed
by her faithful cat.
From Parker's Piece and Former's shall be banished
bat and wicket,
For crotchet work and knitting shall supplant the
game of cricket,
Save whene'er a match at croquet once a Term is
played at Girton
By the Members of "the College" and the Moralists
of Merton.
Then no tandems shall be driven, and no more
athletic sports,
Save fancy balls and dances, shall appear in
"Field" reports:
And instead of 'pots' and 'pewters' to promote
the art of walking,
We shall have a silver medal for proficiency in talking.
Wranglers fair shall daily wrangle, who no
Mathematics ken;
Lady preachers fill the pulpit, lady critics
wield the pen.
O ye gallant, gallant heroes who the River's
head have won,
Little know ye what an era of confusion hath begun.
I myself shall flee from Cambridge, sick at heart
and sorely vexed,
Ere I see my University disestablished and unsexed.'"
Thus she spake, and I endeavoured to console the
weeping Muse:
"Dry your tears, beloved Clio, drive away this
fit of blues.
Cease your soul with gloomy fancies and forebodings
to perplex;
You are doing gross injustice to the merits of your sex.
Know you not that things are changing, that the
Earth regains her youth,
Since Philosophers have brought to light the one
primeval truth?
Long have all things been misgoverned by the
foolish race of men,
Who've monopolized sword, sceptre, mitre, ermine,
spade, and pen,
All the failures, all the follies, that the weary
world bewails,
Have arisen, trust me, simply from the government of males.
But a brighter age is dawning; in the circling of the years
Lordly woman sees before her new 'ambitions,' new careers;
For the world's regeneration instantaneously began,
When Philosophers discovered the inferior claims of man.
With new honours Alma Mater shall eternally be crowned,
When the Ladies march in triumph, and her learned
seat surround;
Then a nobler race of students, and of athletes
shall arise,
Students fair who thirst for knowledge, athletes
true who 'pots' despise.
It is well for thee, sweet Clio, at their harmless
tastes to sneer,
At their love of cats and croquet, their antipathy
to beer;
But as soon as every College has surrendered to the fair,
Life up here will be perfection, we shall breathe
ambrosial air;
For the problem of past ages will be solved, and
we shall find
The superior powers of woman, both in body and in mind.
She shall teach us how to study, how to ride,
and run, and row;
How to box and play at cricket; how the heavy
weight to throw;
How to shoot the trembling pigeon; how the wily rat
to slay;
How at football and at racquets; how at whist and
chess to play;
How to drive the rapid tandem; how to jump, and how
to walk;
(For young women, trust me, Clio, can do something
more than talk)
How to climb the Alps in summer; how in winter time
to skate;
How to hold the deadly rifle; how a yacht to navigate;
How to make the winning hazard with an effort sure
and strong;
How to play the maddening comet, how to sing a comic song;
How to 'utilize' Professors; how to purify the Cam;
How to brew a sherry cobbler, and to make red-currant jam.
All the arts which now we practise in a desultory way
Shall be taught us to perfection, when we own the
Ladies' sway."
Thus I spake, and strove by speaking to assuage
sweet Clio's fears;
But she shook her head in sorrow, and departed drowned
in tears.
(1874).
[1] Mr. J. B. Close, a well-known oarsman, stroke of the First Trinity 1st Boat.
[*] [Transcriber's note: The word "psychroloutes" appears in the original book in Greek. It has been transliterated from the Greek letters psi, upsilon, chi, rho, omicron, lambda, omicron, upsilon, tau, eta, and sigma.]
ATHLETES AND AESTHESIS.
An Idyll of the Cam.
It was an Undergraduate, his years were scarce nineteen;
Discretion's years and wisdom's teeth he plainly ne'er had seen;
For his step was light and jaunty, and around him wide and far
He puffed the fragrant odours of a casual cigar.
It was a sweet girl-graduate, her years were thirty two;
Her brow was intellectual, her whole appearance blue;
Her dress was mediaeval, and, as if by way of charm,
Six volumes strapped together she was bearing 'neath her arm.
'My beautiful Aesthesis,' the young man rashly cried,
'I am the young Athletes, of Trinity the pride;
I have large estates in Ireland, which ere long
will pay me rent;
I have rooms in Piccadilly, and a farm (unlet) in Kent.
'My achievements thou hast heard of, how I chalk the wily cue,
Pull an oar, and wield the willow, and have won my double-blue;
How I ride, and play lawn tennis; how I make a claret cup;
Own the sweetest of bull terriers, and a grand St. Bernard pup.
'But believe me, since I've seen thee, all these
pleasures are a bore;
Life has now one only object fit to love and to adore;
Long in silence have I worshipped, long in secret have I sighed:
Tell me, beautiful Aesthesis, wilt thou be my blooming bride?'
'Sir Student,' quoth the maiden, 'you are really quite intense,
And I ever of this honour shall retain the highest sense;
But forgive me, if I venture'—faintly blushing thus she spoke—
'Is not true love inconsistent with tobacco's mundane smoke?'
'Perish all that comes between us,' cried Athletes, as he threw
His weed full fifty paces in the stream of Camus blue:
The burning weed encountered the cold river with the hiss
Which ensues when fire and water, wranglers old, are forced to kiss.
'Sir Student, much I thank thee,' said the Lady, 'thou hast shown
The fragrance of a lily, or of petals freshly blown;
But before to thee I listen there are questions not a few
Which demand from thee an answer satisfactory and true.'
'Fire away,' exclaimed Athletes, 'I will do the best I can;
But remember, gentle Maiden, that I'm not a reading man;
So your humble servant begs you, put your questions pretty plain,
For my Tutors all assure me I'm not overstocked with brain.
'Sir Student' cried the Lady, and her glance was stern and high,
Hast thou felt the soft vibration of a summer sunset sky?
Art thou soulful? Art thou tuneful? Cans't thou
weep o'er nature's woes?
Art thou redolent of Ruskin? Dost thou love a yellow rose?
'Hast thou bathed in emanations from the canvass of Burne Jones?
As thou gazest at a Whistler, doth it whistle wistful tones?
Art thou sadly sympathetic with a symphony in blue?
Tell me, tell me, gentle Student, art thou really quite tootoo?'
''Pon my word,' replied the Student, 'this is coming
it too strong:
I can sketch a bit at Lecture, and can sing a comic song;
But my head with all these subjects 'tis impossible to cram;
So, my beautiful Aesthesis, you must take me as I am.'
'Wilt thou come into my parlour,' sweetly blushing
asked the Maid,
'To my little bower in Girton, where a table shall be laid?
Pen and paper I will bring thee, and whatever thou shalt ask,
That is lawful, shall be granted for performance of thy task.'
Lightly leapt the young Athletes from his seat beside the Cam:
'This is tempting me, by Jingo, to submit to an Exam!
So it's time, my learned Lady, you and I should say good-bye'—
And he stood with indignation and wild terror in his eye.
They parted, and Athletes had not left her very far,
Ere again he puffed the odours of a casual cigar;
But he oftentimes lamented, as to manhood's years he grew,
'What a pity such a stunner was so spoilt by being blue!'
And Aesthesis, as she watched him with his swinging manly stride,
The 'double-blue' Athletes, of Trinity the pride,
Found it difficult entirely to eradicate love's dart,
As she listened to thy Lecture, Slade Professor of Fine Art.
And Ruskin, and the warblings of Whistler and Burne Jones,
And symphonies in colours, and sunset's silent tones,
Move her not as once they moved her, for she weeps in sorrow sore,
'O had I loved Athletes less, or he loved culture more!'
(1882).
A VISION.
As hard at work I trimmed the midnight lamp,
Yfilling of mine head with classic lore,
Mine hands firm clasped upon my temples damp,
Methought I heard a tapping at the door;
'Come in,' I cried, with most unearthly rore,
Fearing a horrid Dun or Don to see,
Or Tomkins, that unmitigated bore,
Whom I love not, but who alas! loves me,
And cometh oft unbid and drinketh of my tea.
'Come in,' I rored; when suddenly there rose
A magick form before my dazzled eyes:
'Or do I wake,' I asked myself 'or doze'?
Or hath an angel come in mortal guise'?
So wondered I; but nothing mote surmise;
Only I gazed upon that lovely face,
In reverence yblent with mute surprise:
Sure never yet was seen such wondrous grace,
Since Adam first began to run his earthlie race.
Her hands were folded on her bosom meek;
Her sweet blue eyes were lifted t'ward the skie;
Her lips were parted, yet she did not speak;
Only at times she sighed, or seemed to sigh:
In all her 'haviour was there nought of shy;
Yet well I wis no Son of Earth would dare,
To look with love upon that lofty eye;
For in her beauty there was somewhat rare,
A something that repell'd an ordinary stare.
Then did she straight a snowycloth disclose
Of samite, which she placed upon a chair:
Then, smiling like a freshly-budding rose,
She gazed upon me with a witching air,
As mote a Cynic anchorite ensnare.
Eftsoons, as though her thoughts she could not smother,
She hasted thus her mission to declare:—
'Please, these is your clean things I've brought instead of brother,
'And if you'll pay the bill you'll much oblige my mother.'
(1860).
A MAY TERM MEMORY.
She wore a sweet pink bonnet,
The sweetest ever known:
And as I gazed upon it,
My heart was not my own.
For—I know not why or wherefore—
A pink bonnet put on well,
Tho' few other things I care for,
Acts upon me like a spell.
'Twas at the May Term Races
That first I met her eye:
Amid a thousand Graces
No form with her's could vie.
On Grassy's sward enamelled
She reigned fair Beauty's Queen;
And every heart entrammell'd
With the charms of sweet eighteen.
Once more I saw that Bonnet—
'Twas on the King's Parade—
Once more I gazed upon it,
And silent homage paid.
She knew not I was gazing;
She passed unheeding by;
While I, in trance amazing,
Stood staring at the sky.
The May Term now is over:
That Bonnet has 'gone down';
And I'm myself a rover,
Far from my Cap and Gown.
But I dread the Long Vacation,
And its work by night and day,
After all the dissipation
Energetic of the May.
For x and y will vanish,
When that Bonnet I recall;
And a vision fair will banish,
Newton, Euclid, and Snowball.
And a gleam of tresses golden,
And of eyes divinely blue,
Will interfere with Holden,
And my Verse and Prose imbue.
* * * *
These sweet girl graduate beauties,
With their bonnets and their roses,
Will mar ere long the duties
Which Granta wise imposes.
Who, when such eyes are shining,
Can quell his heart's sensations;
Or turn without repining
To Square Root and Equations?
And when conspicuous my name
By absence shall appear;
When I have lost all hopes of fame,
Which once I held so dear;
When 'plucked' I seek a vain relief
In plaintive dirge or sonnet;
Thou wilt have caused that bitter grief,
Thou beautiful Pink Bonnet!
(1866).
THE MAY TERM.
Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:
Scena ioci morem liberioris habet.
OV. FAST. IV. 945, 946.
I wish that the May Term were over,
That its wearisome pleasures were o'er,
And I were reclining in clover
On the downs by a wave-beaten shore:
For fathers and mothers by dozens,
And sisters, a host without end,
Are bringing up numberless cousins,
Who have each a particular friend.
I'm not yet confirmed in misogyny—
They are all very well in their way—
But my heart is as hard as mahogany,
When I think of the ladies in May.
I shudder at each railway-whistle,
Like a very much victimized lamb;
For I know that the carriages bristle
With ladies invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparation
For reading I sported my door,
With surprise and no small indignation,
I picked up this note on the floor—
'Dear E. we are coming to see you,
'So get us some lunch if you can;
'We shall take you to Grassy, as Jehu—
'Your affectionate friend, Mary Ann.'
Affectionate friend! I'm disgusted
With proofs of affection like these,
I'm growing 'old, tawny and crusted,'
Tho' my nature is easy to please.
An Englishman's home is his castle,
So I think that my friend Mary Ann
Should respect, tho' she deem him her vassal,
The rooms of a reading young man.
In the days of our fathers how pleasant
The May Term up here must have been!
No chignons distracting were present,
And scarcely a bonnet was seen.
As the boats paddled round Grassy Corner
No ladies examined the crews,
Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner—
'Look, how Mr. Arculus screws!!
But now there are ladies in College,
There are ladies in Chapels and Halls;
No doubt 'tis a pure love of knowledge
That brings them within our old walls;
For they talk about Goldie's 'beginning';
Know the meaning of 'finish' and 'scratch,'
And will bet even gloves on our winning
The Boat Race, Athletics, or Match.
There's nothing but music and dancing,
Bands playing on each College green;
And bright eyes are merrily glancing
Where nothing but books should be seen.
They tell of a grave Dean a fable,
That reproving an idle young man
He faltered, for on his own table
He detected in horror—a fan!
Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums,
These Prussian-like Amazons rush,
Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums,
With equal intensity gush.
Then making their due 'requisition,'
From 'the lions' awhile they refrain,
And repose in the perfect fruition
Of ices, cold fowl, and champagne.
Mr. Editor, answer my question—
When, O when, shall this tyranny cease?
Shall the process of mental digestion
Ne'er find from the enemy peace?
Above all if my name you should guess, Sir,
Keep it quite to yourself, if you can;
For I dread, more than words can express, Sir,
My affectionate friend Mary Ann.
(1871).
A TRAGEDY OF THE 19TH CENTURY.
"Et potis es nigrum vitio praefigere Delta."—PERSIUS.
It was a young Examiner, scarce thirty were his years,
His name our University loves, honours, and reveres:
He pondered o'er some papers, and a tear stood in his eye;
He split his quill upon the desk, and raised a bitter cry—
'O why has Fortune struck me down with this unearthly blow?
"Why doom'd me to examine in my lov'd one's Little-go?
"O Love and Duty, sisters twain, in diverse ways ye pull;
"I dare not 'pass,' I scarce can 'pluck:' my cup of woe
is full.
"O that I ever should have lived this dismal day to see"!
He knit his brow, and nerved his hand, and wrote the fatal D.
* * * * * *
It was a lovely maiden down in Hertford's lovely shire;
Before her on a reading-desk, lay many a well-filled quire:
The lamp of genius lit her eyes; her years were twenty-two;
Her brow was high, her cheek was pale,
her bearing somewhat blue:
She pondered o'er a folio, and laboured to divine
The mysteries of "x" and "y," and many a magic sign:
Yet now and then she raised her eye, and ceased
awhile to ponder,
And seem'd as though inclined to allow her thoughts
elsewhere to wander,
A step was heard, she closed her book; her heart
beat high and fast,
As through the court and up the stairs a manly figure passed.
One moment more, the opening door disclosed unto her view
Her own beloved Examiner, her friend and lover true.
"Tell me, my own Rixator, is it First or Second Class?"
His firm frame shook, he scarce could speak,
he only sigh'd "Alas!"
She gazed upon him with an air serenely calm and proud—
"Nay, tell me all, I fear it not"—he murmured
sadly "Ploughed."
She clasped her hands, she closed her eyes as fell
the word of doom;
Full five times round in silence did she pace her little room;
Then calmly sat before her books, and sigh'd "Rixator dear,
"Give me the list of subjects to be studied for next year."
"My own brave Mathematica, my pupil and my pride,
"My persevering Student whom I destine for my bride;
"Love struggled hard with Duty, while the lover marked you B;
"In the end the stern Examiner prevailed and gave you D.
"Mine was the hand that dealt the blow! Alas, against my will
"I plucked you in Arithmetic—and can'st thou love me still?"
She gazed upon him and her eye was full of love and pride—
"Nay these are but the trials, Love, by which
true love is tried.
"I never knew your value true, until you marked me D:
"D stands for dear, and dear to me you evermore shall be."
* * * * * *
A year had passed, and she had passed, for morning,
noon, and night,
Her Euclid and her Barnard-Smith had been her sole delight.
Soon "Baccalaurea Artium" was added to her name,
And Hitchin's groves, and Granta's courts resounded
with her fame;
And when Rixator hurried down one day by the express,
And asked if she would have him, I believe she answered "Yes."
For now they live together, and a wiser, happier pair,
More learned and more loving, can scarce be found elsewhere;
And they teach their children Euclid, and
their babies all can speak
French and German in their cradles, and at five
can write good Greek;
And he is a Professor and she Professoress,
And they never cease the Little-go in gratitude to bless;
When love could not the Lover from the path of duty sway,
And no amount of plucking could his Student fair dismay.
MORAL.
Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, if in love you would
have luck,
In wooing, as in warfare, trust in nothing else than pluck.
(1871).
"NUNC TE BACCHE CANAM."
'Tis done! Henceforth nor joy nor woe
Can make or mar my fate;
I gaze around, above, below,
And all is desolate.
Go, bid the shattered pine to bloom;
The mourner to be merry;
But bid no ray to cheer the tomb
In which my hopes I bury!
I never thought the world was fair;
That 'Truth must reign victorious';
I knew that Honesty was rare;
Wealth only meritorious.
I knew that Women might deceive,
And sometimes cared for money;
That Lovers who in Love believe
Find gall as well as honey.
I knew that "wondrous Classic lore"
Meant something most pedantic;
That Mathematics were a bore,
And Morals un-romantic.
I knew my own beloved light-blue
Might much improve their rowing:
In fact, I knew a thing or two
Decidedly worth knowing.
But thou!—Fool, fool, I thought that thou
At least wert something glorious;
I saw thy polished ivory brow,
And could not feel censorious.
I thought I saw thee smile—but that
Was all imagination;
Upon the garden seat I sat,
And gazed in adoration.
I plucked a newly-budding rose,
Our lips then met together;
We spoke not—but a lover knows
How lips two lives can tether.
We parted! I believed thee true;
I asked for no love-token;
But now thy form no more I view—
My Pipe, my Pipe, thou'rt broken!
Broken!—and when the Sun's warm rays
Illumine hill and heather,
I think of all the pleasant days
We might have had together.
When Lucifer's phosphoric beam
Shines e'er the Lake's dim water,
O then, my Beautiful, I dream
Of thee, the salt sea's daughter.
O why did Death thy beauty snatch
And leave me lone and blighted,
Before the Hymeneal match
Our young loves had united?
I knew thou wert not made of clay,
I loved thee with devotion,
Soft emanation of the spray!
Bright, foam-born child of Ocean!
One night I saw an unknown star,
Methought it gently nodded;
I saw, or seemed to see, afar
Thy spirit disembodied.
Cleansed from the stain of smoke and oil,
My tears it bade me wipe,
And there, relieved from earthly toil,
I saw my Meerschaum pipe.
Men offer me the noisome weed;
But nought can calm my sorrow;
Nor joy nor misery I heed;
I care not for the morrow.
Pipeless and friendless, tempest-tost
I fade, I faint, I languish;
He only who has loved and lost
Can measure all my anguish.
A ROMANCE IN REAL (ACADEMIC) LIFE.
By the waters of Cam, as the shades were descending,
A Fellow sat moaning his desolate lot;
From his sad eyes were flowing salt rivulets, blending
Their tide with the river which heeded them not—
"O! why did I leave,"—thus he wearily muttered—
"The silent repose, and the shade of my books,
Where the voice of a woman no sound ever uttered,
And I ne'er felt the magic of feminine looks?
"Then I rose when the east with Aurora was ruddy;
Took a plunge in my Pliny; collated a play;
No breakfast I ate, for I found in each study
A collation which lasted me all through the day.
"I know not what temptress first came to my garden
Of Eden, and lured me stern wisdom to leave;
But I rather believe that a sweet 'Dolly Varden'
Came into my rooms on a soft summer eve.
"From that hour to this, dresses silken and satin
Seem to rustle around me, like wings in a dream;
And eyes of bright blue, as I lecture in Latin,
Fill my head with ideas quite remote from my theme.
"My life was once lonely, and almost ascetic;
But now, if I venture to walk in the street,
With her books in her hand, some fair Peripatetic
Is sure to address me with whisperings sweet.
"O, dear DR. OXYTONE, tell me the meaning
Of this terrible phrase, which I cannot make out;
And what is the Latin for "reaping" and "gleaning?"
Is "podagra" the Greek, or the Latin for "gout?"
"'And what do you mean by "paroemiac bases?"
Did the ladies in Athens wear heels very high?
Do give me the rules for Greek accents, and Crasis?
Did CORNELIA drive out to dine in a fly?
"'When were bonnets first worn? was the toga becoming?
Were woman's rights duly respected in Rome?
What tune was that horrible Emperor strumming,
When all was on fire—was it Home, Sweet Home?"
"Such questions as these (sweetest questions!) assail me,
When I walk on our Trumpington-Road-Rotten-Row;
The voice of the charmer ne'er ceases to hail me
(Is it wisely she charmeth?) wherever I go.
"Locked up in my rooms, I sigh wearily 'ohe!'
But cards, notes, and letters pour in by each post;
From PHYLLIS, EUPHROSYNE, PHIDYLE, CHLOE,
AMARYLLIS and JANE, and a numberless host.
"And now, I must take either poison or blue-pill,
For things cannot last very long as they are."
He ceased, as the exquisite form of a pupil
Dawned upon him, serene as a beautiful star.
Much of syntax and "accidence moving" our Fellow
Discoursed as they sat by the murmuring stream,
Till, as young Desdemona was charmed by Othello,
She listened, as one who is dreaming a dream.
* * * * * *
Now he, who was once a confirmed woman-hater,
Sees faces around him far dearer than books;
And no longer a Coelebs, but husband and "pater,"
Lauds in Latin and Greek MRS. OXYTONE'S looks.
(1871)
THE SENIOR FELLOW.
When the shades of eve descending
Throw o'er cloistered courts their gloom,
Dimly with the twilight blending
Memories long forgotten loom.
From the bright fire's falling embers
Faces smile that smiled of yore;
Till my heart again remembers
Hopes and thoughts that live no more.
Then again does manhood's vigour
Nerve my arm with iron strength;
As of old when trained with rigour
We beat Oxford by a length.
Once again the willow wielding
Do I urge the flying ball;
Till "lost ball" the men who're fielding
Hot and weary faintly call.
Then I think of hours of study,
Study silent as the tomb,
Till the rays of morning ruddy
Shone within my lonely room.
Once again my heart is burning
With ambition's restless glow;
And long hidden founts of learning
O'er my thirsty spirit flow.
Soon fresh scenes my fancy people,
For I see a wooded hill;
See above the well-known steeple;
Hear below the well-known rill;
Joyous sounds each gale is bringing,
Wafted on its fragrant breath;
Hark! I hear young voices singing,
Voices silent now in death.
Brothers, sisters, loved and loving,
Hold me in their fond embrace;
Half forgiving, half reproving,
I can see my Mother's face,
Mid a night of raven tresses,
Through the gloom two sad eyes shine;
And my hand a soft hand presses,
And a heart beats close to mine.
In mine ears a voice is ringing,
Sweeter far than earthly strain,
Heavenly consolation bringing
From the land that knows no pain,
And when slowly from me stealing
Fades that vision into air,
Every pulse beats with the feeling
That a Spirit loved was there.
A VALENTINE.
O how shall I write a love-ditty
To my Alice on Valentine's day?
How win the affection or pity
Of a being so lively and gay?
For I'm an unpicturesque creature,
Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
Without a respectable feature,
With a squint and a very queer nose.
But she is a being seraphic,
Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
Who can talk in a manner most graphic
Every possible language on earth.
When she's roaming in regions Italic,
You would think her a fair Florentine;
She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
Better far than Rousseau or Racine.
She sings—sweeter far than a cymbal
(A sound which I never have heard);
She plays—and her fingers most nimble
Make music more soft than a bird.
She speaks—'tis like melody stealing
O'er the Mediterranean sea;
She smiles—I am instantly kneeling
On each gouty and corpulent knee.
'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven
(Where else it should shine I don't know),
And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven
Are winking at mortals below:
Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,
My heart they will ne'er lead astray;
Nor the soft silken memories sever,
Which bind me to Alice De Grey.
If I roam thro' the dim Coliseum,
Her fairy form follows me there;
If I list to the solemn "Te Deum,"
Her voice seems to join in the prayer.
"Sweet spirit" I seem to remember,
O would she were near me to hum it;
As I heard her in sunny September,
On the Rigi's aërial summit!
O Alice where art thou? No answer
Comes to cheer my disconsolate heart;
Perhaps she has married a lancer,
Or a bishop, or baronet smart;
Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,
She is dancing, nor thinking of me;
Or riding in front of a small groom;
Or tossed in a tempest at sea;
Or listening to sweet Donizetti,
In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala;
Or walking alone on a jetty;
Or buttering bread in a parlour;
Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,
She will find me dull, married, and gray;
So I'll send her this juvenile greeting
On the Eve of St. Valentine's day.
A CURATE'S COMPLAINT.
Where are they all departed,
The loved ones of my youth,
Those emblems white of purity,
Sweet innocence and truth?
When day-light drives the darkness,
When evening melts to night,
When noon-day suns burn brightest,
They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.
I know I may find markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal
The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
"Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don't believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of Ritualistic guise.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There once was a time when I revelled in
rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running
cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old
hoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, duns
me for this or that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse and of
prose I am stripped to the very last particle.
What shall I write of? What subject indite of?
All my vis viva is failing;
Emeritus sum; Mons Parnassus is dumb, and my
prayers to the Nine unavailing.—
Thus in vain have I often attempted to soften
the hard heart of Mr. Arenae;
Like a sop, I must throw him some sort of a
poem, in spite of unwilling Camenae.
* * * * * *
No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no more
in the "wilderness" wander;
And absence we know, for the Poet says so,
makes the heart of the lover grow fonder.
I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb that
misses his woolly-backed mother;
I can find no relief for my passionate grief, nor
my groanings disconsolate smother.
Say, how are you all in our old College Hall?
Are the dinners more costly, or plainer?
How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and Pewters,
and how is my friend, the Complainer?
Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton,
increasing in numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded or
vain? Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How's the party of stormers, our so-called
Reformers? Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men's Minds? Who the money now
finds, for Museums, and all their appliances?
Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense reviving?
Is high-table talk metaphysic?
Will dark blue or light have the best of the
fight, at Putney and Mortlake and Chiswick?
I often importune the favour of Fortune, that no
misadventure may cross us,
And Rhodes once again on the watery plain,
may prove an aquatic Colossus.
[N.B. since I wrote I must add a short note,
by means of new fangled devices,
Our "Three" was unseated, and we were
defeated, and robbed of our laurels by Isis.]—
O oft do I dream of the muddy old stream, the
Father of wisdom and knowledge,
Where ages ago I delighted to row for the honour
and praise of my College.
I feel every muscle engaged in the tussle, I hear
the wild shouting and screaming;
And as we return I can see from the stern Lady
Margaret's red banner streaming;
Till I wake with a start, such as nightmares impart,
and find myself rapidly gliding,
And striving in vain at my ease to remain on a
seat that is constantly sliding.
Institutions are changed, men and manners
deranged, new systems of rowing and reading,
And writing and thinking, and eating and drinking,
each other are quickly succeeding.
Who knows to what end these new notions will
tend? No doubt all the world is progressing,
For Kenealy and Odgers, those wide-awake dodgers,
the wrongs of mankind are redressing.
No doubt we shall soon take a trip to the moon,
if we need recreation or frolic;
Or fly to the stars in the New Pullman Cars,
when we find the dull earth melancholic.
We shall know the delights of enjoying our
rights without any duties to vex us;
We shall know the unknown; the Philosopher's
stone shall be ours, and no problems perplex us;
For all shall be patent, no mysteries latent;
man's mind by intuitive notion,
The circle shall square, x and y shall declare,
and discover perpetual motion.
Meanwhile till the Earth has accomplished its
birth, mid visions of imminent glory,
I prefer to remain, as aforetime, a plain and
bloated and bigoted Tory.
* * * * * *
Dear Mr. Editor, lately my creditor, now fully
paid and my debtor,
I wonder what you will be minded to do, when
you get this rhapsodical letter.
If you listen to me (I shall charge you no fee
for advice) do not keep or return it;
To its merits be kind, to its faults rather blind;
in a word, Mr. Editor, burn it!
(1875).
[1] 'iam fervenimus usque ad umbilicos.' Martial iv. 91.
SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS
(OR, WHAT SHOULD A MAIDEN BE?)
[NOTE.—The following lines were written by request,
to be read at a Meeting of the "Girls' Friendly Society.">[
What should a maiden be? Pure as the rill,
Ere it has left its first home in the hill;
Thinking no evil, suspecting no guile,
Cherishing nought that can harm or defile.
What should a maiden be? Honest and true,
Giving to God and to neighbour their due;
Modest and merciful, simple and neat,
Clad in the white robe of innocence sweet.
What should a maiden be? She should be loath
Lightly to give or receive loving troth;
But when her faith is once plighted, till breath
Leave her, her love should be stronger than death.
What should a maiden be? Merry, whene'er
Merriment comes with a natural air;
But let not mirth be an every-day guest,
Quietness sits on a maiden the best.
Like a fair lily, sequestered and meek,
She should be sought for, not others should seek;
But, when the wild winds of trouble arise,
She should be calm and courageous and wise,
What should her words be? Her words should be few,
Honest and genuine, tender and true;
Words that overflow from a pure heart within,
Guiltless of folly, untainted by sin.
What should her dress be? Not gaudy and vain,
But unaffectedly pretty and plain;
She should remember these few simple words—
"Fine feathers flourish on foolish young birds."
Where should a maiden be? Home is the place
Which a fair maid is most fitted to grace;
There should she turn, like a bird to the nest,
There should a maiden be, blessing and blest.
There should she dwell as the handmaid of God,
And if He bid her 'pass under the rod,'
Let her each murmur repining suppress,
Knowing He chasteneth that He may bless.
But if earth's blessings each day He renew,
Let her give glory where glory is due;
Deem every blessing a gift from above,
Given, and designed for a purpose of love,
What will her future be? If she become
Matron and mother, may God bless her home!
God to the matron all blessings will give,
If as God's maiden the young maiden live.
What will her future be? If she should die,
Lightly the earth on her ashes will lie;
Softly her body will sleep 'neath the sod,
While her pure spirit is safe with her God.
TURGIDUS ALPINUS.
My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-year
To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear;
Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogs
Imbibe incessant whisky, and inhale incessant fogs:
Ye know not with what transports the mad Alpine Clubman gushes,
When with rope and axe and knapsack to the realms of snow he rushes.
O can I e'er the hour forget—a voice within cries "Never!"—
From British beef and sherry dear which my young heart did sever?
My limbs were cased in flannel light, my frame in Norfolk jacket,
As jauntily I stepped upon the impatient Calais packet.
"Dark lowered the tempest overhead," the waters wildly rolled,
Wildly the moon sailed thro' the clouds, "and it grew wondrous cold;"
The good ship cleft the darkness, like an iron wedge, I trow,
As the steward whispered kindly, "you had better go below"—
Enough! I've viewed with dauntless eye the cattle's bloody tide;
Thy horse, proud Duke of Manchester, I've seen straight at me ride;
I've braved chance ram-rods from my friends, blank cartridges from foes;
The jeers of fair spectators, when I fell upon my nose;
I've laughed at toils and troubles, as a British Volunteer;
But the thought of that nigh's misery still makes me pale with fear.
Sweet the repose which cometh as the due reward of toil;
Sweet to the sea-worn traveller the French or British soil;
But a railway-carriage full of men, who smoke and drink and spit,
Who disgust you by their manners, and oppress you with their wit;
A carriage garlic-scented, full of uproar and of heat,
To a sleepy, jaded Briton is decidedly not sweet.
Then welcome, welcome Paris, peerless city of delights!
Welcome, Boulevards, fields Elysian, brilliant days and magic nights!
"Vive la gloire, et vive Napoléon! vive l'Empire (c'est la paix);
"Vive la France, the land of beauty! vive la Rue St. Honoré!"
Wildly shouting thus in triumph, I arrived at my Hotel—
The exterior was palatial, and the dinner pretty well:
O'er the rest, ye muses draw a veil! 'Twas the Exhibition year—
And everything was nasty, and proportionately dear,
Why should ye sing how much I paid for one poor pint of claret—
The horrors of my bedroom in a flea-frequented garret—
Its non-Sabaean odours—Liliputian devices
For washing in a tea-cup—all at "Exhibition prices?"
To the mountains, to the mountains, to their snowy peaks I fly!
For their pure, primeval freshness, for their solitude I sigh!
Past old Dijon and its Buffet, past fair Macon and its wine,
Thro' the lime-stone cliffs, of Jura, past Mont Cenis' wondrous line;
Till at 10 A.M., "Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,"
And I take outside the diligence for Chamonix my place.
Still my fond imagination views, in memory's mirror clear,
Purple rock, and snowy mountain, pine-wood black, and glassy mere;
Foaming torrents hoarsely raving; tinkling cowbells in the glade;
Meadows green, and maidens mowing in the pleasant twilight shade:
The crimson crown of sun-set on Mont Blanc's majestic head,
And each lesser peak beneath him pale and ghastly as the dead:
Eagle-nest-like mountain chalets, where the tourist for some sous
Can imbibe milk by the bucket, and on Nature's grandeur muse:
Mont Anvert, the "Pas" called "mauvais," which I thought
was "pas mauvais,"
Where, in spite of all my boasting, I encountered some delay;
For, much to my amazement, at the steepest part I met
A matron who weighed twenty stones, and I think must be there yet:
The stupendous Col du Géant, with its chaos of seracs;
The procession into Cormayeur, with lantern, rope, and axe:
The sweet girl with golden ringlets—her dear name was Mary Ann—
Whom I helped to climb the Jardin, and who cut me at Lausanne:
On these, the charms of Chamonix, sweeter far than words can tell,
At the witching hour of twilight doth my memory love to dwell.
Ye, who ne'er have known the rapture, the unutterable bliss
Of Savoy's sequestered valleys, and the mountains of La Suisse;
The mosquitos of Martigny; the confusion of Sierre;
The dirt of Visp or Minister, and the odours everywhere:
Ye, who ne'er from Monte Rosa have surveyed Italia's plain,
Till you wonder if you ever will get safely down again;
Ye, who ne'er have stood on tip-toe on a 'knife-like snow-arête,'
Nor have started avalanches by the pressure of your weight;
Ye, who ne'er have packed your weary limbs in sleeping bags at night,
Some few inches from a berg-schrund, 'neath
the pale moon's freezing light:
Who have ne'er stood on the snow-fields, when the sun in glory rose,
Nor returned again at sun-set with parched lips and skinless nose;
Ye, who love not masked crevasses, falling stones, and blistered feet,
Sudden changes from Siberia's cold to equatorial heat;
Ye, who love not the extortions of Padrone, Driver, Guide;
Ye, who love not o'er the Gemmi on a kicking mule to ride;
You miserable creatures, who will never know true bliss,
You're not the men for Chamonix; avoid, avoid La Suisse!
THE ALPINE CLUB MAN.
"Up the high Alps, perspiring madman, steam,
To please the school-boys, and become a theme."
Cf. Juv. Sat. x, v. 106.
We who know not the charms of a glass below Zero,
Come list to the lay of an Alpine Club hero;
For no mortal below, contradict it who can,
Lives a life half so blest as the Alpine Club man.
When men of low tastes snore serenely in bed,
He is up and abroad with a nose blue and red;
While the lark, who would peacefully sleep in her nest,
Wakes and blesses the stranger who murders her rest.
Now blowing their fingers, with frost-bitten toes,
The joyous procession exultingly goes;
Above them the glaciers spectral are shining,
But onward they march undismay'd, unrepining.
Now the glacier blue they approach with blue noses,
When a yawning crevasse further progress opposes;
Already their troubles begin—here's the rub!
So they halt, and nem. con. call aloud for their grub.
From the fountain of pleasure will bitterness spring,
Yet why should the Muse aught but happiness sing?
No! let me the terrible anguish conceal
Of the hero whose guide had forgotten the veal! [1]
Now "all full inside" on the ice they embark:
The moon has gone down, and the morning is dark,
Dreary drizzles the rain, O, deny it who can,
There's no one so blest as the Alpine Club man!
But why should I dwell on their labours at length?
Why sing of their eyelids' astonishing strength?
How they ride up "arêtes" with slow, steady advance,
One leg over Italy, one over France.
Now the summit is gained, the reward of their toil:
So they sit down contentedly water to boil:
Eat and drink, stamp their feet, and keep warm if they can—
O who is so blest as the Alpine Club man?
Now their lips and their hands are of wonderful hue,
And skinless their noses, that 'erst were so blue:
And they find to their cost that high regions agree
With that patient explorer and climber—the flea.
Then they slide down again in a manner not cozy,
(Descensus baud facilis est Montis Rosae)
Now spread on all fours, on their backs now descending,
Till broad-cloth and bellows call loudly for mending.
Now harnessed together like so many—horses,
By bridges of snow they cross awful crevasses;
So frail are these bridges that they who go o'er 'em
Indulge in a perilous "Pons Asinorum."
Lastly weary and Jaded, with hunger opprest,
In a hut they chew goat's flesh, and court gentle rest;
But entomological hosts have conspired
To drive sleep from their eyelids, with clambering tired.
O thou, who with banner of strangest device
Hast never yet stood on a summit of ice,
Where "lifeless but beautiful" nature doth show
An unvaried expanse of rock, rain, ice, and snow.
Perchance thou may'st ask what avails all their toil?
What avails it on mountain-tops water to boil?
What avails it to leave their snug beds in the dark?
Do they go for a view? do they go for a lark?
Know, presumptuous wretch, 'tis not science they prize,
The lark, and the view ('tis all mist) they despise;
Like the wise king of France with his ten thousand men,
They go up their mountain—to come down again.
[1] Cf. Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers, 1st Series, p. 296.
THE MODERN CLIMBER.
Year after year, as Summer suns come round,
Upon the Calais packet am I found:
Thence to Geneva hurried by express,
I halt for breakfast, bathe, and change my dress.
My well-worn knapsack to my back I strap;
My Alpine rope I neatly round me wrap;
Then, axe in hand, the diligence disdaining,
I walk to Chamonix, by way of training.
Arrived at Coutlet's Inn by eventide,
I interview my porter and my guide:
My guide, that Mentor who has dragg'd full oft
These aching, shaking, quaking limbs aloft;
Braved falling stones, cut steps on ice-slopes steep,
That I the glory of his deeds might reap.
My porter, who with uncomplaining back
O'er passes, peaks, and glaciers bears my pack:
Tho' now the good man looks a trifle sadder,
When I suggest the ill-omened name of "ladder."
O'er many a pipe our heads we put together;
Our first enquiry is of course "the weather."
With buoyant hearts the star-lit heaven we view;
Then our next point is "What are we to 'do'?"
My pipe I pocket, and with head up-tossed
My listening followers I thus accost:—
"Mont Blanc, we know, is stupid, stale, and slow,
A tiresome tramp o'er lumps of lifeless snow.
The Col du Géant is a trifle worse;
The Jardin's fit for babies with their nurse:
The Aiguille Verte is more the sort of thing,
But time has robbed it of its former sting;
Alone the Dent du Géant and the Dru [1]
Remain 'undone,' and therefore fit to 'do.'
Remember how I love, my comrades tried,
To linger on some rocky mountain's side,
"Where I can hear the crash of falling stones,
Threatening destruction to the tourist's bones!
No cadence falls so sweetly on my ear
As stones discharged from precipices sheer:
No sight is half so soothing to my nerves
As boulders bounding in eccentric curves.
If falling stones sufficient be not found,
Lead me where avalanches most abound.
Ye shake your heads; ye talk of home and wife,
Of babes dependent on the Father's life.
What! still reluctant? let me then make clear
The duties of the guide and mountaineer;
Mine is to order, yours is to obey—
For you are hirelings, and 'tis I who pay.
I've heard, indeed, that some old-fashioned Herren,
Who've walked with Almer, Melchior, and Perren,
Maintain that mountaineering is a pleasure,
A recreation for our hours of leisure:
'To be or not to be' perhaps may matter
To them, for they may have some brains to scatter;
But we, I trust, shall take a higher view,
And make our mountain motto 'die or do.'
"Nay, hear me out! your scruples well I know:
Trust me, not unrewarded shall ye go.
If ye succeed, much money will I give,
And mine unfaltering friendship, while ye live.
Nor only thus will I your deeds requite;
High testimonials in your books I'll write.
Thee, trusty guide, will I much eulogize
As strong and cautious, diligent and wise,
Active, unhesitating, cheerful, sure—
Nay, almost equal to an Amateur!
And thou, my meekest of meek beasts of burden,
Thou too shalt have thine undisputed guerdon:
I'll do for thee the very best I can,
And sound thy praise as 'a good third-rate man.'
But if ye fail, if cannonading stones,
Or toppling ice-crag, pulverize your bones;
O happy stroke, that makes immortal heroes
Of men who, otherwise, would be but zeroes!
What tho' no Alpine horn make music drear
O'er the lone snow which furnishes your bier;
Nor Alpine maiden strew your grave with posies
Of gentian, edelweiss, and Alpine roses?
"The Alpine Muse her iciest tears shall shed,
And 'build a stone-man' o'er your honour'd head,
Chamois and bouquetins the spot shall haunt,
With eagles, choughs, and lammergeyers gaunt;
The mountain marmots, marching o'er the snow,
Their yearly pilgrimage shall ne'er forego;
Tyndall himself, in grand, prophetic tones,
Shall calculate the movement of your bones;
And your renown shall live serene, eternal,
Embalmed in pages of the Alpine Journal!"
* * * * *
By reasoning such as this, year after year,
I overcome my men's unreasoning fear:
Twice has my guide by falling stones been struck,
Yet still I trust his science and my luck.
A falling stone once cut my rope in twain;
We stopped to mend it, and marched on again.
Once a big boulder, with a sudden whack,
Severed my knapsack from my porter's back.
Twice on a sliding avalanche I've slid,
While my companions in its depths were hid.
Daring all dangers, no disaster fearing,
I carry out my plan of mountaineering.
Thus have I conquered glacier, peak, and pass,
Aiguilles du Midi, Cols des Grandes Jorasses.
Thus shall I onward march from peak to peak,
Till there are no new conquests left to seek.
O the wild joy, the unutterable bliss
To hear the coming avalanche's hiss!
Or place oneself in acrobatic pose,
While mountain missiles graze one's sun-burnt nose!
And if some future season I be doom'd
To be by boulders crushed, or snow entombed,
Still let me upward urge my mad career,
And risk my limbs and life for honour dear!
Sublimely acquiescent in my lot,
I'll die a martyr for—I know not what!
(1876)
[1] Written in 1876.
THE CLIMBER'S DREAM.
I made an ascent of the Eiger
Last year, which has ne'er been surpassed;
'Twas dangerous, long, and laborious,
But almost incredibly fast.
We started at twelve from the Faulberg;
Ascended the Monch by the way;
And were well at the base of our mountain,
As the peak caught the dawn of the day.
In front of me Almer and Perren
Cut steps, each as big as a bucket;
While behind me there followed, as Herren,
George, Stephen, and Freshfield, and Tuckett.
We got to the top without trouble;
There halted, of course, for the view;
When clouds, sailing fast from the southward,
Veiled over the vault of dark blue.
The lightning shone playfully round us;
The thunder ferociously growled;
The hail beat upon us in bullets;
And the wind everlastingly howled.
We turned to descend to the Scheideck,
Eyes blinded, ears deafened, we ran,
In our panic and hurry, forgetting
To add a new stone to the man.
Palinurus himself—that is Almer—
No longer could make out the track;
'Twas folly, no doubt, to go onward;
'Twas madness, of course, to go back.
The snow slope grew steeper and steeper;
The lightning more vividly flared;
The thunder rolled deeper and deeper;
And the wind more offensively blared.
But at last a strong gust for a moment
Dispersed the thick cloud from our sight,
And revealed an astonishing prospect,
Which filled not our hearts with delight:
On our right was a precipice awful;
On the left chasms yawning and deep;
Glazed rocks and snow-slopes were before us,
At an angle alarmingly steep.
We all turned and looked back at Almer.
Who then was the last on the rope;
His face for a moment was clouded,
Then beamed with the dawn of a hope;
He came to the front, and thence forward
In wonderful fashion he led,
Over rocks, over snow-slopes glissading,
While he stood, bolt upright on his head!
We followed, in similar fashion;
Hurrah, what a moment is this!
What a moment of exquisite transport!
A realization of bliss!
To glissade is a pleasant sensation,
Of which all have written, or read;
But to taste it, in perfect perfection,
You should learn to glissade on your head.
Hurrah! with a wild scream of triumph,
Over snow, over boulders we fly,
Our heads firmly pressed to the surface,
Our heels pointing up to the sky!
We bound o'er the bergschrund uninjured,
We shoot o'er a precipice sheer;
Hurrah, for the modern glissader!
Hurrah, for the wild mountaineer!
* * * * *
But, alas! what is this? what a shaking!
What a jar! what a bump! what a thump!
Out of bed, in intense consternation,
I bound with a hop, skip, and jump.
For I hear the sweet voice of a "person"
Of whom I with justice am proud,
"My dear, when you dream about mountains,
I wish you'd not jodel so loud!"
THE BEACONSFIELD ALPHABET.
A's my new policy called Annexation;
B is the Bother it causes the nation.
C is Lord Chelmsford, engaged with Zulus;
D the Disasters which give me 'the blues.'
E is the Effort I make to look merry;
F is my Failure—deplorable very!
G is Sir Garnett, alas, not ubiquitous!
H stands for H——t, an M.P. iniquitous.
I stands for India, a source of vexation:
J are the Jews, a most excellent nation.
K is the Khedive, whose plan is to borrow
L L. s. d.—I'll annex him to-morrow!
M's the Majority, which I much prize;
N are the Non-contents whom I despise.
O's the Opposition, so often defeated;
P is P——ll, that Home-ruler conceited.
Q are the Questions put by noble Lords;
R my Responses, more cutting than swords.
S is the Sultan, my friend true and warm;
T are the Turks, whom I hope to reform.
U's my Utopia—Cyprus, I mean:
V is Victoria, my Empress and Queen.
W's the World, which ere long I shall own;
X is the sign of my power unknown.
Y is the Yacht I shall keep in the Red Sea:
Z the Zulus, whom I wish in the Dead Sea.
(1879).