Horace Smith - Interludes
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Horace Smith >> Interludes
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"Forgive me, Hawkstone," he said, "I have done you a great wrong, and I
am sorry for it."
"What's the good in saying that? You can't mend the wrong you have
done," and his head sank down again between his hands.
There was a pause. Barton felt that what had been said was true and not
true. One of the most painful consequences of wrong-doing is that the
wrong has a sort of fungus growth about it, and insists upon appearing
more wrong than it ever was meant to be.
"Hawkstone," he said at last, "I swear to you, on my honour as a
gentleman, I have never dreamed of doing her an injury. I have been
very, very foolish; I have come between you and her with my cursed folly.
I deserve anything you may say or do to me. I care nothing about the
waves; let them come. Take her with you up the cliff, and leave me to
drown. It's all I'm fit for. She will forget me soon enough, I feel
sure, for I am not worth remembering."
Hawkstone still kept himself bent down, his hands covering his face, and
his body swaying to and fro with his strong emotions.
"You talk, you talk," he muttered. "You seem to have ruined her, and me,
and yourself too."
"Not ruined her!" cried Barton, "I have told you, I swear to you. I
swear--"
"Yes!" cried Hawkstone, springing up in a passion and towering above
Barton, with his hands tightly clenched and his chest heaving, "Yes! you
are too great a coward for that. In one moment I could crush you as I
crush the mussels in the harbour with my heel."
Nelly threw herself upon him, "Jack, spare him, spare him. He meant no
harm. Not now, not now! The sea, Jack, the sea! Save us, save us!"
The man's strength seemed to leave him, and she seemed to overpower him,
as he sank back into his former position, muttering "O God, O God!" At
last he said, "Let be, let be--there, there, I've prayed I might not kill
you both, and the devil is gone, thank the Lord for it. There, lass,
don't fret; I can't abide crying. The sea! the sea! Yes, the sea. I
had almost forgotten it. Cheer up a bit--fearful--how it blows--but
there's time yet--a few minutes. Keep up, keep up. There's a God above
us anyway."
At this moment a shout was heard above them. "There they are at last,"
cried Hawkstone, and he sent a loud halloo up the cliff, which was
immediately responded to by those at the top, though the sound seemed
faint and far off. After the lapse of about five minutes, a basket
attached to two ropes descended slowly and bumped upon the rocks.
"Now, lass, you get up first. Come, come, give over crying. It's no
time for crying now. Be a brave lass or you'll fall out. Sit down and
keep tight hold. Shut your eyes, never mind a bump or two, and keep
tight hold. Now then!" He lifted her into the basket. She tried to
take his hand, but he drew it sharply away.
"Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Jack," she said, "I have been very wicked,
but I will try to be good."
"That's right, lass, that's right. God keep you safe. Hold on," and he
gave a shout up the cliff, and the basket began slowly to ascend. The
two men gazed at it in silence till it reached the summit, when, with a
rapid swirl, it disappeared.
"Thank God, she is safe," said Hawkstone.
"Look, look!" cried Barton, catching hold of Hawkstone in alarm. "Look
how fast the waves are coming. They will be on us directly."
"Yes," said Hawkstone, "there will be barely time to get the two of us up
unless they make great haste. I don't know why they don't lower at once.
Something must have gone wrong with the rope, but they will do their
best, that's certain."
They waited in anxiety amounting to horror, as wave after wave, larger
and louder, roared at them, and rushed round the rocks on which they were
standing. Presently down came the basket, plunging into the retreating
wave.
"Now, then, sir, in with you," said Hawkstone.
"No, you go first. I will not go. It is my fault you are here."
"Nonsense, sir, there's no time for talk."
"I will not go without you. Let us both get in together."
"The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there is strength
enough above to pull us up. Get in, get in."
Barton still hesitated. "I am afraid to leave you alone. Promise me if
I go that you will not--. I can't say what I mean, but if anything
happened to you I should be the cause of it."
"For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I have not forgotten
who made me, though I have been sorely tried. In with you at once." He
suddenly lifted Barton up in his arms, and almost threw him into the
basket, raising a loud shout, upon which the basket again ascended the
cliff more rapidly than on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon his
knees at the base of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wild
beasts held back from their victim. He was alone with them and with the
God in whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier than
all the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstone
had a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get into
it. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with excitement
and grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. He
remembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the first thing
he remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind of extemporary
litter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was "coming to," and would
soon be all right again.
Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural that
Hawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have been
there by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state of the case
was, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but we kept our own
counsel.
CHAPTER VII.--CONCLUSION.
Very soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, the Reading
Party broke up, and it only remains now for the writer of this veracious
narrative to disclose any information he may have subsequently obtained
as to the fate of his characters. Porkington still holds an honoured
position in the University, and still continues to take young men in the
summer vacation to such places as Mrs. Porkington considers sufficiently
invigorating to her constitution. They grow better friends every year,
but the grey mare will always be the better horse. One cause of
difference has disappeared. The Drag died very shortly after leaving
Babbicombe; not at all, I believe, in consequence of her ducking in the
harbour; but, being of a peevish and "worritting" disposition, she had
worn herself out in her attempts to make other people's lives a burden to
them. I do not know what has become of Harry Barton; but I know that he
has never revisited Babbicombe, nor even written to the fair Nelly. I
suppose he is helping to manage his father's cotton mill, and will in due
course marry the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer. Glenville has
become quite a rising barrister, popular in both branches of his
profession, and has announced his fixed intention to remain happy and
unmarried till his death. Looking into the future, however, with the eye
of a prophet, the present writer thinks he can see Glenville walking arm
in arm with a tall, graceful lady, attended by two little girls to whom
he is laughingly talking--but the dream fades from me, and I wonder will
it ever come true. Thornton, of course, married Miss Delamere (how could
it be otherwise), but, alas! there are no children, and this unhappy want
is hardly compensated by the indefatigable attentions of Mamma Delamere,
who is never weary of condoling with that poor, desolate couple,
imploring them to resign themselves to the fate which has been assigned
to them, and to strengthen their minds by the principles of true
philosophy and the writings of great thinkers; by which she hopes they
may acquire that harmony of the soul in private life which is so much to
be desiderated in both politics and religion. Nobody knows what she
means.
Nelly was not forgiven for one whole year. When she and Hawkstone met,
they used only the customary expressions of mere acquaintances; but
lovers are known to make use of signals which are unperceived by the
outside world; and, after a year's skirmishing, a peace was finally
concluded, and a happier couple than John Hawkstone and Nelly cannot be
found in the whole country, and I am afraid to say how many of their
children are already tumbling about the boats in the harbour.
The colonel died, and Mrs. Bagshaw lamented his death most truly, and has
nothing but gentleness left in her nature. Her daughter has married the
young artist, whose pictures of brown-sailed boats and fresh seas
breaking in white foam against the dark rocks have become quite the rage
at the Academy. The minor characters have disappeared beneath the waves,
and nothing remains to be said except the last word, "farewell."
A FARRAGO OF VERSES.
MY BOATING SONG.
I.
Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure,
A goblet, that's full to the brim,
And each man may take for his pleasure
The thing that's most pleasant to him;
Then let all, who are birds of my feather,
Throw heart and soul into my song;
Mark the time, pick it up all together,
And merrily row it along.
Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
II.
I'll admit 'tis delicious to plunge in
Clear pools, with their shadows at rest;
'Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in
Your foil at the enemy's chest;
'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket,
Or lash round to leg for a four;
But somehow the glories of cricket
Depend on the state of the score.
But in boating, or losing or winning,
Though victory may not attend;
Oh, 'tis jolly to catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
III.
'Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping,
To be in at the death of the fox;
Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping,
The river that roars o'er the rocks;
'Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant;
And yachting is certainly great;
But, beyond all expression, 'tis pleasant
To row in a rattling good eight.
Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
What matter what labour we spend?
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
IV.
Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready!
Five seconds! Four, three, two, one, gun!
Well started! Well rowed! Keep her steady!
You'll want all your wind e'er you've done.
Now you're straight! Let the pace become swifter!
Roll the wash to the left and the right!
Pick it up all together, and lift her,
As though she would bound out of sight!
Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you're winning,
Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend;
Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
And pull it clean through to the end.
V.
Bump! Bump! O ye gods, how I pity
The ears those sweet sounds never heard;
More tuneful than loveliest ditty
E'er poured from the throat of a bird.
There's a prize for each honest endeavour,
But none for the man who's a shirk;
And the pluck that we've showed on the river,
Shall tell in the rest of our work.
At the last, whether losing or winning,
This thought with all memories blend,--
We forgot not to catch the beginning,
And we pulled it clean through to the end.
LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.
I.
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
I ask no more
Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four,
Contentment sweet to yield.
For I am not fastidious,
And, with a proud demeanour, I
Will not affect invidious
Distinctions about scenery.
I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise
Against Italian skies,
Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather,
Set off with glorious weather;
Such sights as these
The most exacting please;
But I, lone wanderer in London streets,
Where every face one meets
Is full of care,
And seems to wear
A troubled air,
Of being late for some affair
Of life or death:--thus I, ev'n I,
Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and green
Thick hedges set between,
Without or house or bield,
A sense of quietude to yield;
And heave my longing sigh,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
II.
For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest
With hoarseness every night;
And greet returning light
With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest.
Where'er I go,
Full well I know
The eternal grinding wheels will never cease.
There is no place of peace!
Rumbling, roaring, and rushing,
Hurrying, crowding, and crushing,
Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret,
From early morning to late sunset--
Ah me! but when shall I respite get--
What cave can hide me, or what covert shield?
So still I sigh,
And raise my cry,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
III.
Oh for a field, where all concealed,
From this life's fret and noise,
I sip delights from rural sights,
And simple rustic joys.
Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest,
I lie and think what likes me best;
Or stroll about where'er I list,
Nor fear to be run over
By sheep, contented to exist
Only on grass and clover.
In town, as through the throng I steer,
Confiding in the Muses,
My finest thoughts are drowned in fear
Of cabs and omnibuses.
I dream I'm on Parnassus hill,
With laurels whispering o'er me,
When suddenly I feel a chill--
What was it passed before me?
A lady bowed her gracious head
From yonder natty brougham--
The windows were as dull as lead,
I didn't know her through them.
She'll say I saw her, cut her dead,--
I've lost my opportunity;
I take my hat off when she's fled,
And bow to the community!
Or sometimes comes a hansom cab,
Just as I near the crossing;
The "cabby" gives his reins a grab,
The steed is wildly tossing.
Me, haply fleeing from his horse,
He greets with language somewhat coarse,
To which there's no replying;
A brewer's dray comes down that way,
And simply sends me flying!
I try the quiet streets, but there
I find an all-pervading air
Of death in life, which my despair
In no degree diminishes.
Then homewards wend my weary way,
And read dry law books as I may,
No solace will they yield.
And so the sad day finishes
With one long sigh and yearning cry,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
IV.
The fields are bright, and all bedight
With buttercups and daisies;
Oh, how I long to quit the throng
Of human forms and faces:
The vain delights, the empty shows,
The toil and care bewild'rin',
To feel once more the sweet repose
Calm Nature gives her children.
At times the thrush shall sing, and hush
The twitt'ring yellow-hammer;
The blackbird fluster from the bush
With panic-stricken clamour;
The finch in thistles hide from sight,
And snap the seeds and toss 'em;
The blue-tit hop, with pert delight,
About the crab-tree blossom;
The homely robin shall draw near,
And sing a song most tender;
The black-cap whistle soft and clear,
Swayed on a twig top slender;
The weasel from the hedge-row creep,
So crafty and so cruel,
The rabbit from the tussock leap,
And splash the frosty jewel.
I care not what the season be--
Spring, summer, autumn, winter--
In morning sweet, or noon-day heat,
Or when the moonbeams glint, or
When rosy beams and fiery gleams,
And floods of golden yellow,
Proclaim the sweetest hour of all--
The evening mild and mellow.
There, though the spring shall backward keep,
And loud the March winds bluster,
The white anemone shall peep
Through loveliest leaves in cluster.
There primrose pale or violet blue
Shall gleam between the grasses;
And stitchwort white fling starry light,
And blue bells blaze in masses.
As summer grows and spring-time goes,
O'er all the hedge shall ramble
The woodbine and the wilding rose,
And blossoms of the bramble.
When autumn comes, the leafy ways
To red and yellow turning,
With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze,
And scarlet briony burning.
When winter reigns and sheets of snow,
The flowers and grass lie under;
The sparkling hoar frost yet shall show,
A world of fairy wonder.
To me more dear such scenes appear,
Than this eternal racket,
No longer will I fret and fag!
Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag,
And help me quick to pack it.
For here one must go where every one goes,
And meet shoals of people whom one never knows,
Till it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic;
And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows,
And will do just the same when I'm dead I suppose;
And I'm rapidly growing a sceptic.
For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack!
I've a pain in my head and an ache in my back;
A terrible cold that makes me shiver,
And a general sense of a dried-up liver;
And I feel I can hardly bear it.
And it's oh for a field with four hedgerows,
And the bliss which comes from an hour's repose,
And a true, true friend to share it.
PROTHALAMION.
The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some other
rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs of
old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches.
Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great
authors frequently repeat themselves.
Nothing so true as what you once let fall,--
"To growl at something is the lot of all;
Contentment is a gem on earth unknown,
And Perfect Happiness the wizard's stone.
Give me," you cried, "to see my duty clear,
And room to work, unhindered in my sphere;
To live my life, and work my work alone,
Unloved while living, and unwept when gone.
Let none my triumphs or my failures share,
Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir."
Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower,
Wish to make all men good, but want the power.
Freedom you'll have, but still will lack the thrall,--
The bond of sympathy, which binds us all.
Children and wives are hostages to fame,
But aids and helps in every useful aim.
You answer, "Look around, where'er you will,
Experience teaches the same lesson still.
Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten,
To abject drudgery dooms its married men:
A slave at first, before the knot is tied,
But soon a mere appendage to the bride;
A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame;
At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame;
In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord;
Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored."
This picture, friend, is surely overdone,
You paint the tribe by drawing only one;
Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude
The man's whole life with misery imbued.
Say, what can Horace want to crown his life,
Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife?
His lively grin proclaims the man is blest,
Here perfect happiness must be confessed!
Hark, hear that melancholy shriek, alack!--
That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.
This evil vexed not Courthope's happy ways,
Who wants no extra coat on coldest days.
His face, his walk, his dress--whate'er you scan,
He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman.
Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hears
The hoarse Gregorians vex his tortured ears.
Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know,
While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow,
Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey;
For him e'en Leech will work a good half day;
He strives to hide the fear he still must feel,
Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel.
Peace to all such; but were there one, whose fires
True genius kindles and fair fame inspires;
Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas,
And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees;
Should such a man, couched on his easy throne,
(Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone;
View every virgin with distrustful eyes,
And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize,
Alike averse to blame, or to commend,
Not quite their foe, but something less than friend;
Dreading e'en widows, when by these besieged;
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws,
And sits, and meditates on Salic laws;
While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise,
And spinsters wonder at his works and ways;
Who would not smile if such a man there be?
Who would not weep if Atticus were he?
Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they,
On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray;
Who find in Duty's path unmixed delight,
And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right;
Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share,
Unsought for blessings, like the light and air,
And grateful even for the ills they bear;
Wedded or single, taking nought amiss,
And learning that Content is more than Bliss.
Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine,
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.
As rolling years disclose the will of Fate,
I see you wedded to some equal mate;
Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys,
A heap of troubles, but a host of joys.
On sights like these, should length of days attend,
Still may good luck pursue you to the end;
Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store;
Still make you, what you would be, more and more;
Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene,
Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen.
YOUNG ENGLAND.
The times still "grow to something strange";
We rap and turn the tables;
We fire our guns at awful range;
We lay Atlantic cables;
We bore the hills, we bridge the seas--
To me 'tis better far
To sit before my fire at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
We start gigantic bubble schemes,--
Whoever _can_ invent 'em!--
How splendid the prospectus seems,
With int'rest cent. per centum
His shares the holder, startled, sees
At eighty below par:
I dawdle to my club at ease,
And light a mild cigar.
We pickle peas, we lock up sound,
We bottle electricity;
We run our railways underground,
Our trams above in this city
We fly balloons in calm or breeze,
And tumble from the car;
I wander down Pall Mall at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
Some strive to get a post or place,
Or entree to society;
Or after wealth or pleasure race,
Or any notoriety;
Or snatch at titles or degrees,
At ribbon, cross, or star:
I elevate my limbs at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
Some people strive for manhood right
With riots or orations;
For anti-vaccination fight,
Or temperance demonstrations:
I gently smile at things like these,
And, 'mid the clash and jar,
I sit in my arm-chair at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
They say young ladies all demand
A smart barouche and pair,
Two flunkies at the door to stand,
A mansion in May Fair:
I can't afford such things as these,
I hold it safer far
To sip my claret at my ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
It may be proper one should take
One's place in the creation;
It may be very right to make
A choice of some vocation;
With such remarks one quite agrees,
So sensible they are:
I much prefer to take my ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
They say our morals are so so,
Religion still more hollow;
And where the upper classes go,
The lower always follow;
That honour lost with grace and ease
Your fortunes will not mar:
That's not so well; but, if you please,
We'll light a fresh cigar.
Rank heresy is fresh and green,
E'en womenkind have caught it;
They say the Bible doesn't mean
What people always thought it;
That miracles are what you please,
Or nature's order mar:
I read the last review at ease,
And smoke a mild cigar.
Some folks who make a fearful fuss,
In eighteen ninety-seven,
Say, heaven will either come to us,
Or we shall go to heaven;
They settle it just as they please;
But, though it mayn't be far,
At any rate there's time with ease
To light a fresh cigar.
It may be there is something true;
It may be one might find it;
It may be, if one looked life through,
That something lies behind it;
It may be, p'raps, for aught one sees,
The things that may be, are:
I'm growing serious--if you please
We'll light a fresh cigar.
AN OLDE LYRIC.
I.
Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,
My own true love so sweete?
For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye
The prynte of her faery feete.
Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?
Is she darke or fayre to see?
Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?
Is't braided her haire or free?
II.
Oh, never by outward looke or signe,
My true love shall ye knowe;
There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,
And many as brighte to showe.
But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes,
Which into the soule can see,
She then would be seene as the matchless Queene
Of Love and of Puritie.
LULLABY.
Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
All will be sleeping by and by.
Sleep, little baby, sleep.
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