in good company 4

in good company 4

On this particular morning he was anxious to show me a review

of _Kriegspiel_, that most remarkable novel by the late Francis

Hinde Groome, son of the famous archdeacon, the intimate of Edward

FitzGerald, with whom Frank Groome had himself been well acquainted

as a boy.

 

With Groome--who, as my readers know, was, like Watts-Dunton and the

late Charles Godfrey Leland, an accomplished student of Gipsy Life,

Gipsy Language, and Gipsy Lore--I was myself on terms of friendship,

and indeed had been of some small service to him in regard to the

publication of _Kriegspiel_, knowing which, Swinburne was anxious to

hear whether I thought the review could be used to assist the sale of

the book, and so elected to go upstairs to his room to get it.

 

He returned with a face like that of a schoolboy intent upon

mischief, and with a rolled up journal in his hand. After I had

read the review of _Kriegspiel_, and proposed sending it on to

the publisher, Watts-Dunton inquired, pointing to the roll which

Swinburne was still holding:

 

“What have you got there?”

 

“To-day’s _Graphic_,” was the reply. “I noticed it sticking out of

the pocket of your greatcoat, hanging in the hall, and peeping

inside saw that there was an illustrated supplement, _Poets of the

Day_, so I wouldn’t even look to see whether you and I are included,

but brought it here that we might all go through it together.

What heart-burning and hair-tearing there will be in the poetical

dovecotes, in regard to who is in, and who is out! Why didn’t you

tell me of it before?”

 

“Because I didn’t know anything about it,” was the reply. “It was

from Kernahan’s coat, not mine, that you took it. We all pick each

other’s brains in Grub Street, but picking pockets is quite another

matter.”

 

Swinburne apologised, but held on to the _Graphic_ tenaciously. Then

he opened it, smoothed out the page, and ran through the pictured

poets, cataloguing them, complimenting them or chaffing them upon

their appearance or their poetry, even improvising suitable epitaphs

for their obsequies in Westminster Abbey, or composing, on the

spur of the moment, Nonsense Verses and Limericks that hit off

with delicious humour or mordant irony the personal or poetical

peculiarities of the different “bards,” as he called them.

 

Now that he, and so many of these “bards” are, alas, gone, I

hesitate to repeat in cold blood, and so long after, what was said

on the spur of the moment, and among friends. But, tantalising as

it may be to the reader, especially if that reader be a poet, and

so possibly an interested party, to be told merely of witty sayings

of which no specimen is forthcoming, I must hold my hand, as I have

been compelled to hold it in other pages of these Recollections.

We have it on the authority of Mr. Clement Shorter that one must be

indiscreet to be entertaining, and I agree with him so far as to

admit that, in Recollections, the best must always be that which

remains unwritten.

 

After Swinburne had exhausted the _Graphic_, I produced, from the

pocket of the pirated greatcoat, yet another journal, to which

a certain critic had contributed a somewhat feeble article upon

the work and poetry of Swinburne himself. I read it aloud, to the

accompaniment of ironic laughter on the part of Watts-Dunton, Miss

Watts and myself, but Swinburne, though he had hugely enjoyed it, and

had interpolated sly comments of exaggerated gratitude, said, when I

had made an end and with a wave of dismissal:

 

“It is meant kindly, and when the intention is so obviously kind one

must not be too ungenerously critical.”

 

Thereafter we talked of Ireland, Swinburne having only recently

learned or recently realised that I hailed from that land of poets

turned politicians. I suspect that the fact of my nationality was

responsible for much of his kindness to me, for, laugh at us as

many Englishmen may and do, in their hearts they have a sneaking

liking for men and women of Irish birth. I had said that I should be

leaving soon after lunch, and after he had bidden me good-bye, and

had retired for his afternoon sleep, he returned, not once, but two

or three times, and with an impulsiveness which was almost Irish, to

speak again and yet again of Ireland and especially of Irish poetry.

 

It had been my good fortune the night before to take in Mrs. Lynn

Linton to dinner at the beautiful and hospitable home of Sir Bruce

and Lady Seton at Chelsea, and Mrs. Lynn Linton and I had talked much

of Ireland. Mentioning this to Swinburne, he said that he had once

written to Mrs. Lynn Linton remonstrating violently with her about

an article of hers on Ireland, and he had reason to believe that his

words had not been without effect, as, since then, Mrs. Lynn Linton

had come to think as he had on that question, and was of opinion that

Gladstone, Morley and Harcourt ought to have been impeached for high

treason. Reverting to books, he said that nothing so beautiful about

Ireland had been written as the Hon. Emily Lawless’s novel _Grania_,

then fresh from the press. He had bought a number of copies to send

to his own friends, as well as some to send to his aunt, Lady Mary

Gordon, for distribution in her circle. He went on to say that his

old friend, Dr. Whitley Stokes, had shown him some of the Irish songs

which were sung to the tunes to which Tom Moore afterwards wrote his

“mawkish and sentimental songs.” One of these, Swinburne said, had

since been reprinted in the _Academy_.

 

“And as poetry I can only compare it to the Book of Job--and what

more superlatively splendid praise can I offer than that?”

 

Here Watts-Dunton put in a word for Wales and incidentally for

Scotland, which reminds me that I ought to say that Watts-Dunton’s

share in this, and in other conversations, was no less interesting,

though less erratic and more considered than Swinburne’s.

 

Switched off thus from Ireland to Scotland, Swinburne launched

out into enthusiastic praise of the islands of Rum and Eig, the

nomenclature of which, he said, was phonetically and fatally

suggestive of a nourishing, if nauseous drink, not to be despised, he

understood, after an early morning swim, and declared that the one

thing which made him regret he was not a man of wealth was that he

could not afford to yield to the desire of his heart, and spend half

his time cruising in a yacht around the western islands of Scotland.

 

 

V

 

Perhaps the most treasured possession on my bookshelves is a volume

in which Swinburne has inscribed my name and his own. The volume in

question is his _Studies in Prose and Poetry_, and as, among the

contents, there is an article devoted entirely to a consideration

of the merits and defects of _Lyra Elegantiarum_, in the editorial

work of the last edition of which it was my honour and privilege

to collaborate with the original compiler, the late Mr. Frederick

Locker-Lampson, I may perhaps be pardoned for referring to it here.

 

The fact that Swinburne was making _Lyra Elegantiarum_ the subject of

an important article (it appeared first in the _Forum_) was told to

me when I was lunching one day at The Pines, and naturally I carried

the news of the compliment which his book was to receive to Mr.

Locker-Lampson.

 

“Compliment!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it will be a compliment. Any

editors might well be proud that the result of their labours should

be the subject of an article by Swinburne. But pray heaven he be

merciful, for I fear our expected compliment is like to turn out to

be something of a castigation.”

 

Mr. Locker-Lampson was not far wrong, for, when the article appeared,

we found that Swinburne had as roundly rated the editors as he had

generously praised.

 

I sent Swinburne a copy of the édition de luxe, a gift with which he

was delighted, and indeed procured other copies to give to friends

and relations, one in a binding of his own designing being, I think,

for his mother. When next I was at The Pines, he inquired whether Mr.

Locker-Lampson and I were pleased with his review.

 

“How could we be otherwise than pleased by any article upon the book

by the author of _Atalanta in Calydon_?” I replied.

 

“But you were pleased with what I said?”

 

“Of course, but you must forgive me if I say that it was very much as

if a schoolmaster had called up a boy out of the class, and, after

lavishing undeserved praise upon him for good behaviour, had then

taken him across his knee and thrashed him soundly for abominably bad

conduct.”

 

He dived among the litter of papers, reviews, letters and manuscripts

upon the floor, for a copy of his article, and then read aloud:

 

“‘There is no better or completer anthology in the language. I doubt

indeed if there be any so good or so complete. No objection or

suggestion that can reasonably be offered, can in any way diminish

our obligation, either to the original editor, or to his evidently

able assistant Mr. Kernahan.’

 

“Doesn’t that please you?” he enquired.

 

“Immeasurably,” I said.

 

“And there is more of it,” he went on, reading detached passages

aloud. “‘The editors to their lasting honour ... the instinctive good

sense, the manly and natural delicacy of the present editors ... this

radiant and harmonious gallery of song.’ And so on and so on.”

 

“Yes,” I said, “it is the so ons that I’m thinking of. Suppose we

dip into them.” Then I took the article from his hand and read as

follows: “‘If elegance is the aim or the condition of this anthology,

how comes it to admit such an unsurpassably horrible example as the

line--I refrain from quoting it--which refers to the “settling” of

“Gibson’s hash”?... The worst positive blemish--and a most fearful

blemish it is ... will unluckily be found, and cannot be overlooked,

on the fourth page. Sixth on the list of selected poems, is a copy

of verses attributed to Shakespeare--of all men on earth!--by the

infamous pirate, liar, and thief, who published a worthless little

volume of stolen and mutilated poetry, patched up and padded out

with dreary and dirty doggrel, under the preposterous title of _The

Passionate Pilgrim_.... Happily there is here no second instance--but

naturally there could not have been a second--of such amazing