for the ripple of
laughing
rhyme!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v08 - Dah to Dra
»
## p. 4733 (#527) ###########################################
4733
SYDNEY DOBELL
(1824-1874)
YDNEY DOBELL, the son of a wine merchant, was born at Cran-
brook in Kent. His parents, both persons of strong indi-
viduality, believed in home training, and not one of their
eight children went either to school or to university. They belonged
to the Broad Church Community founded by Sydney's maternal grand-
father, Samuel Thompson; a church intended to recall in its princi-
ples the primitive Christian ages. The parents looked upon Sydney,
their eldest-born, as destined to become the apostle of this creed.
He grew up in a kind of religious fervor, with his precocious mind
unnaturally stimulated; a course of conduct which materially weak-
ened his constitution, and made him a chronic invalid at the early
age of thirty-three. He read whatever books came to hand, many of
them far beyond his years. At the age of eight he filled his diary
with theological discussions.
Entering his father's counting-house as a mere lad, he remained to
the end of his life a business man of great energy. Notwithstand-
ing his rare poetic endowments, he never seems to have entertained
a single-minded purpose to be a poet and nothing more. On the con-
trary, he thought the ideal and the practical life perfectly compati-
ble, and he strove to unite in himself the poet and the man of affairs.
He wrote habitually until 1856, when regular literary work was for-
bidden by his physicians. With characteristic energy he now turned
his thoughts into other channels; identified himself with the affairs
of Gloucester, where he was living, looked after his business, and
was one of the first to adopt the system of industrial co-operation.
The last four years of his life, a period of suffering and helpless-
ness, he spent at Barton-End House, above the Stroud valley, where
he died in the spring of 1874.
In the work of Dobell it is curious to find so few traces of the
influences under which he grew up. He had every encouragement to
become a writer of religious poetry: yet much of his work is philo-
sophic and recondite. His delicate health is in a measure responsible
for his failure to achieve the success which his natural endowments
promised. All his literary work was done between the ages of
twenty-three and thirty-three. The Roman,' his first long poem,
appeared in 1850. Dedicated to the Italian struggle for liberty, it
showed his breadth of sympathy.
of sympathy. In 'Balder,' finished in 1853,
## p. 4734 (#528) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
4734
Dobell is at his best both as thinker and as poet. Yet its many fine
passages, its wealth of metaphor, and the exquisite songs of Amy,
hardly counterbalance the remoteness of its theme, and its over-
subtle analysis of morbid psychic states. It is a poem to be read
in fragments, and has aptly been called a mine for poets.
With Alexander Smith he published in 1855 a series of sonnets
inspired by the Crimean War. This was followed in 1856 by 'Eng-
land in War Time,' a collection of Dobell's lyrical and descriptive
poems, which possess more general human interest than any other of
his books.
After continuous work was interdicted, he still contributed verse
and prose to the periodicals. His essays have been collected by Pro-
fessor Nichol, under the title Thoughts on Art, Philosophy, and
Religion. As a poet Dobell belongs to the so-called "spasmodic
school," a school "characterized by an undercurrent of discontent
with the mystery of existence, by vain effort, unrewarded struggle,
skeptical unrest, and an uneasy striving after some incomprehensible
end. . . . Poetry of this kind is marked by an excess of metaphor
which darkens rather than illustrates, and by a general extravagance
of language. On the other hand, it manifests freshness and original-
ity, and a rich natural beauty. " Dobell's descriptions of scenery are
among the finest in English literature. His senses were abnormally
acute, like those of a savage, a condition which intensified his appre-
ciation of natural beauty. Possessing a vivid imagination and wide
sympathies, he was often over-subtle and obscure. He strove to real-
ize in himself his ideal of a poet, and during his years of ill-health
gave himself up to promoting the welfare of his fellow-men; but of
his seventeen years of inactivity he says:-"The keen perception of
all that should be done, and that so bitterly cries for doing, accom-
panies the consciousness of all that I might but cannot do. ”
EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD FORBES
[ATURE, a jealous mistress, laid him low.
Ν NATE
He wooed and won her; and, by love made bold,
She showed him more than mortal man should know -
Then slew him lest her secret should be told.
## p. 4735 (#529) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
HOW'S MY BOY?
་
"Ho
O, SAILOR of the sea!
How's my boy - my boy? "
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he? "
"My boy John -
He that went to sea--
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
"You come back from the sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have asked some landsman,
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But knows my John.
"How's my boy-my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no-
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no-
"Sure, his ship was the Jolly Briton
"Speak low, woman, speak low! "
"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor? ”—
"That good ship went down. "
>>
"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John? "-
"Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her. "
-
4735
## p. 4736 (#530) ###########################################
4736
SYDNEY DOBELL
"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother.
How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy-my boy? "
THE SAILOR'S RETURN
THIS
HIS morn I lay a-dreaming,
This morn, this merry morn;
When the cock crew shrill from over the hill,
I heard a bugle horn.
And through the dream I was dreaming,
There sighed the sigh of the sea,
And through the dream I was dreaming,
This voice came singing to me:
"High over the breakers,
Low under the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow,
And the lash of the rolling sea!
"Boat, boat, to the billow,
Boat, boat, to the lee!
Love, on thy pillow,
Art thou dreaming of me?
«Billow, billow, breaking,
Land us low on the lee!
For sleeping or waking,
Sweet love, I am coming to thee!
"High, high, o'er the breakers,
Low, low, on the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow
That brings me back to thee! "
## p. 4737 (#531) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
AFLOAT AND ASHORE
"T
UMBLE and rumble, and grumble and snort,
Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port;
Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort,
And the steamer steams thro' the sea, love! "
"I see the ship on the sea, love;
I stand alone
On this rock;
VIII-297
The sea does not shock
The stone;
The waters around it are swirled,
But under my feet
I feel it go down
To where the hemispheres meet
At the adamant heart of the world.
Oh that the rock would move!
Oh that the rock would roll
To meet thee over the sea, love!
Surely my mighty love
Should fill it like a soul,
And it should bear me to thee, love;
Like a ship on the sea, love,
Bear me, bear me, to thee, love! "
"Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are wondering,
Low on our lee, love.
Over and over the cannon-clouds cover brother and lover, but over
and over
The whirl-wheels trundle the sea, love;
And on through the loud pealing pomp of her cloud
The great ship is going to thee, love,
Blind to her mark, like a world through the dark,
Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering,
Thundering over to thee, love. "
"I have come down to thee coming to me, love;
I stand, I stand
On the solid sand;
I see thee coming to me, love;
The sea runs up to me on the sand:
I start 'tis as if thou hadst stretched thine hand
4737
And touched me through the sea, love.
I feel as if I must die,
For there's something longs to fly,
Fly and fly, to thee, love.
## p. 4738 (#532) ###########################################
4738
SYDNEY DOBELL
As the blood of the flower ere she blows
Is beating up to the sun,
And her roots do hold her down,
And it blushes and breaks undone
In a rose,
So my blood is beating in me, love!
I see thee nigh and nigher;
And my soul leaps up like sudden fire,
My life's in the air
To meet thee there,
To meet thee coming to me, love!
Over the sea,
Coming to me,
Coming, and coming to me, love! "
"The boats are lowered: I leap in first,
Pull, boys, pull! or my heart will burst!
More! more! -lend me an oar! -
I'm thro' the breakers! I'm on the shore!
I see thee waiting for me, love! "
"A sudden storm
Of sighs and tears,
A clenching arm,
A look of years.
In my bosom a thousand cries,
A flash like light before my eyes,
And I am lost in thee, love! "
THE SOUL
From Balder
Α
ND as the mounting and descending bark,
Borne on exulting by the under deep,
Gains of the wild wave something not the wave,
Catches a joy of going and a will
Resistless, and upon the last lee foam
Leaps into air beyond it,- so the soul
Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossed,
Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged
To darkness, and, still wet with drops of death,
Held into light eternal, and again
Cast down, to be again uplift in vast
And infinite succession, cannot stay
The mad momentum.
## p. 4739 (#533) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
TH
ENGLAND
From Balder>
HIS dear English land!
This happy England, loud with brooks and birds,
Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees,
And bloomed from hill to dell: but whose best flowers
Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair
Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods
The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart;
Whose forests stronger than her native oaks
Are living men; and whose unfathomed lakes,
Forever calm, the unforgotten dead
In quiet grave-yards willowed seemly round,
O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face.
Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old
Through unremembered years, around whose base
The ever-surging peoples roll and roar
Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas
That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains,
Souls that from this mere footing of the earth
Lift their great virtues through all clouds of Fate
Up to the very heavens, and make them rise
To keep the gods above us!
4739
AMERICA
NOR
OR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
Who north or south, or east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; O ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand
Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand
Heroic utterance - parted, yet a whole,
Far, yet unsevered,- children brave and free
Of the great Mother tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.
## p. 4740 (#534) ###########################################
4740
SYDNEY DOBELL
AMY'S SONG OF THE WILLOW
From Balder>
THE
HE years they come, and the years they go,
Like winds that blow from sea to sea;
From dark to dark they come and go,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
Down by the stream there be two sweet willows,
-
- Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
--
She is blighted, the fair young willow;
- Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark;
She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough,
But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
The stream runs sparkling under the willow,
-Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream;
The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream;
But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her,
-Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster;
Because she touched it her tears fall faster.
Over the stream her tears fall faster,
All in the sunshine or the rain.
The years they come, and the years they go;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
And under mine eyes shines the bright life-river;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
Sweet sounds the spring in the hale green willow,
The goodly green willow, the green waving willow.
Sweet in the willow, the wind-whispering willow;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
But I bend blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the sun, and the dew, and the rain.
## p. 4741 (#535) ###########################################
4741
AUSTIN DOBSON
(1840-)
BY ESTHER SINGLETON
T FIRST thought it seems difficult to consider Austin Dobson
as belonging to the Victorian period, so entirely is he sat-
urated with the spirit of the eighteenth century. A careful
study of his verse reveals the fact that the Georgian era, seen
through the vista of his poetic imagination, is divested of all that is
coarse, dark, gross, and prosaic. The mental atmosphere and the
types and characters that he gives, express only beauty and charm.
One approaches the poems of Austin Dob-
son as one stands before a rare collection
of enamels, fan-mounts, jeweled snuff-boxes,
and delicate carvings in ivory and silver; and
after delighting in the beauty and finish of
these graceful curios, passes into a gallery of
paintings and water-colors, suggesting Wat-
teau, Fragonard, Boucher, Meissonier, and
Greuze. We also wander among trim box-
hedges and quaint gardens of roses and bright
hollyhocks; lean by sun-dials to watch the
shadow of Time; and enjoy the sight of gay
belles, patched and powdered and dressed in
brocaded gowns and gypsy hats. Gallant AUSTIN DOBSON
beaux, such as are associated with Reynolds's
portraits, appear, and hand them into sedan-chairs or lead them
through stately minuets to the notes of Rameau, Couperin, and Arne.
Just as the scent of rose-leaves, lavender, and musk rises from
antique Chinese jars, so Dobson's delicate verse reconstructs a life
"Of fashion gone, and half-forgotten ways. "
He is equally at home in France. Nothing could be more sym-
pathetic and exquisite than A Revolutionary Relic,' 'The Curé's
Progress,' 'Une Marquise,' and the Proverbs in Porcelain,' one of
which is cited below.
In the 'Vers de Société,' as well as his other poetry, Dobson
fulfills all the requirements of light verse- charm, mockery, pathos,
banter, and, while apparently skimming the surface, often shows us
## p. 4742 (#536) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4742
the strange depths of the human heart. He blends so many qualities
that he deserves the praise of T. B. Aldrich, who says, « Austin
Dobson has the grace of Suckling and the finish of Herrick, and is
easily master of both in metrical art. "
Henry Austin Dobson, the son of Mr. George Clarisse Dobson, a
civil engineer, was born in Plymouth, England, January 18th 1840.
His early years were spent in Anglesea, and after receiving his edu-
cation in Beaumaris, Coventry, and Strasburg, he returned to England.
to become a civil engineer. In 1856 he entered the civil service of
Great Britain, and ever since that date he has held offices in the
Board of Trade. His leisure was devoted to literature, and when
Anthony Trollope first issued his magazine St. Paul's in 1868, he
introduced to the public the verse of Austin Dobson. In 1873 his
fugitive poems were published in a small volume entitled 'Vignettes
in Rhyme' and 'Vers de Société. ' This was followed in 1877 by
'Proverbs in Porcelain,' and both books, with additional poems, were
printed again in two volumes: 'Old World Idylls' (1883), and 'At the
Sign of the Lyre' (1885). Mr. Dobson's original essays are contained
in three volumes: Four Frenchwomen,' studies of Charlotte Corday,
Madame Roland, the Princess de Lamballe, and Madame de Genlis
(1890), and Eighteenth-Century Vignettes' (first series 1892, second
series 1894), which touch upon a host of picturesque and fascinating
themes. He has written also several biographies: of Hogarth, of
Fielding, of Steele (1886), of Goldsmith (1888), and a 'Memoir of
Horace Walpole' (1890). He has also written felicitous critical intro-
ductions to many new editions of the eighteenth-century classics.
Austin Dobson has been most happy in breathing English life into
the old poems of French verse, such as ballades, villanelles, roun-
dels, and rondeaux; and he has also written clever and satirical
fables, cast in the form and temper of Gay and Prior, with quaint
obsolete affectations, redolent of the classic age of Anne.
So serious is his attitude towards art, and so large his audience,
that the hope expressed in the following rondeau will certainly be
realized:-
IN AFTER days, when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honored dust,
I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky,
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must,
In after days.
## p. 4743 (#537) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4743
But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying- He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.
- Then let my memory die
In after days!
Will none
"A
Eather Singleton
ON A NANKIN PLATE
VILLANELLE
H ME, but it might have been!
Was there ever so dismal a fate? "
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"Such a maid as was never seen:
She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'—
Ah me, but it might have been!
"I cried, "O my Flower, my Queen,
Be mine! ''Twas precipitate,"
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"But then
she was just sixteen,—
Long-eyed, as a lily straight,-
Ah me, but it might have been!
"As it was, from her palankeen
She laughed 'You're a week too late! '»
(Quoth the little blue mandarin. )
"That is why, in a mist of spleen
I mourn on this Nankin Plate.
Ah me, but it might have been! "
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
## p. 4744 (#538) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4744
THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR
"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?
Where's Troy,- and where's the May-Pole in the Strand ? »
BRAMSTON'S ART OF POLITICKS. '
-
T STANDS in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan-chair!
It is battered and tattered,- it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square
Like a canvas by Wilkie,- that old Sedan-chair.
See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers--when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,- that old Sedan-chair.
"Where's Troy? " says the poet! Look; under the seat
Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.
―
And yet Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,- some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows! -but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade";
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited-and waited, that old Sedan-chair!
## p. 4745 (#539) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare! )
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!
"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,-"With Care,».
To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan-chair.
WHE
THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME
HEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,—
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
-
In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
-
-
ENVOY
In the work-a-day world,- for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!
for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
4745
## p. 4746 (#540) ###########################################
4746
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE CURE'S PROGRESS
ONSIEUR THE CURÉ down the street
Comes with his kind old face,-
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
M
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,»
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
He turns as a rule through the "Marché» cool,
Where the noisy fishwives call;
And his compliment pays to the "belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui! »
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu ! "
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:
-:
For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face-
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
## p. 4747 (#541) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4747
•
"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE »
"Si vieillesse pouvait! »
SCENE. -A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired
old gentleman.
M. VIEUXBOIS [turning querulously]
Day of my life! Where can she get?
BABETTE! I say! BABETTE! —Babette!
BABETTE [entering hurriedly]
Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Where have you been?
·
April! . Ville-d' Avray! .
BABETTE
Why, M'sieu' knows:-
Ma'm'selle ROSE!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Ah! I am old,- and I forget.
Was the place growing green, BABETTE?
BABETTE
But of a greenness! - Yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue! — so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
[Lifting her apron to her eyes. ]
This poor Ma'm'selle!
M. VIEUXBOIS
You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she,-
She was an angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains.
--
[She gives him a cup. ]
Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE;-
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
Where's the draught?
## p. 4748 (#542) ###########################################
4748
AUSTIN DOBSON
BABETTE [sings]
"Once at the Angelus
(Ere I was dead),
Angels all glorious
Came to my bed;
Angels in blue and white,
Crowned on the head. "
M. VIEUXBOIS [drowsily]
"She was an Angel" . . "Once she laughed"
What! was I dreaming?
·
-
M. VIEUXBOIS
BABETTE [showing the empty cup]
The draught, M'sieu'?
Where's the draught?
How I forget!
I am so old! But sing, BABETTE!
BABETTE [sings]
"One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long,-long ago;
One was the Love I lost
How could she know? »
[He is asleep! ]
-
M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring]
Ah PAUL! . . . old PAUL! . . . EULALIE, too!
And ROSE . And O! "the sky so blue! "
BABETTE [sings]
"One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me,
Bent down and smiled! »
M. VIEUXBOIS [almost inaudibly]
How I forget!
I am so old! . . . Good-night, BABETTE!
## p. 4749 (#543) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN
Phyllida amo ante alias. »- VIRGIL.
HE ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them
With a "Stand by! Clear the way! "
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
THE
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May-dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,-
It wavers like a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
4749
## p. 4750 (#544) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4750
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words.
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you- for seconds;
They frown on you- for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true- and mine.
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,—
For Phyllida, my Phyllida,
Is all the world to me.
DORA VERSUS ROSE
"The Case is Proceeding
FR
ROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-
At least on a practical plan-
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
wwwww
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each rivals the other in powers-
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do. , perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.
## p. 4751 (#545) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4751
If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled.
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do. 's,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend, "To Rose. "
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all over scrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma?
For Rose I would perish (pro tem. );
For Dora I'd willingly stem a-
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain,- more affection,
I cannot decide.
And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(AFTER-THOUGHT)
But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Nor wholly so charming as Dora,
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-
As the claims of the others are equal,-
And flight—in the main—is the best,—
That I might . . . But no matter,- the sequel
Is easily guessed.
## p. 4752 (#546) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4752
UNE MARQUISE
A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE
"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour. »
- MOLIÈRE.
AⓇ
I
S YOU sit there at your ease,
O Marquise!
And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,
Mute at every word you utter,
Servants to your least frill-flutter,
"Belle Marquise! "
As you sit there, growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your
"beaux yeux" flash and glow;-
Ah, you used them on the Painter,
As you know,
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,
Bowing low,
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,-
Or at least he told you so;—
Growing proud, I say, and prouder
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,
Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,
Do we love you most, or like you,
"Belle Marquise! "
II
-
You are fair; oh yes, we know it
Well, Marquise;
For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;
And he called all heaven to witness
Of his ballad and its fitness,
"Belle Marquise! "
You were everything in ère
(With exception of sévère),——
## p. 4753 (#547) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4753
VIII-298
You were cruelle and rebelle,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were "Reine" and "Mère d'Amour»;
You were "Vénus à Cythère";
"Sappho mise en Pompadour,"
And "Minerve en Parabère";
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven
Lent of blood and courtly race;
And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty;
And La Vallière's yeux veloutés
Followed these;
And you liked it, when he said it
(On his knees),
And you kept it, and you read it,
"Belle Marquise! »
III
Yet with us your toilet graces
Fail to please,
And the last of your last faces,
And your mise;
For we hold you just as real,
"Belle Marquise! "
As your Bergers and Bergères,
Tes d'Amour and Batelières;
As your pares, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and socailles;
As your Naiads and your trees;-
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,-.
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just a thing of puffs and patches
Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!
-
## p. 4754 (#548) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4754
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; - but to marry,
No, Marquise!
IV
For your Cupid, you have clipped him,
Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,
And with chapeau-bras equipped him,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your lifetime,
"Belle Marquise! "
Say, to trim your toilet tapers
Or to twist your hair in papers,
Or to wean you from the vapors;-
As for these,
You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,
Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows'-feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Till your frothed-out life's commotion
Settles down to Ennui's ocean,
Or a dainty sham devotion,
"Belle Marquise! "
V
No: we neither like nor love you,
"Belle Marquise! »
Lesser lights we place above you,—
Milder merits better please.
We have passed from Philosophe-dom
Into plainer modern days,—
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise,
And, en partant, Arsinoé,-
Without malice whatsoever,—
We shall counsel to our Chloë
To be rather good than clever;
## p. 4755 (#549) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other,-
You were neither Wife nor Mother,
"Belle Marquise! »
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
OF THE SPANISH ARMADA
ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
K
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,-
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are, the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us:
He must play at some lustier games.
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!
But where are the galleons of Spain?
4755
ENVOY
GLORIANA! -the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us,
And where are the galleons of Spain?
## p. 4756 (#550) ###########################################
4756
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE
From Four Frenchwomen'
A
TENDER wife, a loving daughter, and a loyal friend,- shall
we not here lay down upon the grave of Marie de Lam-
balle our reverential tribute, our little chaplet of immor-
telles, in the name of all good women, wives, and daughters?
"Elle était mieux femme que les autres. »* To us that appar-
ently indefinite, exquisitely definite sentence most fitly marks
the distinction between the subjects of the two preceding papers
and the subject of the present. It is a transition from the
stately figure of a marble Agrippina to the breathing, feeling
woman at your side; it is the transition from the statuesque
Rachelesque heroines of a David to the "small sweet idyl" of
a Greuze. And, we confess it, we were not wholly at ease
with those tragic, majestic figures. We shuddered at the dagger
and the bowl which suited them so well. We marveled at their
bloodless serenity, their superhuman self-sufficiency; inly we
questioned if they breathed and felt. Or was their circulation a
matter of machinery—a mere dead-beat escapement? We longed
for the sexe prononcé of Rivarol-we longed for the showman's
"female woman! " We respected and we studied, but we did
not love them. With Madame de Lamballe the case is other-
wise. Not grand like this one, not heroic like that one, "elle est
mieux femme que les autres. "
She at least is woman-after a fairer fashion —after a truer
type. Not intellectually strong like Manon Philipon, not Spar-
tan-souled like Marie de Corday, she has still a rare intelligence,
a courage of affection. She has that clairvoyance of the heart
which supersedes all the stimulants of mottoes from Reynel or
maxims from Rousseau; she has that "angel instinct” which is
a juster lawgiver than Justinian. It was thought praise to say
of the Girondist lady that she was a greater man than her hus-
band; it is praise to say of this queen's friend that she was
more woman than Madame Roland. Not so grand, not so great,
we like the princess best. Elle est mieux femme que les autres.
She was more woman than the others.
## p. 4757 (#551) ###########################################
4757
MARY MAPES DODGE
(1840 ? -)
O WRITE a story which in thirty years should pass through
more than a hundred editions, which should attain the apo-
theosis of an edition de luxe, which should be translated into
at least four foreign languages, be allotted the Montyon prize of 1500
francs for moral as well as literary excellence, and be crowned by
the French Academy-this is a piece of good fortune which falls to
the lot of few story-tellers. The book which has deserved so well is
'Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,' a story of life in Holland. Its
author, born in New York, is a daughter of
Professor James Jay Mapes, an eminent
chemist and inventor, an accomplished
writer and brilliant talker.
In a household where music, art, and
literature were cultivated, and where the
most agreeable society came, talents were
not likely to be overlooked. Mrs. Dodge,
very early widowed, began writing before
she was twenty, publishing short stories,
sketches, and poems in various periodicals.
'Hans Brinker' appeared in 1864,-her de-
light in Motley's histories and their appeal
to her own Dutch blood inspiring her to
write it. Of this book Mr.
## p. 4733 (#527) ###########################################
4733
SYDNEY DOBELL
(1824-1874)
YDNEY DOBELL, the son of a wine merchant, was born at Cran-
brook in Kent. His parents, both persons of strong indi-
viduality, believed in home training, and not one of their
eight children went either to school or to university. They belonged
to the Broad Church Community founded by Sydney's maternal grand-
father, Samuel Thompson; a church intended to recall in its princi-
ples the primitive Christian ages. The parents looked upon Sydney,
their eldest-born, as destined to become the apostle of this creed.
He grew up in a kind of religious fervor, with his precocious mind
unnaturally stimulated; a course of conduct which materially weak-
ened his constitution, and made him a chronic invalid at the early
age of thirty-three. He read whatever books came to hand, many of
them far beyond his years. At the age of eight he filled his diary
with theological discussions.
Entering his father's counting-house as a mere lad, he remained to
the end of his life a business man of great energy. Notwithstand-
ing his rare poetic endowments, he never seems to have entertained
a single-minded purpose to be a poet and nothing more. On the con-
trary, he thought the ideal and the practical life perfectly compati-
ble, and he strove to unite in himself the poet and the man of affairs.
He wrote habitually until 1856, when regular literary work was for-
bidden by his physicians. With characteristic energy he now turned
his thoughts into other channels; identified himself with the affairs
of Gloucester, where he was living, looked after his business, and
was one of the first to adopt the system of industrial co-operation.
The last four years of his life, a period of suffering and helpless-
ness, he spent at Barton-End House, above the Stroud valley, where
he died in the spring of 1874.
In the work of Dobell it is curious to find so few traces of the
influences under which he grew up. He had every encouragement to
become a writer of religious poetry: yet much of his work is philo-
sophic and recondite. His delicate health is in a measure responsible
for his failure to achieve the success which his natural endowments
promised. All his literary work was done between the ages of
twenty-three and thirty-three. The Roman,' his first long poem,
appeared in 1850. Dedicated to the Italian struggle for liberty, it
showed his breadth of sympathy.
of sympathy. In 'Balder,' finished in 1853,
## p. 4734 (#528) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
4734
Dobell is at his best both as thinker and as poet. Yet its many fine
passages, its wealth of metaphor, and the exquisite songs of Amy,
hardly counterbalance the remoteness of its theme, and its over-
subtle analysis of morbid psychic states. It is a poem to be read
in fragments, and has aptly been called a mine for poets.
With Alexander Smith he published in 1855 a series of sonnets
inspired by the Crimean War. This was followed in 1856 by 'Eng-
land in War Time,' a collection of Dobell's lyrical and descriptive
poems, which possess more general human interest than any other of
his books.
After continuous work was interdicted, he still contributed verse
and prose to the periodicals. His essays have been collected by Pro-
fessor Nichol, under the title Thoughts on Art, Philosophy, and
Religion. As a poet Dobell belongs to the so-called "spasmodic
school," a school "characterized by an undercurrent of discontent
with the mystery of existence, by vain effort, unrewarded struggle,
skeptical unrest, and an uneasy striving after some incomprehensible
end. . . . Poetry of this kind is marked by an excess of metaphor
which darkens rather than illustrates, and by a general extravagance
of language. On the other hand, it manifests freshness and original-
ity, and a rich natural beauty. " Dobell's descriptions of scenery are
among the finest in English literature. His senses were abnormally
acute, like those of a savage, a condition which intensified his appre-
ciation of natural beauty. Possessing a vivid imagination and wide
sympathies, he was often over-subtle and obscure. He strove to real-
ize in himself his ideal of a poet, and during his years of ill-health
gave himself up to promoting the welfare of his fellow-men; but of
his seventeen years of inactivity he says:-"The keen perception of
all that should be done, and that so bitterly cries for doing, accom-
panies the consciousness of all that I might but cannot do. ”
EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD FORBES
[ATURE, a jealous mistress, laid him low.
Ν NATE
He wooed and won her; and, by love made bold,
She showed him more than mortal man should know -
Then slew him lest her secret should be told.
## p. 4735 (#529) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
HOW'S MY BOY?
་
"Ho
O, SAILOR of the sea!
How's my boy - my boy? "
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he? "
"My boy John -
He that went to sea--
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
"You come back from the sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have asked some landsman,
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But knows my John.
"How's my boy-my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no-
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no-
"Sure, his ship was the Jolly Briton
"Speak low, woman, speak low! "
"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor? ”—
"That good ship went down. "
>>
"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John? "-
"Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her. "
-
4735
## p. 4736 (#530) ###########################################
4736
SYDNEY DOBELL
"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother.
How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy-my boy? "
THE SAILOR'S RETURN
THIS
HIS morn I lay a-dreaming,
This morn, this merry morn;
When the cock crew shrill from over the hill,
I heard a bugle horn.
And through the dream I was dreaming,
There sighed the sigh of the sea,
And through the dream I was dreaming,
This voice came singing to me:
"High over the breakers,
Low under the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow,
And the lash of the rolling sea!
"Boat, boat, to the billow,
Boat, boat, to the lee!
Love, on thy pillow,
Art thou dreaming of me?
«Billow, billow, breaking,
Land us low on the lee!
For sleeping or waking,
Sweet love, I am coming to thee!
"High, high, o'er the breakers,
Low, low, on the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow
That brings me back to thee! "
## p. 4737 (#531) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
AFLOAT AND ASHORE
"T
UMBLE and rumble, and grumble and snort,
Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port;
Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort,
And the steamer steams thro' the sea, love! "
"I see the ship on the sea, love;
I stand alone
On this rock;
VIII-297
The sea does not shock
The stone;
The waters around it are swirled,
But under my feet
I feel it go down
To where the hemispheres meet
At the adamant heart of the world.
Oh that the rock would move!
Oh that the rock would roll
To meet thee over the sea, love!
Surely my mighty love
Should fill it like a soul,
And it should bear me to thee, love;
Like a ship on the sea, love,
Bear me, bear me, to thee, love! "
"Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are wondering,
Low on our lee, love.
Over and over the cannon-clouds cover brother and lover, but over
and over
The whirl-wheels trundle the sea, love;
And on through the loud pealing pomp of her cloud
The great ship is going to thee, love,
Blind to her mark, like a world through the dark,
Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering,
Thundering over to thee, love. "
"I have come down to thee coming to me, love;
I stand, I stand
On the solid sand;
I see thee coming to me, love;
The sea runs up to me on the sand:
I start 'tis as if thou hadst stretched thine hand
4737
And touched me through the sea, love.
I feel as if I must die,
For there's something longs to fly,
Fly and fly, to thee, love.
## p. 4738 (#532) ###########################################
4738
SYDNEY DOBELL
As the blood of the flower ere she blows
Is beating up to the sun,
And her roots do hold her down,
And it blushes and breaks undone
In a rose,
So my blood is beating in me, love!
I see thee nigh and nigher;
And my soul leaps up like sudden fire,
My life's in the air
To meet thee there,
To meet thee coming to me, love!
Over the sea,
Coming to me,
Coming, and coming to me, love! "
"The boats are lowered: I leap in first,
Pull, boys, pull! or my heart will burst!
More! more! -lend me an oar! -
I'm thro' the breakers! I'm on the shore!
I see thee waiting for me, love! "
"A sudden storm
Of sighs and tears,
A clenching arm,
A look of years.
In my bosom a thousand cries,
A flash like light before my eyes,
And I am lost in thee, love! "
THE SOUL
From Balder
Α
ND as the mounting and descending bark,
Borne on exulting by the under deep,
Gains of the wild wave something not the wave,
Catches a joy of going and a will
Resistless, and upon the last lee foam
Leaps into air beyond it,- so the soul
Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossed,
Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged
To darkness, and, still wet with drops of death,
Held into light eternal, and again
Cast down, to be again uplift in vast
And infinite succession, cannot stay
The mad momentum.
## p. 4739 (#533) ###########################################
SYDNEY DOBELL
TH
ENGLAND
From Balder>
HIS dear English land!
This happy England, loud with brooks and birds,
Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees,
And bloomed from hill to dell: but whose best flowers
Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair
Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods
The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart;
Whose forests stronger than her native oaks
Are living men; and whose unfathomed lakes,
Forever calm, the unforgotten dead
In quiet grave-yards willowed seemly round,
O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face.
Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old
Through unremembered years, around whose base
The ever-surging peoples roll and roar
Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas
That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains,
Souls that from this mere footing of the earth
Lift their great virtues through all clouds of Fate
Up to the very heavens, and make them rise
To keep the gods above us!
4739
AMERICA
NOR
OR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
Who north or south, or east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; O ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand
Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand
Heroic utterance - parted, yet a whole,
Far, yet unsevered,- children brave and free
Of the great Mother tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.
## p. 4740 (#534) ###########################################
4740
SYDNEY DOBELL
AMY'S SONG OF THE WILLOW
From Balder>
THE
HE years they come, and the years they go,
Like winds that blow from sea to sea;
From dark to dark they come and go,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
Down by the stream there be two sweet willows,
-
- Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
--
She is blighted, the fair young willow;
- Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark;
She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough,
But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
The stream runs sparkling under the willow,
-Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream;
The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream;
But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her,
-Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-
The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster;
Because she touched it her tears fall faster.
Over the stream her tears fall faster,
All in the sunshine or the rain.
The years they come, and the years they go;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
And under mine eyes shines the bright life-river;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
Sweet sounds the spring in the hale green willow,
The goodly green willow, the green waving willow.
Sweet in the willow, the wind-whispering willow;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
But I bend blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the sun, and the dew, and the rain.
## p. 4741 (#535) ###########################################
4741
AUSTIN DOBSON
(1840-)
BY ESTHER SINGLETON
T FIRST thought it seems difficult to consider Austin Dobson
as belonging to the Victorian period, so entirely is he sat-
urated with the spirit of the eighteenth century. A careful
study of his verse reveals the fact that the Georgian era, seen
through the vista of his poetic imagination, is divested of all that is
coarse, dark, gross, and prosaic. The mental atmosphere and the
types and characters that he gives, express only beauty and charm.
One approaches the poems of Austin Dob-
son as one stands before a rare collection
of enamels, fan-mounts, jeweled snuff-boxes,
and delicate carvings in ivory and silver; and
after delighting in the beauty and finish of
these graceful curios, passes into a gallery of
paintings and water-colors, suggesting Wat-
teau, Fragonard, Boucher, Meissonier, and
Greuze. We also wander among trim box-
hedges and quaint gardens of roses and bright
hollyhocks; lean by sun-dials to watch the
shadow of Time; and enjoy the sight of gay
belles, patched and powdered and dressed in
brocaded gowns and gypsy hats. Gallant AUSTIN DOBSON
beaux, such as are associated with Reynolds's
portraits, appear, and hand them into sedan-chairs or lead them
through stately minuets to the notes of Rameau, Couperin, and Arne.
Just as the scent of rose-leaves, lavender, and musk rises from
antique Chinese jars, so Dobson's delicate verse reconstructs a life
"Of fashion gone, and half-forgotten ways. "
He is equally at home in France. Nothing could be more sym-
pathetic and exquisite than A Revolutionary Relic,' 'The Curé's
Progress,' 'Une Marquise,' and the Proverbs in Porcelain,' one of
which is cited below.
In the 'Vers de Société,' as well as his other poetry, Dobson
fulfills all the requirements of light verse- charm, mockery, pathos,
banter, and, while apparently skimming the surface, often shows us
## p. 4742 (#536) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4742
the strange depths of the human heart. He blends so many qualities
that he deserves the praise of T. B. Aldrich, who says, « Austin
Dobson has the grace of Suckling and the finish of Herrick, and is
easily master of both in metrical art. "
Henry Austin Dobson, the son of Mr. George Clarisse Dobson, a
civil engineer, was born in Plymouth, England, January 18th 1840.
His early years were spent in Anglesea, and after receiving his edu-
cation in Beaumaris, Coventry, and Strasburg, he returned to England.
to become a civil engineer. In 1856 he entered the civil service of
Great Britain, and ever since that date he has held offices in the
Board of Trade. His leisure was devoted to literature, and when
Anthony Trollope first issued his magazine St. Paul's in 1868, he
introduced to the public the verse of Austin Dobson. In 1873 his
fugitive poems were published in a small volume entitled 'Vignettes
in Rhyme' and 'Vers de Société. ' This was followed in 1877 by
'Proverbs in Porcelain,' and both books, with additional poems, were
printed again in two volumes: 'Old World Idylls' (1883), and 'At the
Sign of the Lyre' (1885). Mr. Dobson's original essays are contained
in three volumes: Four Frenchwomen,' studies of Charlotte Corday,
Madame Roland, the Princess de Lamballe, and Madame de Genlis
(1890), and Eighteenth-Century Vignettes' (first series 1892, second
series 1894), which touch upon a host of picturesque and fascinating
themes. He has written also several biographies: of Hogarth, of
Fielding, of Steele (1886), of Goldsmith (1888), and a 'Memoir of
Horace Walpole' (1890). He has also written felicitous critical intro-
ductions to many new editions of the eighteenth-century classics.
Austin Dobson has been most happy in breathing English life into
the old poems of French verse, such as ballades, villanelles, roun-
dels, and rondeaux; and he has also written clever and satirical
fables, cast in the form and temper of Gay and Prior, with quaint
obsolete affectations, redolent of the classic age of Anne.
So serious is his attitude towards art, and so large his audience,
that the hope expressed in the following rondeau will certainly be
realized:-
IN AFTER days, when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honored dust,
I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky,
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must,
In after days.
## p. 4743 (#537) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4743
But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying- He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.
- Then let my memory die
In after days!
Will none
"A
Eather Singleton
ON A NANKIN PLATE
VILLANELLE
H ME, but it might have been!
Was there ever so dismal a fate? "
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"Such a maid as was never seen:
She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'—
Ah me, but it might have been!
"I cried, "O my Flower, my Queen,
Be mine! ''Twas precipitate,"
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"But then
she was just sixteen,—
Long-eyed, as a lily straight,-
Ah me, but it might have been!
"As it was, from her palankeen
She laughed 'You're a week too late! '»
(Quoth the little blue mandarin. )
"That is why, in a mist of spleen
I mourn on this Nankin Plate.
Ah me, but it might have been! "
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
## p. 4744 (#538) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4744
THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR
"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?
Where's Troy,- and where's the May-Pole in the Strand ? »
BRAMSTON'S ART OF POLITICKS. '
-
T STANDS in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan-chair!
It is battered and tattered,- it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square
Like a canvas by Wilkie,- that old Sedan-chair.
See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers--when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,- that old Sedan-chair.
"Where's Troy? " says the poet! Look; under the seat
Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.
―
And yet Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,- some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows! -but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade";
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited-and waited, that old Sedan-chair!
## p. 4745 (#539) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare! )
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!
"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,-"With Care,».
To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan-chair.
WHE
THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME
HEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,—
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
-
In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
-
-
ENVOY
In the work-a-day world,- for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!
for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
4745
## p. 4746 (#540) ###########################################
4746
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE CURE'S PROGRESS
ONSIEUR THE CURÉ down the street
Comes with his kind old face,-
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
M
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,»
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
He turns as a rule through the "Marché» cool,
Where the noisy fishwives call;
And his compliment pays to the "belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui! »
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu ! "
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:
-:
For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face-
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
## p. 4747 (#541) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4747
•
"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE »
"Si vieillesse pouvait! »
SCENE. -A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired
old gentleman.
M. VIEUXBOIS [turning querulously]
Day of my life! Where can she get?
BABETTE! I say! BABETTE! —Babette!
BABETTE [entering hurriedly]
Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Where have you been?
·
April! . Ville-d' Avray! .
BABETTE
Why, M'sieu' knows:-
Ma'm'selle ROSE!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Ah! I am old,- and I forget.
Was the place growing green, BABETTE?
BABETTE
But of a greenness! - Yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue! — so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
[Lifting her apron to her eyes. ]
This poor Ma'm'selle!
M. VIEUXBOIS
You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she,-
She was an angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains.
--
[She gives him a cup. ]
Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE;-
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
Where's the draught?
## p. 4748 (#542) ###########################################
4748
AUSTIN DOBSON
BABETTE [sings]
"Once at the Angelus
(Ere I was dead),
Angels all glorious
Came to my bed;
Angels in blue and white,
Crowned on the head. "
M. VIEUXBOIS [drowsily]
"She was an Angel" . . "Once she laughed"
What! was I dreaming?
·
-
M. VIEUXBOIS
BABETTE [showing the empty cup]
The draught, M'sieu'?
Where's the draught?
How I forget!
I am so old! But sing, BABETTE!
BABETTE [sings]
"One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long,-long ago;
One was the Love I lost
How could she know? »
[He is asleep! ]
-
M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring]
Ah PAUL! . . . old PAUL! . . . EULALIE, too!
And ROSE . And O! "the sky so blue! "
BABETTE [sings]
"One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me,
Bent down and smiled! »
M. VIEUXBOIS [almost inaudibly]
How I forget!
I am so old! . . . Good-night, BABETTE!
## p. 4749 (#543) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN
Phyllida amo ante alias. »- VIRGIL.
HE ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them
With a "Stand by! Clear the way! "
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
THE
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May-dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,-
It wavers like a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
4749
## p. 4750 (#544) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4750
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words.
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you- for seconds;
They frown on you- for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true- and mine.
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,—
For Phyllida, my Phyllida,
Is all the world to me.
DORA VERSUS ROSE
"The Case is Proceeding
FR
ROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-
At least on a practical plan-
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
wwwww
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each rivals the other in powers-
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do. , perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.
## p. 4751 (#545) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4751
If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled.
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do. 's,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend, "To Rose. "
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all over scrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma?
For Rose I would perish (pro tem. );
For Dora I'd willingly stem a-
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain,- more affection,
I cannot decide.
And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(AFTER-THOUGHT)
But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Nor wholly so charming as Dora,
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-
As the claims of the others are equal,-
And flight—in the main—is the best,—
That I might . . . But no matter,- the sequel
Is easily guessed.
## p. 4752 (#546) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4752
UNE MARQUISE
A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE
"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour. »
- MOLIÈRE.
AⓇ
I
S YOU sit there at your ease,
O Marquise!
And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,
Mute at every word you utter,
Servants to your least frill-flutter,
"Belle Marquise! "
As you sit there, growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your
"beaux yeux" flash and glow;-
Ah, you used them on the Painter,
As you know,
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,
Bowing low,
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,-
Or at least he told you so;—
Growing proud, I say, and prouder
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,
Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,
Do we love you most, or like you,
"Belle Marquise! "
II
-
You are fair; oh yes, we know it
Well, Marquise;
For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;
And he called all heaven to witness
Of his ballad and its fitness,
"Belle Marquise! "
You were everything in ère
(With exception of sévère),——
## p. 4753 (#547) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4753
VIII-298
You were cruelle and rebelle,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were "Reine" and "Mère d'Amour»;
You were "Vénus à Cythère";
"Sappho mise en Pompadour,"
And "Minerve en Parabère";
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven
Lent of blood and courtly race;
And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty;
And La Vallière's yeux veloutés
Followed these;
And you liked it, when he said it
(On his knees),
And you kept it, and you read it,
"Belle Marquise! »
III
Yet with us your toilet graces
Fail to please,
And the last of your last faces,
And your mise;
For we hold you just as real,
"Belle Marquise! "
As your Bergers and Bergères,
Tes d'Amour and Batelières;
As your pares, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and socailles;
As your Naiads and your trees;-
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,-.
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just a thing of puffs and patches
Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!
-
## p. 4754 (#548) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
4754
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; - but to marry,
No, Marquise!
IV
For your Cupid, you have clipped him,
Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,
And with chapeau-bras equipped him,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your lifetime,
"Belle Marquise! "
Say, to trim your toilet tapers
Or to twist your hair in papers,
Or to wean you from the vapors;-
As for these,
You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,
Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows'-feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Till your frothed-out life's commotion
Settles down to Ennui's ocean,
Or a dainty sham devotion,
"Belle Marquise! "
V
No: we neither like nor love you,
"Belle Marquise! »
Lesser lights we place above you,—
Milder merits better please.
We have passed from Philosophe-dom
Into plainer modern days,—
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise,
And, en partant, Arsinoé,-
Without malice whatsoever,—
We shall counsel to our Chloë
To be rather good than clever;
## p. 4755 (#549) ###########################################
AUSTIN DOBSON
For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other,-
You were neither Wife nor Mother,
"Belle Marquise! »
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
OF THE SPANISH ARMADA
ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
K
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,-
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are, the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us:
He must play at some lustier games.
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!
But where are the galleons of Spain?
4755
ENVOY
GLORIANA! -the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us,
And where are the galleons of Spain?
## p. 4756 (#550) ###########################################
4756
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE
From Four Frenchwomen'
A
TENDER wife, a loving daughter, and a loyal friend,- shall
we not here lay down upon the grave of Marie de Lam-
balle our reverential tribute, our little chaplet of immor-
telles, in the name of all good women, wives, and daughters?
"Elle était mieux femme que les autres. »* To us that appar-
ently indefinite, exquisitely definite sentence most fitly marks
the distinction between the subjects of the two preceding papers
and the subject of the present. It is a transition from the
stately figure of a marble Agrippina to the breathing, feeling
woman at your side; it is the transition from the statuesque
Rachelesque heroines of a David to the "small sweet idyl" of
a Greuze. And, we confess it, we were not wholly at ease
with those tragic, majestic figures. We shuddered at the dagger
and the bowl which suited them so well. We marveled at their
bloodless serenity, their superhuman self-sufficiency; inly we
questioned if they breathed and felt. Or was their circulation a
matter of machinery—a mere dead-beat escapement? We longed
for the sexe prononcé of Rivarol-we longed for the showman's
"female woman! " We respected and we studied, but we did
not love them. With Madame de Lamballe the case is other-
wise. Not grand like this one, not heroic like that one, "elle est
mieux femme que les autres. "
She at least is woman-after a fairer fashion —after a truer
type. Not intellectually strong like Manon Philipon, not Spar-
tan-souled like Marie de Corday, she has still a rare intelligence,
a courage of affection. She has that clairvoyance of the heart
which supersedes all the stimulants of mottoes from Reynel or
maxims from Rousseau; she has that "angel instinct” which is
a juster lawgiver than Justinian. It was thought praise to say
of the Girondist lady that she was a greater man than her hus-
band; it is praise to say of this queen's friend that she was
more woman than Madame Roland. Not so grand, not so great,
we like the princess best. Elle est mieux femme que les autres.
She was more woman than the others.
## p. 4757 (#551) ###########################################
4757
MARY MAPES DODGE
(1840 ? -)
O WRITE a story which in thirty years should pass through
more than a hundred editions, which should attain the apo-
theosis of an edition de luxe, which should be translated into
at least four foreign languages, be allotted the Montyon prize of 1500
francs for moral as well as literary excellence, and be crowned by
the French Academy-this is a piece of good fortune which falls to
the lot of few story-tellers. The book which has deserved so well is
'Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,' a story of life in Holland. Its
author, born in New York, is a daughter of
Professor James Jay Mapes, an eminent
chemist and inventor, an accomplished
writer and brilliant talker.
In a household where music, art, and
literature were cultivated, and where the
most agreeable society came, talents were
not likely to be overlooked. Mrs. Dodge,
very early widowed, began writing before
she was twenty, publishing short stories,
sketches, and poems in various periodicals.
'Hans Brinker' appeared in 1864,-her de-
light in Motley's histories and their appeal
to her own Dutch blood inspiring her to
write it. Of this book Mr.
