Auld Lang Syne: Selections from the Papers of the "Pen and Pencil Club"

Transcribed from the 1877 Chiswick Press edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

AULD LANG SYNE.

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SELECTIONS FROM THE PAPERS

OF THE

“PEN AND PENCIL CLUB.”

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min’, Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o’ lang syne!”

BURNS.

[Picture: Decorative graphic]

PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION.

1877.

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CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.

CONTENTS.

PAGE Cradle Feb. 1864 _Mentia Taylor_ 1 Bells March, 1864 _Marian James_ 3 Mirror June, 1864 _Lewis Morris_ 4 Shadows Nov. 1864 _Catherine 5 Taylor_ Shadows Nov. 1864 _Lewis 6 Sergeant_ Organ Boys Dec. 1864 _Frances Power 7 Cobbe_ Organ Boys Dec. 1864 _Lewis Morris_ 9 Stumbling Blocks March, 1865 _Professor 16 Seeley_ Witchcraft May, 1865 _Mentia Taylor_ 19 Chivalry Feb. 1866 _Marian James_ 22 Castles in the Air March, 1866 _Annie Keary_ 26 Autumn Leaves May, 1866 _Arthur Munby_ 28 Silence June, 1866 _Mentia Taylor_ 30 Lights and Shadows Dec. 1866 _Lewis Morris_ 31 Echoes Feb. 1867 _M. D. Conway_ 36 Expediency March, 1867 _Professor 40 Seeley_ Rest April, 1867 _Joseph 43 Mazzini_ Rest April, 1867 _Alice 45 Malleson_ Rest April, 1867 _Edwin Arnold_ 46 Gossip Nov. 1867 _Catherine 49 Taylor_ Chips May, 1868 _Austin Dobson_ 54 Chips May, 1868 _Joseph Biggs_ 57 Transformation Dec. 1868 _Caroline 62 Biggs_ Transformation Dec. 1868 _Eliza Keary_ 67 Surprise March, 1869 _Edwin Arnold_ 75 The Gloaming March, 1869 _Henry 78 Fellowes_ Sketches April, 1869 _Lewis 83 Sergeant_ Sketches April, 1869 _Annie Keary_ 84 Sketches April, 1869 _Austin Dobson_ 92 Things Gone By May, 1869 _Sheldon Amos_ 97 Things Gone By May, 1869 _P. A. Taylor_ 99 Things Gone By May, 1869 _Arthur Munby_ 102 No; or, the Little Goose May, 1869 _Eliza Keary_ 103 Girl Exile Jan. 1870 _Caroline 108 Biggs_ Exile Jan. 1870 _Joseph Biggs_ 111 Tradition Feb. 1870 _H. W. Higgins_ 115 Regret March, 1870 _A. D. 117 Atkinson_ Realities Dec. 1870 _P. A. Taylor_ 118 Realities Dec. 1870 _Lewis 125 Sergeant_ Bark Feb. 1871 _Lewis 128 Sergeant_ Smoke April, 1871 _J. S. Babb_ 130 Wherefore Nov. 1871 _H. W. Higgins_ 132 Voices Nov. 1871 _M. J. 134 Ronniger_ Return of the Swallows March, 1874 _Agnes 135 Macdonell_ Return of the Swallows March, 1874 _William 137 Allingham_ Return of the Swallows March, 1874 _Edmund Gosse_ 142 Auld Lang Syne March, 1874 _Thomas 144 Webster_ Auld Lang Syne March, 1874 _Augusta 149 Webster_ River April, 1874 _Austin Dobson_ 151 River April, 1874 _Adelaide 156 Manning_ Footpath April, 1874 _Ashurst Biggs_ 158 Footpath April, 1874 _C. E. Maurice_ 162 Footpath April, 1874 _Edward 164 Carpenter_ Footpath April, 1874 _Edmund Gosse_ 165 Footpath April, 1874 _Austin Dobson_ 170 Turn of the Tide May, 1874 _Caroline 171 Biggs_ Turn of the Tide May, 1874 _A. M. 173 Stoddart_ Turn of the Tide May, 1874 _G. A. Simcox_ 174 Compromise May, 1874 _Thomas 175 Webster_ Farewell _Mentia Taylor_ 176

[Picture: Aubrey House (back view)]

[Picture: Aubrey House (front view)]

CRADLE.

THE human heart is cradle of deep love, Which growing and expanding from its birth, Ever finds space within that living cot; Howe’er remotely o’er this beauteous earth Its subtle influences may joy impart, Whilst nestling in the human heart.

The human mind is cradle of high thought, Ever aspiring to extend its sphere, To penetrate those mysteries of life Philosophy has fail’d to render clear. Howe’er expansive, thought will ever find Its cradle in the human mind.

The human soul is cradle of deep faith, Of aspirations, and of purpose strong, To kindle into life the seeds of truth— Eradicate the germs of vice and wrong. Howe’er these seeds develop and increase, Within man’s soul they’ll find their place.

Three living cradles in one living form, Expanding ever from their early birth; High thought and sweet affection in ye dwell, And Faith which hallows all things on this earth. Each human being in himself may find Three living cradles—soul, heart, mind.

THE SOUND OF BELLS.

O HAPPY bells that thrill the air Of tranquil English summer-eves, When stirless hang the aspen leaves, And Silence listens everywhere.

And sinks and swells the tender chime, Sad, as regret for buried fears, Sweet, as repentant yearning tears— The fit voice of the holy time.

O wond’rous voice! O mystic sound! We listen, and our thoughts aspire Like spiritual flame, from fire That idly smoulders on the ground.

Forgotten longings have new birth For better, purer, nobler life, Lifted above the noisy strife That drowns the music of this earth.

And human sorrow seems to be A link unto diviner things, The budding of the spirit’s wings That only thus can soar—and see.

The twilight fades—the sweet bells cease, The common world’s come back again, But for a little space, its pain And weariness are steep’d in peace.

MIRROR.

I SEE myself reflected in thine eyes, The dainty mirrors set in golden frame Of eyelash, quiver with a sweet surprise, And most ingenuous shame.

Like Eve, who hid her from the dread command Deep in the dewy blooms of paradise; So thy shy soul, love calling, fears to stand Discover’d at thine eyes.

Or, like a tender little fawn, which lies Asleep amid the fern, and waking, hears Some careless footstep drawing near, and flies, Yet knows not what she fears.

So shrinks thy soul, but, dearest, shrink not so; Look thou into mine eyes as I in thine, So our reflected souls shall meet and grow, And each with each combine

In something nobler; as when one has laid Opposite mirrors on a cottage wall; And lo! the never-ending colonnade, The vast palatial hall.

So our twin souls, by one sweet suicide, Shall fade into an essence more sublime; Living through death, and dying glorified, Beyond the reach of time.

SHADOWS.

SHADOW gives to sunshine brightness, And it gives to joy its lightness; Shadow gives to honour meekness, And imparts its strength to weakness; Shadow deepens human kindness, Draws the veil from mental blindness; Shadow sweetens love’s own sweetness, And gives to life its deep intenseness; Shadow is earth’s sacredness, And the heaven’s loveliness; Shadow is day’s tenderness, And the night’s calm holiness; Shadow’s deepest night of darkness Will break in day’s eternal brightness.

SHADOWS.

IN the band of noble workers, Seems no place for such as I— They have faith, where I have yearning, They can speak where I but sigh, They can point the way distinctly Where for me the shadows lie.

Lofty purpose, strong endeavour, These are not ordain’d for me— Wayside flower might strive for ever, Never could it grow a tree— Yet a child may laugh to gather, Or a sick man smile to see.

So I too in God’s creation Have my own peculiar part, He must have some purpose surely For weak hand and timid heart, Transient joys for my diffusing, For my healing transient smart.

Just to fling a moment’s brightness Over dreary down-trod ways, Just to fan a better impulse By a full and ready praise— Pitying where I may not succour, Loving where I cannot raise.

ORGAN-BOYS. A LEGEND OF LONDON. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, MINOR.

IN days—not old—a Demon lived, And a terrible Fiend was he, For he ground and he ground All London around, A huge barrel-organ of hideous sound, Incessantly! From morning’s light Till the deep midnight, In all sorts of streets and all sorts of squares. Up the _cul-de-sacs_—down the thoroughfares, Where Thames rolls his waters from Greenwich to Kew, Not a lane could you find that he didn’t go through. You heard him at all times when most unaware, In quiet back-parlours up five flights of stair; When you ate, when you drank, when you read morning prayer, Or sat dozing awhile in an easy armchair, Or read a new novel—or talk’d to a friend, Or endeavour’d to settle accounts without end, Or when grief (or champagne), caused an ache in your head, Or you promised yourself to lie latish in bed, It was all the same That Demon came, Grind! grind! Peace there was none, Under the sun; That odious organ never had done. Sick, sad, or sorry, No end to the worry. No sort of grief Brought the slightest relief; You might send out to say you were dying or dead, The organ ground on as if nothing were said! Grind! grind! Till you lost your mind. No use to scold, or draw down the blind, The fiend only ground more loud and more fast, Till you _had_ to give him a shilling at last. So that having tormented you madly that day, He would surely next morning come round the same way, And grind and grind—till in frenzy of pain, You should bribe him once more—just to come back again!

Know ye, my friends, who this Fiend may be? Here is the key to the mystery— It is TUBAL CAIN! who—the Bible says— Invented organs in very old days, And for that dread crime, so atrocious and black, Was sentenced thenceforth to bear one on his back, A heavier fate (as was justly his due), Than befell his Papa when poor Abel he slew: For Cain, killing _one_ man, was let off quite cheap— Tubal murdered us _all_—at least “murder’d our sleep.”

THE ORGAN-BOY.

GREAT brown eyes, Thick plumes of hair, Old corduroys The worse for wear. A button’d jacket, And peeping out An ape’s grave poll, Or a guinea-pig’s snout. A sun-kiss’d face And a dimpled mouth, With the white flashing teeth, And soft smile of the south. A young back bent, Not with age or care, But the load of poor music ’Tis fated to bear. But a common-place picture To common-place eyes, Yet full of a charm Which the thinker will prize. They were stern, cold rulers, Those Romans of old, Scorning art and letters For conquest and gold; Yet leavening mankind, In mind and tongue, With the laws that they made And the songs that they sung. Sitting, rose-crown’d, With pleasure-choked breath, As the nude young limbs crimson’d, Then stiffen’d in death. Piling up monuments Greater than praise, Thoughts and deeds that shall live To the latest of days. Adding province to province, And sea to sea, Till the idol fell down And the world rose up free.

And this is the outcome, This vagabond child With that statue-like face And eyes soft and mild; This creature so humble, So gay, yet so meek, Whose sole strength is only The strength of the weak. Of those long cruel ages Of lust and of guile, Nought left us to-day But an innocent smile. For the labour’d appeal Of the orator’s art, A few foolish accents That reach to the heart. For those stern legions speeding O’er sea and o’er land, But a pitiful glance And a suppliant hand. I could moralize still But the organ begins, And the tired ape swings downward, And capers and grins, And away flies romance. And yet, time after time, As I dwell on days spent In a sunnier clime, Of blue lakes deep set In the olive-clad mountains, Of gleaming white palaces Girt with cool fountains, Of minsters where every Carved stone is a treasure, Of sweet music hovering ’Twixt pain and ’twixt pleasure; Of chambers enrich’d On all sides, overhead, With the deathless creations Of hands that are dead; Of still cloisters holy, And twilight arcade, Where the lovers still saunter Thro’ chequers of shade; Of tomb and of temple, Arena and column, ’Mid to-day’s garish splendours, Sombre and solemn; Of the marvellous town With the salt-flowing street, Where colour burns deepest, And music most sweet; Of her the great mother, Who centuries sate ’Neath a black shadow blotting The days she was great; Who was plunged in such shame— She, our source and our home— That a foul spectre only Was left us of Rome; She who, seeming to sleep Through all ages to be, Was the priest’s, is mankind’s,— Was a slave, and is free!

I turn with grave thought To this child of the ages, And to all that is writ In Time’s hidden pages. Shall young Howards or Guelphs, In the days that shall come, Wander forth, seeking bread, Far from England and home?

Shall they sail to new continents, English no more, Or turn—strange reverse— To the old classic shore? Shall fair locks and blue eyes, And the rose on the cheek, Find a language of pity The tongue cannot speak— “Not English, but angels?” Shall this tale be told Of Romans to be As of Romans of old? Shall they too have monkeys And music? Will any Try their luck with an engine Or toy spinning-jenny?

Shall we too be led By that mirage of Art Which saps the true strength Of the national heart? The sensuous glamour, The dreamland of grace, Which rot the strong manhood They fail to replace; Which at once are the glory, The ruin, the shame, Of the beautiful lands And ripe souls whence they came?

Oh, my England! oh, Mother Of Freemen! oh, sweet, Sad toiler majestic, With labour-worn feet! Brave worker, girt round, Inexpugnable, free, With tumultuous sound And salt spume of the sea, Fenced off from the clamour Of alien mankind By the surf on the rock, And the shriek of the wind, Tho’ the hot Gaul shall envy, The cold German flout thee, Thy far children scorn thee, Still thou shalt be great, Still march on uncaring, Thy perils unsharing, Alone, and yet daring Thy infinite fate. Yet ever remembering The precepts of gold That were written in part For the great ones of old— “Let other hands fashion The marvels of art; To thee fate has given A loftier part, To rule the wide peoples, To bind them to thee.” By the sole bond of loving, That bindeth the free, To hold thy own place, Neither lawless nor slave; Not driven by the despot, Nor trick’d by the knave.

But these thoughts are too solemn. So play, my child, play, Never heeding the connoisseur Over the way, The last dances of course; Then with scant pause between, “Home, sweet Home,” the “Old Hundredth,” And “God Save the Queen.”

See the poor children swarm From dark court and dull street, As the gay music quickens The lightsome young feet. See them now whirl away, Now insidiously come, With a coy grace which conquers The squalor of home. See the pallid cheeks flushing With innocent pleasure At the hurry and haste Of the quick-footed measure. See the dull eyes now bright, And now happily dim, For some soft-dying cadence Of love-song or hymn. Dear souls, little joy Of their young lives have they, So thro’ hymn-tune and song-tune Play on, my child, play.

For though dull pedants chatter Of musical taste, Talk of hindered researches And hours run to waste; Though they tell us of thoughts To ennoble mankind, Which your poor measures chase From the labouring mind; While your music rejoices One joyless young heart, Perish bookworms and books, Perish learning and art— Of my vagabond fancies I’ll even take my fill. “Qualche cosa, signor?” Yes, my child, that I will.

STUMBLING-BLOCKS.

THINK when you blame the present age, my friends, This age has one redeeming point—it _mends_. With many monstrous ills we’re forced to cope; But we have life and movement, we have hope. Oh! this is much! Thrice pitiable they Whose lot is cast in ages of decay, Who watch a waning light, an ebbing tide, Decline of energy and fall of pride, Old glories disappearing unreplaced, Receding culture and encroaching waste, Art grown pedantic, manners waxing coarse, The good thing still succeeded by the worse. We see not what those latest Romans saw, When o’er Italian cities, Latin law, Greek beauty, swept the barbarizing tide, And all fair things in slow succession died. ’Tis much that such defeat and blank despair, Whate’er our trials, ’tis not ours to bear, Much that the mass of foul abuse grows less, Much that the injured have sometimes redress, Wealth grows less haughty, misery less resigned, That policy grows just, religion kind, That all worst things towards some better tend, And long endurance nears at last its end; The ponderous cloud grows thin and pierced with bright, And its wild edge is fused in blinding light. Yet disappointment still with hope appears, And with desires that strengthen, strengthen fears, ’Tis the swift-sailing ship that dreads the rocks, The active foot must ’ware of stumbling-blocks. Alas! along the way towards social good, How many stones of dire offence lie strew’d. Whence frequent failure, many shrewd mishaps And dismal pause or helpless backward lapse. Such was the hard reverse that Milton mourn’d, An old man, when he saw the King returned With right divine, and that fantastic train Of banished fopperies come back again. Thus France, too wildly clutching happiness. Stumbled perplexed, and paid in long distress, In carnage, where the bloody conduit runs, And one whole generation of her sons Devoted to the Power of Fratricide For one great year, one eager onward stride. From all these stumbling-blocks that strew the way What wisest cautions may ensure us, say. Cling to the present good with steadfast grip, And for no fancied better let it slip, Whether thy fancy in the future live Or yearn to make the buried past revive. The past is dead,—let the dead have his dues, Remembrance of historian and of Muse; But try no lawless magic on the urn, It shocks to see the brightest past return. Some good things linger when their date is fled, These honour as you do the hoary head, And treat them tenderly for what they were, But dream not to detain them always there. The living good the present moments bring To this devote thyself and chiefly cling; And for the novel schemes that round thee rise, Watch them with hopeful and indulgent eyes, Treat them as children, love them, mark their ways, And blame their faults and dole out cautious praise, And give them space, yet limit them with rule, And hold them down and keep them long at school: Yet know in these is life most fresh and strong, And that to these at last shall all belong. Be proved and present good thy safe-guard still, And thy one quarrel be with present ill. Learn by degrees a steady onward stride With sleepless circumspection for thy guide. And since so thick the stumbling-blocks are placed, You are not safe but in renouncing haste; Permit not so your zeal to be repressed, But make the loss up by renouncing rest.