Old Friends [5]
occasion. Bad or not so bad, what lady would we so gladly meet as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, whose kindness was so great that she even condescended to be amusing to her own husband? For a more serious and life-long affection there are few heroines so satisfactory as Sophia Western and Amelia Booth (nee Harris). Never before nor since did a man's ideal put on flesh and blood--out of poetry, that is,--and apart from the ladies of Shakspeare. Fielding's women have a manly honour, tolerance, greatness, in addition to their tenderness and kindness. Literature has not their peers, and life has never had many to compare with them. They are not "superior" like Romola, nor flighty and destitute of taste like Maggie Tulliver; among Fielding's crowd of fribbles and sots and oafs they carry that pure moly of the Lady in "Comus." It is curious, indeed, that men have drawn women more true and charming than women themselves have invented, and the heroines of George Eliot, of George Sand (except Consuelo), and even of Miss Austen, do not subdue us like Di Vernon, nor win our sympathies like Rebecca of York. They may please and charm for their hour, but they have not the immortality of the first heroines of all--of Helen, or of that Alcmena who makes even comedy grave when she enters, and even Plautus chivalrous. Poetry, rather than prose fiction, is the proper home of our spiritual mistresses; they dwell where Rosalind and Imogen are, with women perhaps as unreal or as ideal as themselves, men's lost loves and unforgotten, in a Paradise apart.
LETTER: From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis.
Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at Boulogne, sends Mr. Arthur Pendennis a poem on his undying affection for his cousin, Miss Ethel Newcome. He desires that it may be published in a journal with which Mr. Pendennis is connected. He adds a few remarks on his pictures for the Academy.
Boulogne, March 28.
Dear Pen,--I have finished Belisarius, and he has gone to face the Academicians. There is another little thing I sent--"Blondel" I call it--a troubadour playing under a castle wall. They have not much chance; but there is always the little print-shop in Long Acre. My sketches of mail-coaches continue to please the public; they have raised the price to a guinea.
Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My poor wife is no better. It is something to have put my father out of hearing of her mother's tongue: that cannot cross the Channel. Perhaps I am as well here as in town. There I always hope, I always fear to meet HER . . . my cousin, you know. I think I see her face under every bonnet. God knows I don't go where she is likely to be met. Oh, Pen, haeret lethalis arundo; it is always right--the Latin Delectus! Everything I see is full of her, everything I do is done for her. "Perhaps she'll see it and know the hand, and remember," I think, even when I do the mail-coaches and the milestones. I used to draw for her at Brighton when she was a child. My sketches, my pictures, are always making that silent piteous appeal to her, WON'T YOU LOOK AT US? WON'T YOU REMEMBER? I dare say she has quite forgotten. Here I send you a little set of rhymes; my picture of Blondel and this old story brought them into my mind. They are gazes, as the drunk painter says in "Gerfaut;" they are veiled, a mystery. I know she's not in a castle or a tower or a cloistered cell anywhere; she is in Park Lane. Don't I read it in the "Morning Post?" But I can't, I won't, go and sing at the area- gate, you know. Try if F. B. will put the rhymes into the paper. Do they take it in in Park Lane? See whether you can get me a guinea for these tears of mine: "Mes Larmes," Pen, do you remember?--Yours ever, C. N.
The verses are enclosed.
THE NEW BLONDEL.
O ma Reine!
Although the Minstrel's lost you long, Although for bread the Minstrel sings, Ah, still for you he pipes the song, And thrums upon the crazy strings!
As Blondel sang by cot and hall, Through town and stream and forest passed, And found, at length,
LETTER: From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis.
Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at Boulogne, sends Mr. Arthur Pendennis a poem on his undying affection for his cousin, Miss Ethel Newcome. He desires that it may be published in a journal with which Mr. Pendennis is connected. He adds a few remarks on his pictures for the Academy.
Boulogne, March 28.
Dear Pen,--I have finished Belisarius, and he has gone to face the Academicians. There is another little thing I sent--"Blondel" I call it--a troubadour playing under a castle wall. They have not much chance; but there is always the little print-shop in Long Acre. My sketches of mail-coaches continue to please the public; they have raised the price to a guinea.
Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My poor wife is no better. It is something to have put my father out of hearing of her mother's tongue: that cannot cross the Channel. Perhaps I am as well here as in town. There I always hope, I always fear to meet HER . . . my cousin, you know. I think I see her face under every bonnet. God knows I don't go where she is likely to be met. Oh, Pen, haeret lethalis arundo; it is always right--the Latin Delectus! Everything I see is full of her, everything I do is done for her. "Perhaps she'll see it and know the hand, and remember," I think, even when I do the mail-coaches and the milestones. I used to draw for her at Brighton when she was a child. My sketches, my pictures, are always making that silent piteous appeal to her, WON'T YOU LOOK AT US? WON'T YOU REMEMBER? I dare say she has quite forgotten. Here I send you a little set of rhymes; my picture of Blondel and this old story brought them into my mind. They are gazes, as the drunk painter says in "Gerfaut;" they are veiled, a mystery. I know she's not in a castle or a tower or a cloistered cell anywhere; she is in Park Lane. Don't I read it in the "Morning Post?" But I can't, I won't, go and sing at the area- gate, you know. Try if F. B. will put the rhymes into the paper. Do they take it in in Park Lane? See whether you can get me a guinea for these tears of mine: "Mes Larmes," Pen, do you remember?--Yours ever, C. N.
The verses are enclosed.
THE NEW BLONDEL.
O ma Reine!
Although the Minstrel's lost you long, Although for bread the Minstrel sings, Ah, still for you he pipes the song, And thrums upon the crazy strings!
As Blondel sang by cot and hall, Through town and stream and forest passed, And found, at length,