Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic. Douglas James

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СКАЧАТЬ England, mother of kings of battle and song —

      Rapine, or racial hate’s mysterious wrong,

      Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom —

      Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom,

      Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long —

      To near and far-off children young and strong —

      With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume.

      Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye

      Whose hands around the world are join’d by him,

      Who make his speech the language of the sea,

      Till winds of Ocean waft from rim to rim

      The Breath of Avon: let this great day be

      A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim.

      From where the steeds of Earth’s twin oceans toss

      Their manes along Columbia’s chariot-way;

      From where Australia’s long blue billows play;

      From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross,

      Startling the frigate-bird and albatross

      Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay —

      Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway

      ’Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss!

      For, if ye found the breath of Ocean sweet,

      Sweeter is Avon’s earthy, flowery smell,

      Distill’d from roots that feel the coming spell

      Of May, who bids all flowers that lov’d him meet

      In meadows that, remembering Shakspeare’s feet,

      Hold still a dream of music where they fell.

      It was during a visit to Stratford-on-Avon in 1880 that Mr. Watts-Dunton wrote the cantata, ‘Christmas at the Mermaid,’ a poem in which breathes the very atmosphere of Shakespeare’s town. There are no poetical descriptions of the Avon that can stand for a moment beside the descriptions in this poem, which I shall discuss later.

      A typical meadow of Cowslip Country, or, as it is sometimes called, ‘The Green Country,’ is Hemingford Meadow, adjoining St. Ives. It is a level tract of land on the banks of the Ouse, consisting of deposits of alluvium from the overflowings of the river. In summer it is clothed with gay flowers, and in winter, during floods and frosts, it is used as a skating-ground, for St. Ives, being on the border of the Fens, is a famous skating centre. On the opposite side of the meadow is The Thicket, of which I am able to give a lovely picture. This, no doubt, is the scene described in one of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s birthday addresses to Tennyson: —

      Another birthday breaks: he is with us still.

      There through the branches of the glittering trees

      The birthday sun gilds grass and flower: the breeze

      Sends forth methinks a thrill – a conscious thrill

      That tells yon meadows by the steaming rill —

      Where, o’er the clover waiting for the bees,

      The mist shines round the cattle to their knees —

      ‘Another birthday breaks: he is with us still!’

      The meadow leads to what the ‘oldest rustic inhabitant’ calls the ‘First Hemingford,’ or ‘Hemingford Grey.’ The imagination of this same ‘oldest inhabitant’ used to go even beyond the First Hemingford to the Second Hemingford, and then of course came Ultima Thule! The meadow has quite a wide fame among those students of nature who love English grasses in their endless varieties. Owing to the richness of the soil, the luxuriant growth of these beautiful grasses is said to be unparalleled in England. For years the two Hemingfords have been the favourite haunt of a group of landscape painters the chief of whom are the brothers Fraser, two of whose water-colours are reproduced in this book.

      Nowhere can the bustling activity of haymaking be seen to more advantage than in Cowslip Country, which extends right through Huntingdonshire into East Anglia. It was not, however, near St. Ives, but in another somewhat distant part of Cowslip Country that the gypsies depicted in ‘The Coming of Love’ took an active part in haymaking. But alas! in these times of mechanical haymaking the lover of local customs can no longer hope to see such a picture as that painted in the now famous gypsy haymaking song which Mr. Watts-Dunton puts into the mouth of Rhona Boswell. Moreover, the prosperous gryengroes depicted by Borrow and by the author of ‘The Coming of Love’ have now entirely vanished from the scene. The present generation knows them not. But it is impossible for the student of Mr. Watts-Dunton’s poetry to ramble along any part of Cowslip Country, with the fragrance of newly-made hay in his nostrils, without recalling this chant, which I have the kind permission of the editor of the ‘Saturday Review’ (April 19, 1902) to quote: —

      Make the kas while the kem says, ‘Make it!’ 3

      Shinin’ there on meadow an’ grove,

      Sayin, ‘You Romany chies, you take it,

      Toss it, tumble it, cock it, rake it,

      Singin’ the ghyllie the while you shake it

      To lennor and love!’

      Hark, the sharpenin’ scythes that tingle!

      See they come, the farmin’ ryes!

      ‘Leave the dell,’ they say, ‘an’ pingle!

      Never a gorgie, married or single,

      Can toss the kas in dell or dingle

      Like Romany chies.’

      Make the kas while the kem says ‘Make it!’

      Bees are a-buzzin’ in chaw an’ clover

      Stealin’ the honey from sperrits o’ morn,

      Shoshus leap in puv an’ cover,

      Doves are a-cooin’ like lover to lover,

      Larks are awake an’ a-warblin’ over

      Their kairs in the corn.

      Make the kas while the kem says ‘Make it!’

      Smell the kas on the baval blowin’!

      What is that the gorgies say?

      Never a garden rose a-glowin’,

      Never a meadow flower a-growin’,

      Can match the smell from a Rington mowin’

      Of new made hay.

      All along the river reaches

      ‘Cheep, cheep, chee!’ – from osier an’ sedge;

      ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo!’ rings from the beeches;

      Every chirikel’s song beseeches

      Ryes to larn what lennor teaches

      From copse an’ hedge.

      Make the kas while the kem says ‘Make it!’

      Lennor sets ’em singin’ an’ pairin’,

      Chirikels all in tree an’ grass,

      Farmers say, ‘Them gals are darin’,

      Sometimes dukkerin’, sometimes snarin’;

      But see their forks at a quick kas-kairin’,’

      Toss the kas!

      Make the kas while the kem says, ‘Make it!’

      Shinin’ there on meadow an’ grove,

      Sayin’, ‘You Romany chies, you take it,

      Toss it, tumble it, СКАЧАТЬ