Ranthorpe ...

Preface

Ranthorpe was written five years ago.

No one will doubt that it has in many respects profited

by the delay in publication; yet it has not escaped the

evil of that tendency,

To add and alter many times, Till all be ripe and rotten,

of which the most fastidious of contemporary poets complains ; and which made Schiller question the advantage of Horace's celebrated nonum prematur in annum. So that when I state that the one volume now presented to the public was originally three, the critic will easily understand how certain faults of construction, and sins against Vart de conter, arose from so great a change in the structure and proportions of the whole. Of these faults I became aware only when too late — when reading the proof sheets ; and all which now remains is to confess and apologise.

VI PREFACE.

That the faults are not more numerous is owing to the admirable criticisms of two eminent friends, who paid me the compliment of being frankly severe on the work submitted to their judgment. Sensible of the kindness in their severity, I have made them — what, for an author, must be considered as a magnificent acknowledgement — I have adopted all their suggestions !

London, April, 1847.

Book II. The Lion

Chapter I.— The Literary Lion 49

H.— The Poet out in the World 57

HI.— The Medical Student 62

IV.— The Lovers' Meeting 66

V.— First Lessons of Adversity 74

VI.— The Two Sisters 79

VII.— Wynton's Story 83

VIII.— Poor Isola 99

Book III. The Unsuccessful Author

Chapter I. — The Aristocracy of Intellect 107

II. — PriezpourLui 112

III. — Expiation 115

IV. — New Hopes 124

V.— The Reading of the Play 129

VI. — Cosa Scabrosa 134

VII. — The Dramatist with the Manager 138

VIII.— Rehearsals 145

IX.— The Tragedy is Performed 150

X. — Aspiration and Inspiration 159

XL— Despair 164

Vlli CONTENTS.

Book IV. Struggles With Circumstance

PAGE

Chapter I.— Isola in her Retreat 177

II.— The Artist 184

HI.— Woman's Life 188

IV.— The Woof is Weaving 195

V.— Night of the Murder 206

VI.— The Pursuit 215

VEL— The Turning Point 225

VIIL— The Miseries of Genius 229

Book V. Isola

Chapter I.— The Hawbuckes 239

II.— Jealousy 259

in.— The Surgeon , 271

IV. — Yes: Harry is in Love 275

V.— The Betrothment 278

VI.— The Birthday 284

VH.— The Dream 291

Vin. — Waking Dreams and Waking Sadness 302

LX.— The Sacrifice 307

X. — Reconciliation 312

XI. — Love is Blind; Couch not his Eyes 318

Xn.— Denouement 328

XIII. —The Lovers 333

XIV.— The Course of True Love 338

XV— Peal the Marriage Bells 347

Epilogue 349

RANTHORPE.

Book I. The Poet's First Struggles

How like a younker, or a prodigal,

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay !

Shakspeare.

RANTHORPE.

CHAPTER I.

THE THREE STUDENTS.

By solemn vision and bright silver stream

His infancy was nurtured. Every sight

And sound from the vast earth and ambient air

Sent to his heart the choicest impulses.

Shelley.

It was a cold November night. Holborn was noisy, murky, and sloppy. A drizzling rain descended through the haze: the chilling haze of a London winter night. Streams of brilliant gas, reflected from gilded lamps and pillars in those splendid mockeries named gin-palaces, flashed at intervals through the darkness, calling attention to the orgies there perpetrated: where brutal violence, sodden depravity, low cunning, vice in all its hideousness, and poverty in its desperate wretchedness, had assembled to snatch a moment's delirium or a moment's oblivion of the bitterness of existence. Omnibuses, cabs, waggons, and trucks, rolled past with ceaseless rumbling din. There were

b2 the brawls of miserable women reeling from public bouses ; and tbe scuffles witb pickpockets emerging from Saffron Hill. The sloppy pavement clacked beneatb tbe feet of tbe crowding passers-by.

Amidst this noisy, cheerless scene, standing at one of tbe numerous book-stalls, was a youtb of nineteen, wbo, bis bands and feet benumbed witb cold, bad been standing for balf an bour, gloating witb bungry eyes upon tbe treasures there displayed. He was enveloped in a camlet cloak, the scanty proportions of wbicb just sufficed to bide tbe poverty of his garments, and to ward off tbe rain. He had no gloves, and bis bands were purple from the cold. His bat betokened the fidelity of an ancient servitor; it was scrupulously brushed, and shone from repeated wettings. In a word, the youth looked like a clerk — and was one.

Those who looked a little closer, however, might have seen that there was something in this youth's face which belied his dress — an air of refinement and command — a look of the English gentleman, which is peculiar to our nation, and to one class in that nation. The mouth was very remarkable: it was voluptuous, and yet refined; full, yet delicate — the mouth of a poet. The eyes were of a deep blue ; long and somewhat languishing, and shaded with the sweetest fringe imaginable. The forehead was delicately cut; the chin weak and faltering. A physiognomist would at once have pronounced him to be a remarkable person ; but somewhat deficient in strength of will.

This youth was Percy Ranthorpe.

His eyes wandered over the titles of the volumes so temptingly displayed; but nothing came within reach of bis finances. His was a Barmecide feast; be cared not 'for rare editions, large paper copies, or sumptuous bindings*

THE THREE STUDENTS. 5

His hunger was for knowledge ; lie had a passion for books — no matter what editions, what bindings; he cared not even whether they had covers at all. He only thought of the price.

After enviously opening many a volume ; with a secret consciousness that his looking at the price was all a magnificent juggle with himself, as he was certain not to be able to pay it, yet still pleased with even an imaginary purchase ; he at last came to a tub filled with dirty ancient books. From this tub rose a stick, bearing a piece of cardboard, on which was written:

ALL THESE BOOKS 6d. THE VOL.

Here possibilities merged into actualities : he could purchase : to the length of sixpence he could indulge ! Accordingly, he began to handle the volumes with a sterner and more business-like air. But he was long in making a choice.

While thus engaged, another young man stopped at the stall. Percy made room for him ; but the new-comer only stopped to light a cigar at the jet of gas; and was about to move on, when he was accosted rather boisterously by a third.

u Hollo ! Harry, is that you ? Well, how are you, old brick?"

" How are you, Oliver ? What have you been doing with yourself for the last century ?"

"Oh! flaring up!"

" That of course. I was at the masquerade last night — so jolly drunk !" This Harry uttered with the complacency which young men often assume when speaking of their vices; and Percy looked up involuntarily, but soon continued his search, though unable to avoid hearing their conversation.

" Oliver, are you going to the Cider Cellars to-night?"

" Don't know. Short of tin. Spent a couple of sovereigns last night."

Two sovereigns in senseless dissipation, thought Percy, and with two sovereigns how many books might he have bought !

He again looked up, and this time scanned the friends more closely. They were evidently two medical students ; and as they are to play important parts in this drama, I may as well complete Percy's observations, and briefly paint their portraits for the reader's benefit.

Harry Cavendish was a student of St. George's. In his appearance there was something at once prepossessing and repulsive: a mixture of the gentleman and the Mohock. His coal-black hair was trained into one long curl on either side of his cheeks ; thick black moustaches graced or disgraced his upper lip ; his hat was slightly cocked to look jaunty; he carried a formidable stick; and smelt strongly of tobacco. Yet his dark eye was full of fire and intelligence; his open laughing face was indicative of malicious mirth and frankness; and the resolution about his brow, and sensibility about his mouth, redeemed his slang appearance, and showed the superior being, beneath the unprepossessing exterior.

Oliver Thornton belonged to the Middlesex Hospital. He was heavy and clownish-looking; with a large, pale, sensual, and rather placid countenance, the predominant expression of which was sleepiness, strangely mixed with cunning. It seemed as if his small twinkling eyes were in perpetual struggle with the somnolent disposition of his other features. It was a thoroughly disagreeable face.

The two students — " arcades ambo — blackguards both'' — walked on, and Percy felt quite relieved by their absence. Their whole tone was such as could not but be

THE THREE STUDENTS. 7

displeasing to Mm ; and he sighed to think of their money squandered and time lost, both of which, had he possessed them, would have made him the happiest of men !

He had his sixpence, however, and books were before him. An odd volume of Shelley's poems, somewhat tattered, turned up ; and now his hesitation was dispelled at once. He marched with it into the shop, paid his money with feverish delight, and hurried homewards in triumph.

As he turned up King-street, his way was stopped by a crowd of people assembled round an athletic costermonger, who was beating his donkey in so brutal a manner that several persons were crying " Shame ! shame !" The man only looked fiercely in the direction of these cries, and recommending the interferers, in language not the most polished, to mind their own affairs, continued to wrench the mouth of the animal, whom he almost stunned with a heavy stick. Percy was about to spring forward, when he saw Harry push his way through the crowd, followed by Oliver.

"What's the row? 1 ' said Harry; and on learning the state of matters, he went up to the costermonger and said, "Now then, Carrots, none of that. Is that the way you treat a servant and a brother ? Have you no feelings — no fellow feelings ?"

" I'll split your skull if you give me any of your chaff," retorted the costermonger, savagely.

" No, my friend," said Harry, coolly; " no ; you'll excuse my contradicting you — but you won't."

" I won't !" roared the other.

" You must get up much earlier in the morning to do it, I pledge you my word. And now listen to this simple and familiar observation I have to make : if you don't cease maltreating that miserable animal, I shall first give you a drubbing to gratify my own feelings, and then pull you up before a magistrate to gratify Mr. Martin's feelings."

At the word " drubbing" his antagonist threw down his stick and hat, and putting himself into a posture of defence exclaimed, " Come on, come on ; I'll give it jrer."

Oliver endeavoured to persuade Harry to decamp ; but Harry took off his gloves with extreme coolness, folded them up, put them in his pocket, and then, without heeding the remonstrances of his companion, quickly knocked the costermonger down. A yell of derision and delight burst from the crowd as they saw the brute in the mud. They had been a little anxious before ; but the coolness, science, and force Harry exhibited, soon quieted their fears ; and the pleasure which all men feel in an exhibition of prowess was here heightened by the indignation excited by the costermonger's brutality.

Maddened by his fall and by the derision of the crowd, the ruffian started to his feet and rushed impetuously upon Harry, who, stepping a little aside, to avoid the shock, dealt him so heavy a blow that he reeled and fell sprawling in the mud. He got up again; but he was disheartened ; he felt that he had no chance against the skill, coolness, and strength of his antagonist. Instead of renewing the attack, he skulked away to his cart, put on his hat amidst the laughter and gibes of the crowd which was now large, and taking hold of the donkey's bridle, moved on in sullen silence.

Harry took out his gloves, put them on as if nothing

THE THREE STUDENTS. 9

had happened, and looked round for Oliver, who had slunk off on the first appearance of a danger in which he might possibly be implicated. Several people congratulated Harry, and praised him for his generosity and prowess.

Percy felt as if he could have asked his pardon for the contempt which a little while ago he had felt for him. But the crowd had dispersed, and he was alone.

He continued his walk home, now ruminating on the scene which had greatly affected him, and now peeping into his volume of Shelley, which he hugged as only a poor poet could have hugged it. Under more than one lamp-post did he stop to catch a glimpse at the poems, gathering in those glimpses fresh impatience for the whole.

" What, more books !" reproachfully exclaimed his father, as he entered the room. " What he can do with them all, I can't think." This was said to a young girl who was at that moment preparing Percy's supper.

Percy was silent. He had been so long accustomed to the sneers and reproaches of his father on the point, that though he had not ceased to feel them, he had quite ceased defending himself.

" I suppose," continued Mr. Ranthorpe, " you have gone without dinner again to-day, to buy that trash."

" I dined frugally, and bought this book with the money saved."

" Well, if you like to starve yourself, for the sake of the books, that's your affair not mine," rejoined Mr. Ranthorpe. With this observation — his unfailing one — he let the matter drop. Percy exchanged a glance with the lovely girl before named, and in her approving, tender look, read a recompense. If she thought well of what he did, he was satisfied.

And who was she ? asks the reader. How came she there ? If he has any sagacity he will at once divine that she is to play an important part in this drama. She is indeed our heroine, and must have a chapter to herself.

Chapter II. Isola

S' ella ride ella piace ; s' ella parla la diletta ; s' ella tace ell' empie altrui d' ammirazione ; s' ella va ha grazia ; s' elle siede ha vaghezza ; s' ella canta ha dolcezza ; s' ella balla ha Venere in compagnia ; s' ella ragiona, le Muse le insegnano.

Isola Chuechill was an orphan. Her father had been Mr. Ranthorpe's partner and friend for many years, and when he died Mr. Ranthorpe took her to live with him, as a child.

She was exquisitely beautiful. But her beauty was of that chaste severity of style which only strikes connoisseurs. She had few of the charms which captivate drawing-room critics ; was neither sylph-like nor sportive, neither sentimental nor voluptuous. Her cheeks were innocent both of roses and lilies. I am not aware of any cupids having taken up their abode in her dimples ; nor did I ever hear any thing of the " liquid languishment" of her eyes. In fact, she was a girl whom seven out of every ten would call " nice looking," or " well grown; 55 without a suspicion of the other three looking upon her as a masterpiece of nature's cunning hand.

Tall, finely, somewhat amply moulded, with a waist in perfect proportion, her walk was the walk of a goddess; perhaps for that reason few thought it graceful.

From her mother — an Italian — she inherited a pale, olive complexion, large lustrous eyes, black hair, and a certain look of Raffaele's Sistine Madonna. From her father, the winning gentleness which softened her somewhat stern severity of outline, and converted the statue into a woman. Yet, on the whole, her beauty was more sculpturesque than picturesque.

Her voice was peculiar. Though musical and vibrating, it had that loudness common to Italians, but which in England, amongst a race accustomed to eat half their words, is regarded as ill-bred. But the clear, vibrating, powerful tone of Isola's voice, always seemed to me a witchery the more, and was not inaptly characteristic of her frank, large, and healthy soul. It gave some persons the impression of her not being feminine; and this impression was strengthened by the simplicity of a manner, free from all the permissible coquetry of woman. Yet Isola was exquisitely feminine in soul. She was woman in her gentleness, lovingness, singleness of purpose, and endurance ; only not in coquetry.

To those whose tastes had been kept pure, who could distinguish truth and love it, there was an indefinable charm in her manner. It would have been impossible for the most impertinent of men to have paid her common-place compliments : the quiet simplicity — the grandeur of her direct and truthful bearing — protected her.

If the reader run away with the idea that Isola was an imposing woman, he will be curiously misled. It is the fault of language that it cannot convey manner, so that the term " grandeur" applied to one so simple and truthful as Tsola, may seem ill-applied ; because it is forgotten that all grandeur is excessively simple.

Her character will be seen in this story. Her accomplishments were not inconsiderable, since music and painting were her birthright, and Dante was as much her childhood's companion as Shakspeare.

Percy and Isola, living under the same roof, very naturally fell in love. Ignorant of the world, but looking forward to the future, confident that it would bring them the consummation of their desires, they plighted their vows. Nor did Mr. Ranthorpe disapprove of it. This seemed to him the best way of securing Isola a protector should he be suddenly cut off ; and he felt Percy would, above all men, need a good, economical, sensible woman for a wife, whenever he should be old enough and rich enough to think of one.

Mr. Ranthorpe had a very special contempt for poets, and never lost an opportunity of expressing it before his son. He himself had been all his life a speculator ; and because he had pursued the chimera of making his fortune, he considered himself eminently a practical man. A life of unsuccess had failed to teach him. He had no faith in any thing that was not practical, that did not obviously lead to hard cash. His son's poetical tendencies were therefore regarded as alarming symptoms. The old man was, however, somewhat calmed when he saw Percy accept the miserable situation of a lawyer's clerk, and attend regularly enough to business, in spite of his devoting leisure hours to books and poetry.

If his father did not understand and sympathise with him, Isola did. She was the confidante of all his plans; sympathised in all his aspirations; shared all his hopes. She believed with him that the volume of " Poems of the

Affections" which he was preparing, would create for him a rank in the world of letters, which to them would be a fortune.

It is necessary that the reader should clearly understand the position of our hero, which I have briefly indicated in the foregoing pages. It is necessary that he should see the poverty and ambition, the obstacles and the courage, to understand the struggles which are about to ensue. Few men have been more unfavourably placed than this young lawyer's clerk ; none have ever had a more stirring ambition. He had but one friend — but one partner in his hopes. The rest of the world were all superbly indifferent to him and his aspirations ; except his father, who was indignant at them.

Few sights are more saddening than that of a young spirit struggling in vain against overwhelming obstacles ; unheeded, unassisted, without friends, without position, and without advisers. But this sight, though sad to the casual spectator, has another aspect to him who looks deeper. Underneath those thwarted hopes, that wild ambition, there breathes a free spirit of energetic action; and this activity is a fountain of delight, as activity always is. "We who see the struggling boy, and calmly measure the immensity of the barriers which shut him from success, we may deem him unhappy, because we foresee that he will be so. But we do not feel the rapture of his reveries — the delight in creation — the transports of anticipated success — transports more vividly felt at that period when criticism has not detected weakness, when experience has not chilled flushed confidence with its cold misgivings.

The poet's desire is to "get published:" in that anticipation lies his delight. He is the lover who is still enamoured^ because still unmarried. He has the world lying before him ; and it is plastic to his hopes : he moulds it as he wills.

After publication (that marriage with, the muse !) he can no longer dream : he must confront reality. The world, before so plastic, is now a rock whereon are wrecked his cherished fancies. The unpublished poet mistakes his aspiration for inspiration. He confounds the excitement awakened in him by great works, with the excitement awakened by self-developed ideas and self-experienced feelings, which imperiously demand utterance. He lives in the circle traced by his own delusions.

Perhaps there has been no author, whatever may have been his renown, who has looked back upon the early years of uncrowned endeavour without envying their freshness of spirit, virginity of soul, and boundlessness of hope. Of the two points in the adventure of a diver,

One— when a beggar he prepares to plunge; One— when a prince he rises with the pearl.*

the first is the happier: the confidence of the beggar exceeds in rapture all the triumph of the prince. The pearl is beggary beside the boundless wealth of imagination.

Percy Ranthorpe was a beggar, and about to plunge ! * Paracelsus.

Chapter III. Early Struggles

J'ai su, pauvre et content, savourer a longs traits Les muses, les plaisirs, et l'etude, et la paix, Une pauvrete libre est un tresor si doux ! II est si doux, si beau, de s'etre fait soi-meme; De devoir tout a soi, aux beaux arts qu'on aime.

Andre Cheniek.

The " Poems of the Affections" were completed. Having copied them out, Percy sent them to Mr. Wilson, the publisher, with a note requesting him to read them, and see if he had any objection to publish them ; Percy announced his intention of calling in three days' time.

He did so. He dressed himself in his best clothes, and set off flushed with triumph. It was with peculiar, almost awful, sensations that he entered the shop, and inquired for Mr. Wilson. The three clerks took no sort of notice of him. One was eating his luncheon. A second nibbing his pen. The third tying up a parcel of books.

" Is Mr. Wilson within ?" repeated Percy.

11 Do you want to see him?" asked the clerk with his mouth full.

" Yes."

EARLY STRUGGLES. 17

44 He's very much engaged."

" Perhaps you will take in my name. Mr. Ranthorpe."

° Jim, take in the gentleman's name, will you?"

The clerk, nibbing his pen very leisurely, laid it down, got off his stool, gave the fire a poke, and sauntered into an inner room, from whence he shortly proceeded with far greater alacrity, and politely requested Percy to step in.

I quite relinquish the attempt of depicting the poet's sensations as he entered the dusky room, where sat the awful Mr. Wilson, upon whose decision his fate seemed to hang. Mr. Wilson motioned him to a chair and said :

" I have read your poems, Mr. Ranthorpe ; and very pretty they are ; very."

There was a ringing in Percy's ears ; his face was crimson ; he was speechless.

" They will make an elegant little volume," continued the publisher; " I presume you would wish it handsomely got up?"

" Why yes — that is — of course — I leave that to you."

" Very good. I will get it up for you as moderately as I can, and as well."

Percy did not comprehend this. The publisher thought he was simply requested to publish the poems at the author's expense. Judge, then, of his surprise when asked by Percy timidly: " ,: " What do you think you can give for the copyright?"

" Copy ? My dear sir. There's some mistake.

Do you not wish me to publish your poems ?"

" Yes."

" At your expense "

" At my expense ! Oh no ! I thought, as you admired the poems, you would purchase them."

c

" Ah, my dear sir, you are young yet, or you would know that we never purchase such things."

" But if you admire them?"

" The public won't buy them. Poetry, sir, is a drug ; a drug, sir. I couldn't sell i Childe Harold ' if it were now first published."

" Will you publish the poems at your risk ?" asked Percy in desperation.

"It is a thing we never do, I assure you; never — never. In fact, we consider it a compliment when we consent to publish for an author."

Some feeble skirmishing was kept up ; but Percy, seeing Mr. Wilson was pitiless, took back his manuscript and left the shop, gloomy and sick at heart.

" Some other publisher may be glad of them," he said, at last ; and this revived his hopes.

But another, and another, and another followed, with unhesitating unanimity declining the honourable risk.

The self-love of the poet was exasperated. He felt towards the publishers a feeling of bitterness allied to hatred. Life was spoiled for him ; and by them. A barrier, insurmountable, seemed to rise between him and success.

"I shall die unknown, Isola," he said. "I shall die unrecorded and unread. Oh! if the poems could but appear, they would be sure to succeed; I know it; feel it. But these ignorant booksellers, thinking only of pounds, shillings, and pence, know nothing of poetry, and care nothing about it*'

"But, darling, you must not blame them: pounds, shillings, and pence are their objects: they are tradesmen, not critics."

" Yes, tradesmen" retorted Percy, with bitter con-

EAELY STRUGGLES. 19

tempt. " And by what privilege do they trade in poetry? Oh ! that I were any thing but a clerk !"

It was then, for the first time, he felt that he was nothing. What thoughts then oppressed him ! What sad despondency nourished in a soul hitherto so buoyant and so hopeful ! What cries of anguish at his social position!

" Genius," said Isola to him one day, " has always to struggle; but it always vanquishes at last."

" If it have courage, Isola; perhaps so. 5 '

"It is not genius if it have not. Therefore, Percy, let us hope on."

She rested his aching head upon her bosom, and kissed his hot brow. He looked into her calm lustrous eyes, and in the unutterable love there he read courage to endure. He felt he was not alone in the world. If all else were denied him, she was with him ; and her love made life a paradise.

With somewhat of the pride of a martyr, Percy consented to accept his obscurity for the present. Meanwhile, his studies went on. He had resolved to fit himself for the rude battle with the world.

At the time I speak of, there used to be in Holborn (and there may be still) a coffee-house, at which the young poet spent much of his time. It was an uninviting looking place. Two kidneys placed upon one plate, and one solitary fly-blown chop on another plate, flanking a tin coffee-pot, and a cup inverted in its saucer: such was the symbolical appearance presented by the window-ledge. Over these was placed a printed bill of fare ; concluding with this announcement: — "Daily and Evening Papers : Reviews and Magazines."

The interior did not belie the exterior. The long room, with two rows of " boxes 5 ' looking like pews, was lit up

C2 with gas. The refreshments were cooked at one corner, behind a screen. The tables were strewed with cups of tea and coffee, broken bread, and rashers of bacon. The men seated at the tables were mostly mechanics, snatching an hour from toil, and in all their dirt revelling in newspapers and magazines, of which they were eager devourers; and some " penny-a-liners," and a few of the poorer sort of clerks were also there, joking with the drab who waited on them — a girl all dirt and pertness, well used to the easy and familiar wit of the customers who called her " Mary, dear/' or " Jemima, love."

Into this dismal, but not uninteresting place — for there also was the growing avidity of the people for instruction exemplified — Percy was attracted by the reviews and magazines; and made himself acquainted with the ideas the age was putting forth. In the perusal of the criticisms on contemporary writers, he silently amassed a fund of critical ideas, which he endeavoured to apply to his own compositions. One day, after reading some poems in " Blackwood," it struck him that here was an opening.

" I will send one of my poems to ' Blackwood,' w he said; " the editor is a judge; he won't be so stupid as the booksellers. If he prints it, I will send him others, and thus, in time, I may get known."