Punch (86.1884)

Mat 31, 1884.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

253

FRAGMENT OF BAS-RELIEF RECENTLY UNEARTHED BY DR.

Supposed to represent the Olympic Games, Circa 1890.

5 LYMAN*

HIGHLY SUGGESTIVE.

That what Lord Tennyson gracefully describes as Mr. S. E.
Dawson’s “ able and thoughtful essay on The Princess,” should have
brought down a fairly sharp rejoin def from the noble Poet, has
afforded much keen satisfaction to his many ardent admirers, and
his letter, published by a contemporary last week, na-s naturally been
hailed in certain quarters with something like positive enthusiasm.
Under the circumstances, the following postscriptum, apparently
written at a subsequent date, as a sort of supplementary afterthought,
but not published at the time, may be now read with interest.

Dear Sir, ^ Far ring ford, April 1.

A eew words more on the subj ect of plagiarism and sug-
gestion in poetic composition. The more 1 think of it the more I
apprehend the full and complete force of the unfairness of the
charge. Let me repeat it—I have not got my best lines by poring,
as implied, over back numbers of sixpenny magazines ; no : nor by
continually ransacking the “ Poet’s Corners ” in obscure provincial
papers. Homer, or even Shelley, with whom I am less familiar,
may have done this,—not I.

But let one give some still further instances, culled haphazard
from that observant period of my life, in which I was in the habit,
as I have already stated, of chronicling, in four or five dozen words
or more, whatever came home to me, with the full force of my own
natural experience.

I quote at random ; but this from The Lotos Eaters to begin:—

“ This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.”

Suggestion.—Bathing, and getting out of my dej)th, with a party
of congenial friends at Margate, when Margate was quite the wildest
spot in England, some years ago. Hone of us could swim; the wave
was really mountingand so I made the remark by way of encourage-
ment to my struggling companions.

Or take this again, from the same poem :—

‘' Is there any peace

In ever climbing up the climbing wave P ”

Suggestion.—An extremely rough and disagreeable passage I had
between Dover and Calais. I positively experienced myself that
there was no sort of peace in the process whatever, and I think the
very question, as it now appears in The Lotos Eaters, I addressed
once or twice, at the time, to the steward.

To turn to a favourite theme—the Moon

“ At midnight the moon cometh,

And looketh down alone.”

Suggestion.—Opening my window late to see if the front gate is
all right. I have often, when doing this, seen the moon “ looking
down,” and, what is more strange, “looking down alone.” Some-
times I have seen a policeman too looking down the area, but I have
naturally suppressed him as not necessary to the context.

But here is a natural image got from an unexpected source:—

“ I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows.”

Suggestion.—Hothing more or less than an after-dinner skate with
my dress-coat tightly buttoned! L tried this on my own pond, and
saw with my own eyes, as I gloomed and glanced, my own
“ swallows ” skimming behind me!

But T will not bore you with a thousand other instances that
spring to my mind, ready with a flash to prove that the Poet, as far
as I know him, does not go to books for his fancies.

Why, even the line “ There’s many a black, black eye,” occurred
to me as, when quite a young man, I happened to pass a party of
roughs returning from a famous prizefight; while the simple phrase,
“And with no language but a cry,” was brought home to me,
through his daily but plaintive announcement of his presence, by the
local milkman. Yet when I printed this, some critic informed me
that language that was “ a cry ” was peculiar to certain wild beasts
at the Eegent’s Park Zoological Gardens, and graciously added that
“Mr. T. should not go to Hature, but to his tradesmen, for his
suggestions.” And I had gone to my tradesman! After this, dear
Sir, what can I say more but that I am Yours, &c.,

Tennyson.

DITTY OH A DRAG.

The roadside gardens blowing
Are flush with flowers of
May;

Apace the grass is growing:

Let horses hope for hay.

The Gents, each other chaffing,
Their sides look like to split,
So loudly they are laughing
At one another’s wit.

With buttercups inlaid,

Daisies upon the greenery,

Like gold and silver braid

And buttons, deck the scenery.

Their hues delight your eye
And charm your ideality ;
Jokes whilst your friends let fly,
With playful personality.

But dull to you and drear
Is their liveliest inanity ;

You ’re a fellow without an ear
For the music of Gents’ hu-
manity.

SPORTIHG IHTELLIGEHCE.

(From Our Oion City Sporting Prophet.)

I hear that a Junior Clerk in a large ready-money City establish-
ment, having luckily got a very straight tip from the first cousin of
a celebrated jockey, whose name begins with an A, has borrowed a
considerable sum of money from his employers’ till, which he fully
intends to return out of his large winnings directly he receives them.

My Own Prophecy is based upon a casual remark of the Secretary
for the Colonies—who ought to know something about the Derby, if
anybody does—to the effect that it required a man to be very Wide- |
awake to spot the Winner. From this I draw the natural conclusion j
that he will be found in your H. A. T. Verhum sup.

Caper Courteous.