11. Bacchante: female followers of Bacchus, god of wine and intoxication, who are often portrayed in states of violent, erotic frenzy
12. mountebanks: sellers of quack medicines
13. cloud-scud hoary: a wispy, fast-moving cloud
The Doe: A Fragment
(From “Wandering Willie”)
And—“Yonder look! yoho! yoho!
“Nancy is off!” the farmer1 cried,
Advancing by the river side,
Red-kerchieft and brown-coated;—“So,
“My girl, who else could leap like that?
“So neatly! like a lady! Zounds!
“Look at her how she leads the hounds!”
And waving his dusty beaver hat,
He cheer’d across the chase-fill’d water,
And clapt his arm about his daughter, 10
And gave to Joan2 a courteous hug,
And kiss that, like a stubborn plug
From generous vats in vastness rounded,
The inner wealth and spirit sounded:
Eagerly pointing south, where, lo!
The daintiest fleetest-footed doe
Led o’er the fields and thro’ the furze3
Beyond; her lively delicate ears
Prickt up erect, and in her track
A dappled lengthy-striding pack. 20
Scarce had they cast eyes upon her,
When every heart was wager’d on her,
And half in dread, and half delight,
They watch’d her lovely bounding flight;
As now, across the flashing green,
And now, beneath the stately trees,
And now far distant in the dene,
She headed on with graceful ease:
Hanging aloft with doubled knees,
At times athwart some hedge or gate; 30
And slackening pace by slow degrees,
As for the foremost foe to wait.
Renewing her outstripping rate
Whene’er the hot pursuers near’d,
By garden wall and paled estate,
Where clambering gazers whoopt and cheer’d.
Here, winding under elm and oak,
And slanting up the sunny hill:
Splashing the water here, like smoke
Among the mill-holms round the mill. 40
And—“let her go; she shows her game,
“My Nancy girl, my pet and treasure!”
The farmer sigh’d; his eyes with pleasure
Brimming: “’tis my daughter’s name,
“My second daughter lying yonder.”
And Willie’s eye in search did wander,
And caught at once, with moist regard,
The white gleam of a gray churchyard.
“Three weeks before my girl had gone,
“And while upon her pillows propt, 50
“She lay at eve; the weakling fawn—
“For still it seems a fawn just dropt
“A se’nnight,4 to my Nancy’s bed5
“I brought to make my girl a gift:
“The mothers of them both were dead;
“And both to bless it was my drift,
“By giving each a friend; not thinking
“How rapidly my girl was sinking.
“And I remember how, to pat
“Its neck, she stretch’d her hand so weak, 60
“And its cold nose against her cheek
“Press’d fondly; and I fetcht the mat
“To make it up a couch just by her,
“Where in the lone dark hours to lie;
“For neither dear old nurse, nor I
“Would any single wish deny her.
“And there unto the last it lay;
“And in the pastures cared to play
“Little or nothing: there its meals
“And milk I brought: and even now 70
“The creature such affection feels
“For that old room that, when and how,
“’Tis strange to mark, it slinks and steals
“To get there, and all day conceals.
“And once when nurse who, since that time,
“Keeps house for me, was very sick,
“Waking upon the midnight chime,
“And listening to the stair-clock’s click,
“I heard a rustling, half uncertain,
“Close against the dark bed-curtain: 80
“And while I thrust my leg to kick,
“And feel the phantom with my feet,
“A loving tongue began to lick
“My left hand lying on the sheet;
“And warm sweet breath upon me blew,
“And that ’twas Nancy then I knew.
“So, for her love, I had good cause
“To have the creature ‘Nancy’ christen’d.”
He paused, and in the moment’s pause,
His eyes and Willie’s strangely glisten’d. 90
Nearer came Joan, and Bessy6 hung
With face averted, near enough
To hear, and sob unheard: the young
And careless ones had scamper’d off
Meantime, and sought the loftiest place
To beacon the approaching chase.
“Daily upon the meads to browse,
“Goes Nancy with those dairy cows
“You see behind the clematis:7
“And such a favourite she is, 100
“That when fatigued, and helter skelter,
“Among them from her foes to shelter,
“She dashes when the chase is over,
“They’ll close her in and give her cover,
“And bend their horns against the hounds,
“And low, and keep them out of bounds!
“From the house dogs she dreads no harm,
“And is good friends with all the farm,
“Man, and bird, and beast, howbeit
“Their natures seem so opposite. 110
“And she is known for many a mile,
“And noted for her splendid style,
“For her clear leap and quick slight hoof;
“Welcome she is in many a roof.
“And if I say, I love her, man!
“I say but little: her fine eyes full
“Of memories of my girl, at Yule
“And May-time, make her dearer than
“Dumb brute to men has been, I think.
“So dear I do not find her dumb. 120
“I know her ways, her slightest wink,
“So well; and to my hand she’ll come,
“Sideling, for food or a caress,
“Just like a loving human thing.
“Nor can I help, I do confess,
“Some touch of human sorrowing
“To think there may be such a doubt
“That from the next world she’ll be shut out,
“And parted from me! And well I mind
“How, when my girl’s last moments came, 130
“Her soft eyes very soft and kind,
“She join’d her hands and pray’d the same.
“That she ‘might meet her father, mother,
“Sister Bess, and each dear brother,
“And with them, if it might be, one
“Who was her last companion:’
“Meaning the fawn—the doe you mark—
“For my bay mare was then a foal,
“And time has pass’d since then:—but hark!”
For like the shrieking of a soul 140
Stifled in a tomb, a darken’d cry
Of inward-wailing agony
Surprised them, and all eyes on each
Fixt in the mute-appealing speech
Of self-reproachful apprehension:
Knowing not what to think or do:
But Joan, recovering first, broke thro’
The instantaneous suspension,
And knelt upon the ground, and guess’d
The bitterness at a glance, and press’d 150
>
Into the comfort of her breast,
The deep-throed quaking shape8 that droop’d
In misery’s willful aggravation,
Before the farmer as he stoopt’d,
Touch’d with accusing consternation:
Soothing her as she sobb’d aloud:—
“Not me! not me! Oh, no, no, no!
“Not me! God will not take me in!
“Nothing can wipe away my sin!
“I shall not see her: you will go; 160
“You and all that she loves so:
“Not me! not me! Oh, no, no, no!”9
Colourless—her long black hair,
Like seaweed in a tempest, toss’d
Tangling astray, to Joan’s care
She yielded like a creature lost:
Yielded, drooping towards the ground,
As doth a shape one half-hour drown’d,
And heaved from the old sea with mast and spar,
All dark of its immortal star. 170
And on that tender heart, inured
To flatter basest grief, and fight
Despair upon the brink of night,
She suffered herself to sink, assured
Of refuge; and her ear inclined
To comfort; and her thoughts resigned
To counsel; and her hair let brush
From off her weeping brows; and shook
With many little sobs that took
Deeper-drawn breaths, till into sighs 180
Long sighs they sunk; and to the ‘hush!’
Of Joan’s gentle chide, she sought
Childlike, to check them as she ought,
Looking up at her infantwise.
And Willie, gazing on them both,
Shiver’d with bliss through blood and brain,
To see the darling of his troth
Like a maternal angel strain
The sinful and the sinless child10
At once on either breast, and there 190
In peace and promise reconciled,
Unite them: nor could Nature’s care
With subtler beneficence
Have fed the springs of penitence,
Still keeping true, though harshly tried,
The vital prop of human pride.
THE END
FIGURE 3: Illustration for “The Meeting” by John Everett Millais, from Once a Week (1 September 1860), p. 276. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.
FIGURE 4: Saint Michael striking down the Demon, by Raphael, also called The Large Saint Michael, oil transferred from wood to canvas, 1518, Louvre, Paris. © Réunion des Musées Nationaux / Art Resource, NY
FIGURE 5: Illustration for “The Last Words of Juggling Jerry” by Hablot Knight (H. K.) Browne, from Once a Week (3 September 1859), p. 190. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.
FIGURE 6: Illustration for “The Old Chartist” by Frederick Sandys, from Once a Week (8 February 1862), p. 183. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.
FIGURE 7: Illustration for “The Beggar’s Soliloquy” by Charles Keene, from Once a Week (30 March 1861), p. 378. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.
FIGURE 8: Illustration for “The Patriot Engineer” by Charles Keene, from Once a Week (14 December 1861), p. 686. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.
FIGURE 9: Portrait of Annie Miller as Cassandra by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, pen and black ink on paper, 1861 / reworked 1867, British Museum, London. © Trustees of the British Museum.
FIGURE 10: Illustration for “The Head of Bran” by John Everett Millais, from Once a Week (4 February 1860), p. 132. Image courtesy of Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT.
Notes
1. “Nancy . . . farmer: Nancy is the doe, named after the farmer’s dead daughter; though not mentioned in this fragment, the farmer’s name is Gale. PB II.957, line 367.
2. Joan: Willie’s wife
3. furze: evergreen shrub
4. se’nnight: seven nights
5. the weakling . . . bed: PB writes, “The idea of a doe comforting a human being stems not only from folklore but [also] from Wordsworth’s White Doe of Rylstone (1815).” She also notes the poem’s formal resemblance to Wordworth’s The Excursion. PB II.1141.
6. Bessy: Nancy’s older sister; in parts of the narrative not included in this fragment, she is deserted by her lover after having premarital sex.
7. clematis: a twining shrub with a showy flower, popularly called “Virgin’s Bower,” “Traveler’s Joy,” and “Old Man’s Beard”
8. quaking shape: Bessy, crying on the ground
9. “Not me! . . . no, no!”: Bessy is distraught because she believes her past actions will keep her from entering heaven.
10. sinless child: Joan’s infant
Contexts
Contemporary Reactions
The contemporary response to Modern Love and Poems of the English Roadside, with Poems and Ballads was largely negative, mostly due to distaste for the subject matter of the volume’s titular sonnet sequence. Even Meredith’s dear friend Frederick Maxse, to whom Modern Love and Poems of the English Roadside was dedicated, noted that some of the poems in the volume suffered from obscure passages. Champions and detractors alike, however, praised the “Poems of the English Roadside” and remarked upon the “vigour” of Meredith’s verse in general. Richard Holt Hutton’s review for the Spectator is typical of negative reactions, and it prompted poet Algernon Charles Swinburne to compose a spirited rejoinder defending Meredith’s verse. The difference between these men’s views is indicative not only of the divided reaction to Modern Love, but also of larger debates regarding Victorian poetry.
These often-vehement responses to Modern Love participate in ongoing Victorian discussions about intelligibility, poetic realism, sensory processing, and gender equality, as articulated in the excerpts included throughout the “Contexts” section of this edition.
Unsigned Review, Parthenon (1862)1
Subtitled “A Weekly Journal of Literature, Science and Art,” the Parthenon was short-lived (1862–63). This review is generally positive, admiring Meredith’s descriptive powers and reverence for nature as well as his ability to portray “the subtlest workings of . . . human hearts.” The author appears to be unaware that Modern Love is Meredith’s second book of poetry.
A mid the multitude of versifiers and unfortunate persons who fancy themselves poets because their heads contain some rambling tunes, beginning with no purpose and ending with no conclusion, it is not a little gratifying to meet with the work of a conscientious artist, with distinct conceptions unflinchingly realized. Whatever difference of opinion may be excited by these poems, on one point at least we may expect agreement, viz. that they form a book not of promise, but performance; not of attempts, but results. Mr. George Meredith does not, like many, offer us a bunch of green leaves, and beg us expect that he will do wonders by-and-by—that at a future period he will give matured fruit; he has commenced with the fruit, the taste of which may be relished or disliked, but no doubt can be raised as to its full-grown ripeness.
The great variety of the contents of this volume renders it difficult to speak of it as a whole. It contains poems, such as “Grandfather Bridgeman” and the “Poems of the English Roadside,” which for sunny, genial health and joyousness will compare with the most sparkling moods of Burns.2 It contains others, which for their morbid subtlety of analysis Byron might have envied; and one or two which remind us of Hood.3 Yet we fancy through all this diversity may be traced the recurrence of one under-tone, one bass-note, over which the melody is infinitely varied; and this is a deep inextinguishable love of and reliance on external nature, as the one source of joy and consolation given to man here on earth. This element is ever w
orking in Mr. Meredith’s poetry, imparting a smell of pines and gorse4 and clover to all he touches. Doubtless a mere love of Nature as such is not very distinctive; thousands have it who are not poets, and perhaps a man cannot be a poet who has it not. But Mr. Meredith has it in a degree rare among even poets. It is at once his passion and his credo. Never is he so favoured of the Muse as when he speaks of “our only visible friend”:—
[quotes “Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn,” lines 89–97]
There is something reverential, almost solemn, in the tone which Mr. Meredith uses with regard to Nature, which, we confess, greatly charms us. He does not, like some, condescendingly patronize and approve, implying that her merits must be very great, as he has been good enough to notice them. Neither does he affect a free and easy familiarity, which is nearly as disgusting. His feeling appears to be the yearning of love of a son to a mother to whom he owes all he is:—
[quotes “Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn,” lines 157–67]
Gladly would we quote the whole of the astonishing poem from which these extracts are taken. The “Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn” . . . is replete with the very highest excellences of lyrical composition. It has a rush about it as of a mighty wind—the wild music of the south-west wind of which it sings—the crescendo roar of the rising gale, broken with lulls of flute-melody between. The volume of sound we especially notice. On this point we do not hesitate to say that Mr. Meredith need not fear comparison with even such a lyrist as Shelley, who, in his command over the most graceful, and power to paint the most evanescent, ideas, stands indeed supreme, but who never dashed from his harp such a storm of harmony as the poem before us:—
[quotes “Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn,” lines 98–128]
More important, and even more beautiful than Mr. Meredith’s wonderful descriptive power is the spirit which prompts him to its use, the burden and meaning of his song. Mr. Meredith sings of Nature because he loves her, and wishes us to do the same, as the best thing for us. The clear tone of his voice is not falsified by any arrière pensée.5 Shelley could hardly ever enjoy Nature for long without bringing in his fearful metaphysics. Wiser and better is this:—
[quotes “Ode to the Spirit of Earth in Autumn,” lines 168–74, 231–38]
And so much for Mr. Meredith’s treatment of outward Nature. But Mr. Meredith does not confine himself to rocks and fields, fond as he is of them. He goes without hesitation into the world of human action and suffering, and produces several pictures, some charged with the deepest and warmest colouring, others equally bright and jubilant. The tragical portion of these poems is represented by “Margaret’s Bridal-Eve” and “Modern Love.” As regards the first, we can only say that for delicacy of treatment and exquisite pathos it is absolutely perfect. As we cannot quote it all, we shall quote nothing, urging every reader to turn to it for himself. “Modern Love” is a poem which by no means wears its meaning conspicuous on the surface. On the contrary, it will be better understood on the second perusal than on the first, and better on the tenth than on the second. The “tragic hints” which are here given us of a great sorrow and misery will not permit us to make—even supposing that we could—a prosaic translation for the benefit of our readers. We prefer to leave the subject in the black shadows, the Rembrandt-like gloom into which the author has thrown it. This much may be said:—We perceive a man and woman—husband and wife—moving about in the darkness of shipwrecked love. With slow, deliberate analysis the artist has seized and graven the successive stages of this internal agony, decked as it is with laughing flowers to the outer world:—
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