"What? shall Earl Rodolph's st.u.r.dy strength, After six hundred years, at length Be recklessly laid low?

His grey machicolated tower Torn down within one outraged hour By worse than Vandals' ruthless power?-- Haro! a l'aide, Haro!

"Nine years old Cornet for the throne Against rebellion stood alone-- And honoured still shall stand, For heroism so sublime, A relic of the olden time, Renowned in Guernsey prose and rhyme, The glory of her land!

"Ay,--let your science scheme and plan With better skill than so; Touch not this dear old barbican, Nor dare to lay it low!

"On Vazon's ill-protected bay Build and blow up, as best ye may, And do your worst to scare away Some visionary foe,-- But, if in brute and blundering power You tear down Rodolph's granite tower, Defeat and scorn and shame that hour Shall whelm you like an arrowy shower-- Haro! a l'aide, Haro!"

When my antiquarian cousin Ferdinand, the historian of "Sarnia" and our "Family Records," saw these lines, he positively made serious objection--while generally approving them--against my saying "six hundred years," whereas, according to him, it was only five hundred and ninety-three! he actually wanted me to alter it, or at all events insert "almost,"--so difficult is it to reconcile literal accuracy with poetical rhyme and rhythm. I seem to remember that he wrote to the local papers about this. However, it is some consolation to know that these heartfelt verses forced the War Office to spare Castle Cornet: the Norman appeal by Haro being a privilege of Channel-Islanders to bring their grievances direct to the Queen in council. As I have continually the honour "Monstrari digito praetereuntium" in the _role_ of a "Fidicen," I suppose that poetries in such a self-record as this are not positive bores--they can always be skipped if they are--so I will even give here a cheerful bit of rhyme which I jotted down at midnight on the deck of a yacht in a half-gale off Cherbourg, when going with a deputation from Guernsey to meet the French President in 1850:--

_A Night-Sail in the Race of Alderney._

I.

"Sprinkled thick with shining studs Stretches wide the tent of heaven, Blue, begemmed with golden buds,-- Calm, and bright, and deep, and clear, Glory's hollow hemisphere Arch'd above these frothing floods Right and left asunder riven, As our cutter madly scuds, By the fitful breezes driven, When exultingly she sweeps Like a dolphin through the deeps, And from wave to wave she leaps Rolling in this yeasty leaven,-- Ragingly that never sleeps, Like the wicked unforgiven!

II.

"Midnight, soft and fair above, Midnight, fierce and dark beneath,-- All on high the smile of love, All below the frown of death: Waves that whirl in angry spite With a phosph.o.r.escent light Gleaming ghastly on the night,-- Like the pallid sneer of Doom, So malicious, cold, and white, Luring to this watery tomb, Where in fury and in fright Winds and waves together fight Hideously amid the gloom,-- As our cutter gladly sends, Dipping deep her sheeted boom Madly to the boiling sea, Lighted in these furious floods By that blaze of brilliant studs, Glistening down like glory-buds On the Race of Alderney!"

A few more words as to my Sarnian literaria. Victor Hugo, when resident in Guernsey, had greatly offended my cousin (the chief of our clan) by stealing for his hired abode the t.i.tle of our ancestral mansion, Haute Ville House: and so, when I called on him, the equally offended Frenchman would not see me, though I was indulged with a sight of the _bric-a-brac_ wherewith he had filled his residence, albeit deprived of access to its inmate. Hugo was not popular among the sixties at that time. Since then, Mr. Sullivan of Jersey published on his decease some splendid stanzas in French, which by request I versified in English: so that our spirits are now manifestly _en rapport_.

I wrote also (as I am reminded) an ode on the consecration of St.

Anne's, Alderney, when I accompanied the Bishop to the ceremony: and some memorable stanzas about the decent expediency of the Bailiff and Jurats being robed for official uniform, since ornamentally adopted; but before I wrote they wore mean and undistinguished "mufti."

I had also much to do on behalf of my friend Durham, the sculptor, in the matter of his bronze statue to Prince Albert,--advocating it both in prose and verse, and being instrumental in getting royal permission to take a duplicate of the great work now at South Kensington. My cousin the Bailiff, the late Sir Stafford Carey, dated his knighthood from the inauguration of the statue, now one of the chief ornaments of St.

Peter's Port,--the other being the Victoria Tower, also a Sarnian exploit.

Isle of Man.

Under such a t.i.tle as this, "My Life as an Author," that author being chiefly known for his poetry, though he has also written plenty of prose, it is (as I have indeed just said) not to be reasonably objected that the volume is spotted with small poems. Still, I must do it, if I wish to ill.u.s.trate by verse, or other extracts from my writings (published or unprinted), certain places where the said author has had his temporary _habitat_: now one of these is the Isle of Man,--where I and mine made a long summer stay at Castle Mona. The chief literary productions of mine in that modern Trinacria, whose heraldic emblem, like that of ancient Sicily, is the Three legs of Three promontories, are some antiquarian pieces, princ.i.p.ally one on the sepulchral mound of Orry the Dane:--

"In fifty keels and five Rushed over the pirate swarm, Hornets out of the northern hive, Hawks on the wings of the storm; Blood upon talons and beak, Blood from their helms to their heels, Blood on the hand and blood on the cheek,-- In five and fifty keels!

"O fierce and terrible horde That shout about Orry the Dane, Clanging the shield and clashing the sword To the roar of the storm-tost main!

And hard on the sh.o.r.e they drive Ploughing through shingle and sand,-- And high and dry those fifty and five Are haul'd in line upon land.

"And ho! for the torch straightway, In honour of Odin and Thor,-- And the blazing night is as bright as the day As a gift to the G.o.ds of war; For down to the melting sand And over each flaring mast Those fifty and five they have burnt as they stand To the tune of the surf and the blast!

"A ruthless, desperate crowd, They trample the shingle at Lhane, And hungry for slaughter they clamour aloud For the Viking, for Orry the Dane!

And swift has he flown at the foe-- For the cl.u.s.tering clans are here,-- But light is the club and weak is the bow To the Norseman sword and spear:

"And--woe to the patriot Manx, The right overthrown by the wrong,-- For the sword hews hard at the staggering ranks, And the spear drives deep and strong: And Orry the Dane stands proud King of the bloodstained field, Lifted on high by the shouldering crowd On the battered boss of his shield!

"Yet, though such a man of blood, So terribly fierce and fell, King Orry the Dane had come hither for good, And governed the clans right well; Freedom and laws and right, He sowed the good seed all round-- And built up high in the people's sight Their famous Tynwald Mound;

"And elders twenty and four He set for the House of Keys, And all was order from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e In the fairest Isle of the Seas: Though he came a destroyer, I wist He remained as a ruler to save, And yonder he sleeps in the roadside kist They call King Orry's Grave."

It was at Castle Mona that I first met Walter Montgomery, who read these very lines to great effect at one of his Recitations, and thereafter produced at Manchester my play of "Alfred." He was, amongst other accomplishments, a capital horseman, and when he galloped over the sands on his white horse, he would jump benches with their sitters, calling out "Don't stir, we shall clear you!" It would have required no small coolness and courage to have abided his charge, and though I saw him do this once, I question if he was allowed to repeat the exploit.

In Douglas was also my artist-friend Corbould, visiting at the romantic place of his relatives the Wilsons, who had to show numerous paintings and relics of John Martin, with whom in old days I had pleasant acquaintance at Chelsea and elsewhere. I remember that on one occasion when I asked him which picture of his own he considered his _chef-d'oeuvre_ I was astonished at his reply, "Sardanapalus's death,--and therein his jewels." Martin's Chelsea garden had its walls frescoed by him to look like views and avenues,--certainly effective, but rather in the style of Grimaldi's garden made gay by artificial flowers and Aladdin's gems, _a la mode_ c.o.c.kayne. At Bishop's Court too we had a very friendly reception from Bishop Powys, and in fact everywhere as usual your confessor found a cordial author's welcome in Mona.

CHAPTER XXI.

NEVER GIVE UP, AND SOME OTHER BALLADS.

Sundry of my short lyrics have gained a great popularity: in particular "Never give up," whereof there are extant--or were--no fewer than eight musical settings. Of this ballad, three stanzas, I have a strange story to tell. When I went to Philadelphia, on my first American tour in 1851, I was taken everywhere to see everything; amongst others to Dr.

Kirkland's vast inst.i.tute for the insane: let me first state that he was not previously told of my coming visit. When I went over the various wards of the convalescents, I noticed that on each door was a printed placard with my "Never give up" upon it in full. Naturally I thought it was done so out of compliment. But on inquiry, Dr. Kirkland didn't know who the author was, and little suspected it was myself. He had seen the verses, anonymous, in a newspaper, and judging them a good moral dose of hopefulness even for the half insane, placed them on every door to excellent effect. When to his astonishment he found the unknown author before him, greatly pleased, he asked if I would allow the patients to thank me; of course I complied, and soon was surrounded by kneeling and weeping and kissing folks, grateful for the good hope my verses had helped them to. And twenty-five years after, in 1876, I, again without notice, visited Dr. Kirkland at the same place, scarcely expecting to find him still living, and certainly not thinking that I should see my old ballad on the doors. But, when the happy doctor, looking not an hour older, though it was a quarter of a century, took me round to see his convalescents, behold the same words greeted me in large print,--and probably are there still: the only change being that my name appears at foot. I gave them a two hours' reading in their handsome theatre, and I never had a more intensely attentive audience than those three hundred lunatics. The ballad runs thus,--if any wish to see it, as for the first time:--

"Never give up! it is wiser and better Always to hope than once to despair; Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter And break the dark spell of tyrannical care: Never give up! or the burden may sink you,-- Providence kindly has mingled the cup, And, in all trials or troubles, bethink you The watchword of life must be Never give up!

"Never give up! there are chances and changes Helping the hopeful a hundred to one, And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges Ever success, if you'll only hope on: Never give up! for the wisest is boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims the best as the oldest Is the true watchword of Never give up!

"Never give up! though the grapeshot may rattle Or the full thunderbolt over you burst, Stand like a rock,--and the storm or the battle Little shall harm you, though doing their worst: Never give up!--if Adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup, And the best counsel in all your distresses Is the stout watchword of Never give up!"

I can quite feel what a moral tonic and spiritual stimulant these sentiments would be to many among the thousand patients under Dr.

Kirkland's care.

I recollect also now, that once when I read at Weston-super-Mare, with Lord Cavan in the chair, a military man among the audience, on hearing me recite "Never give up," came forward and shook hands, showing me out of his pocket-book a soiled newspaper cutting of the poem without my name, saying that it had cheered him all through the Crimea, and that he had always wished to find out the author. Of course we coalesced right heartily. Some other such anecdotes might be added, but this is enough.

Year by year, for more than a dozen, I have given a harvest hymn to the jubilant agriculturists: they have usually attained the honour of a musical setting, and been sung all over the land in many churches.

Perhaps the best of them is one for which Bishop Samuel Wilberforce wrote to "thank me cordially for a real Christian hymn with the true ring in it." There are, or were, many musical settings thereof, the best being one of a German composer.

"O Nation, Christian Nation Lift high the hymn of praise!

The G.o.d of our salvation Is love in all His ways; He blesseth us, and feedeth Every creature of His hand, To succour him that needeth And to gladden all the land.

"Rejoice, ye happy people, And peal the changing chime From every belfried steeple In symphony sublime: Let cottage and let palace Be thankful and rejoice, And woods and hills and valleys Re-echo the glad voice!

"From glen, and plain, and city Let gracious incense rise; The Lord of life and pity Hath heard His creatures' cries: And where in fierce oppression Stalk'd fever, fear, and dearth, He pours a triple blessing To fill and fatten earth!

"Gaze round in deep emotion; The rich and ripened grain Is like a golden ocean Becalm'd upon the plain; And we who late were weepers, Lest judgment should destroy, Now sing, because the reapers Are come again with joy!

"O praise the Hand that giveth, And giveth evermore, To every soul that liveth Abundance flowing o'er!

For every soul He filleth With manna from above, And over all distilleth The unction of His love.

"Then gather, Christians, gather, To praise with heart and voice The good Almighty Father Who biddeth you rejoice: For He hath turned the sadness Of His children into mirth, And we will sing with gladness The harvest-home of Earth."

My "Song of Seventy," published more than forty years ago, has been exceedingly popular; and I here make this extract from an early archive-book respecting it:--"Dr. Stanley, Bishop of Norwich, was so pleased with this said 'Song of Seventy' that he posted off to Hatchards' forthwith (after seeing it quoted anonymously in the _Athenaeum_) to inquire the author's name." It was published in "One Thousand Lines." I composed it during a solitary walk near Hurstperpoint, Suss.e.x, in 1845, near about when I wrote "Never give up."