ON RE-READING “BARCHESTER TOWERS”
In days when Bellona less madly
The wheels of her chariot drave,
To you, Father Anthony, gladly
My doggerel homage I gave;
And again uncontrollably yearning
For solace in desolate hours
I find a brief respite in turning
To Barchester Towers.
How good are the women, how various,
As slowly their natures unfold!—
The feudal Miss Thorne; the gregarious
And amiable Eleanor Bold;
Mrs. Quiverful, dauntless though dowdy,
With fourteen young ravens to feed,
Who managed to melt Mrs. Proudie,
So great was her need.
Mrs. Proudie, of course, is prodigious,
A terror to friends and to foes,
Ambitious, correctly religious,
Yet leading her lord by the nose;
Very far from an angel or jewel,
Very near to a feminine Pope,
And priceless in waging the duel
That smashed Mr. Slope.
And who would not willingly linger
With you, O Signora, who twirled
Round the tip of your white little finger
Staid clerics and men of the world!
Commanding the spells of a Circe;
Bewitching, though crippled and lame;
Redeeming your malice with mercy
And playing the game.
The clergy—Tractarian, Erastian,
Low Churchmen—you faithfully paint
Reveal to our view no Sebastian,
No martyr, and hardly a saint;
Though perhaps, by so freely discarding
Preferment and riches and fame,
The guileless and good Mr. Harding
Is worthy the name.
You looked upon country and city
With kindly and tolerant eyes;
You never set out to be witty,
Though seldom you failed to be wise;
You were neither ornate nor elliptic,
But most unaffectedly shrewd,
For the art that is consciously cryptic
You strictly tabooed.
Your outlook is certainly narrowed
To lives that are never sublime;
Our hearts are not haunted or harrowed
With desperate anguish or crime;
But a mutual trust is for ever
’Twixt author and reader maintained,
And we know all along we shall never
Be wantonly pained.