In 1878 Georgiana Farrer mentioned on
page 190 of her Miscellaneous Poems, ‘I am old by sin entangled;’ but this was probably a pious exaggeration. Only some one young and intellectually very vigorous could have penned her startling numbers. I suggest that she retained more of her youth than, from religious motives, she thought it proper to admit. In the ’eighties, when incense was burned in drawing-rooms, and people were talking about ‘The Blessed Damozel,’ she could write of Paradise:—
A home where Jesus Christ is King,
A home where e’en Archangels sing,
Where common wealth is shared by all,
And God Himself lights up the Hall.
She was philosemite, and from the reference to Lord Beaconsfield we can easily date the following:—
You who doubt the truth of Scripture,
Pray tell me, then, who are the Jews?
Scattered in all lands and nations,
Pray why their evidence refuse?It seems to me you must be blind;
Are they not daily gaining ground?
We find them now in every land,
And well-nigh ruling all around.Their music is most sweet to hear;
Jews were Rossini and Mozart,
Mendelssohn, too, and Meyerbeer;
Grisi in song could charm the heart.The funds their princes hold in hand;
Their merchants trade both near and far;
Ill-used and robbed they long have been,
Yet wealthy now they surely are.In Germany who has great sway?
Prince Bismarck, most will answer me;
Our own Prime Minister retains
A name that shows his pedigree.Who after this will dare to say
They nought in these strange people see;
Do they not prove the Scripture true,
And throw a light on history?
The twenty-five years that have elapsed since the poem was written must have convinced those innocent persons who ‘saw nought’ in our Israelitish compatriots. I never heard before that Prince Bismarck or Mozart was of Jewish extraction!
Mrs. Farrer was, of course, an evangelical, somewhat old-fashioned for so late a date; and fairly early in her volume she warns us of what we may expect. She is anxious to
damp any undue optimism as to the lightness of her muse. When worldly, foolish people like Whistler and Pater were talking ‘art for art’s sake,’ she could strike a decisive didactic blow:—
My voice like thunder may appear,
Yet oft-times I have shed a tear
Behind the peal, like rain in storm,
To moisten those I would reform.Then pardon if my stormy mood,
Instead of blighting, does some good.
Sooner a thunder-clap, think me,
Than sunstroke sent in wrath on thee.
With a splendid Calvinism, too rare at that time, she would not argue beyond a certain limit; there was an edge, she realised, to every platform; an ounce of assertion is worth pounds of proof. Religious discussion after a time becomes barren:—