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Ceres’ Runaway & Other Essays

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<h2>A NORTHERN FANCY</h2> “I remember,” said Dryden, writing to Dennis, “I remember poor Nat Lee, who was then upon the verge of madness, yet made a sober and witty answer to a bad poet who told him, ‘It was an easy thing to write like a madman.’  ‘No,’ said he, ‘’tis a very difficult thing to write like a madman, but ’tis a very easy thing to write like a fool.’”  Nevertheless, the difficult song of distraction is to be heard, a light high note, in English poetry throughout two centuries at least, and one English poet lately set that untethered lyric, the mad maid’s song, flying again. A revolt against the oppression of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries—the age of the re-discovery of death; against the crime of tragedies; against the tyranny of Italian example that had made the poets walk in one way of love, scorn, constancy, inconstancy—may have caused this trolling of unconsciousness, this tune of innocence, and this carol of liberty, to be held so dear.  “I heard a maid in Bedlam,” runs the old song.  High and low the poets tried for that note, and the singer was nearly always to be a maid and crazed for love.  Except for the temporary insanity so indifferently worn by the soprano of the now deceased kind of Italian opera, and except that a recent French story plays with the flitting figure of a village girl robbed of her wits by woe (and this, too, is a Russian villager, and the Southern author may have found his story on the spot, as he seems to aver) I have not met elsewhere than in England this solitary and detached poetry of the treble note astray. At least, it is principally a northern fancy.  Would the steadfast Cordelia, if she had not died, have lifted the low voice to that high note, so delicately untuned?  She who would not be prodigal of words might yet, indeed, have sung in the cage, and told old tales, and laughed at gilded butterflies of the court of crimes, and lived so long in the strange health of an emancipated brain as to wear out <blockquote>Packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon. </blockquote> She, if King Lear had had his last desire, might have sung the merry and strange tune of Bedlam, like the slighter Ophelia and the maid called Barbara. It was surely the name of the maid who died singing, as Desdemona remembers, that lingered in the ear of Wordsworth.  Of all the songs of the distracted, written in the sanity of high imagination, there is nothing more passionate than that beginning “’Tis said that some have died for love.”  To one who has always recognized the greatness of this poem and who possibly had known and forgotten how much Ruskin prized it, it was a pleasure to find the judgement afresh in Modern Painters, where this grave lyric is cited for an example of great imagination.  It is the mourning and restless song of the lover (“the pretty Barbara died”) who has not yet broken free from memory into the alien world of the insane. Barbara’s lover dwelt in the scene of his love, as Dryden’s Adam entreats the expelling angel that he might do, protesting that he could endure to lose “the bliss, but not the place.”  (And although this dramatic “Paradise Lost” of Dryden’s is hardly named by critics except to be scorned, this is assuredly a fine and imaginative thought.)  It is nevertheless as a wanderer that the crazed creature visits the fancy of English poets with such a wild recurrence.  The Englishman of the far past, barred by climate, bad roads, ill-lighted winters, and the intricate life and customs of the little town, must have been generally a home-keeper.  No adventure, no setting forth, and small liberty, for him.  But Tom-a-Bedlam, the wild man in patches or in ribbons, with his wallet and his horn for alms of food or drink, came and went as fitfully as the storm, free to suffer all the cold—an unsheltered creature; and the chill fancy of the villager followed him out to the heath on a journey that had no law.  Was it he in person, or a poet for him, that made the swinging song: “From the hag and the hungry goblin”?  If a poet, it was one who wrote like a madman and not like a fool. Not a town, not a village, not a solitary cottage during the English Middle Ages was unvisited by him who frightened the children; they had a name for him as for the wild birds—Robin Redbreast, Dicky Swallow, Philip Sparrow, Tom Tit, Tom-a-Bedlam.  And after him came the “Abram men,” who were sane parodies of the crazed, and went to the fairs and wakes in motley.  Evelyn says of a fop: “All his body was dressed like a maypole, or a Tom-a-Bedlam’s cap.”  But after the Civil Wars they vanished, and no man knew how.  In time old men remembered them only to remember that they had not seen any such companies or solitary wanderers of late years. The mad maid of the poets is a vagrant too, when she is free, and not singing within Bedlam early in the morning, “in the spring.”  Wordsworth, who dealt with the legendary fancy in his “Ruth,” makes the crazed one a wanderer in the hills whom a traveller might see by chance, rare as an Oread, and nearly as wild as Echo herself:- <blockquote>I too have passed her in the hills Setting her little water-mills. </blockquote> His heart misgives him to think of the rheumatism that must befall in such a way of living; and his grave sense of civilization, bourgeois in the humane and noble way that is his own, restores her after death to the company of man, to the “holy bell,” which Shakespeare’s Duke remembered in banishment, and to the congregation and their “Christian psalm.” The older poets were less responsible, less serious and more sad, than Wordsworth, when they in turn were touched by the fancy of the maid crazed by love.  They left her to her light immortality; and she might be drenched in dews; they would not desire to reconcile nor bury her.  She might have her hair torn by the bramble, but her heart was light after trouble.  “Many light hearts and wings”—she had at least the bird’s heart, and the poet lent to her voice the wings of his verses. There is nothing in our poetry less modern than she.  The vagrant woman of later feeling was rather the sane creature of Ebenezer Elliott’s fine lines in “The Excursion”— <blockquote>Bone-weary, many-childed, trouble-tried! Wife of my bosom, wedded to my soul! </blockquote> Trouble did not “try” the Elizabethan wild one, it undid her.  She had no child, or if there had ever been a child of hers, she had long forgotten how it died.  She hailed the wayfarer, who was more weary than she, with a song; she haunted the cheerful dawn; her “good-morrow” rings from Herrick’s poem, fresh as cock-crow.  She knows that her love is dead, and her perplexity has regard rather to the many kinds of flowers than to the old story of his death; they distract her in the splendid meadows. All the tragic world paused to hear that lightest of songs, as the tragedy of Hamlet pauses for the fitful voice of Ophelia.  Strange was the charm of this perpetual alien, and unknown to us now.  The world has become once again as it was in the mad maid’s heyday, less serious and more sad than Wordsworth; but it has not recovered, and perhaps will never recover, that sweetness.  Blake’s was a more starry madness.  Crabbe, writing of village sorrows, thought himself bound to recur to the legend of the mad maid, but his “crazed maiden” is sane enough, sorrowful but dull, and sings of her own “burning brow,” as Herrick’s wild one never sang; nor is there any smile in her story, though she talks of flowers, or, rather, “the herbs I loved to rear”; and perhaps she is the surest of all signs that the strange inspiration of the past centuries was lost, vanished like Tom-a-Bedlam himself.  It had been wholly English, whereas the English eighteenth century was not wholly English. It is not to be imagined that any hard Southern mind could ever have played in poetry with such a fancy; or that Petrarch, for example, could so have foregone the manifestation of intelligence and intelligible sentiment.  And as to Dante, who put the two eternities into the momentary balance of the human will, cold would be his disregard of this northern dream of innocence.  If the mad maid was an alien upon earth, what were she in the Inferno?  What word can express her strangeness there, her vagrancy there?  And with what eyes would they see this dewy face glancing in at the windows of that City? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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