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Hilda Orchardson Gray. The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson
The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson
Table of Contents
FOREWORD
NOTE BY MRS ANDREWS (“SHAH”)
INTERVIEW WITH SIR DAVID MURRAY, R.A. KINDLY OBTAINED AND WRITTEN DOWN BY MRS. BAIRD (DAUGHTER OF J. MACWHIRTER, ESQ., R.A.)
CHAPTER I. EDINBURGH
How are all the sons of all the mothers. That bask mid herring nets and sundried bloaters? The pretty girls too, also the others; And in your ear, pray, how are all the “doaters”? That keg you kindly sent to me— Say, what the devil has come of it? Are the contents still in the sea, Or what sea-cook has got the profit? Or has the hand of Providence. Been laid upon it, by the way, To sell it for some meagre pence. To guard against a rainy day? Fate is in the right—beyond all question. Some of that sort Fate the other day, Gave me the pangs of stubborn indigestion, For which I had some pills to take and pay. The truth of this you safely may rely on. Nor think I bait my pen to catch salt herring; To salt you is a point I’d not be shy on. And really here, I rank you with the erring. The clock, I hear, has just struck one, I’ve sat two hours and do begin to wink, My pen is good, my paper is not done. Tho’, damn it, neither is my use of ink. Good night, and may your slumbers still be soft. If that your pillow be an old and hard one. Like that to which I go as you’ve felt oft. When here. But truly I am yours, Orchardson
Siccar on brae and bentie knowe. The bowmen they maun stand or fa’ Amang the lave young Craigenden, They’ve bound him fast—the wale of a’ Sae dreich and sair and tenderly. Fair Marley loots upon her knee. Wi’ boding heart sae tremblingly. She seeks her love where he may be
Sweet day of rest from all save sin. And that, too, of the deeper sort. That prompts the yawn amid the preaching din. Or warbles in the sleepers’ tuneful snort. Or stretched upon the sward looks on the sky. And deems the bells sound better at a distance. Though many in her few alone may sigh. And pray the saints to come to your assistance. Bright day of dull repose or something worse. When wings abroad the clergy’s tender curse. Against all those who really know no better. Than stay at home to sleep or write a letter
CHAPTER II. EDINBURGH (continued)
My dearest Duncan, I trust you still are well, And still survive beneath each passing shock. Of falls without a rise when “Bears” will sell. And “Bulls” are sometimes sold, too, with the stock. And lose besides their own dear stock of patience. And learn to know the pangs of indigestion. Although they grow more cautious o’er their rations. And steam their brains with punch to save congestion. But how is our old friend. I hope in all his parts he’s still intact. And safe on earth to grin where others grumble. And scratch his head and know that “it’s a fact.” And then again our good friends Mrs Gentle. And Gentle Cockletops the witty farmer. Ask for their healths both physical and mental. And if the latter had his Ayrshire charmer. But ah! why linger o’er such themes as these. Which fall unheeded on thy faithful ear. Whose drum is beat in vain vain hope to please. Unless struck by her name whose love you bear. Sweet name—though long or short ’tis sweet to thee. And jingles gently round or right above you. Then hush! and in soft tones say how is she. The greatly unexpressed the glorious lovely? That purest unnamed myth of joy and fears, That unblown bud of seven lang lang years. Pray call her Mary, Nell or Isabel. The former pair are garnered in my breast. And being pretty may answer pretty well. To mark your special lovely from the rest. But there! the Muse has heard the name of mine. And cannot sing of yours though your wellwisher; For Helen sweetly chimes in every line. And looking in my head she finds Miss Fisher. How oft at even by the gliding Tay. My thoughts have floated o’er its gentle breasts, To wonder midst those lights which point the way. Where beauteous Helen wakes or slumb’ring rests, To fix on one and fondly call it Hers, And whisper to my heart its own dear choice, And hear it murmured in the stilly hours. And echoed by the waters’ gurgling voice. Oh! she is sweeter than the morning sigh. Which rises fragrant from the waking rose. To greet with frankincense the world’s great eye. And praise the source from whence its beauty flows. So sweet, so pure, so wrought about with grace. Spring in her step and summer in her eyes. She shows the seasons in her blooming face. And moves the Hesperus of earthly skies. How passing pleasant (when the weather’s choice) To stroll sans thought or care down by his side. To list the music of his gushing voice. Or read the unthumbed page there opened wide. So poets think, I know, which is a pity. For after all I do prefer the city
Then dearest sweet and ever charming Three, List to the pleadings of the tuneful Nine. Without whose intercession as you see. I dare not venture nigh your triple shrine, Fearful and anxious lest neglected duty. Has hurt me in the eyes of so much beauty. And this translation too I was to send. In weekly numbers and in solid prose. With learned annotations at the end, And all those aids to timid authors’ throes. But I suspect that this with me is morally. Impossible, I rather do it orally
Oh! Kate how shall I begin, how end. How lay my heart before you upon paper. How say unutterable things, how send. In sorry ink dropped by the midnight taper. The spirit of my love to hover near. And whisper thee of more than meets the ear?
My dear, my sweet and charming Sophy. I read your pretty little letter. Had it contained one word of me. I would have liked it better. In dear Coatbridge you’re now at rest. And happy in your early lovers. And he the dearest and the best. Now proves the heart his waistcoat covers
Then Amy, dear, pray listen here, You know the blarney stone? He kissed it with the very lips. That vowed he was your own
This preface here begins to swell. Its length just like a first quiet visit. Made to some lady to see if she is well. And take her hand perhaps to kiss it, If she allows, and is not backward; Time runs so that you never miss it. Till at a point that’s rather awkward. You to the devil wish your visit. The casual sweets I relish most. Just like flirtation after supper. When hunger in some dish is lost. Nor yet is found upon the nightmare’s crupper. You then are soothed and sentimental. And pleased to talk or walk or sit. Especially if she’s ornamental. About the head or has some wit
The stoics hold true happiness is found. With those alone who never knew a pleasure, And being rather fearful lest they run aground. When ebbs the tide and they, cautious beyond measure, Lay out their scheme with all due circumspection. But overlook the joys of retrospection
Go walk with Berkeley on creation’s brink. And feed and gaze on doubt, and doubt your sight. Think you are not, or that you do not think, Then doubt that you are either wrong or right; Doubt pleasure, pain, or even lovely’s kiss. And be not certain that there’s day or night. But doubt your doubt if that it doubt of this
Love is but a flower. Trembling as it grows, Bedewed in every shower. Fading as it grows. Love is but a dream. A day dream of the heart. A glimpse of heaven between. Breaking clouds that part. The woods are leafless neath their shade. No lovers walk or birds now sing. Can love or song with dull leaves fade? Ah! do they grow but with the Spring? But Winter sweeping on the ground. Her name bears on his stormy wing. And thrilling memory at the sound. Casts o’er my heart eternal spring
The rose the lily from their stalk. Fall trembling neath sere autumn skies, And every gem in Flora’s walk. Gleams but awhile then faded dies. But such is not the fate of Love. It withers not but still doth rise. Where planted by the hand above, The only flower which never dies. Oh! such an eye. To kill or cure again
Exhausted Nature seeks awhile to rest. And calmly sleeps upon the earth’s cold breast, While creeping Winter with his icy hand. Spreads his cold sheet in folds upon the land. Breathing his stillness o’er the lake’s pure face, He casts death’s shadow o’er life’s wonted place; Or wildly bounding from his northern lair. Scatters his tempests through the howling air
The bright moon rises as we cross the ferry, The dancing waves support her silver train, And all on board the passage boat are merry. In various ways, some dance with might and main; Some sit and lounge alone, while here and there. In happy silence stand some wiser pair
Farewell! my native shores, farewell! Ye scenes that smile upon the Forth, Ye hills and dales I know so well, Ye islets of my native North! Farewell! your voice sits on the breeze, It sighs a last farewell to me, Your form sinks faintly in the seas. And night veils my sad heart and thee
You blooming flowers, say how she passed. Or left you with a rosy kiss, Which bashful bud looked on her last, Which last received that touch of bliss. You songsters mute that linger here. Ah! lead me to her gentle feet, To her who is my dove, my dear, My sun and flowers, my all, my sweet, Or lend your voices sweet awhile. And with the linnet’s note I’ll call. Its tones her footsteps here may wile. To list its loving madrigal. And when I sun me in her smile. And bathe deep in her liquid eyes. A wreath of love I’ll twine the while, All buds and bloom, hopes, fears and sighs
The rugged [peak] that smiles above the cloud, The darkened valleys ’neath the watery skies, The rattling brooks .. The wee wee flowers .. John pensive sits beneath his parachute. And then the bit where [?] grand and mute
Well Borders, Boy, how are you living? Dear Sir, how do you do? I’m writing here and can’t help giving. My compliments to you. The blocks come tumbling in apace. Good Lord how you must suffer! The same old drawings still to face. Perhaps from some new duffer. And Mr. Graves, I hope, is well. And still can take his coffee, From any Turk he’d take the bell. And wear it as a trophy. How is that small pecker Smith. Who dotes on dots mysterious? Round ones or square that prove with pith [He feels] they’re rather serious. But in your ear how is my dear? Dear Emily, I mean? Whene’er I see her far or near. I wish that I had never been. Now, my dear boy, do tie up Cupid. I’m certain else to get entangled ..
CHAPTER III. LONDON—BEFORE MARRIAGE
And though in life it may betide. Our paths are severed far and wide. Yet ne’er shall you forgotten be— Will you remember Margaret C.?
Quite a flirt I hear you are, Universal near and far, I cannot say I think the same. Liked by friends, they’re loth to blame, Loveliest of Adam’s race. Elegant in form and face; Rove no more I pray
Oh, be kinder if you can. Remember you are but a man. Cruel artist to give pain, Hundreds sigh for thee in vain. A time will come, you need not fear, Remember this is still Leap Year! Do not think you will pass free. Soon your fate will come I see. Oh! handsome William I must try. Now, to say that word, “Good-bye.”
CHAPTER IV. LONDON—BEFORE MARRIAGE (continued)
CHAPTER V. LONDON—HONEYMOON DAYS
CHAPTER VI. LONDON (SPENSER STREET) AND WESTGATE
CHAPTER VII. LONDON (SPENSER STREET) AND WESTGATE (continued)
CHAPTER VIII. 13 PORTLAND PLACE, W.—ART
CHAPTER IX. DRY-FLY FISHING—AMESBURY AND RAMSBURY
CHAPTER X. 13 PORTLAND PLACE: FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES: CLUBS
CHAPTER XI. SCOTLAND—FISHING AND SCHOOL HOLIDAYS
My cab is at the door, My boat is by the shore, While Guthrie soothes the waiting Sligh, Answering to the old man’s “damn” With, an if he could, “cherchez la femme.”
CHAPTER XII. SCOTLAND (continued)
CHAPTER XIII. DRY-FLY FISHING—RAMSBURY
CHAPTER XIV. HAWLEY HOUSE
Laddie if thou wilt, Laddie if thou wilt. The moon is blind and I am kind, Laddie if thou wilt
CHAPTER XV. LETTERS TO HILDA AND IAN IN GERMANY, 1889-1900
CHAPTER XVI. VISITINGS IN SCOTLAND
CHAPTER XVII. 1900 TO 1905
A Week is lost, a Day is gained. The loss we’ll ne’er complain; There’ll soon be little Days enough. To make a Week again
This is a world of disappointment
CHAPTER XVIII. FOR THE BENEFIT OF LOVERS
Yours as you only know. Meanwhile till then and then and after I am yours. Yours over much. Your hurried but affectionate. With more love than is good for you. Yours as you know. Sleep sound and dream of yours. Good-bye much love and many what ye callums. Yours. Think of me as yours. Yours very very much. Yours emphatically yours. Yours as ever. Consider Hilda, my amanuensis and me always more never less yours. Yours most awfully, Good night, and God bless you, Yours lovingly. Your sweetheart. Good-bye. Yours as much. Yours very much. Yours. With very very much love. Yours yours yours. Your Quiller. Your anxious. Yours with a long kiss and a longing sigh. Is there a photo up here? I want to kiss it—with great love. And moreover I am yours. Your loving. Yours with much love. Your patient. I am yours impatiently. Rather hard that about the price! Never mind! I am for all that still Your Sweetheart. Till to-morrow, with a kiss on account, Yours very. Yours as much and more than ever you can think. Yours with a big one. Yours in a hurry. Your lover. Your affectionate. Your very loving. Yours very very. Yours ever so much. Yours altogether. Yours as before. Good-bye affectionately. Good-bye, and very sorry to disappoint the dear old thing. Yours “awefully.” Yours all round. And now my Sweetheart, good night and good night. Yours more than possible. Many kisses from your old sweetheart. Now and ever your sweetheart. With all my heart yours. With all my love yours altogether. Till then and after yours with a big one. Yours in great haste, but none the less yours. All yours. Yours really. Yours kissingly. Yours with all his heart. All my love to the dear Old Lady. Good-bye my dear Old Lady, I kiss you heartily. I am your devoted other half and waiting. Here is the post, so good-bye and much love. Yours more than enough. Yours lovingly as usual. With all his love. Yours in love. Yours so much. Good-bye, and much love—always. With all the love of Quiller. Yours as always. Yours in haste with much love. Yours altogether. As Sheila used to say, “Yours all round the neck.” You are all the world to Quiller. Yours and Yours only. Yours “so” much. Give all the rest my love, and however much you give it will take nothing from what there is for you, Believe me. Yours though at a distance. Love to them all and a big one for yourself, from—to use Quentin’s style. Yours awfully tired of it [separation] With all my love. Always yours. Moreover, remember me as yours. Your affectionate Q. Orchardson, I mean Quiller. Yours with an embracing love. Moreover, I am very much yours. Your affectionate etc. Yours in everything. Meantime, yours always. Yours all love. Yours with all love. Yours with a much lighter heart—and no Tic—— With great love. Your loving. Think of your loving. Yours with many kisses. Still your sweetheart
CHAPTER XIX. SCATTERED MEMORIES OF THE PICTURES
’Tis the little rift within the lute. That by and by doth make the music mute
Upon his widowed heart it falls, Echoing a hallowed voice
CHAPTER XX. SOUTH AND WEST
“My son is my son till he takes him a wife, My daughter’s my daughter all the days of my life.”
INDEX
