The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

You knew him slightly. We, who knew him well,
Saw something in his soul you could not see:
A strength wherein his very vices throve,
A power that darken'd much the outer man,
Strange, yet angelically innocent.
His views were none of ours; his morals—well,
Not English morals at the best; and yet
We loved him and we miss him;—the old haunts
Seem dull without that foolish full-grown child;
The world goes on without him:—London throngs
With sport and festival; and something less
Than poor De Berny haunts us every-where—
The buying and the selling, and the strife
Of little natures.

What a man was that!—
Just picture him as you perceived him, Noel,
Standing beyond his circle. Spare and tall,
Black-bearded and black-eyed; a sallow face,
With lines of idle humour round the lips;
A nose and eyebrow proudly curved; an eye
Clear as a child's. But thirty summers old!
Yet wearied out, save only when he warm'd
His graces in the sunshine. What an air
Was his, when, cigarette in mouth, and hands
Thrust in the pockets of his pantaloons,
He took his daily walk down Regent Street,
Stared at the pretty girls, saluted friends,
And, pleased as any lady, stopp'd to study
The fashions in the windows of the shops!
Did he not walk as if he walk'd on thrones,
With smiles of vacant patronage for all?
And who could guess he had not break-fasted,
Had little chance of dining, since his purse
Held just the wherewithal to buy a loaf—
Change from the shilling spent in purchasing
The sweet post-prandial cigar!

He lived—
Ah! Heaven knew how—for 'twas a mystery!
While the sun shone, he saunter'd in the sun;
But late at night sat scribbling, by the light
Of a wax-candle. Wax? De Berny's way;
For, mark, this wanderer let his body suffer,
Hunger'd and pinch'd, rather than bate a jot
Of certain very useless luxuries:
Smoked nought but real Havannah, 'tis averr'd,
And sat at night within his dingy lodging,
Wrapt, king-like, in a costly dressing-gown
His mother gave him; slippers on his feet;
His cat, Mignonne, the silken-hair'd Chinese,
Seated upon his shoulder, purring low;
And something royal in his look, despite
His threadbare pantaloons!

166

A clever man!
A nature sparkling o'er with jeux d' esprit!
Well read in certain light philosophies
Down from Voltaire; and, in his easy way,
A sceptic—one whose heart belied his brain.
Oft, leaning back and puffing his cigar,
Pushing his wan white fingers through his hair—
His cat Mignonne, the velvet-paw'd Chinese,
Rubbing her soft white cheek against his beard,
And purring her approval—he would sit,
Smiling his sad, good-humour'd, weary smile,
And lightly launch his random, reckless shafts
At English thrift, the literary cant,
The flat, unearnest living of the world,
And (last and lightest) at the tender sex,
Their little virtue and their mighty vows.

This was the man whose face went pale with pain,
When that shrill shriek from Poland fill'd his ear;
This was the man who pinch'd himself to send
A mite to Garibaldi and the Cause;
Who cried, or nearly cried, o'er Lamartine,
And loved the passionate passages of Sand;
Who would have kiss'd the ground beneath the feet
Of any shape called ‘Woman,’ plain or fair;
Gave largess royal to children in the streets;
Treated an unclean beggar seeking alms
To a clean shirt, and sent him off amazed;
And when he heard sweet voice or instrument,
Breath'd passionate breath, like one that drinks with pain
An atmosphere too heavenly rare and sweet.
Pleasure? Ah me! what pleasure garner'd he,
Who fasted oftener than ate; who pawn'd
His coat to serve a neighbour, and was cold;
Whose only little joy was promenading
On sunny summer days in Regent Street?
His talk? Why, how he talk'd, as I have said;
Incubus could not prove his neighbours worse,
Or himself blacker, or the cold world colder;
His jests so oft too broad for decent ears,
His impiousness so insolently strong,
His languid grace so callous unto all
Save the sad sunshine that it flutter'd in.
Yet, Noel, I could swear that Spirits—those
Who see beneath the eyes, and hear the breathing
The Soul makes as it stirs within the breast—
Bent not unlovingly, not angrily,
Above that weary, foolish, full-grown Child!

Weary—of what? Weary, I think, for want
Of something whose existence he denied;
Not sick of life, since he had never felt
The full of living—wearied out, because
The world look'd falsehood, and his turn was truth.

Well, late one morning in the summer time,
They found him lying in his easy-chair,
Wrapt royally in the costly dressing-gown
His mother gave him, slippers on his feet,
And something royal in his look,—cold, dead!
A smell of laudanum sicken'd all the air
Around him; on the table at his side
A copy of De Musset's Elle et Lui;
And close at hand a crumpled five-pound note,
On which was written in his round clear hand
‘Pour Garibaldi. Vive la Liberté!’