LEGENDS AND LYRICS- FIRST SERIES(传奇和抒情歌谣1)

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LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
1
LEGENDS AND
LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
by Adelaide Ann Proctor
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
2
DEDICATION
TO MATILDA M. HAYS.
"Our tokens of love are for the most part barbarous. Cold and lifeless,
because they do not represent our life. The only gift is a portion of
thyself. Therefore let the farmer give his corn; the miner, a gem; the
sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; and the poet, his poem."--
Emerson's Essays.
A. A. P.
May, 1858
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
3
AN INTRODUCTION BY
CHARLES DICKENS
In the spring of the year 1853, I observed, as conductor of the weekly
journal Household Words, a short poem among the proffered contributions,
very different, as I thought, from the shoal of verses perpetually setting
through the office of such a periodical, and possessing much more merit.
Its authoress was quite unknown to me. She was one Miss Mary
Berwick, whom I had never heard of; and she was to be addressed by
letter, if addressed at all, at a circulating library in the western district of
London. Through this channel, Miss Berwick was informed that her
poem was accepted, and was invited to send another. She complied, and
became a regular and frequent contributor. Many letters passed between
the journal and Miss Berwick, but Miss Berwick herself was never seen.
How we came gradually to establish, at the office of Household Words,
that we knew all about Miss Berwick, I have never discovered. But we
settled somehow, to our complete satisfaction, that she was governess in a
family; that she went to Italy in that capacity, and returned; and that she
had long been in the same family. We really knew nothing whatever of
her, except that she was remarkably business-like, punctual, self-reliant,
and reliable: so I suppose we insensibly invented the rest. For myself,
my mother was not a more real personage to me, than Miss Berwick the
governess became.
This went on until December, 1854, when the Christmas number,
entitled The Seven Poor Travellers, was sent to press. Happening to be
going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished in
literature as Barry Cornwall, I took with me an early proof of that number,
and remarked, as I laid it on the drawing-room table, that it contained a
very pretty poem, written by a certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought
me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its
writer, in its writer's presence; that I had no such correspondent in
existence as Miss Berwick; and that the name had been assumed by Barry
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
4
Cornwall's eldest daughter, Miss Adelaide Anne Procter.
The anecdote I have here noted down, besides serving to explain why
the parents of the late Miss Procter have looked to me for these poor
words of remembrance of their lamented child, strikingly illustrates the
honesty, independence, and quiet dignity, of the lady's character. I had
known her when she was very young; I had been honoured with her
father's friendship when I was myself a young aspirant; and she had said at
home, "If I send him, in my own name, verses that he does not honestly
like, either it will be very painful to him to return them, or he will print
them for papa's sake, and not for their own. So I have made up my mind
to take my chance fairly with the unknown volunteers."
Perhaps it requires an editor's experience of the profoundly
unreasonable grounds on which he is often urged to accept unsuitable
articles--such as having been to school with the writer's husband's brother-
in-law, or having lent an alpenstock in Switzerland to the writer's wife's
nephew, when that interesting stranger had broken his own--fully to
appreciate the delicacy and the self-respect of this resolution.
Some verses by Miss Procter had been published in the Book of
Beauty, ten years before she became Miss Berwick. With the exception
of two poems in the Cornhill Magazine, two in Good Words, and others in
a little book called A Chaplet of Verses (issued in 1862 for the benefit of a
Night Refuge), her published writings first appeared in Household Words,
or All the Year Round. The present edition contains the whole of her
Legends and Lyrics, and originates in the great favour with which they
have been received by the public.
Miss Procter was born in Bedford Square, London, on the 30th of
October, 1825. Her love of poetry was conspicuous at so early an age,
that I have before me a tiny album made of small note-paper, into which
her favourite passages were copied for her by her mother's hand before she
herself could write. It looks as if she had carried it about, as another little
girl might have carried a doll. She soon displayed a remarkable memory,
and great quickness of apprehension. When she was quite a young child,
she learned with facility several of the problems of Euclid. As she grew
older, she acquired the French, Italian, and German languages; became a
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
5
clever pianoforte player; and showed a true taste and sentiment in drawing.
But, as soon as she had completely vanquished the difficulties of any one
branch of study, it was her way to lose interest in it, and pass to another.
While her mental resources were being trained, it was not at all suspected
in her family that she had any gift of authorship, or any ambition to
become a writer. Her father had no idea of her having ever attempted to
turn a rhyme, until her first little poem saw the light in print.
When she attained to womanhood, she had read an extraordinary
number of books, and throughout her life she was always largely adding to
the number. In 1853 she went to Turin and its neighbourhood, on a visit
to her aunt, a Roman Catholic lady. As Miss Procter had herself
professed the Roman Catholic Faith two years before, she entered with the
greater ardour on the study of the Piedmontese dialect, and the observation
of the habits and manners of the peasantry. In the former, she soon
became a proficient. On the latter head, I extract from her familiar letters
written home to England at the time, two pleasant pieces of description.
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
6
A BETROTHAL
"We have been to a ball, of which I must give you a description. Last
Tuesday we had just done dinner at about seven, and stepped out into the
balcony to look at the remains of the sunset behind the mountains, when
we heard very distinctly a band of music, which rather excited my
astonishment, as a solitary organ is the utmost that toils up here. I went
out of the room for a few minutes, and, on my returning, Emily said, 'Oh!
That band is playing at the farmer's near here. The daughter is fiancee
to-day, and they have a ball.' I said, 'I wish I was going!' 'Well,' replied
she, 'the farmer's wife did call to invite us.' 'Then I shall certainly go,' I
exclaimed. I applied to Madame B., who said she would like it very
much, and we had better go, children and all. Some of the servants were
already gone. We rushed away to put on some shawls, and put off any
shred of black we might have about us (as the people would have been
quite annoyed if we had appeared on such an occasion with any black),
and we started. When we reached the farmer's, which is a stone's throw
above our house, we were received with great enthusiasm; the only
drawback being, that no one spoke French, and we did not yet speak
Piedmontese. We were placed on a bench against the wall, and the
people went on dancing. The room was a large whitewashed kitchen (I
suppose), with several large pictures in black frames, and very smoky. I
distinguished the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, and the others appeared
equally lively and appropriate subjects. Whether they were Old Masters
or not, and if so, by whom, I could not ascertain. The band were seated
opposite us. Five men, with wind instruments, part of the band of the
National Guard, to which the farmer's sons belong. They played really
admirably, and I began to be afraid that some idea of our dignity would
prevent me getting a partner; so, by Madame B.'s advice, I went up to the
bride, and offered to dance with her. Such a handsome young woman!
Like one of Uwins's pictures. Very dark, with a quantity of black hair,
and on an immense scale. The children were already dancing, as well as
the maids. After we came to an end of our dance, which was what they
called a Polka-Mazourka, I saw the bride trying to screw up the courage of
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
7
her fiance to ask me to dance, which after a little hesitation he did. And
admirably he danced, as indeed they all did--in excellent time, and with a
little more spirit than one sees in a ball-room. In fact, they were very like
one's ordinary partners, except that they wore earrings and were in their
shirt- sleeves, and truth compels me to state that they decidedly smelt of
garlic. Some of them had been smoking, but threw away their cigars
when we came in. The only thing that did not look cheerful was, that the
room was only lighted by two or three oil-lamps, and that there seemed to
be no preparation for refreshments. Madame B., seeing this, whispered
to her maid, who disengaged herself from her partner, and ran off to the
house; she and the kitchenmaid presently returning with a large tray
covered with all kinds of cakes (of which we are great consumers and
always have a stock), and a large hamper full of bottles of wine, with
coffee and sugar. This seemed all very acceptable. The fiancee was
requested to distribute the eatables, and a bucket of water being produced
to wash the glasses in, the wine disappeared very quickly--as fast as they
could open the bottles. But, elated, I suppose, by this, the floor was
sprinkled with water, and the musicians played a Monferrino, which is a
Piedmontese dance. Madame B. danced with the farmer's son, and Emily
with another distinguished member of the company. It was very
fatiguing--something like a Scotch reel. My partner was a little man, like
Perrot, and very proud of his dancing. He cut in the air and twisted about,
until I was out of breath, though my attempts to imitate him were feeble in
the extreme. At last, after seven or eight dances, I was obliged to sit
down. We stayed till nine, and I was so dead beat with the heat that I
could hardly crawl about the house, and in an agony with the cramp, it is
so long since I have danced."
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
8
A MARRIAGE
The wedding of the farmer's daughter has taken place. We had
hoped it would have been in the little chapel of our house, but it seems
some special permission was necessary, and they applied for it too late.
They all said, "This is the Constitution. There would have been no
difficulty before!" the lower classes making the poor Constitution the
scapegoat for everything they don't like. So as it was impossible for us to
climb up to the church where the wedding was to be, we contented
ourselves with seeing the procession pass. It was not a very large one,
for, it requiring some activity to go up, all the old people remained at
home. It is not etiquette for the bride's mother to go, and no unmarried
woman can go to a wedding--I suppose for fear of its making her
discontented with her own position. The procession stopped at our door,
for the bride to receive our congratulations. She was dressed in a shot
silk, with a yellow handkerchief, and rows of a large gold chain. In the
afternoon they sent to request us to go there. On our arrival we found
them dancing out of doors, and a most melancholy affair it was. All the
bride's sisters were not to be recognised, they had cried so. The mother
sat in the house, and could not appear. And the bride was sobbing so, she
could hardly stand! The most melancholy spectacle of all to my mind
was, that the bridegroom was decidedly tipsy. He seemed rather
affronted at all the distress. We danced a Monferrino; I with the
bridegroom; and the bride crying the whole time. The company did their
utmost to enliven her by firing pistols, but without success, and at last they
began a series of yells, which reminded me of a set of savages. But even
this delicate method of consolation failed, and the wishing good-bye
began. It was altogether so melancholy an affair that Madame B.
dropped a few tears, and I was very near it, particularly when the poor
mother came out to see the last of her daughter, who was finally dragged
off between her brother and uncle, with a last explosion of pistols. As
she lives quite near, makes an excellent match, and is one of nine children,
it really was a most desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of distress.
Albert was so discomfited by it, that he forgot to kiss the bride as he had
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
9
intended to do, and therefore went to call upon her yesterday, and found
her very smiling in her new house, and supplied the omission. The cook
came home from the wedding, declaring she was cured of any wish to
marry--but I would not recommend any man to act upon that threat and
make her an offer. In a couple of days we had some rolls of the bride's first
baking, which they call Madonnas. The musicians, it seems, were in the
same state as the bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all fell down
in the mud. My wrath against the bridegroom is somewhat calmed by
finding that it is considered bad luck if he does not get tipsy at his
wedding."
Those readers of Miss Procter's poems who should suppose from
their tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent cast, would be
curiously mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, and had a great
delight in humour. Cheerfulness was habitual with her, she was very
ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember well) there was
an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, and sense of drollery. She was perfectly
unconstrained and unaffected: as modestly silent about her productions,
as she was generous with their pecuniary results. She was a friend who
inspired the strongest attachments; she was a finely sympathetic woman,
with a great accordant heart and a sterling noble nature. No claim can be
set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the conventional
poetical qualities. She never by any means held the opinion that she was
among the greatest of human beings; she never suspected the existence of
a conspiracy on the part of mankind against her; she never recognised in
her best friends, her worst enemies; she never cultivated the luxury of
being misunderstood and unappreciated; she would far rather have died
without seeing a line of her composition in print, than that I should have
maundered about her, here, as "the Poet", or "the Poetess".
With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere child and as a woman,
fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way to the close of
this brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as the close came upon her,
so must it come here.
Always impelled by an intense conviction that her life must not be
dreamed away, and that her indulgence in her favourite pursuits must be
LEGENDS AND LYRICS--FIRST SERIES
10
balanced by action in the real world around her, she was indefatigable in
her endeavours to do some good. Naturally enthusiastic, and
conscientiously impressed with a deep sense of her Christian duty to her
neighbour, she devoted herself to a variety of benevolent objects. Now, it
was the visitation of the sick, that had possession of her; now, it was the
sheltering of the houseless; now, it was the elementary teaching of the
densely ignorant; now, it was the raising up of those who had wandered
and got trodden under foot; now, it was the wider employment of her own
sex in the general business of life; now, it was all these things at once.
Perfectly unselfish, swift to sympathise and eager to relieve, she wrought
at such designs with a flushed earnestness that disregarded season,
weather, time of day or night, food, rest. Under such a hurry of the spirits,
and such incessant occupation, the strongest constitution will commonly
go down. Hers, neither of the strongest nor the weakest, yielded to the
burden, and began to sink.
To have saved her life, then, by taking action on the warning that
shone in her eyes and sounded in her voice, would have been impossible,
without changing her nature. As long as the power of moving about in
the old way was left to her, she must exercise it, or be killed by the
restraint. And so the time came when she could move about no longer,
and took to her bed.
All the restlessness gone then, and all the sweet patience of her natural
disposition purified by the resignation of her soul, she lay upon her bed
through the whole round of changes of the seasons. She lay upon her bed
through fifteen months. In all that time, her old cheerfulness never
quitted her. In all that time, not an impatient or a querulous minute can
be remembered.
At length, at midnight on the second of February, 1864, she turned
down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up.
The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album
was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was on the
stroke of one:
"Do you think I am dying, mamma?"
"I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear!"
摘要：

LEGENDSANDLYRICS--FIRSTSERIES1LEGENDSANDLYRICS--FIRSTSERIESbyAdelaideAnnProctorLEGENDSANDLYRICS--FIRSTSERIES2DEDICATIONTOMATILDAM.HAYS."Ourtokensofloveareforthemostpartbarbarous.Coldandlifeless,becausetheydonotrepresentourlife.Theonlygiftisaportionofthyself.Thereforeletthefarmergivehiscorn;theminer,...

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