The Curious Case of God's Nephew

I've been reading about a character called Richard Brothers, who styled himself as, among other things, the Revealed Prince of the Hebrews, the Slain Lamb of the Revelation, and God Almighty's Nephew – this last title, in particular, attracting mockery in some quarters (its justification was that the British are in fact Israelites, descended from Jesus's brother: hence the uncle-nephew relationship). A former naval officer, Brothers came to prominence not in the seething religious ferment of the mid-17th century, but in the 1790s – and, for a while, he attracted a large and devoted audience with his books of vehement prophecies, in particular A Revealed Knowledge of the Prophecies and Times, Wrote under the direction of the Lord God and published by His sacred command... This was a huge hit, running into edition after edition and bringing admirers flocking to his Paddington Street door to meet him, consult him or just bask in the presence of one who claimed to have been told by God that he was the Prince of the Hebrews who was going to lead the Jews of England back to Jerusalem, which he would rebuild as the New Jerusalem. God had also revealed much to him about world events, including the impending destruction of London, and potentially that of England and the rest of the world – from which Brothers was uniquely placed to bring deliverance, having already, by his account, averted such universal destruction three times. His forecasts for Europe included the Austrian Emperor conquering half the continent, the Czar of Russia invading Turkey and proclaiming himself Emperor of Greece, the Spanish monarchy ceasing, and the Papacy being destroyed for ever. His theories included a firm belief that the sun revolves around the Earth – if it was the other way round, the wind and heat generated would make life impossible – and that the moon and stars are made of ice and hung in the heavens for man's amusement. The fans who queued at the door of this unlikely prophet included French émigrés, fashionable ladies, peers and curious MPs, and devotees determined to play their part in the building the New Jerusalem when the time came. 
   So far, so harmless, you might think – but Brothers was sailing dangerously close to the wind, particularly when he claimed to have it direct from God that the Almighty did not approve of the ongoing war against France, and that if it continued the British monarchy would be overthrown, and both the prime minister William Pitt and his brother John would die terrible deaths. These were febrile times, with the British establishment terrified of revolution, and well aware that the class of people who formed the bulk of Brothers's following – merchants, small tradesmen and superior artisans – had also been a driving force of the French Revolution. And then Brothers went even further, informing the King (George III) that God has decreed that, when the time came, he would be obliged to give up his crown to the Prince of the Hebrews. This was too much, and Brothers was duly arrested for treason. Two King's Messengers came to take him from his house – and were nearly lynched by a mob of Brothers's supporters as they took him away.
  What followed was a bizarre Privy Council interrogation, in the course of which Brothers, author of an endless stream of fiery denunciations and lurid prophecies, remained effortlessly calm and lucid at all times, giving straight answers to all questions, and so charming the assembled councillors with his benign air, attractive appearance and mild demeanour that the Lord Chancellor concluded: 'I see nothing in the words of Mr Brothers but what is sensible and proper. He may withdraw.' 'Yes, yes, certainly,' chorused his fellow councillors. The only hope of getting Brothers out of circulation now was to have him declared insane – and this, after three weeks of examination by two doctors, was eventually achieved, with Brothers being removed to a private asylum. But even then the tumult did not die down, as Brothers continued to issue new prophecies, testimonies to his powers still streamed from the press, and Brothers's most prominent supporter, Nathaniel Brassey Halhed, MP and orientalist, spoke in his favour in Parliament, laying a copy of the Revealed Knowledge on the table of the House.
  However, Brothers had been a little too precise in his prophecies, and had set the crucial dates dangerously close: by July 1, 1795, the Revealed Prince of the Hebrews, with the Jews of England in train, was due to be in Constantinople, preparatory to establishing God's kingdom in Jerusalem on November 19. Both dates passed uneventfully, with Brothers still in the asylum, still feverishly writing, still making detailed plans for the New Jerusalem, and still with a few faithful followers. But his moment of glory had passed, and he would die all but forgotten in 1823. His last and most devoted disciple, a Scottish lawyer called John Finlayson, was still publishing detailed plans of the New Jerusalem and lavishly illustrated accounts of its governance into the 1840s, driving himself into poverty in the service of his late master. He never doubted that in his lifetime the New Jerusalem would be built. 

'His Granite Hat'

 My friend the Emily Dickinson maven sends me many a Dickinson gem that I've never come across before (I came late to her poetry). One of the latest was this November poem, with its startling final image – who but Emily Dickinson could have come up with that?

The Day grew small, surrounded tight

By early, stooping Night—

The Afternoon in Evening deep

Its Yellow shortness dropt—

The Winds went out their martial ways

The Leaves obtained excuse—

November hung his Granite Hat

Upon a nail of Plush

Duck Hunting on the Lagoon with Two Ladies

 The great Venetian genre painter Pietro Longhi, born on this day in 1701, painted mostly indoor scenes – including his famous Exhibition of a Rhinoceros in Venice – but he sometimes ventured outdoors, as in this typically cheery scene of duck hunters on the lagoon.

Is the smartly dressed hunter firing arrows at the birds? No, apparently the technique was to fire hard clay pellets from a bow (surely they'd have been better off using catapults?). Hunting birds on the lagoon was a popular pastime, as well as a useful source of food, and it is recorded also in a painting from 250 years earlier, by Vittore Carpaccio. 

The Carpaccio disappeared from public view until 1944, and now lives at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. In 1961 an art scholar made the bold suggestion that it might originally have formed the upper half of a work of which the lower half was the famous Two Women, which hangs in the Museo Correr in Venice.  This would explain the otherwise anomalous appearance of a bunch of lily flowers at the bottom left of the duck hunting scene. It seemed a pretty wild theory, and even its originator withdrew it. However, subsequent restoration and forensic work confirmed that the two paintings were indeed originally one. This is what it would have looked like – 

Surprisingly, it seems to work, doesn't it? It would be good if the two paintings could be reunited and put on display, if only temporarily. Preferably in Venice...

'So first the faithful dog will go...'

 

On this day in 1957 a mongrel from the streets of Moscow was launched into orbit around the Earth, strapped into the Soviet spacecraft Sputnik 2 – the first dog in space. Laika, as she was named, was never going to survive the journey, as the technology to allow safe re-entry into the atmosphere had not yet been developed. Laika's job was to show that living creatures from Earth could survive in space, thereby paving the way for human space flight. The Polish poet Zbigniew Herbert paid tribute to the poor dog in this sad and beautiful poem –

First the Dog

for Laika

So first the faithful dog will go
and after it a pig or ass
through the black grass will beat a track
along it will the first man steal
who with iron hand will smother
on his glass brow a drop of fear


so first the dog honest mongrel
which has never abandoned us
dreaming of earthly lamps and bones
will fall asleep in its whirling kennel
its warm blood boiling drying away


but we behind the dog and second
dog which guides us on a leash
we with the astronauts’ white cane
awkwardly we bump into stars
we see nothing we hear nothing
we beat with our fists on the dark ether
on all the wavelengths is a whining


everything we can carry on board
through the cinders of dark worlds
name of man scent of apple
acorn of sound quarter of colour
should all be saved for our return
so we can find the route in an instant
when the blind dog leading us
barks at the earth as at the moon

The Soviet authorities, lying with every breath, gave conflicting accounts of how Laika died (it was actually overheating). She was duly memorialised as a Soviet hero, with a statue and plaque at Star City, and a place at the Monument to the Conquerors of Space in Moscow, as well as on postage stamps and matchbox labels. But the best, most fitting memorial to this unhappy victim of human hubris is surely Herbert's poem.

Lichfield Brings Down a Prince (Maybe)

 I noticed this morning that the front page of one of the nationals claimed that the Lichfield heckle was the 'last straw' for the King, and stung him into decisive action, banishing his brother, the erstwhile Duke of York and Prince Andrew, into the outer darkness (i.e. a more than comfortable house on the agreeable Sandringham estate). In case you missed the story, what happened was that the King, who visited Lichfield last Monday, was shaking hands with wellwishers outside the west door of the cathedral when an ill-mannered republican started shouting Andrew-related questions at him, not expecting answers and not getting any from Charles, who completely ignored the heckler. 

I, along with le tout Lichfield, had regarded the incident as something of a stain on the fair name of our city, and, had I been present, I might even have joined those telling the loud-mouthed sansculotte to 'shut up'. However, if the unfortunate incident left Charles finally resolved to banish the appalling Andrew, then that, I suppose, was a good outcome. 

In other news, this morning – a sunny one, but windy and not exactly warm – I saw a very energetic Red Admiral flying past a nearby house, and then another one, equally full of beans, flying away from me in the park. November butterflies! I wonder if they will be the last of the year...

Birthdays

 Halloween, Schmalloween – here at Nigeness, 31st October is always Keats's birthday (born 1795, in Moorgate, London, where his father was ostler at the Swan and Hoop inn). 
On this day in 1818, Keats signed off on his long letter to his brother George and his pregnant wife Georgiana, who were trying to start a new life in America. His other brother, Tom, meanwhile was dying of consumption. The letter ends:

'I hope you will have a Son, and it is one of my first wishes to have him in my Arms – which I will do please God before he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather more easy than he has been; but is still so nervous that I cannot speak to him of these Matters – indeed it is the care I have had to keep his Mind aloof from feelings too acute that has made this Letter so short [!] a one – I did not like to write before him a Letter he knew was to reach your hands – I cannot even now ask him for any Message – his heart speaks to you – Be as happy as you can. Think of me and for my sake be cheerful. Believe me my dear Brother and Sister

           Your anxious and affectionate Brother
                                                                   John.
   This day is my Birth day –
   All our friends have been anxious in their enquiries and all send their remembrances'

It was Keats's 23rd birthday, and two and a half years later he would be dead of consumption. 

This date is also the birthday (1632, in Delft) of Johannes Vermeer. By Keats's time, he was an almost completely forgotten painter (awaiting rediscovery by the French), so the poet would never have seen his work. One can only imagine what he would have made of the Girl with a Pearl Earring, a painting that, in its sensual intimacy and lovingly observed, all but tangible textures, seems almost a visual analogue of a Keats poem... 

The Death of Ralegh

 On this day in 1618, having fallen foul of the monarch once too often, Sir Walter Ralegh, explorer, statesman, soldier and superb writer of poetry and prose, faced death on the scaffold in Old Palace Yard, Westminster. He urged the executioner to make haste, for 'at this hour my ague comes upon me. I would not have my enemies think I quaked from fear.' Inspecting the blade that was to dispatch him, he remarked, 'This is a sharp medicine, but it is a physician for all diseases and miseries.' With his last words, he urged the hesitating executioner to strike: 'What dost thou fear? Strike, man, strike!' Men knew how to die in those days. 

  'What is our life?' Ralegh asked in a poem – 

'What is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.'

On the eve of his execution, he answered his question again – a dusty answer:

'Even such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust,
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days,
And from which earth, and grave, and dust
The Lord will raise me up, I trust.'

After his execution, Ralegh's head was embalmed and given to his wife. His body was to be buried at St Mary's, Beddington (one of my old Surrey haunts), but it ended up at St Margaret's, Westminster. Lady Ralegh reportedly kept her husband's head in a velvet bag for the rest of her life, after which it was reunited with the rest of Sir Walter's body at St Margaret's. 

Austen Statues

 I see that another statue of Jane Austen has been unveiled, this time in Winchester Cathedral close. Fair enough – it's her 250th anniversary year, and she died at Winchester and is buried in the cathedral. The statue is by Martin Jennings, who has a good record with this sort of thing, having created the excellent statue of Philip Larkin in Hull (a 'major statue of concern', according to the city council, who at the time were dancing to the tune of Black Lives Matter) and the even better John Betjeman at St Pancras station. The trouble with Jane Austen is, of course, that we have no good idea of what she actually looked like, the only reliable image being an amateurish sketch by her sister Cassandra. Jennings (who's pictured above, at the left of the group of three worthies) has posed her as a forceful, even defiant figure, with head held high and chest thrown out, her face set almost grimly as she gazes off to her left, while her right hand rests on her famous little writing table. It's certainly well done, but is it Jane Austen? It seems to me that it doesn't suggest anything of her quiet, observant humour. For that, I think the bust of Austen that stands in the town of Alton is more suggestive, though it is of lower quality as sculpture.

And there's another Jane Austen statue in Hampshire, outside the museum in Basingstoke. This one shows her in motion (like Jennings's statue of Larkin), walking across the marketplace with her outdoor clothes on and a book under her arm. As with the Winchester Cathedral statue, she seems a more angular and austere figure than the Jane portrayed in her sister's sketch, or the one that shows through in the writings of those who knew her. Not that it matters. At least none of these Austen statues have plumbed the depths of recent efforts portraying Diana and the late Queen, and for that we – and the shade of Jane – should be grateful.

[Please ignore the Google links in the above. They crept in while I wasn't looking.]

'Dignified, but flippant'

 Heaven knows how many Penguin books must have passed through my hands in the course of my reading life. They've always been there, right from my boyhood, when my father, for some reason, kept shelves of Penguins, mostly Crime, in the lavatory. I read some of those, then many many more over the years. But, in all my Penguin-reading life, I don't think it ever occurred to me to wonder how the imprint got its name – it just seemed a given. Now (thanks to a pair of penguin-related books I'm reading for review) I know how the name came about. The story goes that publisher Allen Lane, determined to bring out a range of quality paperback books at an affordable price and needing a name for it, was discussing the matter with his secretary, who suggested Penguin, because the birds are 'dignified, but flippant'. Fair enough, said Lane (or words to that effect), and sent an office junior, 21-year-old Edward Young, down to London Zoo to sketch one of the (Humboldt) penguins that were then enjoying themselves in the newly installed, Lubetkin-designed penguin pool. He returned with a sheet of sketches, Lane selected one, and the rest is history...
  This, of course, was in the dark days before highly paid brand consultants and their brilliant ideas, e.g. rebranding Royal Mail as Consignia and W.H. Smith as T.G. Jones – but somehow the 'dignified but flippant' penguin turned out to be just about the most successful brand in publishing. Ninety years on, it's still going strong. 

'All hail to the Queen of the Mist'

 On this day in 1901, Annie Edson Taylor ensured her place in the annals of human folly by going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. It was her 63rd birthday, though she claimed to be 20 years younger, and she entered the barrel – custom-built of oak and iron and padded with a mattress – wearing a flowing black dress and a flowery hat, and carrying her lucky heart-shaped pillow. The barrel was launched into the water near Goat Island on the American side, and was eventually carried over at the Canadian Horseshoe Falls. Amazingly, when the barrel was opened Mrs Edson Taylor was found alive, with only a little bruising and a gash on her head. Soon after, she declared that, 'If it was with my dying breath, I would caution anyone against attempting the feat ... I would sooner walk up to the mouth of a cannon, knowing it was going to blow me to pieces than make another trip over the Fall.' Which seems reasonable. 
  Annie Edson Taylor, who had fallen on hard times, was hoping that the venture would make her money. She embarked on a speaking tour and wrote a memoir, but her manager ran away with her barrel, and she spent most of her savings hiring private detectives to track it down. After it was eventually found in Chicago, it was stolen again by her next manager. She spent her latter years posing for photographs at her Niagara Falls souvenir stand, while pursuing various other abortive ventures, including trying to write a novel, and working as a clairvoyant. When she died, more or less penniless, her funeral was paid for by public subscription. A sad end, but at least she had won the distinction of being the first person to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel and survive. Her feat was celebrated in several poems, including this effort by one John Joseph O'Regan, with its curious rhyming  – 

'All hail to the Queen of the Mist,
Brave Anna Edson Taylor;
She has beaten all former records,
By her courage, grit and valor.'

and this, by P.M. Reynolds: 

'Since earth’s creation down the stormy way,
All human feats have been surpassed today.
Mrs Edson Taylor, in her barrel sound,
Through the wild rapids did in safety bound.'

Corvo Ludens

 In Worthing, the dogs are back on the beach (from which they are banned from May to September) and are happily chasing balls thrown by their obliging owners. And now the crows, of which there are legions, are joining in. Keeping a beady eye on what's going on, as they always do, they have taken to swooping down and grabbing the ball before the dog can reach it, flying off a little distance, then tossing it down to the ground again for the dog to retrieve (or not, if the crow changes its mind and picks it up again). The crows seem to be having as much fun as the dogs, playing this game. I didn't see it myself, but it has been reported by reliable witnesses, and, really, it's not all that surprising: as well as being highly intelligent, crows do seem to enjoy a game. Among other frivolous pursuits, they particularly enjoy sliding down slopes, hanging upside-down from branches, and hiding non-edible objects just for the hell of it. Playing with dogs on the beach might  be seen as just another step in the triumphant progress of the corvids. In my boyhood, crows (Carrion Crows) were a country bird that didn't often show up in town, and it was still true that if you saw a solitary bird it would be a crow, and if you saw a flock they'd be rooks. Now huge numbers of crows are all over our towns and suburbs, along with other former country-dwellers – magpies, jackdaws, jays. Even ravens are now turning up in town, and only the rook remains a country bird. The corvids, love them or loathe them, have been a huge avian success story. For myself, I've always been fond of crows, for all their deplorable ways. I'm with Kay Ryan on this one – 

Felix Crow

Crow school

is basic and

short as a rule—

just the rudiments

of quid pro crow

for most students.

Then each lives out

his unenlightened

span, adding his

bit of blight

to the collected

history of pushing out

the sweeter species;

briefly swaggering the

swagger of his

aggravating ancestors

down my street.

And every time

I like him

when we meet.

'The air deals blows...'

 On a blustery, rainy, altogether miserable afternoon, I found myself thinking, inevitably, of Philip Larkin. I knew his uncollected autumn poem of 1961 – 

'And now the leaves suddenly lose strength.
Decaying towers stand still, lurid, lanes-long,
And seen from landing windows, or the length
Of gardens, rubricate afternoons. New strong
Rain-bearing night-winds come: then
Leaves chase warm buses, speckle statued air,
Pile up in corners, fetch out vague broomed men
Through mists at morning.

And no matter where goes down,
The sallow lapsing drift in fields
Or squares behind hoardings, all men hesitate
Separately, always, seeing another year gone –
Frockcoated gentleman, farmer at his gate,
Villein with mattock, soldiers on their shields,
All silent, watching the winter coming on.'

But there is also this one, 'Autumn', another uncollected poem, written in 1953, which emphasises the violence of the season –

'The air deals blows: surely too hard, too often?
No: it is bent on bringing summer down.
Dead leaves desert in thousands, outwards, upwards,
Numerous as birds; but the birds fly away,

And the blows sound on, like distant collapsing water,
Or empty hospitals falling room by room
Down in the west, perhaps, where the angry light is.
Then rain starts; the year goes suddenly slack.

O rain, o frost, so much has still to be cleared:
All this ripeness, all this reproachful flesh,
And summer, that keeps returning like a ghost
Of something death has merely made beautiful,

And night skies so brilliantly spread-eagled
With their sharp hint of a journey–all must disperse
Before the season is lost and anonymous,
Like a London court one is never sure of finding

But none the less exists, at the back of the fog,
Bare earth, a lamp, scrapers. Then it will be time
To seek there that ill-favoured, curious house,
Bar up the door, mantle the fat flame,

And sit once more alone with sprawling papers,
Bitten-up letters, boxes of photographs,
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks
As if all summer settled there and died.

The image of the 'London court one is never sure of finding' sends the poem into unexpected, mysterious territory. What is 'that ill-favoured, curious house', with its sprawling papers and bitten-up letters? Perhaps it's an image of Larkin's imagination, or his life – but then the blaze of colour with that case of butterflies! That is quite a way to end an autumn poem...

And tomorrow I'm off to Worthing again for a few days, where the autumn wind will be fierce. I should be posting again in a few days. 

That Book

I've just realised that it was six years ago today that I announced to the world that my book The Mother of Beauty was available on Amazon. Looking back, I'm amazed that I managed to produce the whole thing, unaided, on Microsoft Word, and – not unaided – get it onto Amazon. Those two endeavours were far harder than writing it. As I remember, the book sold a hundred or two at a steady trickle, but then came a rave review in a certain national newspaper, my stocks disappeared over one weekend, and I found myself trying to organise a quick reprint while I was out of the country, staying with the New Zealand family. Demand was such that a Portland, Oregon, outfit with the same name as my nominal publisher was besieged with inquiries and had to put up a prominent notice declaring that it had nothing to do with my book (in fact it specialises in books on 'love, sexuality and relational ethics' – not quite my line). By the time the reprint was available, demand had of course fallen away, so the moment had gone, along with my chances of even covering the printing costs, let alone making any money. Hey ho, that's life.
Anyway, as a result of all that, I still have a couple of boxes of The Mother of Beauty under the bed. It appears to be still available on Amazon, though they tell me my account has defunged. If anyone still wants a copy, it's yours for a tenner, including postage and packaging. Just mail me at nigeandrew@gmail.com. Christmas is coming...

Oscar's Library Ticket

 I suppose it was a nice gesture by the British Library to reinstate Oscar Wilde's reader's pass for what was then the British Museum Reading Room, though it is clear that its original revocation had nothing to do with the nature of his crime (as it then was). It was routine for anyone with a criminal conviction to lose their reader's pass; there is no particular need for expiation. Oscar's library card, with its 1900 expiry date,  has been handed to his grandson Merlin Holland, who, as it happens, has just published After Oscar, a great doorstop of a book about Wilde's later life.
  The British Library has various Wilde manuscripts, including that of De Profundis, which was not published in full until 1962. Merlin Holland seems to think very highly of it, saying that 'people have written to me saying, "In a moment of terrible depression about my own life I read De Profundis, and I just wanted you to know that your grandfather's letter from prison meant so much to me".' I remember reading it myself years ago, and the effect certainly wasn't cheering: it seemed to me an overlong and surprisingly dull exercise in self-justification, and indeed self-aggrandisement (at one point, I seem to recall, Wilde comes close to identifying himself with Christ). And it didn't even cure him of his dangerous addiction to the ghastly Lord Alfred Douglas. 

For something lighter on a Wildean theme, I would suggest seeking out Max Beerbohm's extraordinary early essay, 'A Peep into the Past' – you won't be sorry. 

Hart 100

 Born 100 years ago today was the artist and broadcaster Tony Hart. When he died back in 2009, I wrote a bit about him on this blog – 
'A talented, inventive and exceptionally deft artist, capable of working fast on a large or small scale, he presented children's art programmes that were genuinely inspiring. Everything was pitched at exactly the right level – these were projects you could attempt and actually succeed with – and of course there was the added spur of The Gallery, in which the best of the pictures sent in by viewers were displayed. But what made it all so compelling and heartening was that Tony was so transparently a nice and decent man. Sadly, in his later years, he suffered the cruellest blow an artist can face – the loss of the use of his hands – but he had already done more in inspiring generations of children to get painting and drawing than anyone ever did before of ever will in the future. As with the great Postgate [Oliver Postgate had died in the same year], we shall not see his like again.
Footnote: Some years ago, I was on an Italian bus, coming down into Positano, and as we reached the edge of town, there he was, striding along the pavement – Tony Hart. I was quite ridiculously cheered by the sight of him – but I suspect he had that effect on everybody, and that was part of his success. He spread a lot of happiness.'
   Bizarrely, a surge of tributes to Hart erupted on social media six years later, in 2015, when someone put up a newspaper report of his death on Facebook, having not noticed the dateline on the piece, and it was then republished on Twitter.  Well, Hart was worthy of all the tributes going, so fair enough. 

Wilbur's Precept and Richard Howard

 My most recent charity bookshop purchase was a slim volume of essays by Clive James titled Latest Readings. 'Essays' is pushing it, actually: most of these pieces are little more than jottings occasioned by James's most recent reading and rereading in the long period of relapse before his  death. As he says, 'If you don't know the exact moment when the lights will go out, you might as well read until they do.' One of the more substantial pieces is 'Richard Wilbur's Precept', the precept being that 'in poetry, all the revolutions are palace revolutions'. Wilbur's essay, 'Poetry's Debt to Poetry' strikes James as 'the ideal lesson, for beginning students, in how to think about the way the poetic heritage is handed down through the generations'. Poetry, in other words, is born of poetry, and the way to become a poet is to read poetry – the poetry of the past, needless to say. This is a lesson anyone aspiring to write poetry should learn and inwardly digest – as too few, alas, do. 
  James moves on to consider his enduring pockets of ignorance, even after a lifetime of reading and writing poetry. Surprisingly, he had never come across Edgar Bowers, but a less surprising name perhaps is Richard Howard, a poet I had never heard of till I read this essay. His Wikipedia entry will give you the facts – including that he 'read French letters [fnar fnar] at the Sorbonne'. As James notes, 'brevity is not in his gift, or anyway not among his interests', but Howard's poems in which he imagines letters and monologues of historical figures from the 19th century seem richly rewarding.  Here is 'Venetian Interior, 1889', which James describes as 'a sumptuous piece of work, a boutique with the range of a supermarket'. Written very much in the manner of Robert Browning, it tells us all we need to know about what happened to that poet's son, Pen...

Stand to one side. No, over here with me:   

out of the light but out of darkness too,   

where everything that is not odd or old

is gold and subjugates the shadows. There,   

now you will be no trouble and behold none—

anything but trouble, at first glance,

last chance to see what I say is worth a look.

This whole palazzo is the property

of a middle-aged and penniless dilettante,

Pen Browning (Robert’s son), who has made terms   

—palatial terms, in fact—with towering

premises afforded by the tact

of his New York heiress, Fannie Coddington   

Browning, dutiful daughter-in-law, doubtful wife.

Yet who would not be full of doubts, perplexed   

at having to define Pen’s talents and finance

his tastes? Their Ca’ Rezzonico itself

is dubious. The ripened fruit of centuries,

rat- and roach-infested, peeling, rank,

withers with each tide that rots the piles,

though apt withal to weather these tenants as well ...

He is painting from the model: Dryope,

undressed of course but draped against the draft   

in a looping swathe of silver-printed stuff   

that seems to move, glistening over flesh—

it does move! lapped in its silver mesh are coils   

of a python wrapped in loving torpor round   

the contadina’s undistracted torso.

The afternoon is numb: Dryope sleeps   

in her pose, the python slips a little

down the umber slope of her thigh, and Pen,   

spired, slaps a dashing curlicue

across his canvas. “I had the Jew come by   

with this brocaded velvet yesterday—

I bargained some old clothes against it, Fan,

so you needn’t ask how much it cost in dollars.”

To whom does Pen speak, his eyes intent, his hands   

“working busily”? Beyond his “subject,” look   

past the unimposing Dryope, look through

the tufts of pampas grass extending up

to the tufa vault whose patination casts

a pall of watery splendor on the scene—

if you manage to overlook the sumptuous junk,   

jasper urns, a suit of Japanese armor,

two stuffed bears, on the divan bearskins too—   

there, or in this atmosphere let me say lo!

on that very divan Robert Browning lolls,

a short and foreshortened colossus with feet of clay   

but the hardest imaginable cranium, among

his son’s possessions slightly ill at ease

though well bestowed on slippery pelts, and plays

(against the wealthy Fannie—see her white shawl?)

at draughts with agate pieces, red and green,

like a page from some old parchment of kings and queens.   

In approbation of his son’s economies   

the old man smiles now—but does she? The skull

interfering with our view of Fannie is,

I believe, or was the Mahdi’s which Pen keeps   

beside his easel (Victorians could make   

anything into a tobacco jar). “I took

my pipe through Cannareggio on a long tramp   

yesterday morning, right into the Ghetto,   

looking for likely faces, which I found!

Didn’t you say, Father, a satisfactory Jew

is worth a dozen Gentiles? The one who sold   

that velvet to me is sure to be ready by Spring:   

for Lear, you know, or Lazarus at least ...”   

Pen chatters on to charm the python, not   

Dryope or Fannie who look up

only when the poet, roused, exclaims—

as rapt before himself as a child in front   

of the Christmas tree: “A satisfactory Jew!   

Setting mere Rothschildsplay aside, Pen,   

I never saw but one in all my life:

Dizzy, I mean—the potent wizard himself,   

at Hampton Court a dozen years ago,   

murmuring at the Queen’s ear like a wasp

who hoped to buzz his way into the diamonds ...   

With that olive cast and those glowing-coal-black eyes   

and the mighty dome of his forehead (to be sure,   

no Christian temple), as unlike a living man

as any waxwork at Madame Tussaud’s:

he had a face more mocking than a domino—

I would as soon have thought of sitting down

to tea with Hamlet or Ahasuerus ...”

As if on cue, the poet’s high voice fades,

the lights on his tree go out. Yet we have seen   

enough and heard enough: the secret of losing   

listeners—did Browning never learn?—

is to tell them everything. We lose details.   

The Mahdi’s skull and Fannie’s coincide ...

The scene blurs and the sounds become no more   

than exaggerated silence. Stand with me

another moment till our presence is

sacrificed to transitions altogether.

Time will not console—at best it orders

into a kind of seasonable chaos.

Let me tell you, it will not take much

longer than a medical prescription—

give you ingredients, no cure ...   

Visitors to the palazzo used to speak

of the dangerous ménage—the menagerie!   

yet the Costa Rican python that cost Pen

(or Fannie) sixteen pounds was the first to go,   

untempted by the rats of Rezzonico;

Dryope followed Dryope underground,   

the girl carried off by a chill and buried   

at San Michele, the great daub interred   

in the cellars of the Metropolitan ...

“Dear dead women, with such hair, too,”   

we quote, and notice that hair is the first

of ourselves to decay before—last after—death.

In a year Robert Browning too was dead, immortal;   

in another, Fannie dropped her shawl and took   

the veil and vows of an Episcopalian nun;

and Pen? Oh, Pen went on painting, of course—

buono di cuore, in yellow chamois gloves,

obese, oblivious, dithering into debt

and an easy death. The sale of what we saw

or saw through in Venice realized, as they say,   

some thirty thousand pounds at Sotheby’s.   

I told you: first glance is last chance.

Darkness slides over the waters—oil sludge   

spreading under, till even Venice dies,

immortally immerded. Earth has no other way,   

our provisional earth, than to become

invisible in us and rise again.

Rezzonico ... Disraeli ... We realize our task.   

It is to print earth so deep in memory

that a meaning reaches the surface. Nothing but   

darkness abides, darkness demanding not   

illumination—not from the likes of us—

but only that we yield. And we yield.

   And here is John Ruskin writing a letter home...

1851: A Message to Denmark Hill

The writer is John Ruskin, on his wedding journey in Venice.

My dearest father, it is the year’s First Day,

      Yet so like the Last, in Venice, no one

            Could tell this birth from the lees.

                  I know it is some while

Since you received a word of mine: there has been   

      The shabbiest sort of interruption   

            To our exchanges (to mine

                  At least) in the shape

Of a fever—nights of those imaginings,   

      Strange but shameful too, of the Infinite   

            By way of bedcovers and

                  Boa constrictors,

With cold wedges of ice, as I thought, laid down   

      At the corners of the bed, making me   

            Slip to its coiling center

                  Where I could not breathe.   

You knew from my last, I think, I had again

      Gone to the Zoological Gardens

            And seen the great boa take

                  Rabbits, which gave me   

An idea or two, and a headache. Then

      I had too much wine that same night, & dreamed

            Of a walk with Nurse, to whom

                  I showed a lovely

Snake I promised her was an innocent one:

      It had a slender neck with a green ring

            Round it, and I made her feel

                  The scales. When she bade

Me feel them too, it turned to a fat thing, like   

      A leech, and adhered to my hand, so that   

            I could scarcely pull it off—

                  And I awakened

(So much, father, for my serpentine fancies)   

      To a vermillion dawn, fever fallen,

            And the sea horizon dark,

                  Sharp and blue, and far

Beyond it, faint with trebled distance, came on   

      The red vertical cliffs in a tremor

            Of light I could not see without   

                  Recalling Turner

Who had taught me so to see it, yet the whole   

      Subdued to one soft gray. And that morning   

            I had your letter, father,

                  Telling of the death

Of my earthly master. How much more I feel   

      This now (perhaps it is worth noting here   

            The appearance of my first

                  Gray hair, this morning)

—More than I thought I should: everything

      In the sun, in the sky so speaks of him,

            So mourns their Great Witness lost.

                  Today, the weather

Is wretched, cold and rainy, dark like England   

      At this season. I do begin to lose

            All faith in these provinces.

                  Even the people

Look to me ugly, except children from eight   

      To fourteen, who here as in Italy

            Anywhere are glorious:

                  So playful and bright

In expression, so beautiful in feature,

      So dark in eye and soft in hair—creatures   

            Quite unrivalled. At fifteen

                  They degenerate

Into malignant vagabonds, or sensual

      Lumps of lounging fat. And this latter-day

            Venice, father! where by night

                  The black gondolas

Are just traceable beside one, as if Cadmus

      Had sown the wrong teeth and grown dragons, not

            Men. The Grand Canal, this month,

                  Is all hung, from end

To end, with carpets and tapestries like a street

      Of old-clothes warehouses. And now there is

            Even talk of taking down,

                  Soon, Tintoretto’s   

Paradise to “restore” it. Father, without

      The Turner Gallery, I do believe

            I should go today and live

                  In a cave on some

Cliffside—among crows. Oh what fools they are, this

      Restoring pack, yet smoothing all manner

            Of rottenness up with words.   

                  My Turner would not

Phrase like these, and only once in all the years

      I knew him said, “Thank you, Mr. Ruskin.”

            My own power, if it be that,   

                  Would be lost by mere

Fine Writing. You know I promised no Romance—

      I promised them Stones. Not even bread.

            Father, I do not feel any

                  Romance in Venice!   

Here is no “abiding city,” here is but

      A heap of ruins trodden underfoot

            By such men as Ezekiel

                  Angrily describes,

Here are lonely and stagnant canals, bordered

      For the most part by blank walls of gardens

            (Now waste ground) or by patches

                  Of mud, with decayed   

Black gondolas lying keel-upmost, sinking

      Gradually into the putrid soil.

            To give Turner’s joy of this

                  Place would not take ten

Days of study, father, or of residence:

      It is more than joy that must be the great   

            Fact I would teach. I am not sure,   

                  Even, that joy is

A fact. I am certain only of the strong   

      Instinct in me (I cannot reason this)   

            To draw, delimit the things

                  I love—oh not for

Reputation or the good of others or

      My own advantage, but a sort of need,

            Like that for water and food.

                  I should like to draw

All Saint Mark’s, stone by stone, and all this city,   

      Oppressive and choked with slime as it is   

            (Effie of course declares, each

                  Day, that we must leave:

A woman cannot help having no heart, but   

      That is hardly a reason she should have   

            No manners), yes, to eat it

                  All into my mind—

Touch by touch. I have been reading Paradise

      Regained lately, father. It seems to me   

            A parallel to Turner’s

                  Last pictures—the mind

Failing altogether, yet with intervals

      And such returns of power! “Thereupon   

            Satan, bowing low his gray   

                  Dissimulation,

Disappeared.” Now he is gone, my dark angel,

      And I never had such a conception

            Of the way I must mourn—not

                  What I lose, now, but

What I have lost, until now. Yet there is more   

      Pain knowing that I must forget it all,   

            That in a year I shall have

                  No more awareness

Of his loss than of that fair landscape I saw,   

      Waking, the morning your letter arrived,

            No more left about me than

                  A fading pigment.

All the present glory, like the present pain,

      Is no use to me; it hurts me rather

            From my fear of leaving it,

                  Of losing it, yet

I know that were I to stay here, it would soon

      Cease being glory to me—that it has

            Ceased, already, to produce

                  The impression and

The delight. I can bear only the first days   

      At a place, when all the dread of losing   

            Is lost in the delirium

                  Of its possession.

I daresay love is very well when it does not   

      Mean leaving behind, as it does always,

            Somehow, with me. I have not

                  The heart for more now,

Father, though I thank you and Mother for all   

      The comfort of your words. They bring me,

            With his loss, to what I said

                  Once, the lines on this

Place you will know: “The shore lies naked under   

      The night, pathless, comfortless and infirm

            In dark languor, still except

                  Where salt runlets plash

Into tideless pools, or seabirds flit from their   

      Margins with a questioning cry.” The light

            Is gone from the waters with

                  My fallen angel,

Gone now as all must go. Your loving son,

                                                 JOHN

(And here –  nothing to do with Howard's poem – is John Ruskin again, in a letter to Charles Eliot Norton, revealing an unexpected taste for... penguins! 
'When I begin to think at all I get into states of disgust and fury at the way the mob is going on (meaning by mob, chiefly Dukes, crown princes, and such like persons) that I choke; and have to go to the British Museum and look at Penguins till I get cool. I find Penguins at present the only comfort in life. One feels everything in the world so sympathetically ridiculous; one can’t be angry when one looks at a Penguin.'
If only the London zoo had had living penguins and a penguin pool in Ruskin's day, the great sage might have been spared a deal of mental anguish.)
   Another, even longer Richard Howard poem, 'Wildflowers', imagines Walt Whitman receiving a visit from Oscar Wilde. It's very long, but a great read.