SD1440. Alfred Moulton-Barrett to Henrietta Cook

As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 16, 299–302.

[London]

[Postmark: 7 August 1850]

Number Fifty.

In far-famed England’s Capital,

Hard by a bustling road,

There doth stand a somewhat dismal,

Mysterious abode.

The Street, tho’ rather sombre,

Familiarly is known

To most of those who wander

Within that smoky Town.

Rich merchants you will find there,

Some partners in a Bank;

Perchance a Chanc’ry barrister,

But few of higher rank.

Some pass it on their way to seek

The flower-show in the Park;

Others, (of whom I’ll shortly speak)

Wouldn’t miss it in the dark.

Well! look along that dusky pile,

Look well from left to right,

Its area rails you’ll see, the while,

Are blacker than the night.

Yet in that line of deepest dye,

Of dull unchanging hue,

A few white rails relieve the eye,

And break the cheerless view.

“What mean those bars”? have wonder’d

Pedestrians by the score

Who pass the house that’s number’d

Just fifty on the door.

“White”? says one, “the brave ensign

Of France in ancient glory.

Surely there dwells those walls within,

A Bourbon or a Tory.”

“White”? quick exclaims another sage,

“That’s the ‘Tractarian’ pennant:

Doubtless those stranger streaks presage

A ‘Rubricarian pedant’:

“Henry, perhaps, of Exeter,

Or Wordsworth just from Goosey,

Or Cyril Page of Westminster,

It, may be, Dr Pusey.”

“White”? quoth a third, “Good gentlemen,

Drab rather, I espy:

That house’s lord’s some William Penn

Or son of Mrs Fry.”

Whatever version best may serve

To solve the strange enigma,

One thing I’d have you just observe,

That mark is not a stigma.

One more remark, the world, I’m told,

Makes on this mystic rail,—

It serves like Bourbon’s flag of old

T’announce a hostile sail.

Some e’en have said, it oft aspires

To tell to lovers near,

The spot whence issue wakeful sires,

Where cross-grained A’nts appear.

Ingenious thought, last which could well

Suggest a whited rail,

Shall lead me mow at length to tell

My interesting tale.

The bright spring Sun sometime had risen,

On London’s dingy pile;

His radiant face high in the heaven,

Vouchsafed a kindly smile.

The constable has gone his round;

Black sweeps have ceased t’appear,

And hearthstone-men no more astound

The lazy housemaid’s ear.

’Twas in that hour when labourers drink

Hot coffee at a stall,

When Irish women come with milk,

Or water-cresses call:

When neat in cap, trim Dolly mops

The steps outside the door:

The newsboy through the railings drops

A “Times” upon the floor.

Then, in that house, not named before,

The house where live the Barretts,

No sound was heard from roof to floor,

The kitchen to the garretts.

Yes, sounds there were, but gently low,

A whisper here and there,

Such sounds as only friends might know,

No slumbering foemen scare.

The “gov’nor” lay snug in his cot,

Held fast in sleep most sound,

Unconscious of the secret plot

That compass’d him around.

Of early joys, perhaps he dreams,

Hope End and days of yore,

Perhaps of pure unearthly scenes

On which he’d thought before:

Of tyrant laws on Foreign grains,

That source of much vexation;

Of slaves released, white men in chains,

The Jews’ emancipation:

Perchance of rates that sore oppress

The Baptist and the Quaker;

Of toiling “Planters” in distress,

And “Storm” who’s at Jamaica:

On “private bills”, he may have thought,

And “moved” a strict proviso,

That younger sons might not be caught

With chaff at Valparaiso.

He dreamed perhaps of Priests sedate,

Of Friars, & Cloister’d nuns

Then thought upon the celibate-

Seclusion of his sons.

He may have seen the lovely maid,

Achillé brought from Rome,

While wondering what that sage had said

Of daughters kept at home.

However strange the scenes may’ve been,

His fancy brought to view,

He never once, e’en in a dream,

Gave ear to lovers true.

He ne’er in sleep his nature bent,

Nor waking-self forsook.

No thoughts could make that heart repent,

Or feel for Surtees Cook.

Unmindful of the coming storm,

Five brothers sleeping lay,

Nor early rose that April morn,

Waked by the dawning day.

Some say indeed, they’d had a hint,

A peep “behind the scenes,”

Then sleep was feigned, or came by dint

Of artificial means.

A tale, in truth, I’ve heard of late,

Told of the night before,

Which sadly seems to inculpate

Their breth’ren, one or more.

They went, ’tis said, and cruelly balk’d

A certain son of Mars,

Maliciously look’d in and walk’d

Off with his last cigars.

But who’d have thought such men as they,

“Monks” of unsullied fame,

Could tell their Sister’d go astray,

Or wish to change her name?

How could those “boys”, so wondrous kind,

Suspect a lady’s fall?

“Suspicion haunts the guilty mind,”

And they were guiltless all.

The brothers slept, but some there were,

(Their names you must not tell,)

Who gently whispered in the stair,

As did good Arabel.

Old Foster, Bonser, Edwin too,

Faithful domestics three,

Unto their mistress, always true,

Were blind, or would not see.

And aged Minny, once before,

So watchful and severe,

None kept aloof, in secret swore,

She’d no more interfere.

Bonser’s task now quite complete,

The bridal toilet o’er,

That trusty maiden, so discreet,

Soft opes the chamber door.

The lady gently issues forth,

Adorned with silk attire,

Unchecked by fear of Father’s wrath,

Or elder brother’s ire.

With hurried footsteps light as air,

The errant damsel flew,

Fast down the well-known winding stair,

Nor paused to say adieu.

The flying fish when close pursued,

By shark, or dolphin rare,

On finny wing will scarce elude,

Less danger in the air.

Th’escaped bird may soon begin

To wish, but wish in vain,

That he were only safe within

His prison bars again.

But no such thought that morning cross’d

The mind of Henrietta,

Convinced, whate’er might be the cost,

Her change was for the better.

Yet marvel not if in the street,

Unseen by passers-by,

Her flutt’ring heart began to beat;

A tear was in her eye.

For tho’ th’uncertain future brought

No cares t’oppress the mind

Remember how she must have thought,

On those she’d left behind.

Enough of this; such mournful gloom

Is unbecoming here,

And see! three ladies in a Brough’m

Are fast approaching near.

Miss Mackintosh looks gaily thro’

The open carriage window:

There’s Treppy also good & true,

And then there’s Mary Minto.

Those faces three which kindly cheer’d

Our heroines’ heart once more,

Always welcome, none appeared

More welcome than before.

They quick receive their friend inside,

And safely close the door:

A white silk bonnet next provide

In lieu of that she wore.

Then off they set, nor checked their steed,

(The road could not be hilly,)

Until they’d reached with utmost speed

S. James’ Piccadilly.

Well! no one being “left in the lurch,”

All threatened dangers o’er,

The vestry room close by the church

Received th’advent’rous four.

Next Cousin George, a goodly Sire,

Appointed for the day,

“Looks in” arrayed in gay attire,

To give the bride away.

And now poor Susy joins the throng,

For she too’s in “the scrimage,”

She who had done such grievous wrong

About the eggs and spinage.

On foot she come in papal pride,

Disdaining coach or carriage,

And Parson John is by her side

To solemnize the marriage.

He who so oft hath borne the blame

Of one thing and the other,

And who, strange thought, of late became

The sponsor of his brother.

Now gives the finish to his crimes,

(Dark deeds not yet forgot,)

By stepping in that morn betimes,

To crown this “Popish Plot.”

Enough there was, some thought at least,

An angry sire to shock,

Without th’arrival of this Priest

Much blacker than his flock.

The gallant Captain’s there of course,

Not absent in the wars,

And looking, some said, none the worse

For loss of his cigars.

Though named the same, he’s not the man,

Whose banner, once unfurled,

From Otaheite waved to Japan,

Who sailed all ’round the world.

Our Captain fights upon the land,

No hero of the sea,

The other sailors did command,

And died at Owhyhee.

Last not least, none takes his place

Among the host of worthies,

A bridegroom’s man of ancient race,

’Tis little Taffy Surtees.

All things at length being set to right,

And early Matins ended,

The stolêd Priest arrayed in white,

The Altar steps ascended.

A service often known by heart,

Can need no long description,

Th’you know it from th’espousal part,

Down to the benediction.

Enough for me just to declare,

(For I have nearly done,)

The Priest now joined the happy pair

Most happily in one.

There’s little time left to describe

The lovely heroine’s charms,

Or how the hero left her side,

And fled to Treppy’s arms.

How Taffy, once well in the scrape,

Safe brought the bridegroom’s baggage

Or how he managed to escape

A Swedenborgian Marriage.

In “Epic” style, I would not now,

(I leave that to my betters),

Describe the awful Wimpole Row,

And all about the letters.

Still less shall these, my friendly lines,

Presume in wrath to tell,

The serious wrongs, (don’t call them crimes)

Imputed to A’nt Bell.

The faithful pair, blest from above,

Have long forgot the past,

Trust, happy in each others love,

Those trials will be the last.

Joy now with them ’s no empty sound,

Despite these bad beginnings,

And love, if no where else ’tis found,

You’ll find it at “The Winnings”.

Finis

Address, on cover sheet: Mrs Surtees Cook / The Winnings / Colwall / Malvern, Herefordshire.

Publication: None traced.

Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Altham Archive.

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