The Invitation - a prologue to Cry of the Peacock (Sixteen Seasons Book 9)

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But, although we think the worst vandalism is the vandalism of a bloodless culture, we do not think that any self-deception should be indulged in as regards the artistic question itself. Troutbeck is a little too much inclined to speak smooth things about all parts of his beloved abbey. Henry VII. But, indeed, the whole matter is a striking example of the false orbis miraculum sentiment, the sentiment that has solemnly collected seven wonders in a world of ten million wonders, or rather in a world which is itself the only wonder, and in which all that is honourably wonderful must be produced, like trees and flowers, by observance, not defiance of its essential laws.

The fact is that Henry VII. Instead of the endless variety of carving which enshrined the sentiment, satire, reverence, ribaldry of a thousand mediaeval workmen, we see staring at us on every side, like an army of State spies and officials, the endless ranks of the rose and portcullis, the broad arrow of that soulless despotism. The almost pre-Raphaelite line illustration, the modern landscapes made ancient by their mere treatment, all contribute to this effect. The author has carried it out well by prefixing to most of his chapters quotations from those old masters of our language who improve, like wine, with age-Spenser, Beaumont, Shirley, and their like.

In this matter however it is well to avoid errors, and Mr.

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We do not care for quarrels about trivial misquotations, but this happens to be one of the four or five poems in the world in which, in a rhythmic sense, it is impossible to alter one word without altering it for the worse. If Mr. Finally, Mr. We doubt whether even wearing a small pasteboard Union jack in the buttonhole can produce equally exalted consolation.

For in this one place it is difficult not to feel the presence of that secret national strength of which no conquests are a guarantee, and a profound historic impression, more easily felt than demonstrated, that, whatever blunders or brutalities may have marked our record, few nations have been, upon the whole, so free from essential corruption of the heart. The Women of Mediaeval France. Pictures of the Old French Court.

By Catherine Bearne. London: Fisher Unwin.

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We have a pleasant recollection of Mrs. In that and in the volume before us, we find much suggestive information on one of the most interesting problems to the modern politician-the political women of the middle ages. Bearne herself, it is true, cares little for the philosophy of history and a great deal for its romance.

But she does not seek herself to draw from the careers of the great women she describes any of the morals which almost immediately present themselves to the mind of the reader. She does not trouble herself about the problem of the political woman of to-day, and will not, we fancy, until the controversy is conducted in a more romantic manner, until the streets of the city echo at midnight with the cry that the Chevalier Courtney has lured that political misogynist, the Sieur Chamberlain, into a quaint old tavern, where he has fallen under the sword of the Chevalier Begg.

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By a refinement of irony it belongs to democracy and to democracy alone. And, although it would be absurd either for Mrs. Indeed, in this general moral matter, the facts as presented by Mrs. Bearne are very remarkable. The two most striking sketches are those of Jeanne de Bourbon and Isabeau de Bavire. The period thus covered was one of black and aimless cruelty, horrible for Europe, and trebly horrible for France, watching the break-up of the whole civilisation of St. On every side we hear of profiigates of thirteen and tyrants of fourteen; the land seems dominated by a race of sinister and unnatural boys.

We read in Mrs. Bearne that Pedro slaughtered children and women, trampled his wife, wallowed in the blood of his own brothers; and then, as a mere trivial detail, that most of this happened between his sixteenth and nineteenth birthday. Yet amid this society, so intense and exacting that mere lads were careworn and depraved, women contrived to hold their own.

So far from being the whitefaced and cowering slaves immured in castles which some satirists of the mediaeval times have represented them, they spoke often with as high a head, as clear a voice, as ringing a chivalric eloquence as any King in Europe. Indeed, in the stories told by Mrs. Bearne the royal women differ little from the royal men, except in being a little more steadfast and far more sincere. It is the same everywhere. The mother of Pedro the Cruel stood up against him almost alone to defend her daughter-in-law and fellowwoman.

Valentine Visconti, by her tranquil and benignant force of mind, was able to win back to sanity the literal maniac, Charles VI. Jeanne de Bourbon shared all the largest and most statesmanlike troubles of her husband, Charles V.


It may be said that these queens and princesses were intellectually exceptional women. We fancy not, and we fancy that this notion is based on a complete failure to comprehend the real lesson of the middle ages. Take, by way of parallel, the case of the kings. From the Conquest to the death of Elizabeth, there are hardly five kings in English history who do not give an impression of a certain moral and intellectual greatness.

That all these eldest sons of eldest sons were really, by an immortal coincidence, the ablest men of their age, is incredible. In mere intellect they were doubtless inferior to the counsellors they bullied and the statesmen they sent to the block. They were average men; and their glory is this, that they showed of what average men are capable, when they are endowed with a heroic opportunity.

The whole need and passion of a nation demanded that one man should be great, and except in the two or three cases in which he was an utter dastard, he was great.

"cry the peacock" character, summary and a point - why the novel's name " cry the peacock"

One modern man alone, perhaps, has seen clearly the true lesson buried under the ruins of the feudal ages, in which so many solemnly quarry for mere fancies, revivals and superstitions. That man was Walt Whitman. He saw, though he only dimly expressed, that what had once been possible to one average man, might be possible to every average man, if only a more heroic view of citizenship lifted him into that large atmosphere and fired him with that imperial self-esteem.

We incline to think in the same manner that the human grandeur of Jeanne de Bourbon was due far less to innate capacity than to common intelligent grasp of an intensely imaginative position. If she will compare the statement of the paternity of Jeanne de Bourbon contained in the text with that contained in the table of genealogy, she will see that her statement is, to say the least of it, misleading. Such confusions are, however, unusually rare in her work. Before the beginning of lands and kings, Before the beginning of thrones, Did we not bargain for bitter things, And pay a price for the stones?

False we grew in the house of peace, Small in the days of pride; Only never of war we cease: Never of death we died. What if again be dark and drouth? What if the dogs have bayed? The old wounds burn. Hail to the hour! Hail to the Feast of Cain!

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When they have thrones and rods and power And we our youth again. It is a very dangerous thing for the most intelligent man to write a long poem in blank verse; or, for the matter of that, a long poem in any verse. Indeed, it is a dangerous and possibly criminal thing to write a poem at all. We do not think Mr.

Hoole especially to blame if his extensive monologue on the early Christians, by one of themselves, becomes slightly tiresome. Any man who writes a long blank verse narrative sings a lullaby to his own wits. Gradually, insensibly, with insidious advance, the task becomes easier and easier, the standard lower and lower. There is nothing silly or offensive about this style; its fatal defect is that anything could be written in it.

We could write our own critique in blank verse of this kind and very much in the manner of Mr. Hoole, Student of Christ Church, Oxford. The ablest of men under its influence, losing all discipline of restraint and opportunity, would gradually turn into the horrible vision of an omnipotent idiot with a continent of paper and eternity before him. It is extraordinary to notice how Mr.

Hoole-who, whatever else he is, is obviously a man of taste and learning-is gradually more and more drugged with this degrading security until he writes lines like. We do not believe that Mr. Hoole has taught his mind the detestable tune that is easier than speech itself.

The subject of the poem which occupies the greater part of this book is, as we have remarked, the condition of the early Christians.

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We are sorry that Mr. Hoole has done nothing towards rending that veil of pious and dehumanising unreality that has been lowered between us and the most absorbing and romantic of all the revolutions of the world. Martyrology in all its forms will, we venture to say, yet be found to be the highest of social sciences, and whatever may be rationally and even humanely urged on behalf of easier philosophies, we all of us know at root that mankind will die on the day that the martyrs elect to live.

But devout poets like Mr. Hoole have done a far worse thing to the martyrs than was done by the tyrants who made their torments bitter.

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They have made them easy. To read Mr. Hoole, one would fancy that being eaten by a lion was quite a moral picnic, a natural enjoyment. His heroes, like the lady in The Sign of the Cross a typical case of the same error , go to their tortures with a kind of graceful weariness, like a jilted Duchess going to a ball.