DANIEL HENRY HOLMES
Reading edition
Daniel Henry Holmes is, with the possible exceptions of Theodore O'Hara and Madison Cawein, the foremost lyric poet Kentucky can rightfully claim, although he happened to be born at New York City, July 16, 1851; and that single fact is the only flaw in Kentucky's fee simple title to his fame. His father, Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, was a native of Indiana; his mother was an Englishwoman. Daniel Henry Holmes, Senior, settled at New Orleans when a young man as a merchant; but a year after the birth of Daniel Henry Junior—as the future poet always signed himself while his father lived—or in 1852, he purchased an old colonial house back of Covington, Kentucky, as a summer place for his family, and called it Holmesdale. So Daniel Henry Junior Holmes became a warm-weather Kentuckian when but one year old; and he spent the following nine summers at Holmesdale, returning each fall to New Orleans for the winter. When the Civil War began his father, whose sympathies were entirely Southern, removed his family to Europe, where eight years were spent in Tours and Paris. In 1869, at the age of eighteen years, Daniel Henry Junior, with his family, returned to the United States, and entered his father's business at New Orleans. His dislike for commercialism in any form became so great that his father wisely permitted him to return to Holmesdale, which was then in charge of an uncle, and to study law at Cincinnati. In the same year that he returned to Holmesdale (1869), the house was rebuilt; and it remains intact to-day. His family shortly afterwards joined him, and Holmesdale became the manor-place of his people for many years. Holmes was graduated in law in 1872, and he practiced in a desultory manner for some years. In 1883 he married Miss Rachel Gaff, of Cincinnati, daughter of one of the old and wealthy families of that city. He and his bride spent the year of their marriage at Holmesdale, and, in 1884, went abroad.
Holmes's first and finest book of poems, written at Covington, was entitled Under a Fool's Cap: Songs (London, 1884), and contained one hundred and forty-four pages in an edition that did not exceed five hundred copies. The poet whimsically placed his boyhood name of "Daniel Henry Junior" upon the title-page. This little volume is one of the most unique things ever done by an American hand. Holmes took twenty-four old familiar nursery jingles, which are printed in black-face type at the top of the lyrics relating to them, and he worked them over and turned them over and did everything but parody them; and in only one of them—Margery Daw—did he discard the original metres. He employed "three methods of dealing with his nursery rhymes; he either made them the basis of a story, or he took them as an allegory and gave the 'modern instance,' or he simply continued and amplified. The last method is, perhaps, the most effective and successful of all," the poems done in this manner being far and away the finest in the book. Holmes spent the seven years subsequent to the appearance of Under a Fool's Cap, in France, Italy, and Germany. In 1890 his father gave him Holmesdale. He returned to Kentucky, and the remaining years of his life were spent at Covington, save several winters abroad.
Holmes's second book of lyrics, A Pedlar's Pack (New York, 1906), which was largely written at Holmesdale, contained many exceedingly clever and charming poems, but, with the exception of some fine sonnets, A Pedlar's Pack is verse, while Under a Fool's Cap is genuine poetry. Holmes was an accomplished musician, and his Hempen Homespun Songs (Cincinnati, 1906), mostly written in Dresden, contained fourteen songs set to music, of which four had words by the poet. Of the other ten songs, three were by W. M. Thackeray, two by Alfred de Musset, and Austin Dobson, Henri Chenevers, W. E. Henley, Edgar Allan Poe, and Alfred Tennyson were represented by having one of their songs set to music. This was his only publication in the field of music, and his third and final book. Holmes's last years were spent at the old house in Covington, devoted to arranging his large library, collected from the bookshops of the world, and to his music. His life was one of endless ease, the universal pursuit of wealth being neither necessary nor engaging. He had lived parts of more than forty years of his life at Holmesdale when he left it for the last time in the fall of 1908 to spend the winter at Hot Springs, Virginia, where he died suddenly on December 14, 1908. He had hardly found his grave at Cincinnati before lovers of poetry on both sides of the Atlantic arose and demanded word of his life and works. This demand has been in part supplied by Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, the Maine publisher, who has exquisitely reprinted Under a Fool's Cap, and written this beautiful tribute to the poet's memory:
"One vital point of interest should be restated: the man who took these old tags of nursery rhymes and fashioned out of them some of the tenderest lyrics ever written was an American by birth and in the doing of this unique thing did it perfectly. That he never repeated these first fine careless raptures is nothing to his discredit. That he did accomplish what he set himself to do with an originality and a proper regard to the quality of his work rather than its quantity is the essential fact; and in his ability to touch a vibrating chord in the hearts of all who have come across these lyrics we feel that the mission of Daniel Henry Holmes was fulfilled both in letter and in spirit."
Bibliography. The Hesperian Tree, edited by J. J. Piatt (Cincinnati, 1900); The Cornhill Magazine (August, 1909), review of Under a Fool's Cap, by Norman Roe; The Bibelot (May, 1910); Under a Fool's Cap (Portland, Maine, 1910; 1911), lovely reprints of the 1884 edition, with Mr. Roe's review and foreword by Mr. Mosher; letters from Mrs. Holmes, the poet's widow, who has recently reopened Holmesdale.
BELL HORSES
[From Under a Fool's Cap (London, 1884)]
Bell horses, Bell horses, What time of day? One o'clock! Two o'clock! Three! and away. I shall wait by the gate To see you pass, Closely press'd, three abreast, Clanking with brass: With your smart red mail-cart Hard at your heels, Scarlet ground, fleck'd around With the Queen's seals. Up the hills, down the hills, Till the cart shrink To a faint dab of paint On the sky-brink, Never stop till you drop, On to the town, Bearing great news of state To Lords and Crown. And down deep in the keep Of your mail-cart, There's a note that I wrote To my sweetheart. I had no words that glow, No penman's skill, And high-born maids would scorn Spelling so ill; But what if it be stiff Of hand and thought, And ink-blots mark the spots Where kisses caught, He will read without heed Of phrases' worth, That I love him above All things on earth. I must wait here, till late Past Evensong, Ere you come tearing home— Days are so long!— But I'll watch, till I catch Your bell's chime clear ... If you'll bring me something— Won't you please, dear?
MY LADY'S GARDEN
[From the same]
How does my Lady's garden grow? How does my Lady's garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle-shells, And pretty girls all in a row. All fresh and fair, as the spring is fair, And wholly unconscious they are so fair, With eyes as deep as the wells of sleep, And mouths as fragrant as sweet June air. They all have crowns and all have wings, Pale silver crowns and faint green wings, And each has a wand within her hand, And raiment about her that cleaves and clings. But what have my Lady's girls to do? What maiden toil or spinning to do? They swing and sway the live-long day While beams and dreams shift to and fro. And are so still that one forgets, So calm and restful, one forgets To think it strange they never change, Mistaking them for Margarets. But when night comes and Earth is dumb, When her face is veil'd, and her voice is dumb, The pretty girls rouse from their summer drowse, For the time of their magic toil has come. They deck themselves in their bells and shells, Their silver bells and their cockle-shells, Like pilgrim elves, they deck themselves And chaunting Runic hymns and spells, They spread their faint green wings abroad, Their wings and clinging robes abroad, And upward through the pathless blue They soar, like incense smoke, to God. Who gives them crystal dreams to hold, And snow-white hopes and thoughts to hold, And laughter spun of beams of the sun, And tears that shine like molten-gold. And when their hands can hold no more, Their chaliced hands can hold no more, And when their bells, and cockle-shells, With holy gifts are brimming o'er, With swift glad wings they cleave the deep, As shafts of starlight cleave the deep, Through Space and Night they take their flight To where my Lady lies asleep; And there, they coil above her bed,— A fairy crown above her bed— While from their hands, like sifted sands, Falls their harvest winnowèd. And this is why my Lady grows, My own sweet Lady daily grows, In sorcery such, that at her touch, Sweet laughter blossoms and songs unclose. And this is what the pretty girls do, This is the toil appointed to do, With silver bells, and cockle-shells, Like Margarets all in a row.
LITTLE BLUE BETTY
[From the same]
Little Blue Betty lived in a lane, She sold good ale to gentlemen. Gentlemen came every day, And little Blue Betty hopp'd away. A rare old tavern, this "Hand and Glove," That Little Blue Betty was mistress of; But rarer still than its far-famed taps Were Betty's trim ankles and dainty caps. So gentlemen came every day— As much for the caps as the ale, they say— And call'd for their pots, and her mug to boot: If it bettered their thirst they were welcome to't; For Betty, with none of those foolish qualms Which come of inordinate singing of psalms, Thought kissing a practice both hearty and hale, To freshen the lips and smarten the ale. So gallants came, by the dozen and score, To sit on the bench by the trellised door, From the full high noon till the shades grew long, With their pots of ale, and snatches of song. While little Blue Betty, in shortest of skirts, And whitest of caps, and bluest of shirts, Went hopping away, rattling pots and pence, Getting kiss'd now and then as pleased Providence. How well I remember! I used to sit down By the door, with Byronic, elaborate frown Staring hard at her, as she whisk'd about me,— Being jealous as only calf-lovers can be, Till Betty would bring me my favourite mug, Her lips all a-pucker, her shoulders a-shrug, And wheedle and coax my young vanity back, So I fancied myself the preferred of the pack. Ah! the dear old times! I turn'd out of my way, As I travell'd westward the other day, For a ramble among those boy-haunts of mine, And a friendly nod to the crazy old sign. The inn was gone—to make room, alas! For a railroad buffet, all gilding and glass, Where sat a proper young person in pink, Selling ale—which I hadn't the heart to drink.
THE OLD WOMAN UNDER THE HILL
[From the same]
There was an old woman lived under the hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still; Baked apples she sold and cranberry pies, And she's the old woman who never told lies. A queer little body, all shrivelled and brown, In her earth-colour'd mantle and rain-colour'd gown, Incessantly fumbling strange grasses and weeds, Like a rickety cricket, a-saying its beads. In winter or summer, come shine or come rain, When the bustles and beams into twilight wane, To the top of her hill, one can see her climb, To sit out her watch through the long night-time. The neighbourhood gossips have strange tales to tell— As they sit at their knitting and tongues waggle well Of the queer little crone who lived under the hill When the grannies among them were hoppy-thumbs still. She was once, they say, a young lassie, as fair As white-wing'd hawthorn in April air, When under the hill—one fine evening—she met A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet: From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red, And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed; Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand, Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland. What befell her there no mortal can tell, But it must have been things indescribable, For when she returned, at last, alone, Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone. They gather'd about her: she shook her head —She had been through Hell—that was all she said In answer to whens, and hows, and whys; So they took her word, for she never told lies. And now, they say, when the sun goes down This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown Turns into a beautiful lass, once more, With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore, And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams Her beautiful fabulous lover comes, In scarlet doublet and red silken hose, To woo her again—till the Chanticleer crows. And she, poor old crone, sits up on her hill Through the long dreary night, till the dawn turns chill, And suffers in silence and patience alway, In the hope that God will forgive, some day.
MARGERY DAW
[From the same]
See-Saw! Margery Daw! Sold her bed to lie upon straw; Was she not a dirty slut To sell her bed, and live in dirt? And yet perchance, were the circumstance But known, of Margery's grim romance, As sacred a veil might cover her then As the pardon which fell on the Magdalen. It's a story told so often, so old, So drearily common, so wearily cold: A man's adventure,—a poor girl's fall— And a sinless scapegoat born—that's all. She was simple and young, and the song was sung With so sweet a voice, in so strange a tongue, That she follow'd blindly the Devil-song Till the ground gave way, and she lay headlong. And then: not a word, not a plea for her heard, Not a hand held out to the one who had err'd, Her Christian sisters foremost to condemn— God pity the woman who falls before them! They closed the door for evermore On the contrite heart which repented sore, And she stood alone, in the outer night, To feed her baby as best she might. So she sold her bed, for its daily bread, The gown off her back, the shawl off her head, Till her all lay piled on the pawner's shelf, Then she clinch'd her teeth and sold herself. And so it came that Margery's name Fell into a burden of Sorrow and Shame, And Margery's face grew familiar in The market-place where they trade in sin. What use to dwell on this premature Hell? Suffice it to say that the child did well, Till one night that Margery prowled the town, Sickness was stalking, and struck her down. Her beauty pass'd, and she stood aghast In the presence of want, and stripped, at the last, Of all she had to be pawned or sold, To keep her darling from hunger and cold. So the baby pined, till Margery, blind With hunger of fever, in body and mind, At dusk, when Death seem'd close at hand, Snatch'd a loaf of bread from a baker's stand. Some Samaritan saw Margery Daw, And lock'd her in gaol to lie upon straw: Not a sparrow falls, they say—Oh well! God was not looking when Margery fell. With irons girt, in her felon's shirt, Poor Margery lies in sorrow and dirt, A gaunt, sullen woman untimely gray, With the look of a wild beast, brought to bay. See-saw! Margery Daw! What a wise and bountiful thing, the Law! It makes all smooth—for she's out of her head, And her brat is provided for. It's dead.