Griselda: A Society Novel in Rhymed Verse

In London then not many years ago There lived a lady of high fashion, who For her friends' sake, if any still there be Who hold her virtues green in memory, Shall not be further named in this true tale Than as Griselda or the Lady L., Such, if I err not, was the second name Her parents gave when to the font she came, And such the initial letter bravely set On her coach door, beneath the coronet, Which bore her and her fortunes--bore, alas! For, as in this sad world all things must pass, However great and nobly framed and fair: Griselda, too, is of the things that were.

But while she lived Griselda had no need Of the world's pity. She was proudly bred And proudly nurtured. Plenty her full horn Had fairly emptied out when she was born, And dowered her with all bounties. She was fair As only children of the noblest are, And brave and strong and opulent of health, Which made her take full pleasure of her wealth. She had a pitying scorn of little souls And little bodies, levying heavy tolls On all the world which was less strong than she. She used her natural strength most naturally, And yet with due discretion, so that all Stood equally in bondage to her thrall. She was of that high godlike shape and size Which has authority in all men's eyes: Her hair was brown, her colour white and red, Nor idly moved to blush. She held her head Straight with her back. Her body, from the knee Tall and clean shaped, like some well-nurtured tree, Rose finely finished to the finger tips; She had a noble carriage of the hips, And that proportionate waist which only art Dares to divine, harmonious part with part. But of this more anon, or rather never. All that the world could vaunt for its endeavour Was the fair promise of her ankles set Upon a pair of small high-instepped feet, In whose behalf, though modestly, God wot, As any nun, she raised her petticoat One little inch more high than reason meet Was for one crossing a well-besomed street. This was the only tribute she allowed To human folly and the envious crowd; Nor for my part would I be found her judge For her one weakness, nor appear to grudge What in myself, as surely in the rest, Bred strange sweet fancies such as feet suggest. We owe her all too much. This point apart, Griselda, modesty's own counterpart, Moved in the sphere of folly like a star, Aloof and bright and most particular.

By girlish choice and whim of her first will She had espoused the amiable Lord L., A worthy nobleman, in high repute For wealth and virtue, and her kin to boot; A silent man, well mannered and well dressed, Courteous, deliberate, kind, sublimely blessed With fortune's favours, but without pretence, Whom manners almost made a man of sense. In early life he had aspired to fame In the world of letters by the stratagem Of a new issue, from his private press, Of classic bards in senatorial dress, "_In usum Marchionis._" He had spent Much of his youth upon the Continent, Purchasing marbles, bronzes, pictures, gems, In every town from Tiber unto Thames, And gaining store of curious knowledge too On divers subjects that the world least knew: Knowledge uncatalogued, and overlaid With dust and lumber somewhere in his head. A slumberous man, in whom the lamp of life Had never quite been lighted for the strife And turmoil of the world, but flickered down In an uncertain twilight of its own, With an occasional flash, that only made A deeper shadow for its world of shade. When he returned to England, all admired The taste of his collections, and inquired To whose fair fortunate head the lot should fall To wear these gems and jewels after all. But years went by, and still unclaimed they shone, A snare and stumbling-block to more than one, Till in his fiftieth year 'twas vaguely said, Lord L. already had too long delayed. Be it as it may, he abdicated life The day he took Griselda to his wife.

And then Griselda loved him. All agreed, The world's chief sponsors for its social creed, That, whether poor Lord L. was or was not The very fool some said and idiot, Or whether under cloak of dulness crass, He veiled that sense best suited to his case, Sparing his wit, as housewives spare their light, For curtain eloquence and dead of night; And spite of whispered tales obscurely spread, Doubting the fortunes of her nuptial bed, Here at this word all sides agreed to rest: Griselda did her duty with the best.

Yet, poor Griselda! When in lusty youth A love-sick boy I stood unformed, uncouth, And watched with sad and ever jealous eye The vision of your beauty passing by, Why was it that that brow inviolate, That virginal courage yet unscared by fate, That look the immortal queen and huntress wore To frightened shepherds' eyes in days of yore Consoled me thus, and soothed unconsciously, And stilled my jealous fears I knew not why? How shall I tell the secret of your soul Which then I blindly guessed, or how cajole My boyhood's ancient folly to declare Now in my wisdom the dear maid you were, Though such the truth?

Griselda's early days Of married life were not that fitful maze Of tears and laughter which betoken aught, Changed or exchanged, of pain with pleasure bought, Of maiden freedom conquered and subdued, Of hopes new born and fears of womanhood. Those who then saw Griselda saw a child Well pleased and happy, thoughtlessly beguiled By every simplest pleasure of her age, Gay as a bird just issued from its cage, When every flower is sweet. No eye could trace Doubt or disquiet written on her face, Where none there was. And, if the truth be told, Griselda grieved not that Lord L. was old. She found it well that her sweet seventeen Should live at peace with fifty, and was seen Just as she felt, contented with her lot, Pleased with what was and pleased with what was not. She held her husband the more dear that he Was kind within the bounds of courtesy, And love was not as yet within her plan, And life was fair, and wisdom led the van.

For she was wise--oh, wise! She rose at eight And played her scales till breakfast, and then sat The morning through with staid and serious looks, Counting the columns of her household books, Her daily labour, or with puzzled head Bent over languages alive and dead, Wise as, alas! in life those only are Who have not yet beheld a twentieth year. Wealth had its duties, time its proper use, Youth and her marriage should be no excuse; Her education must be made complete! Lord L. looked on and quite approved of it. The afternoons, in sense of duty done, Went by more idly than the rest had gone. If in the country, which Lord L. preferred, She had her horse, her dogs, her favourite bird, Her own rose-garden, which she loved to rake, Her fish to feed with bread crumbs in the lake, Her schools, old women, poor and almshouses, Her sick to visit, or her church to dress. Lord L. was pleased to see her bountiful: They hardly found the time to find it dull.

In London, where they spent their second year, Came occupations suited to the sphere In which they lived; and to the just pretence Of our Griselda's high-born consequence, New duties to the world which no excuse Admitted. She was mistress of L. House And heir to its traditions. These must be Observed by her in due solemnity. Her natural taste, I think, repelled the noise, The rush, and dust, and crush of London joys; But habit, which becomes a second sense, Had reconciled her to its influence Even in girlhood, and she long had known That life in crowds may still be life alone, While mere timidity and want of ease She never ranked among youth's miseries. She had her parents too, who made demand Upon her thoughts and time, and close at hand Sisters and friends. With these her days were spent In simple joys and girlish merriment. She would not own that being called a wife Should make a difference in her daily life.

Then London lacks not of attractions fit For serious minds, and treasures infinite Of art and science for ingenious eyes, And learning for such wits as would be wise, Lectures in classes, galleries, schools of art: In each Griselda played conspicuous part-- Pupil and patron, ay, and patron-saint To no few poor who live by pens and paint. The world admired and flattered as a friend, And only wondered what would be the end.

And so the days went by. Griselda's face, Calm in its outline of romantic grace, Became a type even to the vulgar mind Of all that beauty means when most refined, The visible symbol of a soul within, Conceived immaculate of human sin, And only clothed in our humanity That we may learn to praise and better be. Where'er she went, instinctively the crowd Made way before her, and ungrudging bowed To one so fair as to a queen of earth, Ruling by right of conquest and of birth.