The Sword of Song

NOTES 55 of ’68 took place, and it was there too that he was apprehended after the murders which he describes so faithfully in “Abysmos.” He had just finished this poem with a shriek of triumph, and had read it through to the appalled Mathilde “avec des yeux de flamme et de gestes incohérentes,” when, foaming at the mouth, and “hurlant de blasphèmes indi- cibles,” he fell upon her with extraordinary violence of passion ; the door opened, officers appeared, the arrest was effected. He was com-mitted to an asylum, for there could be no longer any doubt of his complete insanity ; for three weeks he had been raving with absinthe and satyriasis. He survived his confinement no long time ; the burning of the asylum with its in-mates was one of the most terrible events of the war of 1870. So died one of the most talented Englishmen of his century, a man who for wide knowledge of men and things was truly to be envied, yet one who sold his birthright for a mess of beastlier pottage than ever Esau guzzled, who sold soul and body to Satan for sheer love of sin, whose mere lust of perversion is so intense that it seems to absorb every other emotion and interest. Never since God woke light from chaos has such a tragedy been un-rolled before men, step after step toward the lake of Fire ! At his house all his writings were seized, and, it is believed, destroyed. The single most fortunate exception is that of a superbly jewelled writing-case, now in the possession of the present editor, in which were found the MSS. which are here published. Mathilde, who knew how he treasured its contents, pre- served it by saying to the officer, “But, sir, that is mine.” On opening this it was found to contain, besides these MSS. , his literary will. All MSS. were to be published thirty years after his death, not before. He would gain no spurious popularity as a reflection of the age he lived in. “Tennyson,” he says, “will die before sixty years are gone by : if I am to be beloved of men, it shall be because my work is for all times and all men, because it is greater than all the gods of chance and change, because it has the heart of the human race beating in every line.” This is a patch of magenta to mauve, undoubtedly ; but — ! The present collection of verses w ill hardly be popular ; if the lost works turn up, of course it may be that there may be found “shelter for songs that recede.” Still, even here, one is, on the w hole, more attracted than repelled ; the author has enormous power, and he never scruples to use it, to drive us half mad w ith horror, or, as in his earlier most exquisite works, to move us to the noblest thoughts and deeds. True, his debt to contemporary writers is a little obvious here and there; but these are small blemish on a series of poems whose originality is alw ays striking, and often dread- ful, in its broader features. We cannot leave George Bishop without a word of inquiry as to what became of the heroic figure of Mathilde D oriac. It is a bitter task to have to write in cold blood the dread- ful truth about her death. She had the mis- fortune to contract, in the last few days of her life with him, the same terrible disease which he described in the last poem of his collection. This shock, coming so soon after, and, as it were, as an unholy perpetual reminder of the madness and sequestration of her lover, no less than his infidelity, unhinged her mind, and she shot herself on July 5, 1869. Her last letter to Madame J—— S—— is one of the tenderest and most pathetic ever written. She seems to have been really loved by George, in his w ild, infidel fashion : “All Night” and “Victory,” among others, are obviously in- spired by her beauty ; and her devotion to him, the abasement of soul, the prostitution of body, she underwent for and with him, is one of the noblest stories life has known. She seems to have dived with him, yet ever trying to raise his soul from the quagmire ; if God is just at all, she shall stand more near to His right hand that the vaunted virgins who would soil no hem of vesture to save their brother from the worm that dieth not ! The Works of George Archibald Bishop will speak for themselves ; it would be both im- pertinent and superfluous in me to point out in detail their many and varied excellences, or their obvious faults. The raison d’être, though, of their publication, is wo rthy of especial notice. I refer to their psychological sequence, which agrees with their chronological order. His life- history, as w ell as his literary remains, gives us an idea of the progression of diabolism as it really is, not as it is painted. Note also, (1) the increase of selfishness in pleasure, ( 2) the diminution of his sensibility to physical charms. Pure and sane is his early work ; then he is carried into the outer current of the great vortex of Sin, and whirls lazilky though the sleepy waters of mere sensualism ; the pace quickens, he grows fierce in the mysteries of Sapphism and the cult of Venus Aversa with women ; later of the same forms of vice with men, all mingled with w ild talk of religious dogma and a general exaltation of Priapism at the expense, in particular, of C hristianity, in which religion, however, he is undoubtedly a believer till the last (the pious will quote James ii. 19, and the infidel w ill observe that he died in an asylum) ; then the full sw ing of the tide catches him, the mysteries of death become more and more an obsession, and he is flung headlong into Sadism, Necrophilia,