On Re-Reading “Barchester Towers”

In days when Bellona less madly The wheels of her chariot drave, To you, Father Anthony, gladly My doggerel homage I gave; And again uncontrollably yearning For solace in desolate hours I find a brief respite in turning To Barchester Towers.

How good are the women, how various, As slowly their natures unfold!— The feudal Miss Thorne; the gregarious And amiable Eleanor Bold; Mrs. Quiverful, dauntless though dowdy, With fourteen young ravens to feed, Who managed to melt Mrs. Proudie, So great was her need.

Mrs. Proudie, of course, is prodigious, A terror to friends and to foes, Ambitious, correctly religious, Yet leading her lord by the nose; Very far from an angel or jewel, Very near to a feminine Pope, And priceless in waging the duel That smashed Mr. Slope.

And who would not willingly linger With you, O Signora, who twirled Round the tip of your white little finger Staid clerics and men of the world! Commanding the spells of a Circe; Bewitching, though crippled and lame; Redeeming your malice with mercy And playing the game.

The clergy—Tractarian, Erastian, Low Churchmen—you faithfully paint Reveal to our view no SEBASTIAN, No martyr, and hardly a saint; Though perhaps, by so freely discarding Preferment and riches and fame, The guileless and good Mr. Harding Is worthy the name.

You looked upon country and city With kindly and tolerant eyes; You never set out to be witty, Though seldom you failed to be wise; You were neither ornate nor elliptic, But most unaffectedly shrewd, For the art that is consciously cryptic You strictly tabooed.

Your outlook is certainly narrowed To lives that are never sublime; Our hearts are not haunted or harrowed With desperate anguish or crime; But a mutual trust is for ever ’Twixt author and reader maintained, And we know all along we shall never Be wantonly pained.