1805 by Robert Graves

At Viscount Nelson’s lavish funeral,
While the mob milled and yelled about St Paul’s,
A General chatted with an Admiral:

“One of your colleagues, Sir, remarked today
That Nelson’s exit, though to be lamented,
Falls not inopportunely, in its way”

“He was a thorn in our flesh”, came the reply—
“The most bird-witted, unaccountable,
Odd little runt that ever I did spy”.

“One arm, one peeper, vain as Pretty Poll,
A meddler too, in foreign politics
And gave his heart in pawn to a plain moll.

“He would dare lecture us Sea Lords, and then
Would treat his ratings as though men of honour
And play leap-frog with his midshipmen!

“We tried to box him down, but up he popped,
And when he banged Napoleon on the Nile
Became too much the hero to be dropped.

“You’ve heard that Copenhagen ‘blind eye’ story?
We’d tied him to Nurse Parker’s apron-strings—
By G-d, he snipped them through and snatched the glory!”

“Yet”, cried the General, “sic-and-twenty sail
Captured or sunk by him off Trafalgar—
That writes a handsome finis to the tale.”

“Handsome enough. The seas are England’s now.
That fellow’s foibles need no longer plague us
He died most creditably, I’ll allow.”

“And Sir, the secret of his victories?”
“By his unServicelike, familiar ways, Sir,
He made the whole Fleet love him, damn his eyes!”

It was the anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar the other day, so here is an appropriate poem, 1805 by Robert Graves. This is a humorous look at how the Royal Navy actually thought of Nelson before his exploits made him a national hero and beyond criticism.

It’s a reminder that history always depends on who is writing it, an idea explored in another Graves poem, The Persian Version.

The admiral in this poem is rather more concerned with the navy’s way of doing things, than with its true purpose. That concern for the institution above all else seems quite modern.

Now, as then, an unconventional genius is always going to trouble those who look at things in a more hidebound way.

Ballad of the Londoner by James Elroy Flecker

Evening falls on the smoky walls,
    And the railings drip with rain,
And I will cross the old river
    To see my girl again.

The great and solemn-gliding tram,
    Love’s still-mysterious car,
Has many a light of gold and white,
    And a single dark red star.

I know a garden in a street
    Which no one ever knew;
I know a rose beyond the Thames,
    Where flowers are pale and few.

I found this poem by James Elroy Flecker (18841915) quite by chance when I was looking through one of those Poems on the Underground anthologies in a charity shop.

I have a personal connection with the poem because it reminds me that my father said he had never actually been south of the river until he met my mother.

I’m not sure exactly when it was written. Although it is more traditional in form, I think the opening lines have something of the same urban feel as T S Eliot’s Preludes.

Flecker was only thirty when he died, not as you might imagine a casualty of the first world war, but from TB.

He’s best known for poems that have a connection to the middle east, where he worked as a diplomat, such as The Gate of Damascus. With Ballad of the Londoner he created a fine, evocative poem of the city, adding to the great collective picture of London that so many poets have left behind.


Railway Scrapbook by Peter Ashley

Here’s my little contribution to the Railway 200 celebrations.

Peter Ashley edited the anthology Railway Rhymes (2007) and included his own poem, Railway Scrapbook. He very cleverly, through the use of half-rhyme and rhythm, turns a list into a poem, an evocative picture of a vanished, gentler age of railway travel. It’s striking how only a few of the things described remain as a recognisable part of the railway scene today.

It’s a marvellous anthology, and I’ve included more than one poem from it on this blog. The dustjacket resembles the clipped railway ticket mentioned in this poem.

My only quibble is that I would have liked the lyrics to the song Slow Train by Flanders and Swann to be included.  

Railway Scrapbook by Peter Ashley

Dockside stations
Estuary halts
Trolleys for luggage
Platelayers’ huts
Steamy warm buffets
Station clock hands
Weighing machines
Post Office vans
Sidings and signals
Newspapers sweets
Cycles in cardboard
Platform seats
Coalyards and taxis
Pincers on tickets
Gaslight on blossom
Pigeons in baskets
Fire buckets red
Timetables white
Posters for seasides
Booking halls bright
Bridges and cuttings
Telephone wires
Tunnels and viaducts
Waiting room fires

At Lord’s by Francis Thompson

As the cricket season comes to an end, it’s an appropriate time to look at one of the most famous of all cricket poems, At Lord’s by Francis Thompson (1859–1907).

The lines quoted below are actually the opening and closing verses of a longer poem, but they have become well-known in their shorter form.

For non-cricketers, Lord’s in London is regarded as the home of cricket and the red rose is the symbol of Lancashire.

The poem is as much about nostalgia and the passing of time as cricket, so perhaps it’s not a surprise to find out it was written near the end of Francis Thompson’s life.

At Lord’s by Francis Thompson

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro: –
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

The Retired Colonel by Ted Hughes

Here is an early poem by Ted Hughes. The Retired Colonel appeared in the Spectator magazine in August 1958 and then in Hughes’ second collection Lupercal. The date is important, because 1956 was the year of the Suez Crisis, the last occasion when Britain acted as a great power, and often taken as the real end of the British Empire.

The poem is rather double-edged. Towards the end there is a tinge of regret for the grandeur of the era that has now passed for ever and already seems impossibly remote. The colonel is a figure to be mocked yet respected, representing something bigger than himself.

The very structure of the poem seems to emphasise the passage of time. With its overlapping lines, it’s a more modern type of verse than the Edwardian patriotic ballads of Kipling and Newbolt that we might associate with such a character.

The Retired Colonel

Who lived at the top end of our street
Was a Mafeking stereotype, ageing.
Came, face pulped scarlet with kept rage,
For air past our gate.
Barked at his dog knout and whipcrack
And cowerings of India: five or six wars
Stiffened in his reddened neck;
Brow bull-down for the stroke.

Wife dead, daughters gone, lived on
Honouring his own caricature.
Shot through the heart with whisky wore
The lurch like ancient courage, would not go down
While posterity’s trash stood, held
His habits like a last stand, even
As if he had Victoria rolled
In a Union Jack in that stronghold.

And what if his sort should vanish?
The rabble starlings roar upon
Trafalgar. The man-eating British lion
By a pimply age brought down.
Here’s his head mounted, though only in rhymes,
Beside the head of the last English
Wolf (those starved gloomy times!)
And the last sturgeon of Thames.

Precipice by Robert Harris

Robert Harris’ 2024 novel Precipice is a clever mixture of history and fiction. Britain’s prime minister in 1914, Henry Asquith, married with grown-up children, had some sort of relationship with a much younger woman, Venetia Stanley. That much is fact, because his letters to her survive. Her replies do not and that is what gives Harris the space to create a story about what may have been going on. Asquith’s letters make clear that he had got into the habit of confiding in her about government business and even sending her confidential documents.

Asquith was also in the habit of taking her for drives in his car, the blinds drawn and the chauffeur unaware of what was happening just behind him. He screws up an official telegram and casually throws it out of the window. It is found and handed in by a member of the public and an investigation into a possible security breach is started by the early version of what is now MI5.

There is a powerful sense of the pressure Asquith was under, first to try and find a solution for Ireland and then as events led inexorably to Britain’s involvement in the first world war.

The sheer number of letters and their frequency is staggering. This was made possible by the efficiency of the postal service at that time, with several deliveries each day. It feels like a present-day couple communicating by text message. The question being asked here is whether Venetia Stanley was a necessary support to Asquith when he was under huge pressure or a distraction when his mind should have been on other things.

It’s quite astonishing that Asquith might have been so distracted over Venetia that he wasn’t paying full attention when the cabinet was debating whether the Gallipoli operation should go ahead. No less astonishing is that he couldn’t be quite sure what general Sir John French had actually said about the shell supply situation on the western front because he had sent Lord Kitchener’s letter to Venetia.  

It’s a bit similar to Harris’ earlier novel, Munich, in that it’s more of a character study of a prime minister than anything else. Like that novel, it’s packaged as a thriller but it isn’t really, as the spy plot involving a completely fictional character is rather less convincing and seems a bit “bolted on”. The part where the investigator goes undercover to infiltrate the Stanley family home is the most fictional and the least convincing, I feel.

Harris is on firmer ground with his depiction of a time and a particular class of people. Did Asquith and Venetia actually have a physical affair? Harris hints that upper-class girls knew exactly how to go so far and no further. The suggestion is that whatever they were doing in the back of that car, it wasn’t full intercourse.

There are a couple of historical details that I particularly liked. When Venetia takes a job as a nurse, the artist Sir John Lavery comes to the hospital to do a painting in the ward, featuring Venetia and a wounded soldier. This is a description of a real painting. And I hadn’t realised the extent of the anti-German riots after the sinking of the Lusitania in 1915. Apparently, in Southend, the army was called out to restore order.

Harris is an established and well-connected author, a former Times journalist and something of a political insider. Only someone like that could get the access and necessary permissions from the characters’ descendants to tell a story like this one. I think some of the dialogue seems a bit too modern, but this may be deliberate. The whole situation between Asquith and Venetia feels rather modern. I wondered whether Harris might be trying to draw a parallel with more recent events. Does he have any particular current politician in mind?

But the great strength of this novel is the depiction of how people of that class lived at that time, which is very convincing. When the novel opens, Venetia is a member of a loose group of wealthy young people known as the Coterie. Their cavalier attitude to life is revealed by their reaction to a drowning in the Thames during that carefree summer of 1914.

This world is created so vividly that the historical note at the end about the decline of the Stanley family is rather sad: “Venetia died in 1948 at the age of sixty. By then, the Stanley family’s fortunes were in steep decline. Today, Alderley Park no longer exists; all that remains of Penrhos House are parts of the walls and corner towers, mostly overgrown with ivy, hidden in the woods.”

He Who Whispers by John Dickson Carr

John Dickson Carr was one of those crime writers I had been aware of for years but never got round to reading. For one thing his books were not readily available. When I did read The Hollow Man, often considered to be his masterpiece, I found it rather disappointing. Then I heard the radio versions of the Gideon Fell novels. I was impressed with the plotting and the atmosphere and I decided to give him another go. I’m very glad I did because He Who Whispers is, for me, on a different level to The Hollow Man. It’s an atmospheric and intense read. In fact, I think it’s one of the best stories of this type that I have ever come across.

Carr lived in England for many years and most of his best novels are set here. His work feels as if it belongs more in the English golden age tradition than the American hard-boiled one. He was one of the only American members of the Detection Club and a version of that appears in He Who Whispers, which was published in 1945.    

The war has finally ended and the Murder Club is to hold its first meeting in five years. Miles Harding is the guest of detective Dr Gideon Fell. When he arrives at the Soho restaurant where the meeting is to take place, he finds that none of the members have turned up. There is another guest, Barbara Morell, and the speaker for the evening, Professor Rigaud. Rigaud tells the story he had prepared anyway.

It is the tale of a seemingly impossible murder that took place in rural France in 1939. The victim was found at the top of a ruined tower and there are plenty of witnesses to confirm that no-one else was seen entering the tower during the relevant time. The victim was English and there was a young woman called Fay Seton who was staying with the family. She was romantically involved with the victim’s son and a cloud of suspicion has hung over her ever since. Rigaud shows her photograph to Miles who is fascinated by her.

Miles is looking for someone to help him catalogue his uncle’s book collection in the country house he has inherited. He is living there with his sister Marion who is about to be married to her fiancé Stephen Curtis. The candidate that the employment agency sends is none other than Fay Seton, who has just been repatriated from France and Miles takes her on.  

At the house in the New Forest, another seemingly inexplicable crime takes place. Just who or what is Fay Seton? It is then that Gideon Fell, accompanied by Professor Rigaud, arrives at the house and the investigation begins.

The two mysteries and the non-appearance of the Murder Club members all turn out to be connected of course, but it will be a very astute reader indeed who disentangles all the threads before Dr Fell does. There are many twists and turns along the way and it is a compelling, page-turning read. This is not a conventional whodunnit. There is even a hint of the supernatural. To explain the title would be to give too much away.  

What makes it so special I think, is the quality of Carr’s descriptive writing. He is able to summon up the mood or feel of a place in a few words so that it does not interrupt the pace of the plot. The three main locations come vividly alive. Shabby and exhausted post-war London, a world of back-street flats and overcrowded railway trains, contrasts with the rural peace of pre-war France. The New Forest is seen mostly by moonlight, quiet but almost haunted, unchanged for centuries. Everything feels realistic yet slightly heightened, dovetailing perfectly with the carefully crafted artificiality of the story.

That’s not to say that character or psychology are overlooked. More than one of the people here is not quite what they appear to be at first. The shadow of the war looms large and underneath everything is the mysterious personality of Fay Seton.  

This is ingenious golden age detective fiction at its best, by the acknowledged master of the impossible crime mystery. It is perhaps most similar to the Father Brown stories by G K Chesterton. You either like this sort of thing or you don’t. I very much do and I’ll be on the lookout for more books by John Dickson Carr.    

Memory by Walter de la Mare

It must be the sunny weather that made me think of the poem Memory by Walter de la Mare. It’s an appropriate one for the changing of the seasons. De la Mare wrote two poems with this title and this is the earlier one that was published in the 1933 collection, The Fleeting.

Perhaps it hints at that all too human tendency to wish oneself elsewhere. The last two lines tell us that De la Mare sees this as a positive thing. Memory enables us to live in our physical surroundings and the world of the imagination at one and the same time.

There is some archaic language in the second verse. “Nowel” is an alternative spelling of “Noel”, and “Waits” are carol singers. This part of the poem requires careful reading because the word order has been inverted in a slightly tricky way.

Memory by Walter de la Mare

When summer heat has drowsed the day
With blaze of noontide overhead,
And hidden greenfinch can but say
What but a moment since it said;
When harvest fields stand thick with wheat,
And wasp and bee slave—dawn till dark—
Nor home, till evening moonbeams beat,
Silvering the nightjar’s oaken bark:
How strangely then the mind may build
A magic world of wintry cold,
Its meadows with frail frost-flowers filled—
Bright-ribbed with ice, a frozen wold!. . .

When dusk shuts in the shortest day,
And dark Orion spans the night;
Where antlered fireflames leap and play
Chequering the walls with fitful light—
Even sweeter in mind the summer’s rose
May bloom again; her drifting swan
Resume her beauty; while rapture flows
Of birds long since to silence gone:
And though the Nowel, sharp and shrill,
Of Waits from out the snowbound street,
Drums to their fiddle beneath the hill
June’s mill-wheel where the waters meet. . .

O angel Memory that can
Double the joys of faithless Man!

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler

I first read Raymond Chandler when I was barely out of my teens and now I’ve come to the end of my re-read of his novels with The Long Goodbye. This was the sixth novel featuring his Los Angeles private detective Philip Marlowe. It was published in 1953 and won the Edgar award in 1955. I know a lot of people think it is Chandler’s masterpiece. It is certainly a bit different to the others. It’s longer, moves more slowly and is sadder, somehow. There is more social comment and it’s as much a portrait of a corrupt society as anything Dickens ever wrote.

It’s something of a self-portrait as well with two characters who have elements of Chandler himself about them. If Terry Lennox is damaged by his war experiences, Roger Wade is a writer with a drink problem, who feels that his books are underrated because he writes genre fiction. The overall mood of the book feels as if F Scott Fitzgerald had decided to write a detective story. There are quite a lot of literary references as well, with quotes from T S Eliot, Shakespeare, and Christopher Marlowe.

I think the central theme in the book and what gives it that air of melancholy is Philip Marlowe’s friendship with Terry Lennox, who is introduced in that striking opening sentence: “The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of the Dancers.”

Later on, Marlowe helps Lennox escape to Mexico without asking too many questions and then comes under suspicion himself when it turns out that Lennox was a suspect in a murder case.

That seems to be that and then Marlowe is asked by a concerned publisher to help the alcoholic writer Roger Wade, who is struggling to finish a novel. Rather against his will, Marlowe finds himself drawn further into the lives of the wealthy inhabitants of the appropriately named Idle Valley.

This appears to be a second story, totally unconnected to the first but slowly and surely the connection between the two becomes apparent.

A good example of the atmosphere of the book is the scene where Marlowe stands by the lake at the back of Wade’s house and watches the speedboat and the surfer on the water. This has a kind of poetic resonance but also functions as part of the plot because we later find out that the noise of the engine masked a gunshot.

One thing that strikes me is how modern the book still feels, given that it was published in 1953. It seems to have influenced every depiction of Los Angeles since that time. There are drug-dealing doctors, mysterious out-of-town medical establishments and it all feels rather familiar from later books and films. Press magnate Harlan Potter seems to be the original for the John Huston character in Chinatown. The notorious Los Angeles smog is mentioned quite a lot, twenty years before the photo on the cover of Tim Buckley’s record Greetings from L A.

But then Chandler was a very influential writer in other ways. He didn’t invent the first-person, sardonic, private eye narrator (that was Dashiell Hammett) but he did refine and perfect the idea, giving a model to follow to many later writers such as Len Deighton and, more recently, Philip Kerr.

The phrase the “long goodbye” was mentioned in the news the other day, because of the death of Gene Hackman. It is now used to refer to cases of Alzheimer’s, apparently. That theme is in the book, though almost hidden in what appears to be a sub-plot. When Marlowe is trying to find Roger Wade, his only clue is that the doctor’s name begins with the letter “v”. He finds three such doctors and one of them runs a rather sinister old people’s home, where the frail elderly are kept sedated and presumably fleeced of their money. Later on, a character writes something in their suicide note about not wanting to live to be old so “the long goodbye” does not just refer to Terry Lennox. Did I notice that theme when I was younger? I don’t remember that I did. A really good book reveals more and deeper meanings with the passage of time and re-reading.       

There is also a fascinating connection with the recent TV drama about Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be executed in Britain, in 1955. One of the detectives explains to Marlowe why the police have not looked further into a murder. “You don’t fool around with an open-shut case, even if there’s no heat to get it finalized and forgotten [. . .] No police department in the world has the men or the time to question the obvious.” This is exactly what happened in the Ruth Ellis case, I think.

Two years later, Chandler wrote a letter to the London Evening Standard criticising the decision to execute Ruth Ellis. He wrote that it was barbaric and that no other country would have done it.

I’ve never seen the 1970s film of The Long Goodbye and I don’t think I want to. It isn’t supposed to have much to do with the book, as it has been updated to the 1970s and the plot has been altered. It’s a pity, because a decent film, done in the correct period, could have been quite something.

Is The Long Goodbye Chandler’s masterpiece? I don’t know, but it does have a haunting quality, with the characters lingering long in the mind. I liked it when I first read it all those years ago and I like it even more now. One of those “books of a lifetime”, I guess.

The Man in the Bowler Hat by A S J Tessimond (Peter Black)

I discovered The Man in the Bowler Hat in the 2007 anthology, Railway Rhymes. It is credited there to Peter Black and a little research revealed that it was first published under that name in 1943. Peter Black, however, was merely one of the many names used by the poet whose real name was A S J Tessimond (1902–1962). It was published under his own name in 1947.

Tessimond is a somewhat enigmatic figure, highly thought of during his writing career but pretty much forgotten today, perhaps at least partly because of the confusion over his real identity.

The speaking voice of the poem is a persona that the poet has adopted, rather than the poet himself. He is a representative “little man” figure, perhaps bringing to mind G K Chesterton’s “people of England, who never have spoken yet”.

I think I am drawn to the poem because it describes the world my father knew. He was not a “little man” in any sense, but he did wear a bowler hat, smoke a pipe and commute to his work on the train. 

The Man in the Bowler Hat by A S J Tessimond (Peter Black)

I am the unnoticed, the unnoticable man:
The man who sat on your right in the morning train:
The man you looked through like a windowpane:
The man who was the colour of the carriage, the
       colour of the mounting
Morning pipe smoke.

I am the man too busy with a living to live,
Too hurried and worried to see and smell and touch:
The man who is patient too long and obeys too much
And wishes too softly and seldom.

I am the man they call the nation’s backbone,
Who am boneless – playable catgut, pliable clay:
The Man they label Little lest one day
I dare to grow.

I am the rails on which the moment passes,
The megaphone for many words and voices:
I am graph, diagram,
Composite face.

I am the led, the easily-fed,
The tool, the not-quite-fool,
The would-be-safe-and-sound,
The uncomplaining, bound,
The dust fine-ground,
Stone-for-a-statue waveworn pebble-round.