# Facts and Fancies about Our "Son of the Woods", Henry Clarence Kendall and his Poetry/Introductory

INTRODUCTORY.
ABOUT two years or more after the death of Henry Clarence Kendall, I was engaged by the Secretary of the Sydney School of Arts to deliver a lecture, or lecture-recital, on Patriots and Patriot Bards. I spoke, as was my custom then, from memory. The patriotic songs of different countries were recited in the course of the lecture, and the piece chosen by me to illustrate patriotism in Australia, my native land, was Henry Kendall's verses, "To the Muse of Australia." It was the first time Kendall's poetry had been presented to a public audience by a lady, and utilised for illustrating a theme demanding the expression of the noblest statement in appropriate language. It was a large and cultivated audience, for the School of Arts Lecture Hall was then double the size it is at present, and at that time the hall in which distinguished lecturers, such as the late Rev. Charles Clarke, often gave me their literary entertainments. For it was, as a mere girl, hearing the Rev. Charles Clarke in his lecture on the poet Goldsmith (in the course of which he described his peculiar memory), that first gave me the idea of utilising my own memory (which was then exactly similar to his) on the lecture platform, though ladies, as public lecturers, were not then as numerous as they are at present; and I was the first of my sex, Australian born, to challenge criticism throughout Victoria and New South Wales in that capacity. But to return to the Sydney School of Arts of those days. The Lecture Hall then was comfortably fitted with a private entrance from a room at the back of the platform, which has since been done away with, probably to enlarge the actual library accommodation.
The various pieces of poetry recited in the course of the lecture on "Patriots and Patriot bards" were all very heartily received amidst rounds of applause from the audience. But the verses from Kendall came as a surprise, and were greeted with deafening sounds of approval. I had to hold my hand up repeatedly to "waive off" the applause, so that I may give the concluding words of the lecture. ​This reception of Kendall's poem, "To the Muse of Australia," resulted in the Secretary asking me to give a lecture on Henry Kendall and his poetry exclusively.
This was almost an impossible task for me to undertake at the time, for I had never handled a volume of Kendall's poems, and knew absolutely nothing about him except his lines, "To the Muse of Australia," which there was no difficulty in recognising as the song of a true poet imbued with a passionate love for his country. I had no books of his poetry, nor had I happened to have read any of the various reviews then written. No one could lend me the "Songs from the Mountains." I could not buy it anywhere. I inquired for it and it was out of the School of Arts lending library at that moment. However, on informing the Secretary of my difficulty, Mr. Henderson kindly found me a volume of "Leaves from the Forests," and a review by Mr. Alexander Sutherland. Perhaps I could not have had better material to work upon as a start, for Mr. Sutherland gave very useful details, and viewed the poet's life and works in a broadminded and sympathetic manner that strongly appealed to me, and the verses referring to Kendall's earliest surroundings found in the volume, "Leaves from the Forests," decided me to confine my attention principally to the childhood of the poet and his earlier writings for my first venture in the purely Kendallite domain of literature. I then remembered that a friend and relative of mine was a great admirer of Australian poets, and I wrote hurriedly to him (for the lecture had to be delivered within three weeks from the date of notice, and time was passing), and I asked him if he could lend me any volume of Kendall's poems or give me any information of his life. I am glad now that all he could send me was the volume of Poems and Songs, published when the poet was little more than nineteen years old, and not then on the market, most of its contents consigned to oblivion, for that volume particularly appealed to me; and, after many years, I return to it with no abating interest in the author and his work, and have chosen to quote from that volume almost exclusively, with the exception of the few gems of literature selected from "Leaves from the Forests," and a few detached verses only from "Songs from the ​Mountains." I do this for the simple reason that I think that first volume should not have been suppressed, as it is a key to much that Kendall wrote in more mature years—a key to his later poetry, and still more, a key to his character as a man. The child is father of the man. It seems to me that many mistakes made by some of his critics and reviewers might have been avoided—at least, in the effects upon the reading public—had Kendall's early disposition as a poet (to view despondently his own efforts, always questioning their merit) been fairly recognised as merely one of his idiosyncrasies, not to be taken too seriously.
We very often are taken at our own valuation. And if we under estimate, there are few generous enough to think better of us than we think of ourselves: and fewer still sufficiently discriminating to penetrate beyond the surface, passing over mere defects of matter, and (like the diver searching for the hidden pearls beneath), leaving the merely floating straws for the interest and amusement of the idiot or the idle. Among his detractors we do not include the late P.J. Holdsworth, who, as far as we know, was always the poet's most sincere and practical friend, and who took exception to some of the critics and reviewers of that time, claiming that the "wall of failure" which ran through many of his poems meant anything beyond the fact that Kendall's own ideals of what might be sung had not yet been realised. One reviewer particularly, in a Sydney quarterly magazine, seemed to aim at impressing his readers with the idea that this yearning of the poet for the attainment of his own ideals really meant the comparative failure of anything he had yet accomplished. Whereas the sympathetic reader of Kendalll's verses (unbiassed by such one-sided views) would only have been all the more keenly interested in the aspirations of the poet, and would have regretted that the silence of the tomb precluded our hope of ever hearing again on earth our sweetest singer's "perfect song" in new and varied symphonies. For this reviewer's opinion on the defects (as he saw them) of Henry Kendall and his poetry was published some years after the death of the poet, when his few actively sympathetic friends were ​endeavouring to get a sufficiently wide circulation of the poet's works to give some (then much-needed) pecuniary assistance to the widow and the fatherless.
The reviewer's final words seemed rather contradictory, after his scathing criticism of Henry Kendall, both as a man and as a poet, for he wrote, in concluding: "But, to his honour be it said, that the work was a noble work; and none beside has yet dared to attempt it as he did. He has been the pioneer to point out the way; others must follow in his footsteps. Though in time to come other Australian poets may arise, men wil yet hold his memory in honour; for he is truly, in a sense, the "Father of Australian Poetry."
The late P.J. Holdsworth was most sincerely attached to Henry Kendall as a man, as well as appreciative of him as a poet. I had a somewhat singular demonstration of that the first time I met him, on the occasion of his acting as chairman at the Kendall lecture. Mr. Holdsworth was introduced to me by the Secretary as I was about to go on the platform. His keen anxiety lest anything should be said that would be hurtful to the poet's memory made him forgetful of all formality, as if absolutely sick with fear; and, breathlessly, he informed me that there were present in the audience those who would be much pained by any unkind allusions to the poet or his poetry, and he hoped I would say nothing disparaging. This was delightful to me, and I remember I smiled up to his anxious face and quite reassured him. The relieved look that succeeded the absolutely black cloud of anxiety made such a comical contrast that I had some difficulty in suppressing a peal of laughter; for it seemed so very ridiculous to be afraid of me. And once the ice was broken he seemed to see the absurdity of it himself, for his face became illumined with the most purely happy, almost joyously boyish smile I have ever seen irradiating the face of a man.
This was just the little episode necessary to help me to feel happy and grateful in my work, having the consciousness that I had the moral support of a kindly nature near me who would be pleased that I had nothing to say against Kendall; and that I was enthusiastic when ​speaking of or reciting his poetry. For I was somewhat anxious on my own account (in the position, for the time being, of the poet's interpreter) lest my voice should not be tuned just to that pitch best suited for the fine music of Kendall's verses—my past work and training having been among "the laurelled throng" of the older countries and requiring a very different manner of delivery to that which would be in harmony with the breezy swing of some of the metres of Kendall's versification. However, Australian woodland scenery was familiar to me, and I felt at home with the rivers and the creeks and the mosses, and even the bell-birds, and I had the satisfaction of at least not offending the presiding chairman, for I received very kindly words of encouragement from him in the following letter a few days after the Kendall lecture:—
"1st Sept., '84.
"Yours very sincerely, P.J. Holdsworth."
I hope I do not weary the reader with this diversion from the chief subject of this Essay. Further on we shall lose ourselves in Kendall's poetry and sink personal feelings, sentiments and reminiscences in our all-absorbing interest in the genius of the poet.