# Facts and Fancies about Our "Son of the Woods", Henry Clarence Kendall and his Poetry/Part 1

PART I.
THE POET FRIEND OF HENRY KENDALL, CHARLES HARPUR.
While referring to Kendall as the Father of Australian Poetry, we know it would not be his wish that we should forget Charles Harpur, who wrote "The Storm among the Mountains," a grand poem, and also other good pieces; but not enough to give him the place that Kendall holds, though Kendall himself hailed him (Harpur) as "the pioneer" in his own graceful language, always so generously appreciative when referring to others, yet so depreciating when speaking of himself. Surely, if modesty is the virtue we are so often told is "becoming," we must give Henry Kendall the palm for that. It is Henry Kendall who writes to Charles Harpur:—
"I could sit at your feet for long days To hear the sweet muse of the wild Break out through the sad and the passion lays, Of her first and her favourite child."
And no doubt Charles Harpur's warm, expansive nature and generous sympathy with the aspirations of the then little more than boy poet in years, must have been helpful to the shy, nervous, retiring young man only feeling his way, socially, among known men of letters. For it was on his first visit to Sydney that he met Harpur, who was then writing, I understand, on the staff of "The Empire," a daily paper edited by Henry Parkes (Sir Henry Parkes), afterwards Premier of New South Wales, ​a man always ready to recognise and give a helping hand (by some employment) to the talented in need of some means of living. This was not a distinguishing feature of some of his successors in the Ministry of New South Wales, unless, perhaps, the late Sir John See, who was a man of more than average kindly feeling; and had his position at the head of affairs been longer and more consolidated, would, I think, have been a gracious patron of art and literature. I only met him once personally, but I shall never forget the impression of "Nature's gentleman" that I carried away with me from the interview, which was on a public matter in which I was then engaged in opposition to a Government measure then exciting wide public interest, and Sir John See himself solicited the interview. Though I did not fall in with his view of how we might compromise matters and cease the agitation (if it might be so called), he gathered from the floral decorations of his reception-room at the Chief Secretary's office, all the beautiful white flowers, and presented them to me in recognition, he said, of "the purity of my intentions."
Men who are this truly chivalrous to women are, as a rule, generous in their appreciation of all that is pure and refined in sentiment, and therefore (other things being equal) are the willing patrons of poetry and art.
Besides, I have heard of several other acts of the late Sir John See that were touching in their unaffected, spontaneous and yet dignified courtesy, where he might have been supercilious and indifferent, and even arbitrary. I may never be writing again in such a way as to afford me an opportunity of thanking him for those pure white flowers which have never faded from my grateful memory.
The friend and relative I have already referred to in the first pages of my introductory chapter, as being an ardent admirer of Australian poets generally, was the late William Charles Melville, a solicitor, at that time, on the Manning River. In response to my appeal for help in search for specimens of Kendall's poetry, and for some information regarding his life, my friend, when sending me the volume of "Poems and Songs" as a loan, ​wrote the following, which is given as nearly as possible in his own words at the time, as I remember them, and as far as I can gather from any manuscript now at hand; and though he has long since passed away, I know he would have no objection to my making use of his letters on this particular subject, in any way helpful to the full appreciation of the poet's work. For one of the features of Kendall's poetry is that all those who read his poems and like them—like Kendall himself, as well—with a tender sympathy as though for a much-gifted but delicate sensitive brother whom we would shelter from pain or hardship of any kind if we could. And surely if angels from Heaven ever visit this earth of ours, and are hovering about us, it is when we feel thus. At least, I have always felt through life the protective instinct towards another human being as the angels whisper.
My friend writes:— "Dear A.,
I wish I could give you some assistance in this matter, but I really know very little, comparatively, about the poet's life. While he was living here he was very much away from home on his travelling duties in the forest-ranging lines, and I did not meet him more than a half-a-dozen times or so. I first met him at the conclusion of a lecture he had been delivering on Australia, in the Cundleton School of Arts. He asked me what I thought of his lecture, and, of course, I said it was splendid; in fact, his lecture was good, but was certainly not well delivered. It was a very short lecture—indeed, rather an essay than a lecture, and occupied less than half an hour in delivery. He read it, and then he eked out the half hour by giving us a few readings from his own prize poem on Australia, written on the occasion of the International Exhibition held in the Garden Palace, Sydney. His elocution, probably because of his nervous self-consciousness, was affected, and his gestures were awkward, and he looked shy to the verge of childishness on being introduced to the audience. It was during the intermission, between his lecture and the subsequent concert which was to close the evening that I met him; and he soon hurried home, not waiting for the concert. ​He was almost as childishly shy off the platform as he was when in the presence of the audience; but his shyness wore off to a great extent after some acquaintance. He could take any amount of praise. As I like praise myself, I could quite understand that; so I won his heart completely the second time I saw him by quoting a line from his first published volumes of Poems and Songs, edited when he was little more than nineteen years of age, and which has always been treasured by me as one of my pet volumes of poetry, not only because of the sweetness and melody of many of its verses, but also because my familiarity with the Australian bush and river and coastal scenery enabled me to appreciate the wonderful truthfulness of his poetic descriptions of the main features of the land that gave me day. 'Mountains' was the name of the piece from which I quoted, when I much pleased the author by doing so. It was on the occasion of his trip to Tinoonee his first visit there, I think). Some of us were taking him for a walk to show him one of our pretty river views of which we were very proud. The conversation happened to turn on scenery generally, and New England scenery in particular; whereupon I, with as much enthusiasm as my quiet nature is capable of, exclaimed: 'Ah! That is what you'll see "Long hillocks looking like to waves of ocean turned to stone."' This excited our sensitive friend so much that he almost jumped in his child-like glee as he clutched me by the arm, exclaiming, 'Do you remember that, old man?' I forgot what I said in reply, but I made an effort to say something appropriate and pleasing; for, as I caught this faint glimpse of the inner chamber of the poet's soul, in his rapture that one of his spiritual off-spring had met with some just appreciation, I painfully realised the intense sorrow he must have suffered under the fire of unmerited harsh criticism, or the equally disheartening effect and hope-benumbing influence of faint praise. 'Vex not the poet's soul.'
"The following is a specimen of Kendall's prose, from which he occasionally lapses into poetry; and as he did not give it a place in his published works it may be interesting to those who want to know something of the ​private life of the poet when he was not thinking of the public, and simply gave expression to an experience in his hours of recreation and leisure. It was shortly after he went to live at Cundletown, on the Manning River, where he gave the lecture mentioned in the preceding page that he wrote the following:—
"About a mile from Cundletown I came unexpectedly upon the loveliest bit of river scenery I ever saw in my life. It is a crescent of the surpassingly beautiful little stream called the Dawson, which empties itself into the Manning River near this point. The half circle formed by the clear, soft river round a copse of rich, dark foliage is as perfect in kind as if it has been measured by art. The bank opposite the brushwood is a great green slope, falling away, with its verdure, into limpid water. Some one of these days the floods more than half ruin the picture, but I dread to think of the time; for
"Here, indeed, the soul of song Might stay a life and dream; And strain of harp would echo long The music of the stream.
Here in this spot of soft green light I saw that perfect thing— The poem I can never write, The song I cannot sing.
Some great glad lustre floods my face, All life seems joy to-day. And I will carry from this place A radiant dream away.
Hard toil may weary hand and heart, But it will comfort me To know a bit of fairy land Is now so near to me.
"He was then living, I believe, at Cundletown, where his wife and family were also residing with him on leaving Camden Haven, and while he was Inspector of Forests, a position given to him by Sir Henry Parkes.
​"In some of Kendall's poems you will find grammatical constructions that may seem a little unusual, yet scarcely ungrammatical. At a meeting held in the School of Arts, Sydney, shortly after the poet's death, for the purpose of inaugurating a movement for the substantial recognition of his worth, the late Dr. Badham (then of the Sydney University) humorously apologising for his taking a leading part in such a movement, said: "What have I to do with such a man as Kendall? I am a literary man, 'tis true—but of how different a stamp—I am a verbal critic, if anything. What have I to do with one who will 'tear language to tatters,' but it shall express his meaning?" It was to the generous appreciation of the late Dr. Badham's predecessor as the head of the Sydney University, Dr. Woolly, that Kendall had free access to and use of the University Library. That was, I believe, after the publication of his first volume of "Poems and Songs."
"When you ask me to name some of the verses of Kendall's that take my fancy, 'the embarrassment of riches perplexes me.' but one entitled 'Wombereall' has always been a special favourite of mine. The poet picks up a shell—a sea-shell—'just a shell to which the seaweed, glittering yet with greenness clings.' But how that shell speaks to him. He is not like Wordsworth's hero who viewed 'a primrose on the river brim.' Just a primrose 'twas to him, and it was nothing more. This shell was much to Kendall—just a shell—but how vividly it makes past scenes and past events pass in review before him. Deniehy, one of the poet's early friends, defined genius as "the soul working through the organs of intellect." Tell me what the soul is and we will tell you the secret of the poet's power.
"Womberall" does not seem to have found a corner among any of the poems published in book form.
"Before Kendall came to Cundletown he had been living at Camden Haven for some years, principally employed, I believe, in keeping books for his friend, Mr. Hagan, and others.
​"His life all through seems, from all that I have heard, to have been almost an unchequered plain of misfortune. Trouble followed trouble, each subsiding only to give place to another, like the waves of a rising tide. Whether his misfortunes were caused partly by his faults, or his faults caused by his misfortunes, or whether each was cause, in turn, acting and reacting on each other I will not attempt to say. If there was some little grain of dross mixed in with his fine gold, it is our part to forget that, seeing that we have not paid him half the debt we owe him.
"That unhappy master Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, Till its song one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope The melancholy burden bore, of never, never more."
SIR HENNIKER HEATON.
Mr. Melville also informed me that Kendall had been dead for over two years, and nothing was done towards raising a monument to perpetuate his memory until Mr. Henniker Heaton (Sir Henniker Heaton) took steps to raise one at his own expense, over his grave, and to place his bust in the University. Apropos to this neglect, the Sydney "Bulletin" published some lines at that time:
"He sleeps beside the sea, The Lord of Song, For fame what now cares he, And what for wrong?
He sang the land's first strain Of tears and fire, And broke the world's old chain That bound its lyre. ​He brought to homeless homes A soft sweet light. Garnered from sea-foam crest, Sharp and bright.
He died.The natives Did, to mark its loss, Some sign arise, It did—a wooden cross.
Whereon go grit your teeth, Who fame would win— There, hangs a nation's wreath Of painted tin."
I do not know who wrote these lines, and am sorry for that, as he certainly deserves our thanks. If I remember rightly, I read these lines in the course of my Kendall lecture, and they had the desired effect; for when these lines were sent to me, just before my lecture on Henry Kendall and his poetry at the Sydney School of Arts, under the patronage of the School of Arts Committee (Mr. P.J. Holdsworth, as chairman), there had been really no practically energetic measures taken by the public for the erection of a suitable monument to his memory; or if any such measures had been started immediately after his death, they had been, comparatively, dropped. But the ball was, so to speak, again "sent rolling" with a set purpose of some public recognition of the Sydney citizens' gratitude and esteem for his works as a poet, with the result of a suitable monument being erected over his last earthly resting-place in the cemetery of Waverly, "by the sounding sea," where he had, I understood, desired to be buried. With the copy of the lines from the Syndey "Bulletin," and from the same source were sent me the serves of the In Memoriam piece on Marcus Clark, the author of the Australian story, "For the Term of His Natural Life," and many other brilliant writings appearing mostly in the columns of the Melbourne and Victorian Press and various magazines. The verses were written too late for publication in the volume entitled "Songs from the Mountains," which was ​the last volume published during the poet's lifetime. And they do not appear in the volume, "Kendall's Poems" published some years after his death, and edited by Mr. Alexander Sutherland. As Marcus Clark had many admirers, one of whom, particularly, I remember having heard speak highly of his writings (the late Richard Birnie, B.A., who was for many years the essayist of the "Australasian," Melbourne), some verses of the In Memoriam piece are inserted here:—
MARCUS CLARK.
"The night wind sobs on cliffs austere, Where gleams by fits the wintry star, And in the wild, dumb woods I hear A moaning at the bar.
Here, sitting by a dying flame. I cannot choose but think with grief Of Harpur, whose unhappy name Is as an autumn leaf.
And domed by deeper depths of blue, 'Apart from fields of forest dark,' I see the eyes that once I knew— The eyes of Marcus Clark.
Their clear, bright beauty shines apace, But sunny dreams in shadow end, The sods have hid the faded face Of my heroic friend.
Few knew the cross he had to bear, And moan beneath from day to day, His were the bitter hours that wear The human heart away."
"His laurels in the pit were won, He had to take the lot austere, That ever seems to wait upon The man of letters here.
His soul was self-withdrawn; he made A secret of his bitter life Of struggle in inelement shade, For helpless child and wife.
He toiled for love, unwatched, unseen, And fought his troubles hand by hand Till, like a friend of gentle mien, Death took him by the hand.
He rests in peace—no grasping thief Of hope and health can steal away The beauty of the flower and leaf, Upon his tomb to-day."
It was in referring to Kendall's verses on Marcus Clarke that I remember Mr. Richard Birnie spoke of the works of that writer admiringly. He quoted Kendall's words, "The eyes of Marcus Clark," and gave us, his select audience (my husband and myself), an essay extempore in Collins Street East, as was his custom whenever we met leisurely out of doors, just after dining "au restaurant," which happened very often in those days. I regarded these impromptu essays (enriched with quotations from almost every standard author, and in various languages) as my most valuable lessons in literature and in elocution. I remember Mr. Birnie telling me, with a suspicious twinkle in his eye (as if slyly laughing at his own frequent "deliveries" in Collins Street to the "select audience" just referred to), that a speaker's desire should be for "fit audience, though few." Fortunately, the police in those days were much more gentlemanly and forhearing than they would be now, under similar circumstances, for we were never ordered "to move on." The essays were begun and ended on the Collins Street pavements, generally at the Town Hall ​corner, during which we never moved an inch, but obstructed the pathway oblivious of all else—such a continuous flow of eloquence did that wonderful old gentleman of eighty or thereabouts, perhaps ninety, pour forth, almost hypnotising one by his super-abundance of mental energy and power of concentration. Dear old Mr. Richard Birnie, his photo and a volume of his essays are besides me now, and his snuff-box, though I don't indulge in the use of snuff. But the snuff-box—that same one—is associated with those verbal essays, for it came into use occasionally during his discourse. Perhaps that was the reason it was thrust into our hands when parting for the last time on leaving Melbourne. It is scarcely necessary to say that Mr. Richard Birnie was no ordinary essayist. Many were subscribers to the "Australasian" of those days, especially because of "The Essayist." And even some Sydney people had the "Australasian" from Melbourne for the same reason: because those essays were not only masterpieces in a literary sense, but always carried a high moral tone with them that found a permanent resting place in one's memory. These grand old men it is always a life long privilege to have met and known; for their influence for good is, as a rule, abiding. Mr. Richard Birnie was a younger son of Sir Richard Birnie, baronet. He was B.A. of Cambridge, a barrister by profession, and one of the most eloquent lecturers in his younger days (so I was informed by the gentleman who first introduced him to me, who was old enough to remember those days) that has ever favoured Australian audiences. He could be most severely critical in his own refined way, but with that broad-minded spirit that did not carp at the mere trivial irregularities of an otherwise admirable individuality. That is, he did not point his finger disdainfully (like so many petty man do) merely because "Cet homme la n'a pas un bouchle sur sou soulier," which quotation, I remember, was a favourite one of his, and fixed itself on my memory. But he made so many startlingly apposite quotations in the course of his conversations of a literary kind that one would be somewhat embarrassed to find space for them even in a volume dedicated to their use exclusively.
OUTRE MER.
But to return to Kendall. My Correspondent, W.C. Melville, from whose letters I have already quoted so copiously, afterwards posted to me "Outre Mer," which was not, I think, to be found in any of the volumes of poetry edited at that time, but which is the concluding poem of the volume "Kendall's Poems," edited long after the time we are speaking of here. Mr. Melville wrote: "The poet's own requiem might be fitly sung in his own exquisite words written about six years before his death, beginning:
"I see as in a dreamscape, A broad, bright, quiet sea; And over it a haven, The only home for me.
Some men grow strong with trouble, But all my strength is past, And tired and full of sorrow, I long to sleep at last.
By force of change and changes, Man's life is hard at best; And seeing rest is voiceless, The dearest thing is rest.
Beyond the sea—behold it, The home I wish to seek, The refuge of the weary, The solace of the weak!
Sweet angel fingers beckon, Sweet angel voices ask My soul to cross the waters; And yet I dread the task."
"Poor Kendall! at last, he did dare the task of crossing the waters. Let us think that he has there found the rest pictured in his dreamscape, and that 'safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution.'
"He lies, whom we call dead."
CHARLES HARPUR.
As most of Kendall's ardent lovers and admirers were also much attached to the memory of the poet, Charles Harpur, and have sometimes been much disappointed, if not irritated, by the fact of his poems being so little prized after his death that there was no effort made to collect them into volume form, a few verses of Kendall's, to the memory of the genius of his poet-friend, as well as to the warm-heartedness that characterised him as a man, may, perhaps, be more appositely introduced here than later on; for Charles Harpur (I have been informed, very many years ago, by those who spoke of him from personal acquaintance), though sensitive (as all poets are), was not a shy, nervous, retiring man like Kendall, but, on the contrary, very genial in his manner and equally at home with social life and interests, as he was a passionate lover of Nature. All this Kendall portrays in his poem:
CHARLES HARPUR.
"Where Harpur lies the rainy streams, And wet hill-heads, and hollows weeping, Are swift with wind, and white with gleams, And hoarse with sounds of storms unsleeping.
Fit grave it is for one whose song Was tuned by tones he caught from torrents, And filled with mountain-breaths, and strong, Wild notes of falling forest currents.
So let him sleep! the rugged hymns And broken lights of woods above him. And let me sing how sorry dims The eyes of those that used to love him.
As April in the wilted weld Turns faded eyes on splendours waning, What time the latter leaves are old, And ruin strikes the strays remaining. ​So we that knew this singer dead, Whose hands attuned the harp Australian, May set the face and bow the head, And mourn his fate and fortunes alien.
The burden of a perished faith Went sighing through his speech of sweetness, With human hints of time and death, And subtle notes of incompleteness.
But when the fiery power of youth Had passed away and left him nameless, Serene as light, and strong as truth, He lived his life, untired and tameless.
And far and free, this man of men, With wintry hair and wasted features, Had fellowship with gorge and glen, And learned the loves and runes of Nature.
Strange words of wind, and rhymes of rain, And whispers from the inland fountains. Are unhinged in his various strain, With leafy breaths of piny mountains.
But as the undercurrents sigh Beneath the surface of a river, The music of humanity Dwells in his forest-psalms for ever.
No soul was he to sit on heights And live with rocks apart and scornful; Delights of men were his delights, And common troubles made him mournful.
The flying forms of unknown powers, With lofty wonder caught and thrilled him; But there were days of gracious hours, When sights and sounds familiar thrilled him.
The pathos worn by wayside things, The passion found in simple faces, Struck deeper than the life of springs, Or strength of storms and sea-swept places. ​But now he sleeps, the tired bard, The deepest sleep; and, lo! I proffer These tender leaves of my regard. With hands that falter as they offer."
This is a very remarkable poem, when we come to think of its minute description of a gifted intellect and a noble character, in the compass of a few verses. What reviewer of poetic work could so graphically and so eloquently portray, in a whole column of literary criticism, the characteristics of Harpur's poems as Kendall has done in this graceful tribute to the memory of the author of "A Storm among the Mountains."
Would that we had some bold, free-spirited men like Harpur among us now, for he wrote of Australia as "the Cradle of Liberty," which it was when he wrote about it. But the Cradle is empty, and Liberty, "thrice sweet and gracious goddess," has "turned her face to the wall," in her bereavement for her first-born, amidst her vast domains, for which at present she has no inheritor. She has cast her "pearls before swine" who have trampled them beneath their feet, and who would turn again and rend her.
But to return to Harpur. He also had the experience of the life austere "that ever seems to wait upon the man of letters here"—that is, where the fire and ardour of the poet must be, comparatively, quenched in the more prosaic work of journalism, simply to earn a livelihood. For the Muse waits on no man, but exacts instant and undivided attention to her "call," and will admit of no rival claims on the time or the mental energy of the mortal who would aspire to Fame as the recipient of Her favours. The moment of inspiration must be seized as "the pearl of great price" for the loss of which nothing else can compensate. And even then one must ignore the present and work for Eternity.