A Century of Emblems — Story, Setting & Ideas

Movement Between Exotic and Domestic Scenes

Cautley’s emblems alternate between foreign locales—the Nile, a desert peak, a Nubian boat—and familiar English settings: a churchyard, a rose garden at Ashridge, a meadow stream. The shift is abrupt and deliberate. In “The Arab Well,” the speaker recoils from a well where women “with scandal taint the air”; in “Texts on Tombstones,” the reader is urged to “read in reverent tones / The silent Scripture overhead.” The foreign scenes often depict violence or deception; the domestic ones offer quiet piety. This contrast suggests that moral lessons are universal but most clearly seen at a distance. The Nubian boatmen, “bronze-armed slaves,” row “through burning hours” while singing praise, a model of faithful labor that the “recumbent traveller” is meant to note. Cautley uses geography to frame virtue: the exotic tests the reader’s eye, the familiar confirms it.

Recurring Images of Water and Wells

Water appears repeatedly as a site of truth, danger, or refreshment. In “The Arab Well,” the well traps Truth, who is “dumb” while women “dash the bucket in her face.” The Forget-me-not grows “fast by the fount of tears,” linking memory to sorrow. The Christian pilgrim finds a “wayside fountain” that freshens him before he climbs the “shining mountain.” The Nubian boatmen row “for many a glassy mile” and praise “The Lord that brings the Nile.” Even the dead crocodile lies on the bank of “ancient Nile.” Wells and fountains are not neutral: they are places where truth is hidden, tears are shed, or grace is received. The emblem of the rose garden at Ashridge centers on a fountain’s “gleam,” around which roses bloom “delicious even in decay.” Water in Cautley’s world is a mirror for moral states—murky, refreshing, or still.

The Emblem as a Form of Indirect Teaching

Cautley’s preface explains that Alciati’s emblems were “inserted” like removable ornaments, meant to make “moral and philosophical teaching more attractive.” The poems themselves often withhold the lesson until the final couplet. In “The Dead Crocodile,” the boys’ mockery is described in vivid, almost comic detail—they “cursed his mother and his beard”—before the creature’s tail twitches and they flee. Only then does the speaker announce: “Emblem of cowardice is here.” The hyena poem builds a grotesque image of a beast “captured within a tomb” with jaws “reeking red,” then pivots to “vile scribblers” who “batten on filthy dust.” The reader is led through sensory detail to a moral point that is stated plainly but feels earned. This structure mirrors the emblem tradition’s reliance on the image to precede and justify the text.

Voice and Address to the Reader

Cautley frequently breaks the fourth wall, addressing the reader directly. In “The Arab Well,” he calls out “Ah me!” and later commands “Oh, learn the lesson, reader mine!” The Nubian boatmen poem ends with a warning to the “recumbent traveller” not to float “Without or work or praise.” The Christian pilgrim poem uses “Lo!” to point to the “shining mountain.” This direct address gives the collection the feel of a sermon or a conversation. The speaker is not detached; he is a moral guide who points, exclaims, and admonishes. Yet the tone varies: in “Gratitude,” he gently contrasts the Moslem who “thanks God alone” with the Frank who “thanks only you.” The voice is that of a Victorian clergyman—earnest, observant, and occasionally wry—who trusts that the emblem’s picture and verse together will move the reader to reflection.

Readers will find that A Century of Emblems rewards attention to its small details: the way a flower’s color is called “turquoise,” the precise geography of a “glassy mile,” the sudden twitch of a dead reptile. The poems are best read one at a time, with the illustration in view, allowing each emblem to work as Cautley intended—a removable ornament that may be taken up, considered, and set down again.

I found myself returning to that old clergyman’s emblems, especially the ones set beside the Nile—there’s a stillness in his moral scenes that stays with you long after. It reminded me of how An Almanac of Twelve Sports — Background and Themes holds that same quiet, seasonal patience. Sometimes a few old pictures teach more than a whole shelf of sermons.