Chapter VII: Prologue (6)

I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In 1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Britanny, having rained a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India, in that unfortunate expedition commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the failure of which eventual lost to the French their possessions in Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending, against the forces of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that hemisphere. He was buried that night on the north bastion of the fortress by a few faithful followers, and the next day the fleet sailed with the remainder of the garrison for Europe. In the appendix to the "Memoirs of LALLY-TOLENDAL," by his Son, the following lines occur, which bear some resemblance to those attributed to Wolfe. Perhaps Wolf Tone may have communicated them to his relative the clergyman on his return from France. _Fides sit penès lectorem._

P. PROUT.

THE ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD."

I.
Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funebre ...
Ni le feu des soldats ... ne marqua son depart.--
Mais du BRAVE, à la hâte, à travers les tenebres,
Mornes ... nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart!

II.
De Minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre--
La lune à peine offrait un debile rayon;
La lanterne luisait peniblement dans l'ombre,
Quand de la bayonette on creusa le gazon.

III.
D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funeraire
Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS;
Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire
Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos.

IV.
La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée:
Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le coeur fut plein!
Mais on fixait du MORT la figure adorée ...
Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain.

V.
Au demain! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprête,
Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots,
L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête,
Et nous, ses veterans, serons loin sur les flots!

VI.
Ils terniront sa gloire ... un pourra le entendre
Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer ... ou fol;--
Il les laissera dire.--Eh! qu'importe À SA CENDRE
Que la main d'un BRETON a confiée au sol?

VII.
L'oeuvre durait encor, quand retentit la cloche
Au sommet du Befroi:--et le canon lointain
Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche,
Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain.

VIII.
Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement ...
Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée:
Ne mimes à l'endroit pierre ni monument
Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée!

A GOSSIP WITH SOME OLD ENGLISH POETS.
BY CHARLES OLLIER.

All hail to the octo-syllabic measure! the most cheerful, buoyant, and terse of all metres; at once familiar and refined, and fitted more than any other to the narration of a gay and laughing tale. Lord Byron, who indulged in it not a little, was pleased nevertheless to condemn it for what he called its "fatal facility;" but we believe that is _facility_ is more a matter for the enjoyment of the reader than for the execution of the writer; since, in the latter respect, it seems to demand so much of polish, point, and neatness, as to require, in its very absence of all apparent effort, no little labour in him who would do its claims full justice. Cowper, who was ambitious to excel in this pleasant verse, declared that the "easy jingle" of Mat. Prior was inimitable; but Prior, delightful as his octo-syllabic poetry undoubtedly is, has many rivals,--not indeed among his contemporaries, but in poets who preceded and followed him. Shakespeare, for example, in whose boundless riches is found almost every variety of the Muse, has given us abundant specimens of this verse in the prologues to each act of "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," as spoken by the Ghost of old Gower, who, having, in his _Confessio Amantis_, told the story afterwards dramatised by Shakespeare, is evoked from his "ashes" to explain to the spectators the progress of the incidents of the play. The following _notturno_ could hardly have been as pleasantly conveyed in any other measure:--

"Now sleep yslaked hath the rout;
No din but snores, the house about,
Made louder by the o'er-fed breast
Of this most pompous marriage feast.
The cat, with eyne of burning coal,
Now couches 'fore the mouse's hole;
And crickets sing at th' oven's mouth,
As the blither for their drouth.
Hymen hath brought the bride to bed."

Ben Johnson, too, has revelled in this metre: its sweet cheerfulness appears, for the time, to have drawn from his mind its austere and sarcastic qualities, and to have lulled the violence of his wit. Old Ben is, in short, never seen in so happy and amiable a light as when he writes in the octo-syllabic. Here in a specimen:--

"Some act of Love bound to rehearse,
I thought to bind him in my verse;
Which, when he felt, 'Away!' quoth he,
'Can poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough they once did get
Mars and my mother in their net;
I wear not these my wings in vain.
With which he fled me; and again
Into my rhymes could ne'er be got
By any art. Then wonder not
That, since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old."

But what shall we say of Herrick, the English Anacreon, who fondled this measure with such graceful dalliance? We cannot resist the temptation of making an extract, and of _italicising_ a line or two, that we may enjoy them with the reader:--

"A sweet disorder in the dresse
Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse;
A lawne about the shoulders thrown
_Into a fine distraction_;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuffe neglectfull, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly;
_A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticote_;
A carelesse shooe-string, in whose tye
_I see a wild civility_;
Doe more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part."

Mark the ease, the play, the _curiosa felicitas_, of this exquisite little poem. Could it have been as happy in any other measure?

The stern and unflinching patriot, Andrew Marvell, evidently takes delight in the piquant grace of the octo-syllabic. Here is a passage from his poem addressed to the Lord Fairfax, descriptive of the grounds about that nobleman's house, in Yorkshire, called Nun-Appleton. Speaking of the meadows, Marvell says:--

"No scene, that turns with engines strange,
Does oftener than these meadows change;
For when the sun the grass hath vex'd,
The tawny mowers enter next;
_Who seem like Israelites to be,
Walking on foot through a green sea_.
To them the grassy deeps divide,
And crowd a lane to either side.
With whistling scythe, and elbow strong,
_These massacre the grass along_.

* * * * *

The mower now commands the field;
In whose new traverse seemeth wrought
A camp of battle newly fought;
Where, as the meads with hay, the plain
Lies quilted o'er with bodies slain:
The women that with forks it fling,
Do represent the pillaging.
And now the careless victors play,
Dancing the triumphs of the hay.
When, after this, 'tis piled in cocks,
_Like a calm sea it shews the rocks_."

The poems of Thomas Randolph, a writer of the seventeenth century, are not so well known as they deserve to be. A specimen, therefore, of his treatment of our favourite verse, will be some such a novelty as is afforded by the revival of an obsolete fashion. He is addressing his mistress while walking through a grove:--

"See Zephyrus through the leaves doth stray,
And has free liberty to play,
And braid thy locks. And shall I find
Less favour than a saucy wind?
Now let me sit and fix my eyes
On thee that art my paradise.
Thou art my all: the spring remains
In the fair violets of thy veins;
And that it is a summer's day,
Ripe cherries in thy lips display;
And when for autumn I would seek,
'Tis in the apples of thy cheek;
But that which only moves my smart,
Is to see winter in thy heart."

Of Butler it is needless to speak; everybody knows Hudibras. He is, indeed, a glorious champion of the octo-syllabic verse. The glories, too, of Prior,--the witty, the humorous, the _riant_ Prior,--are too well known to require illustration. We say "too well known," for Matthew, alas! had a sovereign contempt for _les bienséances_, and only, now-a-days, finds his "way into families" because time and a classic reputation have, in a manner, sanctified his extravagancies. But what must have been the irresistible charm of his octo-syllabic measure, to have seduced the morbid methodist, Cowper, into a warm eulogy of the very metre in which his licentious freaks were perpetuated?

As in Prior's case, Gay chose this particular verse to sin in. We do not allude to his "Fables," but to his "Tales," which are dexterous and pleasant enough, but wrong. The reader must not expect specimens. From the next writer, however, to whom we shall allude, namely, Green, author of "The Spleen," we shall be happy to transfer to our pages an extract. Green was a member of the Society of Friends; but, whatever might have been the formality of the outward man, never did a more genial heart beat in the bosom of a human creature than in that of Quaker Green. He was a philosopher, a humanist, a wit, a poet; and we do not like him the less because he took especial delight in the sly humour of the eight-syllable rhyme. He found in this measure a pleasant compromise between a staid cheerfulness and a roystering joke, and he dandled it to his heart's content in the true spirit of Quaker love-making; that is to say, with a certain significance of purpose qualified by sobriety of pretence. The friendly triumph of the flesh over the spirit was never more cordially manifested; but all is done "with conscience and tender heart." The poem called "The Spleen" would have been a luxury from any writer. From Green, in his drab coat, it has a double relish. The fire that burned under the broad-brimmed hat of this wise and gentle lover of humanity, was too strong for the stuff of which his physical man was composed; it

"O'er informed his tenement of clay;"

and our poetical Quaker died before he had reached his middle age. His principal poem is distinguished by the elastic play of the versification, by manly good sense, and flashing wit. Poor Green! it was especially necessary for him, with his delicate organization, to study how he might best exorcise the spleen, or, as we should now call it, hypochondria,--a task which we, in our Miscellany, have taken under our especial care. The following extract from the exordium to the Quaker's poem will afford a good taste of his quality. We have italicised some lines that appeared to be peculiarly felicitous:--

"Hunting I reckon very good
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood;
But after no field-honours itch,
Atchiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.
_While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed,
Or o'er coal-fires inclines the head_,
Hygeia's sons with hound and horn,
And jovial cry, awake the Morn:
These see her from her dusky plight,
Smear'd by th' embraces of the Night,
With roral wash redeem her face,
And prove herself of Titan's race,
_And, mounting in loose robes the skies,
Shed light and fragrance as she flies_.
Then horse and hound fierce joy display,
Exulting at the 'Hark-away!'
And in pursuit o'er tainted ground
From lungs robust field-notes resound.
Then, as St. George the dragon slew,
_Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view_,
While all the spirits are on wing,
And woods, and hills, and valleys ring.
To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen,
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks; all, exercise;
_Fling but a stone, the giant dies_;
Laugh, and be well. Monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the Spleen;
And kitten, if the humour hit,
Has harlequin'd away the fit."

We may take an opportunity of resuming this subject.

THE RISING PERIODICAL;
BEING MR. VERDANT'S ACCOUNT OF HIS LAST AERIAL VOYAGE,

_edited_ BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

Without apology, I'll trace
Our airy flight across the sea,
Because at once we raised _ourselves_
And public curiosity.

And well might those who saw us off,
Our many perils long discuss,
Because, ere we were out of sight,
'Twas certainly "all up with us!"

There might be danger, sure enough,
On high, from thirst and hunger blending;
But men are told they should _bear up_
Against the danger that's impending.

So we bore up into the clouds,
Of creature comforts ample store;
And really coffee ne'er was known
To rise so speedily before.

Our tongues, though salted, never halted;
Our game fresh-kill'd was very high;
And, though all nicely truss'd and roasted,
We saw our fowls and turkeys fly!

Our solid food rose like a puff,
Hard biscuit seem'd a trifle, too;
And our champagne was so much up,
That e'en our empty bottles flew!

Our spirits rose; in fact we were,
When not a dozen miles from Dover,
Quite in a _state of elevation_,
Indisputably "_half seas over_."

How like conspirators were we,
So snug we kept our hour of rising;
And when our movement once was made,
All London cried, "Oh! how surprising!"

If, when we soar'd above the great,
They trembled, 'twas without occasion:
Our thoughts were turned to France; in truth
We meditated an invasion!

But over earth and over sea
We went without one hostile notion;
Our war on earth, a civil war;
The Channel,--our Pacific Ocean.

When passing over Chatham town
We were just finishing a chicken;
A soldier and a maiden fair
I saw whilst I the bones was picking.

I threw a drumstick at the youth,
Who all around the culprit sought;
And whilst the maiden laughed aloud,
I struck her with a merry thought.

In darkness we the Channel cross'd,
And left our fragile car to chance;
And, scorning customary rules,
Without a passport enter'd France!

But on we went, and our descent
Bewilder'd many a German gaper;
Until, to prove from whence we came,
We show'd the last day's London paper!

We're told no good that is substantial
Results from all we nobly dare;
What then?--We took a clever MASON
To build us castles in the air.

We're not like certain _rising men_,
Puff'd up with vain presumptuous thoughts;
We nothing boast of what we've done,
And deem ourselves mere airy-noughts!
T. H. B

AN ITALIAN ANECDOTE.

_Naples, July 1._--This was one of the hottest days of the season. I had long contemplated Fort St. Elmo, high on the crest of the mountain which overhung Naples, as one of the objects which I was bound to visit. I knew and felt that, like Vesuvius, it was one of those sights which exercise a tyranny over every traveller, not to be evaded, and which he must see, or hazard his peace of mind for ever; but never yet had I been able to overcome my natural indolence, and to proceed to explore it. On this morning I rose with an alacrity and love of enterprise quite unusual to me, and I at once determined to ascend to St. Elmo to see the magnificent Certosini Convent, with the Chiesa di S. Martino, to enjoy the extensive view which this summit presents, and to hear the ascending buzz of the city and its numerous inhabitants. I immediately sent to T----, to accompany me; and, after eating a hearty breakfast, we took our departure.

Who that has ever mounted the steep, rugged, and never-ending ascent, will not pity the middle-aged gentleman of indolent habits, seeing sights for conscience sake, of no mean size, (for such I am,) as he struggled with the difficulties before him, looking up in dismay at the castle, inflating and distending his lungs with an action to which they had long been unaccustomed, until his face rivalled the sun in glowing crimson?

At length we reached our object. We saw the sights,--admired the beauty of the church, and its beautiful pictures by Spagnoletto,--exclaimed with rapture at the view, and heard the buzz. With my conscience satisfied, and with my critical observations on all we had seen, ready to be made upon the first favourable opportunity, I lost no time in descending to whence we came. By this time it was past meridian. The descent was very trying upon legs of forty-five years' standing; and the tremulous motion which it produced upon the muscles, only increased the longing I felt, to find myself once more extended full length on my sofa at the Vittoria.

I had taken off my coat, and, lazzaroni-like, had thrown it over my shoulder; my neckcloth was thrust into my waistcoat pocket, and my neck was bare. I carried my hat on my stick, using it by way of parasol; and, thus accoutred, I determined to make one desperate effort to brave the heat of the sun, that was baking the pavement of Santa Lucia, and emitting a glare that acted like a burning-glass upon my eyeballs. As we walked through this ordeal, we passed close to an assembly of young lazzaronis, basking in the sun, near to a stall; there they lay, in the midst of fish-bones, orange-peels, and decayed melons. We evidently excited their mirth; and I, in particular, felt myself privileged to be laughed at,--for what could be more grotesque than my appearance? One of the boys was standing. We had scarcely turned our backs upon them, when I received a blow on the head from a melon-rind;--I turned about, and immediately the whole gang ran off laughing. I would have followed; but, in truth, was too tired. I could scarcely move but at a slow walk. The boys stopped, and looked at us. At length, making a virtue of necessity, I called out to the boy who had thrown the melon-rind, to come to me--he hesitated; I called again--he was evidently puzzled, and suspicious of my intention; I then showed him a carline. "Come here," said I, "take this." "In the name of goodness!" exclaimed T----, "what are you about?" "Never mind," said I; "stop and see." The boy at length took courage, and came to me. "Here," said I, "_bravo! bravissimo! avete fatto bene!_ take this." Upon which, in surprise, the boy, taking the piece of money out of my hand, ran off in the greatest exultation, showing it to his little friends as a prize fallen down from heaven.

"Now do tell me," said T----, "what demon of madness can have possessed you? You ought to have broken every bone in that young rascal's skin, instead of feeing him for insulting us." "So I would," said I, "if I could; but to catch him is impossible. By feeing him for his insolence, he will probably throw another piece of melon at the first Englishman he sees, who will, no doubt, give him the beating which I cannot." T---- laughed heartily at the ingenious turn which my indolence had taken--administering a beating _à ricochet_, as he called it; and, having reached my room, we laughed over our adventure, and speculated upon the beating the youngster would get.

And, true enough, the next day, as we were seated on one of the benches of the Villa Reale, we heard a sort of hue and cry on the Chiaja, and shortly after, saw our carroty and irascible friend W---- appear, foaming with rage, streaming from every pore, owing to some recent exertion, and exploding with bursts of execration. He came straight to us.--"Who ever knew such an infernal country as this?" said he, "D--them all for a beggarly set of villains. Did you ever see the like? I gave it him well, however,--that's some comfort. The young rascal won't forget me, for some time, I'll warrant you!" T---- and I smiled at each other in anticipation of the reason, which only made him more furious. "Here," said he, "was I walking quietly along, when a young rascal of a lazzaroni thought fit to shy half a water-melon at my head;--you may laugh; but it was no laughing matter to me, nor to him either, for I have half killed the young urchin; and then, forsooth, I must have half the town of Naples upon me, backed by all their carrion of old women." We allowed his rage to expend itself, and said nothing, for fear of being implicated in his wrath, inasmuch as I was the origin of his disaster; but, truly, indolence was never so completely justified, as on this occasion. J. M.

OUR SONG OF THE MONTH.

No. II. February, 1837.

OUR VALENTINE.

With a frozen old saint, our Miscellany quaint
We headed last month in a jolly, gay song;
It was fit that a priest should say grace to the feast
Before any layman should stick in a prong.
But now we've no need for the dark-flowing weed
Of a padre to hallow our frolics so fine;
'Tis a bishop, this moon, is to set us in tune--
And his name you know, maidens, is Saint Valentine.

So, love to our ladies from Lapland to Cadiz,
From the Tropics to Poles, (be the same more or less)--
But we know that in print they will ne'er take the hint
Half as soft and as sweet as in perfumed _MS._
And we wish that we knew any fair one as true
As to think all we're writing superb and divine,
At her feet should we lay--not a word about pay--
Our work as her tribute on Saint Valentine.

Yet why but to one should our homage be done?
We pay it to all whose smiles lighten out art:
To Edgeworth, to Morgan, to Baillie's deep organ,
To Hall's Irish pathos, to Norton's soft heart,
To the Countess so rare, to Costello the fair,
To Miss L. E. L., to high-born Emmeline;
But a truce to more names--Take this, darling dames,
Sweet friends of the pen, as our first Valentine.
W. M.

OLIVER TWIST,
OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.

BY BOZ.

ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.