Chapter IV: Part 4

Many days have come and gone,
Many suns have set and shone,
HERRICK, since thou sang'st of Wake,
Morris-dance and Barley-break;--
Many men have ceased from care,
Many maidens have been fair,
Since thou sang'st of JULIA'S eyes,
JULIA'S lawns and tiffanies;--
Many things are past: but thou,
GOLDEN-MOUTH, art singing now,
Singing clearly as of old,
And thy numbers are of gold!

WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE.

About the ending of the Ramadán,
When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,
A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,
At the tenth hour to Caliph OMAR came.
"Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last
The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;
Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,
Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!"
"Hast thou no calling, Friend?"--the Caliph said.
"Sir, I make verses for my daily bread."
"Verse!"--answered OMAR. "'Tis a dish, indeed,
Whereof but scantily a man may feed.
Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,--
Verse is a drug not sold in any mart."

_I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;
But this I know--he must have versified,
For, with his race, from better still to worse,
The plague of writing follows like a curse;
And men will scribble though they fail to dine,
Which is the Moral of more Books than mine._

FOR THE AVERY "KNICKERBOCKER."

(WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY G. H. BOUGHTON.)

Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!

BOUGHTON, had you bid me chant
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant!
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)
But to rhyme of this one,--Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?

Nay, but where my hand must fail
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,--
All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,--
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber
In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.

Only art like yours can touch
Shapes so dignified ... and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine-logs gleam and glow,
Till the fire-light laughs and passes
'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,--
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.

Then I come and write beneath,
BOUGHTON, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue--
This the Muse can never do!

TO A PASTORAL POET.

(H. E. B.)

Among my best I put your Book,
O Poet of the breeze and brook!
(That breeze and brook which blows and falls
More soft to those in city walls)
Among my best: and keep it still
Till down the fair grass-girdled hill,
Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes
The wandering wind that wakes the rose,
And scares the cohort that explore
The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er,
Or starts the restless bees that fret
The bindweed and the mignonette.

Then I shall take your Book, and dream
I lie beside some haunted stream;
And watch the crisping waves that pass,
And watch the flicker in the grass;
And wait--and wait--and wait to see
The Nymph ... that never comes to me!

"SAT EST SCRIPSISSE."

(TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.)

When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call,
And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,
It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,
Will find the present volume and listless turn the page.

For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him),
This Book you see before you,--this masterpiece of Whim
Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),--
Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.

For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen;
They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;
But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart
The hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art.

And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style,
Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File;"
And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned
(This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend.

They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star;
They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far;
And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,
They served the Muses truly,--their service was sincere.

This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains
(Yes,--fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains;
And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,
No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note."

And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed,
They marched in that procession where is no first or last;
Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire,
They too had once their ardour--they handed on the fire.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."

In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three,
When the GEORGES were ruling o'er Britain the free,
There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,
By the GOLDSMITH who brought out the _Good-Natur'd Man_.
New-fashioned, in truth--for this play, it appears,
Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears,
While the type of those days, as the learnèd will tell ye,
Was the CUMBERLAND whine or the whimper of KELLY.
So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted,
And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted;
But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it.
Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it!
Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig,
Either grizzle or bob--never mind, you look big.
You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles,
And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles.
You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter,
From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre;
You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet,
And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street;
Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow,
Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know.
See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing,
And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing,
And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir,
Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?"
Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs,
With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs;
So issue at last on the House in its pride,
And pack yourself snug in a box at the side.
Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit,
Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,--
With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming,
With its impudent orange-girls going and coming,
With its endless surprises of face and of feature,
All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature.
Then we turn to the Boxes where TRIP in his lace
Is aping his master, and keeping his place.
Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn,
Like a Duke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn!
Then sniffs at his bouquet, whips round with a smirk,
And ogles the ladies at large--like a Turk.
But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling,
And TRIP must trip up to the seats at a shilling;
And spite of the mourning that most of us wear
The House takes a gay and a holiday air;
For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables,
And seem to catch coquetry even in sables.
Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars,
And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars.

Look, look, there is WILKES! You may tell by the squint;
But he grows every day more and more like the print
(Ah! HOGARTH _could_ draw!); and behind at the back
HUGH KELLY, who looks all the blacker in black.
That is CUMBERLAND next, and the prim-looking person
In the corner, I take it, is _Ossian_ MACPHERSON.
And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,
Comes sturdy old JOHNSON, dressed out in his best;
How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,
Whatever the law is _he's_ laying it down!
Beside him is REYNOLDS, who's deaf; and the hale
Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is THRALE.
There is BURKE with GEORGE STEEVENS. And somewhere, no doubt,
Is the AUTHOR--too nervous just now to come out;
He's a queer little fellow, grave-featured, pock-pitten,
Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten.

But where is our play-bill? _Mistakes of a Night!_
If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight!
_She Stoops._ Let us hope she won't fall at full length,
For the piece--so 'tis whispered--is wanting in strength.
And the humour is "low!"--you are doubtless aware
There's a character, even, that "dances a bear!"
Then the cast is so poor,--neither marrow nor pith!
Why can't they get WOODWARD or Gentleman SMITH!
"LEE LEWES!" Who's LEWES? The fellow has played
Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!
"DUBELLAMY"--"QUICK,"--these are nobodies. Stay, I
Believe I saw QUICK once in _Beau Mordecai_.
Yes, QUICK is not bad. Mrs. GREEN, too, is funny;
But SHUTER, ah! SHUTER'S the man for my money!
He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, is SHUTER,
And he has but one fault--he's too fond of the pewter.
Then there's little BULKELY....

But here in the middle,
From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle.
Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash,
And the music begins with a flourish and crash,
And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying,
While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing.
And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle,
Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle;
And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minute
Grows still as if naught but wax figures were in it.
Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten.
Who is it? _The Prologue._ He's sobbing. Hush! listen.

[_Thereupon enters Mr. Woodward in black, with a
handkerchief to his eyes, to speak Garrick's Prologue,
after which comes the play. In the volume for which the
foregoing additional Prologue was written the following
Envoi was added._]

L'ENVOI.

Good-bye to you, KELLY, your fetters are broken!
Good-bye to you, CUMBERLAND, GOLDSMITH has spoken!
Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming,
For GOLDSMITH has spoken and SHERIDAN'S coming;
And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free air
As she laughed with the Great Ones, with SHAKESPEARE, MOLIÈRE!

PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S "QUIET LIFE."

Even as one in city pent,
Dazed with the stir and din of town,
Drums on the pane in discontent,
And sees the dreary rain come down,
Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass,
Beholds, in fancy, visions pass,
Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves,
Of birds that build in thatch and eaves,
Of woodlands where the throstle calls,
Of girls that gather cowslip balls,
Of kine that low, and lambs that cry,
Of wains that jolt and rumble by,
Of brooks that sing by brambly ways,
Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze,
Of all the dreams with which men cheat
The stony sermons of the street,
So, in its hour, the artist brain
Weary of human ills and woes,
Weary of passion, and of pain,
And vaguely craving for repose,
Deserts awhile the stage of strife
To draw the even, ordered life,
The easeful days, the dreamless nights,
The homely round of plain delights,
The calm, the unambitioned mind,
Which all men seek, and few men find.

EPILOGUE.

Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!
We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.
Is Peace _so_ peaceful? Nay,--who knows!
There are volcanoes under snows.

_In after days when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honoured dust,
I shall not question or reply._

_I shall not see the morning sky;
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!_

_But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying--"He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust."
Will none?--Then let my memory die
In after days!_

NOTES.

NOTES.

"_To brandish the poles of that old Sedan Chair!_"--Page 7.

A friendly critic, whose versatile pen it is not easy to mistake, recalls, _à-propos_ of the above, the following passage from Molière, which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:--

1 Porteur (prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise). _Çà, payez-nous vitement!_

Mascarille. _Quoi!_

1 Porteur. _Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout à l'heure._

Mascarille. _Il est raisonnable, celui-là,_ etc.
_Les Précieuses Ridicules_, Sc. vii.

"_It has waited by portals where Garrick has played._"--Page 8.

According to Mrs. Carter (Smith's _Nollekens_, 1828, i. 211), when Garrick acted, the hackney-chairs often stood "all round the Piazzas [Covent Garden], down Southampton-Street, and extended more than half-way along Maiden-Lane."

"_A skill Préville could not disown._"--Page 23.

Préville was the French Foote, _circa_ 1760. His gifts as a comedian were of the highest order; and he had an extraordinary faculty for identifying himself with the parts he played. Sterne, in a letter to Garrick from Paris, in 1762, calls him "Mercury himself."

MOLLY TREFUSIS.--Page 32.

The epigram here quoted from "an old magazine" is to be found in the late Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, _The Greek Anthology_ (_Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English Readers_). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature will recognize in the succeeding verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to "Molly Mogg of the Rose," which found so many imitators in his own day. Whether my heroine is to be identified with a certain "Miss Trefusis," whose _Poems_ are sometimes to be found in the second-hand booksellers' catalogues, I know not. But if she is, I trust I have done her accomplished shade no wrong.

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE.--Page 43.

The initials "E. H. P." are those of the late eminent (and ill-fated) Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely owed their origin to his translations of Zoheir, I sent them to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly. It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said these would cause no disturbance to orthodox Persians, I concluded I had succeeded in my little _pastiche_, and, with his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and versatile scholars this age has seen.

A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC.--Page 48.

"373. St. Pierre (Bernardin de), _Paul et Virginie_, 12mo, old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers the words: '_à Lucile St. A.... chez M. Batemans, à Edmonds-Bury, en Angleterre_,' very faintly written in pencil." (Extract from Catalogue.)

"_Did she wander like that other?_"--Page 50.

Lucile Desmoulins. See Carlyle's _French Revolution_, Vol. iii. Book vi. Chap. ii.

"_And its tender rain shall lave it._"--Page 52.

It is by no means uncommon for an editor to interrupt some of these revolutionary letters by a "Here there are traces of tears."

"_By 'Bysshe,' his epithet._"--Page 81.

i.e. _The Art of English Poetry_, by Edward Bysshe, 1702.

THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION.--Page 87.

These lines were reprinted from _Notes and Queries_ in Mr. Andrew Lang's instructive volume _The Library_, 1881, where the curious will find full information as to the enormities of the book-mutilators.

"_Have I not writ thy Laws?_"--Page 93.

The lines in italic type which follow, are freely paraphrased from the ancient _Code d' Amour_ of the XIIth Century, as given by André le Chapelain himself.

A DIALOGUE, ETC.--Page 107.

This dialogue, first printed in _Scribner's Magazine_ for May, 1888, was afterwards read by Professor Henry Morley at the opening of the Pope Loan Museum at Twickenham (July 31st), to the Catalogue of which exhibition it was prefixed.

"_The 'crooked Body with a crooked Mind.'_"--Page 108.

"Mens curva in corpore curvo."
Said of Pope by Lord Orrery.

"_Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake._"--Page 115.

The Shire Hall at Taunton, where these verses were read at the unveiling, by Mr. James Russell Lowell, of Miss Margaret Thomas's bust of Fielding, September 4th, 1883, also contains busts of Admiral Blake and John Locke.

"_The Journal of his middle-age._"--Page 118.

It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to the _Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon_, published posthumously in February, 1755,--a record which for its intrinsic pathos and dignity may be compared with the letter and dedication which Fielding's predecessor and model, Cervantes, prefixed to his last romance of _Persiles and Sigismunda_.

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON.--Page 120.

These verses appeared in the _Saturday Review_ for February 14th, 1885.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.--Page 122.

These verses appeared in the _Athenæum_ for October 8th, 1892.

"_With that he made a Leg._"--Page 137.

"JOVE made his Leg and kiss'd the Dame,
Obsequious HERMES did the Same."
Prior.

"_So took his Virtú off to Cock's._"--Page 137.

Cock, the auctioneer of Covent Garden, was the Christie and Manson of the last century. The leading idea of this fable, it should be added, is taken from one by Gellert.

"_Of Van's 'Goose-Pie.'_"--Page 139.

"At length they in the Rubbish spy
A Thing resembling a Goose Py."
SWIFT'S verses on _Vanbrugh's House_, 1706.

"_The Oaf preferred the_ 'Tongs and Bones.'"--Page 145.

"I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the tongs and the bones."

_Midsummer-Night's Dream_, Act iv., Sc. i.

"_And sighed o'er Chaos wine for Stingo._"--Page 145.

Squire Homespun probably meant Cahors.

THE WATER-CURE.--Page 178.

These verses were suggested by the recollection of an anecdote in Madame de Genlis, which seemed to lend itself to eighteenth-century treatment. It was therefore somewhat depressing, not long after they were written, to find that the subject had already been annexed in the _Tatler_ by an actual eighteenth-century writer, who, moreover, claimed to have founded his story on a contemporary incident. Burton, nevertheless, had told it before him, as early as 1621, in the _Anatomy of Melancholy_.

"_In Babylonian numbers hidden._"--Page 180.

"--nec Babylonios
Tentaris numeros."
Hor. i., 11.

"_And spite of the mourning that most of us wear._"--Page 259.

In March, 1773, when _She Stoops to Conquer_ was first played, there was a court-mourning for the King of Sardinia (Forster's _Goldsmith_, Book iv. Chap. 15).

"_But he grows every day more and more like the print._--Page 259.

"Mr. _Wilkes_, with his usual good humour, has been heard to observe, that he is every day growing more and more like his portrait by _Hogarth_ (i.e. the print of May 16th, 1763)."

_Biographical Anecdotes of William Hogarth_, 1782, pp. 305-6.

Transcriber's Notes:

Ah, Postumus, we all must go: 'Postumus' unchanged. 'Posthumous' is current spelling.

Hyphenation of the following unchanged:
chairmen chair-men
Masterpiece Master-piece
recall re-call