Chapter XVI: Preface (16)

The buzz of bottle-drawing’s at its height;
Brown takes wine with Smith, and Briggs with Bright,
Hark! To that thunder, eloquent o’er all――
Toole! ’tis thy call.
Of “Silence if you please――order for the chair!”
As with an exquisite and finished air,
(Worthy of――Widdicomb, when he essays
To fix some shilling-gallery beauty’s gaze),
You wave your paper _bâton_ o’er the head
Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there,
And guides _your_ voice the thunder of the “Chair!”
Who ne’er,――when public dinner port began
To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man,
Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven,
When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given――
“The Queen, with three times three!
“Hip, hip, hurrah!――Silence for a glee!”

* * * * *

Farewell, thou King of Sentiment and Toast!
Long may’st thou rule the roast
At philanthropic and at civic dinner!
Long may Lachesis (that old maiden spinner)
Keep thy thread going, and long may we
Hear you declare
“Silence in the Chair!
Messrs. Hobbs, Dobbs, Snobbs, will ’blige you with a glee.”

_Punch_, November, 1843.

――――

ODE ON ST. CECILIA’S DAY.
(_A long way after Pope._)

Descend, great Bunn!――descend and bring
A furnace of poetic fire;
Nib fifty pens, and take your fling,
Boldly of foolscap fill a quire.
In a namby-pamby strain,
Let the tenor first complain;
Let the falsetto sound,
With nasal twang around,
’Till in applause ’tis drown’d.
Then in more ponderous notes and slow,
Let the deep bass go down, extremely low.
Hark the shrill soprano near
Bursts upon the startled ear!
Higher and higher does she rise,
And fills with awful screams the flies,
By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes,
Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats;
Till by degrees the vigorous bawl,
Seems to decay,
And melts away
In a feeble, feeble squall.

In music there’s a medium, you know;
Don’t sing too high, nor sink too low.
If in a house tumultuous rows arise,
Music to drown the noise the means supplies;
Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares,
To yonder public-house repairs,
Some gallant soldier, fired by music’s sound
Will order pints of half-and-half all round.
John the footman nods his head,
Swears he’ll not go home to bed;
In his arms a partner takes,
As some courteous speech he makes;
And suddenly the joyous pair engage
In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage.

But when the violin puts forth its charms,
How the sweet music every bosom warms:
So when the dilettante dared the squeeze,
To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain,
And in the rush serenely sees
His best coat torn in twain,
Transported simpletons stood round,
And men grew spooneys at the sound,
Roaring with all their wind;
Each one his power of lung displayed
In bawling to the Swedish Maid
While cheers from box to pit resound
For Lind, for Lind, for Lind!
But when through those mysterious bounds
Where the policeman goes his rounds,
The poet had by chance been led
Mid the coal-hole, festive shed,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appeared,
How horrible the din!
Toasted cheese
If you please.
Waiter――stop!
Mutton-chop.
Hollo! Jones,
Devilled bones;
And cries for rum or gin!
But hark! the chairman near the fire
Strikes on the table, to require
Strict silence for a song.
Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still;
Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill;
The pause will not be long.
The guests are mute as if upon their beds;
Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads.
By the verses as they flow,
By their meaning nothing though,
Full of tropes and flowers;
By those lofty rhymes that dwell
In the mind of Bunn[43] so well,
Like love in Paphian bowers.
By the lines that he has made,
Working at the poet’s trade――
By the “marble halls” so smart,
By “other lips” and “Woman’s heart,”
True poetry at once restore, restore,
Or don’t let Bunn, at least, write any more!
But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes;
Again she falls――again she dies, she dies.
How will she now once more attempt to thrive?
Ah! Jullien[44] comes to keep her still alive.
Now with his British Army
Quadrille, so bright and balmy,
Or with four bands meeting,
Two men a large drum beating,
He gives the tone
Of dying groan,
Or soldier’s moan,
When at his post
His life is in the battle lost.
With five bands surrounded,
Is Jullien confounded?
No! onwards he goes,
And his arms about he throws.
See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies;
Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes.
My eyes! He dies!

He comes to life――for Jullien all have sung;
The name of Jullien is on every tongue.
The boxes and the pit,
Both they who stand and sit;
With Jullien’s name the entire house has rung.

Music the greatest brute can charm,
And savage natures will disarm.
Music can find luxurious ease,
Making what bargain it may please.
A salary it can improve
To any sum that it may love.
This the delightful Lind has found,
And to the tune of fifteen thousand pound.
When the full house enjoys the Swedish bird,
E’en Fashion deigns to lend its ear,
So eager ’t is to catch each little word,
That were a pin to drop it must be heard;
And people come from far as well as near!

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
For Jenny Lind may boast with greater reason:
His numbers he for gold could never sell――
She makes her fortune in a season!

From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848_.

――――:o:――――

In 1749 Bonnell Thornton published a humorous burlesque upon the Cecilian odes, under the title of “An Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, adapted to the Ancient British Musick,” which is said to have been set to music with characteristic accompaniments by Dr. Arne, and performed on the Saint’s day, November 22, 1749. This appears somewhat doubtful, it was however set to music in 1759 by Dr. Burney, who has left the following account of his work and its performance: “In 1759 I set for Smart and Newbery, Thornton’s Burlesque Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day. It was performed at Ranelagh in masks, to a very crowded audience, as I was told, for I then resided in Norfolk. Beard sang the Salt-box song, which was admirably accompanied on that instrument by Brent, the fencing master, and father of Miss Brent, the celebrated singer; Skeggs on the broomstick as bassoon, and a remarkable performer on the Jew’s Harp, ‘Buzzing twangs the iron lyre.’ Cleavers were cast in bell metal for this entertainment. All the performers of the Old Woman’s oratory, employed by Foote, were, I believe, employed at Ranelagh on this occasion.”

Boswell mentions that Dr. Johnson was much diverted with the humour of this ode.

AN ODE ON SAINT CECILIA’S DAY.

Adapted to the Antient British Musick: viz. The _Salt-Box_, the _Jew’s Harp_, the _Marrow-Bones_ and _Cleavers_, the _Hum-Strum_ or _Hurdy Gurdy_, etc.

With an introduction, giving some account of these truly British Instruments.

By BONNELL THORNTON, Esquire.

The Preface, which is too long to quote in full, concludes with the following remarks. “If this Ode contributes in the least to lessen our false taste in admiring that foreign Musick now so much in vogue, and to recall the ancient British spirit, together with the ancient British harmony, I shall not think the pains I employed on the composition entirely flung away on my countrymen. This Ode, I am sensible, is not without faults; though I cannot help thinking it far superior to the odes of Johnny Dryden, Joe Addison, Sawney Pope, Nick Rowe, little Kit Smart, etc, etc, etc, or of any that have written, or shall write on St. Cecilia’s day.”

“I have strictly adhered to the rule of making _the sound echo to the sense_.”

AN ODE ON SAINT CECILIA’S DAY.

OVERTURE.

_Recitative._

Be dumb, be dumb, ye inharmonious Sounds,
And Musick, that th’ astonish’d Ear with Discord wounds:
No more let common Rhymes profane the Day.

_Grand Chorus._

Grac’d with divine Cecilia’s Name;
Let solemn Hymns this awful Feast proclaim,
And heav’nly Notes conspire to raise the heavn’ly Lay.

_Recitative._

The meaner melody we scorn,
Which vulgar instruments afford;
Shrill flute, sharp fiddle, bellowing horn,
Rumbling Bassoon, or tinkling Harpischord.

_Air._

In strains more exalted the Salt-box shall join,
And Clattering, and Battering, and Clapping combine;
With a Rap and a Tap while the hollow Side sounds,
Up and down leaps the Flap, and with Rattling rebounds.

_Recitative._

Strike, strike the soft Judaic Harp,
Soft and sharp,
By Teeth coercive in firm Durance kept,
And lightly by the volant Finger swept.

_Air._

Buzzing twangs the Iron Lyre,
Shrilly Thrilling,
Trembling, trilling,
Whizzing with the wavering wire.

A GRAND SYMPHONY.
_Accompanied with Marrow Bones and Cleavers._

_Air._

Hark, how the Banging Marrow-Bones
Make Clanging Cleavers ring,
With a Ding Dong, Ding Dong,
Ding Dong, Ding Dong,
Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding.
Raise your uplifted arms on high;
In long-prolonged tones
Let Cleavers sound
A merry merry round
By Banging Marrow-Bones.

_Full Chorus_
(Repeat the above verse.)

_Recitative_

Cease lighter Numbers: Hither bring
The undulating String
Stretch’d out, and to the tumid Bladder
In amity harmonious bound;
Then deeper swell the notes and sadder,
And let the hoarse Base slowly solemn sound.

_Air._

With dead, dull, doleful Hums,
With mournful moans,
And grievous groans,
The sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrums.