Chapter 8

Young Love's for us a farce that's played; Light canzonet and serenade No more may tempt us; Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams; From aught but sour didactic themes Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so? You think for one white streak we grow At once satiric? A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string To which our ancient Muse shall sing A younger lyric.

The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale" Grow rare to youth because _we_ rail At schoolboy dishes? Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant When neither Time nor Tide can grant Belief with wishes.

VARIA.

THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL.

I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day; And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.

The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily; But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail; I wot that I shall die of Love--an I die not of Ale.

Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink; Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out--"Te-Hee! Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?"

"Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small? Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall? Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot? Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)--thou art a Pottle-pot!"

"No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto! "Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do." I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail; Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!

So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep, But little lore of loving can any flagon teach, For when my tongue is looséd most, then most I lose my speech.

AN APRIL PASTORAL.

_He._ Whither away, fair Neat-herdess? _She._ Shepherd, I go to tend my kine. _He._ Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine. _She._ With thee? Nay, that were idleness. _He._ Thy kine will pasture none the less. _She._ Not so: they wait me and my sign. _He._ I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine. _She._ Thy pipe will soothe not their distress. _He._ Dost thou not hear beside the spring How the gay birds are carolling? _She._ I hear them. But it may not be. _He._ Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now. _She._ Shepherd, farewell----Where goest thou? _He._ I go ... to tend thy kine for thee!

A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING GARDENS.

_To the Burden of "Rogues All."_

Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades; Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;-- Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives! Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives! For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;-- Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast! Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post! For the wicket is free to the great and the small;-- Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack! Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back! Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;-- Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask! Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)! Here a domino covers the short and the tall;-- Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din; 'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come in You are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;-- Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

A LOVE-SONG.

(XVIII. CENT.)

When first in CELIA'S ear I poured A yet unpractised pray'r, My trembling tongue sincere ignored The aids of "sweet" and "fair." I only said, as in me lay, I'd strive her "worth" to reach; She frowned, and turned her eyes away,-- So much for truth in speech.

Then DELIA came. I changed my plan; I praised her to her face; I praised her features,--praised her fan, Her lap-dog and her lace; I swore that not till Time were dead My passion should decay; She, smiling, gave her hand, and said 'Twill last then--for a DAY.

OF HIS MISTRESS.

(_After Anthony Hamilton._)

To G. S.

She that I love is neither brown nor fair, And, in a word her worth to say, There is no maid that with her may Compare.

Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween: There are five hundred things we see, And then five hundred too there be, Not seen.

Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven: But the sweet Graces from their store A thousand finer touches more Have given.

Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note? Beside her Flora would be wan And white as whiteness of the swan Her throat.

Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came, Hebe her nose and lip confess, And, looking in her eyes, you guess Her name.

THE NAMELESS CHARM.

(_Expanded from an Epigram of Piron._)

Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, Your artless look, I own; 'Tis not your dear coquettish tread, Or this, or that, alone;

Nor is it all your gifts combined; 'Tis something in your face,-- The untranslated, undefined, Uncertainty of grace,

That taught the Boy on Ida's hill To whom the meed was due; _All three have equal charms--but still This one I give it to!_

TO PHIDYLE.

(HOR. III., 23.)

Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain, At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow, O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane, And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow 'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow, Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail Thy modest gods with much slain to assail, Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please. Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault; More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease, Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.

TO HIS BOOK.

(HOR. EP. I., 20.)

For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine! Still craving on some stall to stand, Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. You chafe at locks, and burn to quit Your modest haunt and audience fit For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you _must_ be published, go; But mind, you can't come back, you know!

"What have I done?" I hear you cry, And writhe beneath some critic's eye; "What did I want?"--when, scarce polite, They do but yawn, and roll you tight. And yet methinks, if I may guess (Putting aside your heartlessness In leaving me and this your home), You should find favour, too, at Rome. That is, they'll like you while you're young, When you are old, you'll pass among The Great Unwashed,--then thumbed and sped, Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilerda you'll be sent, Or Utica, for banishment! And I, whose counsel you disdain, At that your lot shall laugh amain, Wryly, as he who, like a fool, Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule. Nay! there is worse behind. In age They e'en may take your babbling page In some remotest "slum" to teach Mere boys their rudiments of speech!

But go. When on warm days you see A chance of listeners, speak of me. Tell them I soared from low estate, A freedman's son, to higher fate (That is, make up to me in worth What you must take in point of birth); Then tell them that I won renown In peace and war, and pleased the town; Paint me as early gray, and one Little of stature, fond of sun, Quick-tempered, too,--but nothing more. Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four, Or was, the year that over us Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus.

FOR A COPY OF HERRICK.

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.