Part 2

In 1838 Dickens agreed to prepare a little play for Macready, the famous actor, then the manager of Drury Lane Theatre. It was called _The Lamplighter_, and when completed the author read aloud the 'unfortunate little farce' (as he subsequently termed it) in the greenroom of the theatre. Although the play went through rehearsal, it was never presented before an audience, for the actors would not agree about it, and, at Macready's suggestion, Dickens consented to withdraw it, declaring that he had 'no other feeling of disappointment connected with this matter' but that which arose from the failure in attempting to serve his friend. The manuscript of the play, not in Dickens's handwriting, reposes in the Forster Library at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and in 1879 it was printed for the first time, in the form of a pamphlet, of which only two hundred and fifty copies were issued.

When rejected by Macready as unsuitable for stage presentation, _The Lamplighter_ was adapted by Dickens to another purpose--that is to say, he converted it into a tale called _The Lamplighter's Story_, for publication in _The Pic-Nic Papers_, issued in 1841 for the benefit of the widow of Macrone, Dickens's first publisher, who died in great poverty. Between the farce and the story there are but slight differences. The duet of two verses, sung by Tom and Betsy to the air of 'The Young May-moon,' cannot of course be regarded as a remarkable composition, but it served its purpose sufficiently well, and for that reason deserves recognition.

DUET FROM 'THE LAMPLIGHTER'

AIR--'THE YOUNG MAY-MOON'

_Tom._ There comes a new moon twelve times a year.

_Betsy._ And when there is none, all is dark and drear.

_Tom._ In which I espy--

_Betsy._ And so, too, do I--

_Both._ A resemblance to womankind very clear--

_Both._ There comes a new moon twelve times a year; And when there is none, all is dark and drear.

_Tom._ In which I espy--

_Betsy._ And so do I--

_Both._ A resemblance to womankind very clear.

_Second Verse._

_Tom._ She changes, she's fickle, she drives men mad.

_Betsy._ She comes to bring light, and leaves them sad.

_Tom._ So restless wild--

_Betsy._ But so sweetly wild--

_Both._ That no better companion could be had.

_Both._ There comes a new moon twelve times a year; And when there is none, all is dark and drear.

_Tom._ In which I espy--

_Betsy._ And so do I--

_Both._ A resemblance to womankind very clear.

SONGS FROM 'THE PICKWICK PAPERS'

1837

I.--THE IVY GREEN

THE IVY GREEN

This famous ballad of three verses, from the sixth chapter of _Pickwick_, is perhaps the most acceptable of all Dickens's poetical efforts. It was originally set to music, at Dickens's request, by his brother-in-law, Henry Burnett, a professional vocalist, who, by the way, was the admitted prototype of Nicholas Nickleby. Mr. Burnett sang the ballad scores of times in the presence of literary men and artists, and it proved an especial favourite with Landor. 'The Ivy Green' was not written for _Pickwick_, Mr. Burnett assured me; but on its being so much admired the author said it should go into a monthly number, and it did. The most popular setting is undoubtedly that of Henry Russell, who has recorded that he received, as his fee, the magnificent sum of ten shillings! The ballad, in this form, went into many editions, and the sales must have amounted to tens of thousands.

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death hath been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

II.--A CHRISTMAS CAROL

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

The five stanzas bearing the above title will be found in the twenty-eighth chapter of _Pickwick_, where they are introduced as the song which that hospitable old soul, Mr. Wardle, sung appropriately, 'in a good, round, sturdy voice,' before the Pickwickians and others assembled on Christmas Eve at Manor Farm. The 'Carol,' shortly after its appearance in _Pickwick_, was set to music to the air of 'Old King Cole,' and published in _The Book of British Song_ (New Edition), with an illustration drawn by 'Alfred Crowquill'--_i.e._, A. H. Forrester.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne: He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself Nor his own changing mind an hour, He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud, And care not how sulky he be! For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever's train; And when love is too strong, it don't last long, As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old! We'll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we'll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring, And it echoes from wall to wall-- To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!

III.--GABRIEL GRUB'S SONG

GABRIEL GRUB'S SONG

The Sexton's melancholy dirge, in the twenty-ninth chapter of _Pickwick_, seems a little incongruous in a humorous work. The sentiment, however, thoroughly accords with the philosophic gravedigger's gruesome occupation. 'The Story of the Goblins who Stole a Sexton' is one of several short tales (chiefly of a dismal character) introduced into _Pickwick_; they were doubtless written prior to the conception of _Pickwick_, each being probably intended for independent publication, and in a manner similar to the 'Boz' Sketches. For some reason these stories were not so published, and Dickens evidently saw a favourable opportunity of utilising his unused manuscripts by inserting them in _The Pickwick Papers_.

GABRIEL GRUB'S SONG

Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; Rank grass over head, and damp clay around, Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!

IV.--ROMANCE

ROMANCE

It will be remembered that while Sam Weller and his coaching-friends refreshed themselves at the little public-house opposite the Insolvent Court in Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, prior to Sam joining Mr. Pickwick in the Fleet, that faithful body-servant was persuaded to 'oblige the company' with a song. 'Raly, gentlemen,' said Sam, 'I'm not wery much in the habit o' singin' vithout the instrument; but anythin' for a quiet life, as the man said ven he took the sitivation at the light-house.'

'With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly assists the metre.'-_The Pickwick Papers_, chapter xliii.

At the conclusion of the performance the mottled-faced gentleman contended that the song was 'personal to the cloth,' and demanded the name of the bishop's coachman, whose cowardice he regarded as a reflection upon coachmen in general. Sam replied that his name was not known, as 'he hadn't got his card in his pocket'; whereupon the mottled-faced gentleman declared the statement to be untrue, stoutly maintaining that the said coachman did _not_ run away, but 'died game--game as pheasants,' and he would 'hear nothin' said to the contrairey.'

Even in the vernacular (observes Mr. Percy Fitzgerald), 'this master of words [Charles Dickens] could be artistic; and it may fairly be asserted that Mr. Weller's song to the coachmen is superior to anything of the kind that has appeared since.' The two stanzas have been set to music, as a humorous part-song, by Sir Frederick Bridge, Mus. Doc., M.V.O., the organist of Westminster Abbey, who informs me that it was written some years since, to celebrate a festive gathering in honour of Dr. Turpin (!), Secretary of the College of Organists. 'It has had a very great success,' says Sir Frederick, 'and is sung much in the North of England at competitions of choirs. It is for men's voices. The humour of the words never fails to make a great hit, and I hope the music does no harm. "The Bishop's Coach" is set to a bit of old Plain-Chant, and I introduce a Fugue at the words "Sure as eggs is eggs."'

ROMANCE

I

Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode--er; Ven there he see'd the Bishop's coach A-comin' along the road--er. So he gallops close to the 'orse's legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the Bishop says, 'Sure as eggs is eggs, This here's the bold Turpin!'

_Chorus_--And the Bishop says, 'Sure as eggs is eggs, This here's the bold Turpin!'

II

Says Turpin, 'You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul-let'; So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul-let.

The coachman, he not likin' the job, Set off at a full gal-lop, But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

_Chorus_ (_sarcastically_)--But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

POLITICAL SQUIBS FROM 'THE EXAMINER' 1841

I.--THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

POLITICAL SQUIBS FROM 'THE EXAMINER,' 1841

In August 1841 Dickens contributed anonymously to _The Examiner_ (then edited by Forster) three political squibs, which were signed W., and were intended to help the Liberals in fighting their opponents. These squibs were entitled respectively 'The Fine Old English Gentleman (to be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners)'; 'The Quack Doctor's Proclamation'; and 'Subjects for Painters (after Peter Pindar).' Concerning those productions, Forster says: 'I doubt if he ever enjoyed anything more than the power of thus taking part occasionally, unknown to outsiders, in the sharp conflict the press was waging at the time.' In all probability he contributed other political rhymes to the pages of _The Examiner_ as events prompted: if so, they are buried beyond easy reach of identification.

Writing to Forster at this time, Dickens said: 'By Jove, how Radical I am getting! I wax stronger and stronger in the true principles every day.'... He would (observes Forster) sometimes even talk, in moments of sudden indignation at the political outlook, 'of carrying off himself and his household gods, like Coriolanus, to a world elsewhere.' This was the period of the Tory interregnum, with Sir Robert Peel at the head of affairs.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

NEW VERSION

(_To be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners_)

I'll sing you a new ballad, and I'll warrant it first-rate, Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate On ev'ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev'ry noble gate, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains, With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins; For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains Of the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes, And ev'ry English peasant had his good old English spies, To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need, The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers' creed, The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed, Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed.... Oh the fine old English Tory times; When will they come again!

In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark, But sweetly sang of men in pow'r, like any tuneful lark; Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark. Oh the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

Those were the days for taxes, and for war's infernal din; For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win; For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin, Because they didn't think the Prince was altogether thin, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!

But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing'd in the main; That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain; The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain; A nation's grip was on it, and it died in choking pain, With the fine old English Tory days, All of the olden time.

The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, In England there shall be dear bread--in Ireland, sword and brand; And poverty, and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand, So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, Of the fine old English Tory days; Hail to the coming time!

W.

II.--THE QUACK DOCTOR'S PROCLAMATION

THE QUACK DOCTOR'S PROCLAMATION

TUNE--'A COBBLER THERE WAS'

An astonishing doctor has just come to town, Who will do all the faculty perfectly brown: He knows all diseases, their causes, and ends; And he begs to appeal to his medical friends. Tol de rol: Diddle doll: Tol de rol, de dol, Diddle doll Tol de rol doll.

He's a magnetic doctor, and knows how to keep The whole of a Government snoring asleep To popular clamours; till popular pins Are stuck in their midriffs--and then he begins Tol de rol.

He's a _clairvoyant_ subject, and readily reads His countrymen's wishes, condition, and needs, With many more fine things I can't tell in rhyme, --And he keeps both his eyes shut the whole of the time. Tol de rol.

You mustn't expect him to talk; but you'll take Most particular notice the doctor's awake, Though for aught from his words or his looks that you reap, he Might just as well be most confoundedly sleepy. Tol de rol.

Homoeopathy, too, he has practised for ages (You'll find his prescriptions in Luke Hansard's pages), Just giving his patient when maddened by pain,-- Of Reform the ten thousandth part of a grain. Tol de rol.

He's a med'cine for Ireland, in portable papers; The infallible cure for political vapours; A neat label round it his 'prentices tie-- 'Put your trust in the Lord, and keep this powder dry!' Tol de rol.

He's a corn doctor also, of wonderful skill, --No cutting, no rooting-up, purging, or pill-- You're merely to take, 'stead of walking or riding, The sweet schoolboy exercise--innocent sliding. Tol de rol.

There's no advice gratis. If high ladies send His legitimate fee, he's their soft-spoken friend. At the great public counter with one hand behind him, And one in his waistcoat, they're certain to find him. Tol de rol.

He has only to add he's the real Doctor Flam, All others being purely fictitious and sham; The house is a large one, tall, slated, and white, With a lobby; and lights in the passage at night. Tol de rol: Diddle doll: Tol de rol, de dol, Diddle doll Tol de rol doll.

W.

III.--SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS

SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS

(AFTER PETER PINDAR)

To you, SIR MARTIN,[1] and your co. R.A.'s, I dedicate in meek, suggestive lays, Some subjects for your academic palettes; Hoping, by dint of these my scanty jobs, To fill with novel thoughts your teeming nobs, As though I beat them in with wooden mallets.

To you, MACLISE, who Eve's fair daughters paint With Nature's hand, and want the maudlin taint Of the sweet Chalon school of silk and ermine: To you, E. LANDSEER, who from year to year Delight in beasts and birds, and dogs and deer, And seldom give us any human vermin: --To all who practise art, or make believe, I offer subjects they may take or leave.

Great Sibthorp and his butler, in debate (_Arcades ambo_) on affairs of state, Not altogether 'gone,' but rather funny; Cursing the Whigs for leaving in the lurch Our d----d good, pleasant, gentlemanly Church, Would make a picture--cheap at any money.

Or Sibthorp as the Tory Sec.--at-War, Encouraging his mates with loud 'Yhor! Yhor! From Treas'ry benches' most conspicuous end; Or Sib.'s mustachios curling with a smile, As an expectant Premier without guile Calls him his honourable and gallant friend.

Or Sibthorp travelling in foreign parts, Through that rich portion of our Eastern charts Where lies the land of popular tradition; And fairly worshipp'd by the true devout In all his comings-in and goings-out, Because of the old Turkish superstition.

Fame with her trumpet, blowing very hard, And making earth rich with celestial lard, In puffing deeds done through Lord Chamberlain Howe; While some few thousand persons of small gains, Who give their charities without such pains, Look up, much wondering what may be the row.

Behind them Joseph Hume, who turns his pate To where great Marlbro' House in princely state Shelters a host of lacqueys, lords and pages, And says he knows of dowagers a crowd, Who, without trumpeting so very loud, Would do so much, and more, for half the wages.

Limn, sirs, the highest lady in the land, When Joseph Surface, fawning cap in hand, Delivers in his list of patriot mortals; Those gentlemen of honour, faith, and truth, Who, foul-mouthed, spat upon her maiden youth, And dog-like did defile her palace portals.

Paint me the Tories, full of grief and woe, Weeping (to voters) over Frost and Co., Their suff'ring, erring, much-enduring brothers. And in the background don't forget to pack, Each grinning ghastly from its bloody sack, The heads of Thistlewood, Despard, and others.

Paint, squandering the club's election gold, Fierce lovers of our Constitution old, Lords who're that sacred lady's greatest debtors; And let the law, forbidding any voice Or act of Peer to influence the choice Of English people, flourish in bright letters.

Paint that same dear old lady, ill at ease, Weak in her second childhood, hard to please, Unknowing what she ails or what she wishes; With all her Carlton nephews at the door, Deaf'ning both aunt and nurses with their roar, --Fighting already, for the loaves and fishes.

Leaving these hints for you to dwell upon, I shall presume to offer more anon.

W.

PROLOGUE TO WESTLAND MARSTON'S PLAY 'THE PATRICIAN'S DAUGHTER'

1842

PROLOGUE TO 'THE PATRICIAN'S DAUGHTER'

_The Patrician's Daughter_ was the title bestowed upon a play, in the tragic vein, by a then unknown writer, J. Westland Marston, it being his maiden effort in dramatic authorship. Dickens took great interest in the young man and indicated a desire to promote the welfare of his production by composing some introductory lines. To Macready he wrote: 'The more I think of Marston's play, the more sure I feel that a prologue to the purpose would help it materially, and almost decide the fate of any ticklish point on the first night. Now I have an idea (not easily explainable in writing, but told in five words) that would take the prologue out of the conventional dress of prologues, quite. Get the curtain up with a dash, and begin the play with a sledge-hammer blow. If, on consideration, you should agree with me, I will write the prologue, heartily.' Happily for the author, his little tragedy was the first new play of the season, and it thus attracted greater attention. Its initial representation took place at Drury Lane Theatre on December 10, 1842, and the fact that Dickens's dignified and vigorous lines were recited by Macready, the leading actor of his day, undoubtedly gave _prestige_ to this performance; but the play, although it made a sensation for the moment, did not enjoy a long run, its motive being for some reason misunderstood. As explained by the Editors of _The Letters of Charles Dickens_, it was (to a certain extent) an experiment in testing the effect of a tragedy of modern times and in modern dress, the novelist's Prologue being intended to show that there need be no incongruity between plain clothes of the nineteenth century and high tragedy.

_The Patrician's Daughter: A Tragedy in Five Acts_, appeared in pamphlet form during the year prior to its being placed upon the boards. The Prologue was printed for the first time in the _Sunday Times_, December 11, 1842, and then in _The Theatrical Journal and Stranger's Guide_, December 17, 1842. By the kind permission of Miss Hogarth, the lines are here reproduced from the revised and only correct version in _The Letters of Charles Dickens_.

In the preface to the second edition of the play (1842), the author thus acknowledges his indebtedness to Dickens for the Prologue, which, however, does not appear in the book: 'How shall I thank Mr. Dickens for the spontaneous kindness which has furnished me with so excellent a letter of introduction to the audience? The simplest acknowledgment is perhaps the best, since the least I might say would exceed _his_ estimate of the obligation; while the most I could say would fail to express _mine_.'