Part 1

“THE QUIET LIFE”

CERTAIN VERSES BY VARIOUS HANDS: the Motive set forth in a PROLOGUE & EPILOGUE by AUSTIN DOBSON; the whole adorned with numerous Drawings by EDWIN A. ABBEY & ALFRED PARSONS

LONDON · SAMPSON LOW · MARSTON · SEARLE · & RIVINGTON · LIMITED · M DCCC XC

COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY

HARPER & BROTHERS

All Rights Reserved.

PAGE

PROLOGUE 3

BY AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE GARDEN 15

BY ANDREW MARVELL.

THE WISH 25

BY ABRAHAM COWLEY.

QUINCE 37

BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

THE VICAR 52

BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

ODE TO SOLITUDE 69

By ALEXANDER POPE.

THE MARRIED MAN 80

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD 85

BY THOMAS RANDOLPH.

EPILOGUE 97

BY AUSTIN DOBSON.

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.

THE GARDEN.

BY ANDREW MARVELL.

HOW vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays: And their incessant labours see Crown’d from some single herb, or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flow’rs, and trees, do close, To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companys of men.

Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

No white, nor red was ever seen So am’rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name, Little, alas! they know or heed, How far these beautys her exceed! Fair trees! where’er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion’s heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race. Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow: And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wond’rous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head. The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass.

Mean while the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness: The mind, that ocean where each kind Does streight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide:

There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets, and claps its silver wings: And, till prepar’d for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk’d without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises are in one, To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard’ner drew Of flow’rs, and herbs, this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholsome hours Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs?

THE WISH.

WELL, then; I now do plainly see, This busie World and I shall ne’er agree; The very _Honey_ of all Earthly Joy Does of all Meats the soonest _cloy_. And they (methinks) deserve my Pity Who for it can endure the Stings, The _Croud_, and _Buz_, and _Murmurings_ Of this great Hive, the City.

QUINCE.

BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Asylums, hospitals, and schools He used to swear were made to cozen All who subscribed to them were fools-- And he subscribed to half a dozen.

It was his doctrine that the poor Were always able, never willing; And so the beggar at his door Had first abuse, and then a shilling.

Some public principles he had, But was no flatterer nor fretter; He rapp’d his box when things were bad. And said, “I cannot make them better!” And much he loathed the patriot’s snort, And much he scorn’d the placeman’s snuffle, And cut the fiercest quarrels short With “Patience, gentlemen, and shuffle!”

For full ten years his pointer Speed Had couch’d beneath her master’s table; For twice ten years his old white steed Had fatten’d in his master’s stable. Old Quince averr’d, upon his troth, They were the ugliest beasts in Devon; And none knew why he fed them both With his own hands six days in seven.

Whene’er they heard his ring or knock, Quicker than thought the village slatterns Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, And took up Mrs. Glasse and patterns. Adine was studying baker’s bills; Louisa look’d the queen of knitters; Jane happen’d to be hemming frills; And Bell by chance was making fritters.

But all was vain; and while decay Came like a tranquil moonlight o’er him, And found him gouty still and gay, With no fair nurse to bless or bore him, His rugged smile and easy-chair, His dread of matrimonial lectures, His wig, his stick, his powder’d hair, Were themes for very strange conjectures.

Some sages thought the stars above Had crazed him with excess of knowledge; Some heard he had been crost in love Before he came away from college; Some darkly hinted that his Grace Did nothing great or small without him; Some whisper’d with a solemn face That there was “something odd about him!”

I found him, at threescore and ten, A single man, but bent quite double: Sickness was coming on him then, To take him from a world of trouble. He prosed of slipping down the hill, Discovered he grew older daily: One frosty day he made his will; The next he sent for Doctor Bailey.

And so he lived, and so he died!--When last I sat beside his pillow, He shook my hand, and “Ah!” he cried, “Penelope must wear the willow. Tell her I hugg’d her rosy chain While life was flickering in the socket; And say that when I call again, I’ll bring a license in my pocket.

“I’ve left my house and grounds to Fag-- I hope his master’s shoes will suit him; And I’ve bequeathed to you my nag, To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. The vicar’s wife will take old Fox-- She’ll find him an uncommon mouser; And let her husband have my box, My Bible, and my Assmanshauser.

“Whether I ought to die or not, My doctors cannot quite determine; It’s only clear that I shall rot, And be, like Priam, food for vermin. My debts are paid; but nature’s debt Almost escaped my recollection: Tom! we shall meet again; and yet I cannot leave you my direction.”

THE VICAR.

BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses: It slipt from politics to puns, It pass’d from Mahomet to Moses; Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound Divine, Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He ’stablish’d Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep, The Deist sigh’d with saving sorrow, And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dream’d of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or show’d That earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome or from Athanasius:

And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penn’d and plann’d them, For all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble Lords--and nurses; True histories of last year’s ghost, Lines to a ringlet or a turban, And trifles for the Morning Post, And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man’s belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnish’d cottage, And praise the farmer’s homely wit, And share the widow’s homelier pottage: At his approach complaint grew mild; And when his hand unbarr’d the shutter, The clammy lips of fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me, Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus; From him I learnt the rule of three, Cat’s-cradle, leap-frog, and _Quæ genus_: I used to singe his powder’d wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig, When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled-- The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climb’d, the beds I rifled: The church is larger than before; You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar’s seat: you’ll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid?--look down, And construe on the slab before you, “_Hie jacet Gvlielmvs Brown,_ _Vir nullâ non donandus lauru._”

ODE TO SOLITUDE. BY ALEXANDER POPE.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixt; sweet recreation; And Innocence, which most does please With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

THE MARRIED MAN.

TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD.

BY THOMAS RANDOLPH.

Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the day? With what delights Shorten the nights? When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

There from the tree We’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face, That I do know Hyde Park can show. Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon Some other pleasures: these to me are none. Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate? I never mean to wed That torture to my bed. My muse is she My love shall be. Let clowns get wealth and heirs. When I am gone, And the great bugbear, grisly death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more; We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store. No fruit shall ’scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape. Then (full) we’ll seek a shade, And hear what music’s made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the quire: The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes: We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they’ll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all: Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my muse, if not to me, I’m sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean To taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley’s health, I’ll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain. Then I another pipe will take, And Doric music make To civilise with graver notes our wits again.