Chapter II.
My poor friend had always within him a certain classical fondness of the ancient style of poetry; none of your vulgar Alcaics and Sapphics—“These,” he used to remark, “Horace, Tibullus, or any fellow of that calibre could manage; but the glorious hexameters and pentameters of Homer, Virgil, and Ovid,—they’re the things, my boy!” His delight in this species of composition was so great that at school we used to call him, as a nickname, “Professor Long-and-short-fellow.” It curdles my blood to think that some obscure person in America, who has latterly been indulging in dactyllic and spondaic metre, has dared to name himself partly in imitation of the sobriquét by which we designated our friend.
Recollecting poor Pellucid’s warm admiration of the hexameter then, I have made strict search among his papers, on the chance of finding some classical Latin or Greek poem of his composition, but without success. At one time a ray of hope darted through me, as I came upon a paper carefully folded, and docketted, “Notions for a Fight between Hector and Achilles;” I unfolded it eagerly, but, alas! it was only a fragment, the words “Arma virumque cano” were legibly inscribed in my friend’s neat hand, but it was evident that he had either been called away, or that the Muse had deserted him at the critical moment, as he had left it without another word. At length I chanced to find the following poem, descriptive of a picnic at Cliefden and its consequences, in the true classical verse, but, before submitting it to the world, I must remark that on the outside cover of the MS. is written, in pencil, and in a hand very similar to that of Mr. B⸺, the publisher, of F⸺ Street, “Query? Evang’⸺;” the rest of the word is illegible, and I could never comprehend the meaning of the comment.
PICNIC-ALINE.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts
All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance—
Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows—
Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface dotted with black things.
Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep-voiced clamorous bargée
Roars, and in accents opprobrious hollas to have the lock opened.
These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them
Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone?
Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins,
Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions?
Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love, even marriage,
All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian’s picnic;
And of that great merrymaking, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped,
And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining!
Ye who take pleasure in picnics and doat on excursions aquatic,
Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business,
List to a joyous tradition of one which was held once at Cliefden—
List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad!
Brilliantly burst forth the sun o’er the pleasant meadows of Cliefden,
Bathed in his beautiful light, the daisies and daffydowndillies
Shone like those fanciful gems made by Beverly, at the Lyceum:
Calmly the whole of the morning untrodden, unseen, and unnoticed,
Lay all the valley around; but when from Maidenhead’s steeple
Clashed the four quarters of noon, then come the first batch of the rev’llers,
Come in a large open boat, broad-bottomed, and decked with tarpaulin,
Which from the sun’s scorching rays formed a needful and pleasant protection.
Here were seated the belles of the fête, Kate and Ellen Merillian,
Fairest of all demoiselles who dwell in Belgravia’s quarters.
With them came Margaret Stewart, their pretty cousin from Scotland,
Marian Vernon, and eke, to give proper tone to the party,
Old Mrs. Blinder, who’s deaf, and so chaperoned most discreetly.
Nor did they lack cavaliers—Jack Wilson, the fast and the funny,
Pride of the Board of Control, delight of his club and his office,
Sat at the stern of the boat, alternately singing and smoking;
There, too, was Captain De Boots, of Her Majesty’s Household Brigade, he
Sat by the side of Miss Vernon, and talked in so earnest a whisper,
That the rest called it “a case,” and begged to have “cake and gloves” sent them.
Scarce was the party on shore when several ran up to meet them,
Chattering, laughing young girls, and matrons more serious and sober,
Men from the City, resplendent in whiskers and large-patterned trousers—
Men from the West, who relied on their manners much more than their costume—
Marvellous were the shirt-collars encircling the necks of the young ones,
Seemed it as though they were made of a cross between buckram and mill-board;
Marvellous, too, was their conduct, a mixture of insult and folly,
Gods! how absurd were their airs, how silly, insane, and precocious.
Now began frolic and mirth, pleasant pastimes and games in which all joined,
And where e’en fathers and mothers partook of the fun with their children,
“Hunting the Slipper,” (“by Jove! what fun can be had at that same, sir!”)
“How, when, and where!” “Prisoner’s Base!” but not until dinner was over
Played they at Blindman’s Buff, the climax of riot and revel.
Gathering their dresses close round them, the ladies sat down on the herbage,
Laughing at every speech, and screaming at popping champagne corks,
While their attentive gallants were constantly hovering near them,
Handing the wings of cold fowls and trembling blancmanges and jellies.
More can I not write at present. I’ve striven to laugh on this subject,
But ’neath my placid external beats sadly a heart crushed and blighted!
Shall I confess to ye the reason? Know then, that at this said picnic,
Fired by the fumes of champagne and strong deleterious potions,
Placed I my fortune and hand at the feet of Emily Robins!
Know then, that losing my balance I sprawled on the greensward before her,
And, ere the evening was o’er, got outrageously thrashed by her brother!
Note by the Editor.—In transcribing this poem from my friend’s MS., I feel it my duty to state that his touching description of his love was not without foundation. The “knock-down blow” he received did not entirely floor him; he sought to see the lady again, and, on being repulsed, commenced a very pretty little poem, beginning—
“When he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his faults and his follies behind.”
Here he stopped, which, I think, was a pity, as he evidently possessed the feeling and talents essential to an amatory poet.
PELLUCID RIVERS.—[p. 105.]