Chapter IV.
“Poeta nascitur non fit,” is a trite but wise aphorism. Few men have selected such varied subjects as my friend Rivers, and few have dealt with their choice so successfully. Unlike your modern writers, who put on one suit of similes and wear it threadbare (such as Alessandro Smiffini, for instance, who is never tired of gazing at the moon or dipping in the sea), Pellucid’s kindly nature immortalises even the most trivial occurrences of his life. The following extract from his works will show what I mean. Unblessed with riches, he had incurred a small bill at a restaurant, in the neighbourhood of his lodgings, and one night the proprietor of the hostelry effected an entrance into his apartment, and refused to quit until the claim was settled. This circumstance, which would have discomposed a less happy mind, gave him the idea for a set of verses, which he named “The Tankard,” and which he calls, “A Domestic Scene turned into Poetry.” Again, on this manuscript is a pencilled query (in the same writing to which I have before alluded), “Does he mean Edgar Poe—try?” I confess this joke is beyond my poor powers of brain. Perhaps my readers will be able to interpret it, when they read the verses, which run thus:—
THE TANKARD.
Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December,
Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire,
Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time enhances—
Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,—
Aims to which I should aspire.
As I sat thus wond’ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking,
In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced—
Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but care and sadness,—
Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery’s hand effaced,—
Forms which Venus’ self had graced.
Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came a knocking,
Loud and furious,—such a rat-tat never had I heard before;
Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my mouth up-leaping,
Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!”
Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!”
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
At this solemn warning trembling, some short time I stood dissembling,
Till again the iron knocker beat its summons ’gainst the door,
Then, the oak wide open throwing, stood I on the threshold bowing—
Bows such as, save motley tumbler, mortal never bowed before,—
Bows which even Mr. Flexmore never yet had tried before:
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary landing,
Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor,
Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I’d drank hard,—
Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore,—
In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had stood before,—
Stood and muttered, “Pay your score!”
Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne’er in past or future
Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard learned in lore!
Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more immensely
When it added, “Come, old boy, you’ve many a promise made before,—
False they were as John O’Connell’s, who would ‘die upon the floor!’
Now for once—come, pay your score!”
From my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard darting,
With one furious hurl I flung it down before the porter’s door;
But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self-same knocking,
And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as before,—
Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat before,—
Sitting, crying “Pay your score!”
And the Tankard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
In the very self-same corner where it sat in days of yore:
And its pewter still is shining, and it bears the frothy lining,
Which the night when first I drained its cooling beverage it bore,
But my mouth that frothy lining never, never tasted more,
Since it muttered, “Pay your score!”
I have concluded my extracts; the remaining poems are principally of a private and personal nature, which renders them unfitted for publication.
After a perusal of his verses there will, I trust, be very few persons who will not at once appreciate the powers of my lamented friend, and grieve over the illiberal treatment he experienced. Should I find that tardy justice is done to his productions, and that they meet with that posthumous popularity which is undoubtedly their due, the effort which I have made to bring him into notice, and to shake the dii majores of the literary world on their unstable thrones, will not have been unrewarded.
Edmund H. Yates.
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET
COVENT GARDEN.