VAUXHALL.
Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein;
Take this sixpence—do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne!
’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cadgers bawl—
Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall.
Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts,
Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts.
Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest,
Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest;
Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed,
With his odorif’rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid;
Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time,
Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel’s rhyme;
When beneath the business-counter linendraper’s men reposed,
When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed;
When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout,
When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the “cold without.”
In the spring a finer cambric’s wrapped around the lordling’s breast;
In the spring the gent at Redmayne’s gets himself a Moses’ “vest;”
In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove;
In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love.
Then she danced through all the ballet, as a fairy blithe and young,
Stood a tiptoe on a flow’ret or from clouds of pasteboard swung—
And I said, “Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me,
Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?”
On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint,
And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint;
Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth,
Was her English—all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth),
Saying, “Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,”
Saying, “Will you be my loveyer?” weeping, “You are quite the gent.”
Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim,
Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn!
Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew,
And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few!
Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant “bait,”
Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.—
Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont, known too late!
Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed “bait.”
Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e’en than Alice Gray,
Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler’s pay!—
Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved me—to wed
With a fool who gains his living by his heels and not his head!
As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
And, pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.
He will hold thee, in the winter, when his fooleries begin,
Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.
What is this? his legs are bending! think’st thou he is weary, faint?
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint!
Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the by-gone time?
Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!
Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum
Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb—
Comfort!—talk to me of comfort!—what is comfort here below?
Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?
Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wait of all his vows the proof,
Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof:
See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,
Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!
Thou shalt hear “Hot Codlins” muttered in his vision-haunted sleep,
Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep:
Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe,
But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I’d better go!
Such is the noble ballad of Vauxhall! but Rivers was master of all styles. The following exquisite picture of the joys and sorrows of modern domestic life presents an example of that happy blending of the real and the romantic with which the head of Rivers overflowed. The ballad of “Boreäna” has been kindly communicated by my literary friend Frank Fairleigh, who knew, loved, and admired Rivers as much as myself. After pointing out some of the more subtle and mysterious beauties of this matchless lyric, Fairleigh adds, “and yet after this, A—f—d T—ny—n had the face to publish that bombastic, trashy ballad of “Oriana,” and pretend it was original; where does that misguided man expect to go to?”