LES FUNÉRAILLES DE BEAUMANOIR.
(The Original of "Not a drum was heard.")
I.
Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funèbre ...
Ni le feu des soldats ... ne marqua son départ.
Mais du BRAVE, à la hâte, à travers les ténèbres,
Mornes ... nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart!
II.
De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre—
La lune à peine offrait un débile-rayon:
La lanterne luisait péniblement dans l'ombre,
Quand de la bayonnette on creusa le gazon.
III.
D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire
Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS;
Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire
Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos.
IV.
La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée:
Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fut plein!
Mais on fixait du MORT la figure adorée ...
Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain.
V.
Au demain! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprête,
Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots,
L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête,
Et nous, ses vétérans, serons loin sur les flots!
VI.
Ils terniront sa gloire ... on pourra les entendre
Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer ... ou fol;
Il les laissera dire.—Eh! qu'importe A SA CENDRE,
Que la main d'un BRETON a confiée au sol?
VII.
L'œuvre durait encore, quand retentit la cloche
Au sommet du Befroi:—et le canon lointain,
Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche,
Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain.
VIII.
Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement ...
Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée:
Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument
Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée!
This "Father Prout," whom Mr. G. A. Sala terms "the wittiest pedant, the most pedantic wit, and the oddest fish he ever met with," was well known as an inveterate jester, as well as an accomplished linguist, so that the above effusion did not deceive his associates, especially as the documents referred to in it, as evidence, had no existence save in the fertile brain of "Father Prout."
In the recent edition of the "Maclise Portrait Gallery," by Mr. William Bates, M.A. (Chatto and Windus, 1883), is an interesting biography of this eccentric genius, in which will be found all that is known about his French imitation of Wolfe's Ode. Mr. Bates truly remarks that, notwithstanding Padre Prout's skill in French versification, there are internal evidences that the poem was not written by a Frenchman, and further that it has the unmistakable air of a translation. Unfortunately, however, the mischief was done, and what Mahony may have intended for a harmless pleasantry, has raised a literary controversy of wide dimensions. His verses were copied into serious French journals, and many well-informed foreigners believe the lines to have originated from a French source. Thus M. Octave Delepierre, in his Essai sur la Parodie (Trübner and Co., London, 1870), seems to have been entirely misled by the hoax. He gives part of the French version, and whilst stating that it is not a settled point, which was first written, he does not mention Father Prout's article, and seems entirely ignorant of the fictitious and humorous origin of the French imitation.
Singularly enough, The Athenæum, of July 1, 1871, in reviewing M. Delepierre's work, fell into the same error, and seriously argued against the French claim, forgetting all about Father Prout.
M. Delepierre's statement is (Essai sur la Parodie, p. 163):—"Lorsqu'elle fut publiée en 1824, elle parut assez belle pour que le Capitaine Medwin suggérat qu'elle était due à la muse de Byron. Sydney Taylor réfuta cette supposition, et restitua l'ode à son véritable auteur, le Rev. Charles Wolfe."
"Ce n'est pas seulement en Angleterre qu'on a discuté la paternité de cette ode célèbre. On trouve à ce sujet toute une discussion littéraire dans le journal L'Intermédiare des Chercheurs et Curieux, 5ᵉ année, page 693, et 6ᵉ année, pages 19 et 106."
"D'après ces détails, il paraîtrait que cette pièce n'est que la traduction d'une ode Française, composée à l'occasion de la mort du Comte de Beaumanoir, tué en 1749, à la défense de Pondichery. L'une de ces deux odes est évidemment une traduction de l'autre; mais quel est l'original?"
The following is the note in the Intermédiare, to which M. Delepierre refers:—
"The well-known verses on the death of Sir John Moore, attributed to the Rev. Charles Wolfe, but never acknowledged by him, are so similar to the above, that it is supposed Mr. Wolfe may have received the French stanzas from his relative, Mr. Wolfe Tone, after his return from France."
The best answer to which is, that the French have never yet produced a genuine and authentic copy of the original version, of a date earlier than that of Wolfe.
The ode has been translated into German (by the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey); into Latin Elegiacs (by the Rev. J. Hildyard); and there is a Greek translation of it "By a Scottish Physician" in the Arundines Devæ (Edinburgh, 1853); there is also a parody of it by the late Mr. J. H. Dixon, which is highly spoken of, but, up till now, this has eluded the editor's researches.
The Rev. R. H. Barham's well known parody in "The Ingoldsby Legends" is especially notable for its close imitation of the original; thus not only is the metre closely followed, but nearly all the lines are made to end with similar rhymes to those in the original.
Barham had a good excuse for this comical effusion, in the wish to expose and ridicule the pretensions of a certain soi-disant "Doctor," a Durham veterinary surgeon of the name of Marshall, on whose behalf a claim had been made, in 1824, for the authorship of the "Ode." But this was afterwards said to have been a mere hoax, as this Marshall was more remarkable for convivial, than literary tastes.
Note.—In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might have been the production of Lord Byron's muse, the late Mr. Sydney Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up in the person of a soi-disant "Doctor Marshall," who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain "Doctor Peppercorn" put forth his pretensions to what he averred was the only "true and original" version, viz.:—
Not a sous had he got, not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning,
We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him,
And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his Marshall cloak around him.
"The Doctor's as drunk as the d——," we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head
Would consumedly ache on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda water.
Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done,
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son-of-a-gun
Of a watchman, "One o'clock," bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory.
Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.—Virgil.
I wrote the verses, * * claimed them—he told stories.
Thomas Ingoldsby.
The following parody is copied literally from an old ballad sheet in the British Museum, bearing the imprint:—"Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6 Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials." No date is given, but that it was prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the "Charleys," a nick-name for the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards the end of 1829. But the crimes of Body-snatching, and "Burking," were not finally put a stop to until, by the act of 1832, provision was made for the wants of surgeons by permitting, under certain regulations, the dissection of persons dying in workhouses, etc.:—
NOT a trap was heard, or a Charley's note
As our course to the churchyard we hurried,
Not a pigman discharg'd a pistol shot
As a corpse from the grave we unburied.
We nibbled it slily at dead of night,
The sod with our pick-axes turning,
By the nosing moonbeam's chaffing light,
And our lanterns so queerly burning.
Few and short were the words we said,
And we felt not a bit of sorrow,
But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead
And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow.
The useless shroud we tore from his breast
And then in regimentals bound him,
And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest,
With his lobster togs around him.
We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed,
Our snatching trick now no look sees;
But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled,
And we far away towards Brooks's.
Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone
And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him;
But nothing we care if they leave him alone
In a place where a snatcher has laid him.
But half of our snatching job was o'er,
When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling,
And we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar
That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling.
Slily and slowly we laid him down,
In our cart famed for staching in story;
Nicely and neatly we done 'em brown,
For we bolted away in our glory.
At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents constantly asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient constitution of the country would be swept away, and that ruin, revolution, and anarchy would result. The following parody appeared in a Liberal newspaper of the period:—
ODE ON THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE
CONSTITUTION.
"Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its prototype."
NOT a moan was heard—not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the devil they hurried,
Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our idol was buried.
They buried him darkly at dead of night,
With their threats our remonstrance turning,
By the struggling Stephen's misty light,
In the brazen socket burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
In a sheet of parchment they bound him,
And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest,
With schedule A around him.
Few and short were the speeches said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead,
And thought of the coming morrow.
We thought as they tumbled him into his bed,
And laid him at rest on his pillow,
That the Radical soon would step over our head,
And we be turned out by the bill—oh!
Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done,
When the time came for ending the session,
And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun,
That the King was now in procession,
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the further defence of the Tory,
We carved not a line on his funeral stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
Figaro in London, 8th September, 1832.
There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than dismay:—
LINES,
(AFTER WOLFE)
Written on the threatened Death (on the Floor of the House) of John O'Connell.
Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note,
As down on the floor he hurried;
Not a member offered to lend his coat,
Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried
We looked at him slily at dead of night,
Our backs adroitly turning,
That he might not see us laugh outright
By the lights so brightly burning.
No useless advice we on him press'd,
Nor in argument we wound him;
But we left him to lie, and take his rest,
With his Irish clique around him.
Few and short were the speeches made,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow;
But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead,
He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow.
We thought, we'll be careful where we tread,
And avoid him where he's lying;
For if we should tumble over his head,
'Twould certainly send us flying.
Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone,
And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him;
But little he'll care, and again try it on,
Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him.
But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?"
When the time arrived for retiring,
And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun
Our attendance to watch him requiring."
Slowly and softly they shut the door,
After Radical, Whig, and Tory;
And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more,"
They left him alone in his glory.
Punch, December, 1847.