Dr. Oliver Goldsmith,
Born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, Nov. 29, 1728,
Died in Brick Court, Temple, London, April 4, 1774.
efore quoting the Parodies on the Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, mention must be made of three instances, in which he, himself, borrowed ideas from French sources. These are the well-known “Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,” the “Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,” and the favourite verses, entitled “Stanzas on Woman,” commencing “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” which appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” when first published in 1765. Before Goldsmith settled down in London as a struggling man of letters, he had spent some time wandering about on the Continent, and had obtained a fairly good insight into foreign literature. He had, therefore, in all probability seen the poems of Ségur, printed in Paris in 1719, in which the following lines occur:—
“Lorsqu’une femme, après trop de tendresse,
D’un homme sent la trahison,
Comment, pour cette si douce foiblesse,
Peut-elle trouver une guérison?
Le seul remède qu’elle peut ressentir.
La seule revanche pour son tort
Pour faire trop tard l’amant repentir,
Hélas! trop tard,—est la mort.”[5]
These he appears to have almost literally translated, thus:—
When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev’ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom—is to die.
A Paraphrase.
“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,”
And finds out too late that false man can “betray,”
She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,”
And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.
He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover,
Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,
There is but one method” which he can discover
That’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!”
He’s wrong—the wan and withering cheek;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart;
The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear;
Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown
As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;
These wring the false one’s heart enough
If made of penetrable stuff.
From The Black Mousquetaire (The Ingoldsby Legends.)
A Song For the Million.
When Harry Brougham turns a Tory,
Too late convinc’d that Whigs betray,
What can revive his tarnish’d glory?
What his desertion best repay?
The only robe his shame to cover,
To hide the brand upon his back,
And best reward this faithless lover—
That Peel can give him is—the sack.
Punch February, 1844.
“When Lovely Woman.”
When lovely woman wants a favour,
And finds, too late, that man won’t bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?
The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is—to cry!
From Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, 1854.
A Song.
When lovely woman, prone to folly,
Finds that e’en Rowland’s oils betray;
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can turn gray hairs away?
The only art gray hairs to cover,
To hide their tint from every eye,
To win fresh praises from her lover,
And make him offer—is to dye.
Punch, April, 1854.
A Remedy.
When lovely woman stoops to poli-
Tics, and finds it doesn’t pay,
What charm can wean her from her folly,
And put her in the proper way?
The only plan we can discover,
Is the one we now propose;
That she should obtain a lover,
Marry him, and mend his hose.
Diogenes, 1853.
Canzonet on Crinoline.
By a Wretch.
When lovely woman, hooped in folly,
Grows more expansive every day,
And makes her husband melancholy
To think what bills he’ll have to pay.
When in the width of fashion swelling,
With air-balloons her skirts may vie,
The truth—(what hinders Punch from telling?)—
Is that she looks a perfect Guy!
Punch, February 21, 1857.
“Another Way.”
When lovely woman, Lump of Folly,
Would show the world her vainest trait;
Would treat herself as child her dolly,
And warn each man of sense away.
The surest method she’ll discover
To prompt a wink from every eye,
Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover,
And spoil a scalp-skin—is to dye,
Shirley Brooks. 1866.
A Silly Manager.
When Managers have stooped to folly,
And find vulgarity won’t pay,
And audiences won’t be jolly,
But boldly rise and hiss the play:
In order their misdeeds to cover,
Some clap-trap for the gods they try
Before the farce is halfway over,
And insult add to injury.
Fun, November 24, 1866.
Goldsmith Improved.
When lovely woman takes to lollies,[6]
And finds, too late, her teeth decay,
What penitence can cure her follies,
What chloroform her pain allay?
If beauteous, she’ll be kindly pitied;
If ugly, each good-tooth’d one’s butt.
So she must get her mouth refitted,
Or, what is better—keep it shut!
The Grasshopper, July 1, 1869.
Beautiful for Ever.
When lovely woman, still a maiden,
Finds her locks are turning grey,
What art can keep their hue from fading?
What balm can intercept delay?
The only art her age to cover,
To hide the change from every eye,
To quell repentance in her lover,
And soothe his bosom is—to dye.
Kottabos. Dublin, W. McGee, 1872.
Fashion.
When lovely woman stoops to fashion
And finds it like man’s fancy change,
What can reclaim the truant passion,
And capture it no more to range?
The only way to curb love’s passion.
And charm her fickle lover’s eye,
To bring the colour to her chignon—
As the old joke says is—to dye.
The Hornet.
Stanzas on Woman—by o. g.
When lovely woman takes to rinking,
And finds how hard the asphalte’s got,
What charm can save her heart from sinking,
What art can heal the injured spot?
The only plan she can pursue,
To save herself another fall,
In fact the only thing to do,
In future’s not to rink at all.
The Idylls of the Rink, 1876.
Stanzas on Woman.
By a modern Goldsmith.
When lovely woman reads Le Follet,
And tries her best to men betray;
She makes herself a pretty dolly,
But fritters all her soul away.
When she grows old, and charms decay,
And crow’s-feet come beneath each eye;
When skin is wrinkled—hair is grey—
Her only chance is then—to dye!
The Figaro, January 1, 1873.
Stanzas on Man.
By Dr. Silversmith.
When foolish man consents to marry,
And finds, too late, his wife a shrew,
When she her point in all must carry,
’Tis hard to say what’s best to do!
In hopes the breeches to recover,
To hide his shame from every eye.
To be as free as when her lover
His only method is—to fly.
A Bit of Goldsmith’s Work New Gilt.
When lovely woman once so jolly,
Finds, late in life, that hair grows grey,
How make her case less melancholy,
How hide Time’s step that none can stay?
The only way his track to cover,
To mask her age from every eye,
And if she have a spoon for lover
To keep him still “spoons,” is—to dye!
On a Breach of Promise.
When lovely woman finds that breaches
Of promise are her suitor’s wear,
What is it the black record bleaches,
And comforts the deserted fair?
To punish the unfaithful lover,
Where only he’ll his falsehood rue,
Substantial damages recover—
Pursue him not, but his purse sue!
Venus Imitatrix.
[Another Ladies Club is starting at the
West-end.—See Society Journals.]
(Sung by a Clubbess).
When lovely woman’s melancholy
Because her husband stays away
From home, pursuing some mad folly,
(“’Tis business, love,” they always say).
The only plan to teach him manners,
And cure the midnight latchkey hub,
Is, dears, to march beneath our banners—
So, ladies, come and join our club.
Stanzas on Woman.
When lovely woman longs to marry,
And snatch a victim from the beaux,
What charms the soft design will carry?
What art will make the men propose?
The only art her schemes to cover,
To give her wishes sure success,
To gain, to fix a captive lover,
And “wring his bosom,” is TO DRESS.
On Mr. Odger.
(Formerly Candidate for Southwark.)
When stupid Odger stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What thought can make him once more jolly?
What hope can drive his spite away?
The only thought his rage to smother
Is one we’ll hope will turn out true;
’Tis thus he mutters, “You’re another;
As you’ve Hughes’d me, they’ll use you too.”
Judy.
Fashion.
When foolish woman stoops to fashion,
And finds tight-lacing doesn’t pay,
But turns her grey, and brings a rash on
Her nose no powder charms away;
What best the horrid tints can cover?
What hide the truth from every eye,
Defying e’en keen sighted lover?
’Tis to Enamel and to Dye.
Grins and Groans, 1882.
Mint Sauce for Lamb.
(After Goldsmith.)
When man, less faithful than the colley,
Deserts his love and goes astray,
What art can make the maiden jolly?
What charm can drive her grief away?
The way her grief to overcome is,
Instead of lying down to die,
To claim three thou for breach of promise,
And show her swain the reason why.
Judy, August 24, 1881.
Woman’s Rights.
[Mrs. Longshore Potts says that, if a woman fall in love, custom ought not to debar her making some proposal.]
When lovely woman’s melancholy,
And finds she’s in a love-sick way,
Must she be bound by custom’s folly,
And never more her love betray?
No! Helen must her heart discover
To Modus; but if all in vain,
And he should scorn to be her lover,
Her sole resource is—try again.
Fun, March 25, 1885.
The Omnibus.
(By an Old Bachelor.)
If lovely woman seeks to enter
The crowded ’bus in which you ride,
Have you the heart to discontent her.
Or would you rather go outside?
I’m brute enough, I dare to state,
Although it may the lady vex,
To keep my seat, and let her wait—
I’ve “bussed” too many of the sex.
Gossip, May 16, 1885.
When lovely woman pines in folly
Because her hair is turning gray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can drive her grief away?
The only art her woe to cover,
To hide her age from every eye,
To come the gum-game o’er her lover
And to make her happy—is to dye!
Detroit Free Press, August, 1885.
The following, signed “By the Ghost of Goldsmith,” was picked up in the Queen’s Bench Division Court after the termination of the trial, Foli v. Bradshaw, that being an action for assault brought by the eminent singer, in May, 1884:—
“When lovely woman stoops to Foli,
And lets her son with cudgels play,
An action soon brings melancholy,
And damages one has to pay.”
The two other before-named poems by Goldsmith, which can be traced to a French source, are so similar in style that they may be both given together, followed by the French original:—
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.
Good people all of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran
Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To ev’ry Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That shew’d the rogues they ly’d;
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that dy’d.
An Elegy.
On the Glory of her Sex,
Mrs. Mary Blaize.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning,
And never followed wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.
At church in silk and satin new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumbered in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has followed her—
When she has walk’d before.
But now her wealth, and finery fled,
Her hangers on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead—
Her last disorder, mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day!
Goldsmith.
The following Chanson du Fameux la Galisse, taken from Ménagiana, 1729, must have supplied hints for the construction of the foregoing poems:—
“LE FAMEUX LA GALISSE.”
Messieurs, vous plait-il d’ouir
L’air du fameux la Galisse,
Il pourra vous rejouir,
Pourvû qu’il vous divertisse.
La Gallisse eut peu de bien,
Pour soutenir sa naissance;
Mais il ne manqua de rien,
Dès qu’il fut dans l’abondance.
Bien instruit dès le berçeau,
Jamais, tant il fut honnête,
Il ne mettoit son chapeau
Qu’il ne se couvrit la tête.
Il étoit affable et doux,
De l’humeur de feu son père,
Et n’entroit guère en courroux,
Si ce n’est dans la colere.
Il buvoit tous les matins
Un doight tiré de la tonne,
Et mangeant chez les voisins,
Il s’y trouvoit en personne.
Il vouloit dans ses repas
Des mets exquis et fort tendres,
Et faisoit son Mardi gras,
Toujours la veille des Cendres.
Ses valets étoient soigneux
De le servir d’andouillettes,
Et n’oublioient pas les œufs
Surtout dans les omelettes.
De l’inventeur du raisin
Il révéroit la mémoire,
Et pour bien gouter le vin,
Jugeoit qu’il en falloit boire.
Il disoit que le nouveau
Avoit pour lui plus d’amorce,
Et moins il y mettoit d’eau
Plus il y trouvoit de force.
Il consultoit rarement
Hippocrate et sa doctrine,
Et se purgeoit seulement,
Quand il prenoit médecine.
Au piquet par tout payis,
Il jouoit suivant sa pante,
Et comptoit quatre vingt dix,
Lorsqu’il marquoit un nonante.
Il savoit les autres jeux
Qu’on joue à l’Académie,
Et n’etoit pas malheureux
Tant qu’il gagnoit la partie.
On s’étonne sans raison
D’une chose très commune;
C’est qu’il vendit sa maison,
Il faloit qu’il en eut une.
Il aimoit à prendre l’air,
Quand la saison étoit bonne,
Et n’attendoit pas l’hyver,
Pour vendanger en automne.
Il épousa, ce dit on,
Une vertueuse Dame;
S’il avoit vêcu garçon,
Il n’auroit point eu de femme.
Il en fut toujours cheri,
Elle n’étoit point jalouse;
Si tot qu’il fut son mari,
Elle devint son épouse.
Il passa près de huit ans
Avec elle, fort à l’aise,
En eut jusqu’à huit enfans,
C’étoit la moitié de seize.
On dit que dans ses amours,
Il fut caressé des belles,
Que le suivirent toujours,
Tant qu’il marcha devant elles.
D’un air galant et badin,
Il courtisoit sa Caliste,
Sans jamais être chagrin
Qu’au moment qu’il etoit triste.
Il brilloit comme un Soleil,
Sa Chevelure étoit blonde:
Il n’eut pas eu son pareil,
S’il eût été seul au monde.
Il eût des talens divers,
Meme on assure une chose,
Quand il écrivoit en vers,
Qu’il n’écrivoit pas en prose.
En matiére de rébus
Il n’avoit pas son semblable:
S’il eût fait des impromtus,
Il en eût été capable.
Il savoit un triolet
Bien mieux que sa patenôtre:
Quand il chantoit un couplet,
Il n’en chantoit pas un autre.
Il expliqua doctement
La Physique et la Morale.
Et soutint qu’une jument
Etoit toujours une cavale.
Par un discours sérieux
Il prouva que la berluë,
Et les autres maux des yeux
Sont contraires à la vûe.
Chacun alors applaudit
A sa science inouïe,
Tout homme qui l’entendit,
N’avoit das perdu l’ouïe.
Il prétendit en un mois
Lire toute l’Ecriture,
Et l’auroit lue une fois,
S’il en eût fait la lecture.
Par son esprit, et son air
Il s’aquit le don de plaire:
Le Roi l’eut fait Duc et Pair
S’il avoit voulu le faire.
Mieux que tout autre il savoit
A la Cour jouer son role,
Et jamais lorsqu’il buvoit
Ne disoit une parole.
Il choisissoit prudemment
De deux choses la meilleure,
Et répétoit fréquemment,
Ce qu’il disoit à toute heure.
Il fut à la verité
Un danseur assez vulgaire;
Mais il n’eut pas mal chanté
S’il avoit voulu se taire.
Il eut la goute à Paris
Long tems cloué sur sa couche
En y jettant les hauts cris,
Il ouvroit bien fort la bouche.
Lorsqu’en sa maison des champs
Il vivoit libre et tranquille,
On auroit perdu son temps
De le chercher à la ville.
On raconte, que jamais
Il ne pouvoit se résoudre
A charger ses pistolets
Quand il n’avoit pas de poudre.
Un jour il fut assiné
Devant son Juge ordinaire.
S’il eût été condamné
Il eut perdu son affaire.
On ne le vit jamais las,
Ni sujet à la paresse,
Tandis qu’il ne dormoit pas,
On tient qu’il veillait sans cesse.
Il voyageoit volontiers,
Courant partout le Royaume
Quand il étoit à Poitiers
Il n’étoit pas à Vendôme.
Il se plaisoit en bateau,
Et soit en paix, soit en guerre,
Il alloit toujours par eau
A moins qu’il n’alla par terre.
Une fois s’étant fourré
Dans un profond marécage,
Il y seroit demeuré,
S’il n’eut pu trouver passage.
Il fuioit asses l’excês,
Mais dans les cas d’importance,
Quand il se mettoit en frais,
Il se mettoit en dépense.
Dans un superbe tournoi
Pret a fournir sa carrière,
Il parut devant le Roi,
Il n’etoit donc pas derrière.
Monté sur un cheval noir,
Les Dames le reconnurent,
Et c’est la qu’il se fit voir,
A tout ceux qui l’apperçurent.
Mais bien qu’il fût vigoureux,
Bien qu’il fit le Diable à quatre
Il ne renversa que ceux
Qu’il eut l’addresse d’abattre.
C’etoit un homme de cœur
Insatiable de gloire;
Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur
Il remportoit la victoire.
Les places qu’il attaquoit
A peine osoient se défendre,
Et jamais il ne manquoit
Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre.
Un devin pour deux testons
Lui dit d’une voix hardie,
Qu’il mourroit de là les monts,
S’il mourrait en Lombardie.
Il y mourut ce Heros,
Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute;
Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos,
Aussitot il ne vit goute.
Il fut par un triste sort,
Blessé d’une main cruelle:
On croit, puisqu’il en est mort,
Que la plaie etoit mortelle.
Regretté de ses soldats,
Il mourut digne d’envie
Et le jour de son trépas
Fut le dernier de sa vie.
J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits
Qui contiennent son histoire,
Qu’il iroit en Paradis
S’il etoit en Purgatoire.
Some verses of this song were translated, and published in The Mirror, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the original.
The Happy Man.
La Gallisse now I wish to touch,
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I’m sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.
La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty,
When he was born—but could not want,
As long as he had plenty.
Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well-bred,
And never used a hat to wear,
But when ’twas on his head.
His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father’s fashion;
And never quarrels broil’d his blood,
Except when in a passion.
His mind was on devotion bent,
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent,
The day before Good Friday.
He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell,
He thought it best to drink it.
Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross;
And never any physic took,
But when he took a dose.
Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train,
Whene’er he walk’d before.
Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.
His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows,
That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse
No one could call it prose.
He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.
His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight.
He prov’d that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.
They lik’d him much—so it appears,
Most plainly—who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears,
Who any time had heard him.
He was not always right, ’tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.
Whene’er a tender tear he shed,
T’was certain that he wept;
And he would lay awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.
In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o’er-threw,
But those that he knocked down.
At last they smote him in the head—
What hero e’re fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.
And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that sealed his death,
Deprived him of his life.
——:o:——
Ménage introduces Le Chanson de la Galisse without any other explanation than that it relates to the adventures of an imaginary character, he does not mention the Author’s name, nor does he refer to any other poem having any resemblance to it. Yet there was a “Chanson” written in exactly the same style and metre, recording (in burlesque it is true) the adventures of a brave French officer, named La Palice. And what makes it more remarkable is, that this poem was written by a friend of M. Gilles de Ménage, the grave and religious Bernard de la Monnoye, who conceived the idea of personifying nonsensical truths in his Complaint upon the Life and Death of La Palice; careless of attaching popular ridicule to a name which should excite only recollections of heroic and military virtue.
Concerning this Chanson de la Palice there was a long article in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal, as far back as July, 1845, from which the following notes are extracted:—
“Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while drinking he never spoke a word. These are certainly notable details concerning the habits and character of this great man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater claims to admiration which may be brought to light in illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The song begins thus:—
‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear
The song of La Palice;
It surely will delight you all,
Provided that it please,’
Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city, which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life of his illustrious enemy.
‘La Palice but little wealth
To his renown could bring;
And when abundance was his lot,
He lacked no single thing.’
Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say. He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns successively invested him with the titles of marshal of France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and the Lyonnais.
‘He was versed in all the games
Played at the academy;
And never was unfortunate
When he won the victory.’
Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history. First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521; then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French gentlemen.
‘To do and dare in his career,
He readily inclined;
And when he stood before the king,
He was not, sure, behind.
Fate dealt to him a cruel blow.
And stretched him on the ground;
And ’tis believed that since he died,
It was a mortal wound.
His death was sore and terrible,
Upon a stone his head;
He would have died more easily
Upon a feather bed.’
Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish soldier climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La Palice fell senseless to the earth,
‘Deplored and envied by his braves,
He shut his eyes to strife;
And we are told his day of death
Was the last of his life.’
——:o:——
The Right and Marvellous History of
John Smith.
John Smith he was a guardsman bold,
A stouter never fought;
He would have been a grenadier,
But he was one foot short.
But to a man of John Smith’s mind
The love of power had charms;
So when his captain ordered him,
John Smith order’d his arms.
An active, bustling blade was he,
At drill and eke at mess,
Who never thought to stand at ease
When Captains called out “dress,”
Attentive always to the word,
It never was his wont
To turn his eyes or right or left—
When Captains cried “eyes front!”
Though he was ever thought correct,
Once, during an assault,
He ne’er advanced a single foot—
’Cause he was told to halt.
But still he was not coward called,
Why,—we can soon detect;
His foes all fell dead at his feet,—
When his shots took effect.
But tired of knapsack and of gun
And firing in platoons,
The infantry he quitted when—
He entered the dragoons.
His saddle now became his home,
His horse and he seemed one;
And he was ne’er known to dismount,—
Unless he first got on.
How brave and bold a man he was,
From one small fact is clear;
Whole regiments fled before him when,—
He followed in their rear.
He was a steady soldier then.
And sober too, of course,
And ne’er into a tap-room went,—
Mounted upon his horse.
In fact his conduct was so good,
His Captains all confess
He never got into a scrape,—
Though always in a mess.
Though as to what fights he’d been in
Men differed,—none denied
That the last battle he e’er fought
Was that in which he died.
The soldiers there who saw him fall,
Exclaimed, as with one breath,
“Unless his wound’s a mortal one,
It will not cause his death.”
Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s
Nought but the truth did tell;
But this none ever stopped to read,
Who had not learn’d to spell.
“Stop, passenger, and weep;—one tear
To him you can’t refuse,
Who stood—high in his regiment,
And five feet in his shoes.”
The Comic Magazine, 1834.
A History.
There was a man, so legends say,
And he—how strange to tell!—
Was born upon the very day,
Whereon his birthday fell.
He was a baby first. And then
He was his parents’ joy;
But was a man soon after, when
He ceased to be a boy.
And when he got to middle life,
To marry was his whim;
The self-same day he took a wife,
Some woman wedded him.
None saw him to the other side
Of Styx by Charon ferried;
But ’tis conjectured that he died
Because he has been buried.
Tom Hood, the younger.
The Century Magazine for November, 1883, contained an Elegy on Mrs. Grimes, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s Elegy on Madam Blaize.
——:o:——
Description of an Author’s Bed-Chamber.
Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign.
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;
A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The Royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face:
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d,
And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay
A cap by night—a stocking all the day!
Oliver Goldsmith.
Beauties of the Great Masters.
The Street Artist.
Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way,
Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay;
Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain,
Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane;
There on a wintry morning, clad in rags,
The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags—
A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks,
Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks;
And o’er the pavement—green, and blue, and red—
In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread;
Maxims of charity were there in view,
And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew,
Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice),
And great Napoleon showed his well-known face—
The morn was cold—he takes with down-cast eye
The offerings of the pitying passers-by—
How changed the scene, when, to his home returned,
He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned—
With steaks and beer his vigour is restored,
And crack companions grace his festive board—
He dons a coat—his rags he throws away—
A swell by night—a beggar all the day.
The Month. By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
The following imitation was originally published by Messrs. Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given.
The Doomed Village.
A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright.
“Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,”
Could thy true Poet visit earth again,
How would his patriot spirit grieve to see
A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee!
The decent church abandoned to the owl,
The ruined parsonage, the roofless school,
The village of its preacher’s voice bereft,
The little flock without a shepherd left,
Without “the man to all the country dear,”
Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer;
“Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
Still in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.”
Will then the State suppress the godly man,
And bid him buy his dwelling if he can,
That hospitable roof and open door
Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor,
Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid
Which pious ages gifts to God had made,
Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost,
His faith unaided and his altar lost,
To quit for distant lands his long-loved home,
Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome?
Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust
That Royal womanhood will still be just?
Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown,
And let her statesmen drive them from her throne?
The man of State who wants a heart to feel
Wants that which most concerns the public weal;
No nice distinction will he stoop to make
Between the power to seize, and right to take.
“The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we
Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.”
False allegations then a pretext yield;
And Ahab takes possession of the field.
Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind;
No law can fix him, and no treaty bind;
He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal,
And bids him trust in voluntary zeal,
Go beg the bread that has been all his own,
Along a road untravelled and unknown,
Ardent alike to pare a Church away,
And lay a tax for charities to pay.
Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan?
Whither are Equity and Pity flown?
Are all the virtues melted down in one,
Of neutral colour much resembling none?
A large, loose, Liberality of mind,
True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind.
Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known,
And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne;
Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right,
And Policy disdained to side with spite,
Not hounding on the envious pack which pant
To tear away the bone they do not want,
Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up,
As if they all still mantled in the cup,
And loved by antiquated tales to shew,
How Britain always has been Erin’s foe;
Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief,
And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief.
Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired,
By many hearts revered, by all admired;
In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone;
Will Erin cease to claim them for her own?
Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name,
Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame?
Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot,
With the blest book he gave the Irish cot?
Will it grate harshly on her altered ear,
Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear?
Will she no longer boast that God had given
“To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?”
Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been,
The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen?
Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart?
Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart,
The signs and records of an alien band,
Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land?
“It is not we who troubling Liffey’s stream
Foul it with blood,” the threatened sheep exclaim;
“It was your fathers then that fouled it so,”
Retorts the wolf “a hundred years ago.”
The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl
Of the wild beasts that o’er the country prowl;
In his right hand he wields a butcher’s knife,
And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life,
An offering to peace, a needful feast,
To stay the hunger of the savage beast.
The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries,
Applaud the prudence of their Chief’s device,
The struggles of the bleeding victim mock,
And join the wolf in ravaging the flock.
But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end,
And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend,
Raise many a champion through the land to lead
A growing host for poverty to plead,
The sacred voice of conscience wake within,
Forbid the fatal policy of sin,
Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate,
Calm down the public mind, and save the State.
Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far
Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war,
Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky
On the self-immolated quarry fly.
So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand!
Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand;
So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep,
Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep;
So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride,
By justice checked, within its banks subside;
So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit,
Revived and cherished, well its place befit,
And through the time to come serenely bright
Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light.
Immortal Light, that can’st alone control
The brutal instincts of the savage soul,
’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife
The deep significance of human life,
Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God,
The awful sanctions of His penal code;
Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read,
The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed.
The Deserted Village.
Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain,
Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid,
And the rich summer dinner-tables laid.
Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease,
Seats of my youth when every card could please,
How often have I done thy park so green
Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene;
How often have I paused the throng to tell,
Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell,
The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill,
The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill,
The moving row with spots beneath the shade
For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made:
How often have I blest the late-born day,
When play remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village swells from dinner free,
Led up the sports that fashion loves to see,
While much flirtation circled in the shade,
The young ones spooning as the old surveyed,
And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground,
And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round;
And still as each repeated partner tired,
Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired.
The dancing man, who simply sought renown
By leading all the cotillons in town,
The swain mistrustful of his smutty face,
While secret riddles tittered round the place,
The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love,
The chaperons who would those looks reprove,
These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these
With sweet succession taught e’en town to please,
These round thy bowers their genial influence shed,
These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn,
Within thy doors upholsterers are seen,
And water-carts alone the park keep green;
Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain,
Of all thy people none with thee remain.
No more thy babbling talk reflects the day,
But in the country winds its shallow way;
Along thy park a solitary guest,
A sole policeman now laments the rest,
Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils,
Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils;
Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all,
And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball,
And trembling, lest they last should join the band,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey,
Where working men increase and swells decay,
Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade,
Hardy may make them as Walpole has made,
But fashionable swells, their country’s pride,
Once out of town can never be supplied.
The Tomahawk, September 7, 1867.
The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of The Mirror:
“Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office has contributed:—
London in September
(Not in 1831),
By Lord John Russell.
(After The Traveller, by Oliver Goldsmith).
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
A single horseman passes Rotten row;
In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse
The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news.
At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass
To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass;
The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare
To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square.
From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy,
And seeks—Oh bliss—the Molly—a tempora fandi.
Meantime the battered pavement is at rest,
And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest,
Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long,
Have all left town to join the Margate throng.
The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore
Displays and drives his blue barouche and four,
The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun,
Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.”
——:o:——
THE HERMIT.
This favourite poem originally appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of having borrowed the idea of the ballad from “The Friar of Orders Gray,” and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St. James’s Chronicle:
“A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it.”
In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note to “The Friar of Orders Gray,” stating that it was only just to declare that Goldsmith’s Poem was written first, and that if there had been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both indebted to the beautiful old ballad Gentle Herdsman. This ballad is reprinted below, with Goldsmith’s The Hermit, and a few verses from Bishop Percy’s Friar of Orders Gray.
It will be seen that although the poems have several points of resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own.
“Gentle Herdsman Tell to Me.”
Gentle herdsman, tell to me,
Of curtesy I thee pray—
Unto the towne of Wallsingham
Which is the right and ready way?
“Unto the towne of Walsingham,
The way is hard for to be gone,
And very crooked are those pathes
For you to find out all alone.”
Were the miles doubled thrise
And the way never so ill,
It were not enough for mine offence;
It is so grevous and so ill.
“Thy yeares are young, thy face is faire,
Thy wits are weake, thy thoughts are greene;
Time hath not given thee leave as yet
For to commit so great a sinne!”
Yes, herdsman, yes, soe wou’dst thou say,
If thou knewest so much as I;
My wits, and thoughtes, and all the rest,
Have well deserved for to dye.
I am not what I seeme to bee,
My cloths and sexe doe differ fare;
I am a woman, woe is mee!
Born to greeffe, and irksome care.
For my beloved, and well beloved,
My wayward cruelty could kill;
And though my teares will naught avail,
Most dearely I bewail him still.
He was the flower of noble wights,
None ever more sincere colde bee,
Of comelye mien and shape he was,
And tenderlye he loved mee.
When thus I sawe he loved me well,
I grew so proude his paine to see,
That I, who did not know myselfe,
Thought scorne of such a youth as hee.
And grew so coy, and nice to please,
As women’s lookes are often soe,
He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth,
Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes,
To see I pityed not his greeffe,
He goes him to a secret place,
And there he dyed without releeffe.
And for his sake these weedes I weare,
And sacrifice my tender age;
And every day I’ll beg my bread,
To undergoe this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I’ll fast and praye,
And ever will do till I dye;
And get me to some secrett place,
For so did hee, and soe will I.
Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more,
But keep my secretts I thee pray;
Unto the towne of Wallsingham
Shew me the right and readye waye.
“Now goe thy wayes, and God before,
For he must ever guide thee still;
Turn down the dale the righte hand pathe,
And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.”
——:o:——
The Hermit.
“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
“For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.”
“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,
“To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
“Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still:
And though my portion is but scant
I give it with good will.
“Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate’er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
“No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:
“But from the mountain’s grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
“Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego;
All earthborn cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master’s care;
The wicket, opening with a latch
Received the harmless pair.
And now when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest, and smil’d;
And skill’d in legendary lore
The lingering hours beguil’d.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket churrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger’s woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spy’d,
With answ’ring care opprest:
“And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d
“The sorrows of thy breast?
“From better habitations spurn’d,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,
Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
“And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
“And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one’s jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle’s nest.
“For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex” he said
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray’d.
Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o’er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest,
A maid in all her charms.
“And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn.” she cried;
“Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
“But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
“My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark’d as mine
He had but only me.
“To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber’d suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign’d a flame.
“Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,
But never talk’d of love.
“In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor pow’r had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
“And when, beside me in the dale,
He carol’d lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.[11]
“The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heav’n refin’d,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
“The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
“For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch’d my heart
I triumph’d in his pain.
“Till quite dejected with my scorn
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay:
I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
“And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I’ll lay me down and die;
’Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wandering fair one turned to chide;—
’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d.
“Turn Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor’d to love and thee.
“Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev’ry care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life—my all that’s mine?
“No never, from this hour to part
We’ll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”
——:o:——
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.
This poem is given in Bishop Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry with the following note:—
“Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s candour.”
It was a friar of orders gray
Walkt forth to tell his beades;
And he met with a lady faire
Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes.
“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,
I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see?”
“And how should I know your true love
From many another one?”
“O, by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoone.”[12]
“But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so faire to view,
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d,
And eyne of lovely blue.”
O, lady he is dead and gone!
Lady, he’s dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.
“Within these holy cloysters long
He lanquisht, and he dyed,
Lamenting of a ladyes love,
And ’playning of her pride.”
* * * * *
“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!
And dids’t thou dye of love of me!
Break, cruel heart of stone!”
“O, weep not, lady, weep not soe;
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Ne tears bedew thy cheek.”
“O, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,
That e’er wan ladyes love.
And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse,
I’ll evermore weep and sigh;
For thee I only wisht to live,
For thee I wish to dye.”
(Eleven stanzas here omitted.)
* * * * *
“O, stay me not, thou holy friar;
O stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.”
“Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.
Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;
And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.
But haply, for my year of grace[13]
Is not yet past away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.
Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.
The Hermit.
A Prophetic Ballad.
“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where some shanty cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
“For as, forlorn and lost, I tread
This weary waste, and slow,
My skirts immeasurably spread
Impede me as I go.”
“Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries,
“My roof shall give thee shade;
I call thee girl, although mine eyes
Behold no tender maid.
“But, exiled from the world, I find—
However old she be—
That any one of womankind
Is as a girl to me.
“A kiss I beg, just one! what no?
Is kissing then so wrong?
Man wants a little here below
Though not perhaps, for long.
“Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare
My modesty invade!”
Fury inspired the conscious fair,
And fury her betrayed.
That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast,
Those thewy, threatening arms!
The lonely stranger stands confest—
A man in all his charms.
“And, ah! excuse a stranger rude,
A hunted wretch,” he cried;
“Indeed I hope I don’t intrude
Where you in peace reside.
“But pity a poor trader who
Has mixed in public fray,
And learned what politics can do
In leading men astray,
“My chief the Land League party led
In Parliament and out,
And by his side I fought and bled
With constancy devout.
“Pretenders to the Chiefship came
To win me from his band;
But still I loved but Parnell’s name
And bow’d to his command.
“And length to ’scape arrest, one morn
He deemed it best to hide;
And sought some solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died.
“Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught
In feminine array
And seek the solitude he sought
To stretch me where he lay.
“There, my identity thus hid
I’ll lay me down and die
For Ireland so my Parnell did
And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried,
And clasped him to his breast
The wondering stranger turn’d to chide
’Twas Parnell’s self that prest!
“Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear!
My comrade turn to see
Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here,
True to the League and thee!”
The St. James’s Gazette, February 28, 1881.
——:o:——
THE SPEAKER’S DINNER.
The following political paraphrase of Oliver Goldsmith’s pleasing poem Retaliation, is taken from an anonymous collection, published in 1814, entitled “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets, but not published in any former Edition of their Works.” Several pieces from this collection have already been quoted in Parodies; they have nearly all a strong party bias in favour of the Tory Government of the day. The Politicians alluded to in the poem are, the Earl of Liverpool, Premier 1812 to 1827, died in 1828; Viscount Castlereagh (afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) Foreign Secretary, committed suicide in 1822; Lord Grenville, died in 1834; the Right Hon. George Canning author of the witty parodies in the “Anti-jacobin,” died 1827; Sir Francis Burdett, an opposition M.P., father of Lady Burdett Coutts, died 1844; Viscount Sidmouth, died 1844; the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, died 1857; Samuel Whitbread, M.P., died 1815; the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan, died 1816; Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, died 1818; William Cobbett, M.P., for Oldham, died 1835; and Robert Waithman, M.P., Alderman and Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1833.
Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes,
We’ll serve up ourselves for the rest of the dishes.
Our L—v—rp—l’s beef at the top let us find,
Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind:
Let C—strl—gh’s turtle at bottom be placed,
Restoring the system and pleasing the taste:
And Gr—nv—lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on,
The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton,
Our C—nn—ng is salt; for his talents are such
That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch,
While B—rd—tt resembles the onion that throws
A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes.
With a chicken well boiled, gentle S—dm—th will treat us,
And Cr—k—r shall serve for our Irish potatoes:
Brown stout shall be Wh—tbr—d, the dregs of the cup,
And Shr—d—n, spruce, not sufficiently up.
Push about, Mr. Speaker—I’ll sit, if I’m able,
Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table;
And while they are lying unconscious before us,
We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us.
Now L—v—rp—l’s Earl lies along at our feet,
Who was eloquent often, and always discreet.
If failings he had, he has left us in doubt,
Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out,
But Scandal has said, he had more admiration
For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation.
Here sleeps the bold Wh—tbr—d, whose temper was such
That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much:
Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind,
And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind:
Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat
In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote:
Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far
That his passion for peace kept him always at war:
Though equal to most things, for all things unfit;
Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit:
Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent,
And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:—
So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season,
Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason.
Here C—tl—r—gh lies, with a mind like the mint,
Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t.
His well-bred demeanour still bore him along
Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng,
Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend,
He softened the means, but to strengthen the end.
Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone?
His country will tell you—for all was her own.
Here slumbers poor Sh—rry, whose fate I must sigh at!
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet.
What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle!
Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle!
Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall,
Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick,
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wished to have Dick back again.
Here S—dm—th reposes, whose virtues and parts
Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts:
A friend of religion, who made it his care
To live as men ought to be, not as they are.
Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line,
And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine.
To a coming millenium has fashioned his views,
Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews.
Say, where has his genius this malady caught,
Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault?
Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind
To estimate coolly the mass of mankind,
Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf,
At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself?
Here B—rd—tt retires, from his rows to relax,
The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks.
O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade;
Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid!
When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town,
I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own;
But wanting the aid of this giant detractor,
The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture;
The lightnings of G—rr—w may slumber at length,
And the thunder-toned justice of Ell—nb’r—gh’s strength;
The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition,
No leader remaining to spur their ambition;
Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark,
And C—bb—tt meet W—thm—n, and wail in the dark!
Here sleeps my Lord Gr—nv—lle, describe him who can,
A compression of all that was solid in man.
For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine:
For head, if not first, in the very first line,
Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition,
He was duped by his own over-weening ambition;
Like Satan of old from authority fell,
And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell.
In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder:
’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder:
For, straining too far to secure the command,
He cut off all hope from himself and his band,
Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in,
Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win.
He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack—
But found not the secret to whistle them back,
He loved popularity, swallow’d what came,
And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame;
Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone,
And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan.
Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews,
He paid for their praises by sending them news.
Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave!
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How aptly, on both sides, the eulogy fitted,
When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted;
But peace to his errors, whatever his fate,
For his former deserts had been many and great:
The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill,
Shall plead his apology, happen what will;
His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve,
And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above.
Here Cr—k—r reclines, a most smart, clever creature,
And ev’n opposition allow him good nature.
He was true to his country, his friends, and his king:
Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing,
Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit?
Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit.
Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat?
I do not intend to impeach him of that.
Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day,
And so became careless and indolent? Nay,
Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it—
He was—could he help it?—by nature a poet!
Here C—nn—ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a brighter or better behind:
His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand,
His character cordial, attaching, and bland:
Still born to improve us in every part,
His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart.
The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits,
He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits;
When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore,
He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!—
The Hermit of Vauxhall.[15]
(A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith.)
Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall,
And let me know the way
In which, within that cavern small,
You pass your time away.
There’s nothing but a little lamp,
A pitcher and a cat!
The place must be extremely damp—
Why don’t you wear a hat?
No chaff, my son, the hermit cries,
But walk your chalks along;
Your path to the rotunda lies—
They’re going to sing a song.
Father, I care not for the strain
Of that young girl in blue,
But, if you please, I will remain,
And have a chat with you.
My son, you surely wish to hear
The music of the band;
But if you stop—a drop of beer
I think you ought to stand.
Father, to grant what you require,
I’ll not a moment fail;
Here, waiter, bring the holy friar
A pint of Burton ale.
The waiter brought the welcome draught,
I took a little sup;
The liquor then the hermit quaff’d,
He fairly mopped it up.
Father, I cried, now if you please,
Philosophy we’ll talk—
As the wind murmurs through the trees,
Skirting the long dark walk.
My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage,
Nor on me make a call—
My life is but a pilgrimage
From Lambeth to Vauxhall.
At eve when shops their shutters shut,
And tolls the curfew bell,
I quit my room in the New Cut,
To sit within this cell.
A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese
My landlady provides,
Save, what to give the public please,
I’ve nothing, son, besides.
Father, your salary, of course,
You must receive, I said;
Your sitting here is not by force:
How do you get your bread?
The sage replied, Alas, my son,
I light the lamps by day—
The hermit’s work, at evening done,
Brings me no extra pay.
And get you cheese alone to eat,
I asked the good old man.
Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat
From baked potato can.
The luxury sometimes I bring
With butter—a small lump,
With water from the crystal spring
That rises ’neath our pump.
Father, I cried, your tale is long,
You tire my patience quite;
I’m off to hear the comic song,
Lull-li-e-tee, good night,
Gilbert A. a’Beckett.
From George Cruikshank’s Table Book, 1845.
——:o:——
In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home, Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner, in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt.
Home, Sweet Home.
(As it might have been constructed in 1744.
Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and
Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.)
Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise:
Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies!
’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys
Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:
Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,
Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.
There, where affection warms the father’s breast.
There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest:
Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heav’n upon our dark below.
When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature’s law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store
Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:
But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share,
His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.
From Scribner’s Monthly, May, 1881.
——:o:——
A Brand-New Song,
(After Goldsmith.)
(On the Speaker of the House of Commons,
Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch
at the Folly Theatre.)
When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly,
And finds with tickers roughs make way,
What charm can soothe his melancholy—
Can Laughing gas his loss repay?
The only way to hide vexation,
To shield himself from pungent chaff,
Save dignity of House and nation,
And keep his temper, is—to laugh.
Punch, May 5, 1877.
On Mr. Warton, M.P.
When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff,
He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff,
——:o:——
In that amusing book, “The Reminiscences of Henry Angelo” (published by Colburn and Bentley in 1830), some account is given of the satirical writer, Anthony Pasquin, whose real name, by the way, was Williams. This man who had been originally brought up to the profession of an Engraver, threw aside the graving tool, and adopted the less respectable calling of a satirical lampoonist. He was an unprincipled impudent sponge, who spoke ill of every one, and forced himself on the hospitality of all who knew him, so that it was said of him that “he never opened his mouth but at another man’s expence.” In 1786 he contributed to a weekly paper then appearing, entitled The Devil, from which Angelo quotes part of a long Parody upon the Deserted Village, written by Pasquin asserting the inferiority of the actors then upon the stage, to their predecessors, an assertion frequently made by elderly people even in these days.
Innovation.
Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town,
Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown,
I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid,
When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d:
Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze,
Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please;
How often happier than a king or queen,
While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene.
How often have I paused on ev’ry charm,
The speaking silence, the expression warm,
The never-failing start, the gushing tear,
The broken accents trembling on the ear;
The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade,
Impervious scene for love or murder made;
How often have I blessed the parting day,
When, tea removed, I hurried to the play;
And both the galleries, from labour free,
Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee;
While many a first appearance has been made,
The young contending as the old survey’d,
And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground,
While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round;
And still as each repeated effort tir’d,
The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d.
The rival Romeos that sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face;
While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place;
The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love,
The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these,
With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please.
These round the theatre alternate shed
Laughter and tears—but all these charms are fled.
Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town,
Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down.
’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen,
And critic fury tears away the green;
Monopoly now grasps the whole domain,
And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain.
No wit or humour marks the lively play,
But puns and quibbles make their saucy way;
Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest,
Dull Declamation snores herself to rest.
The place of elegance a stare supplies,
And affectation that nor laughs nor cries.
Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all,
For he acts best who can the loudest bawl;
Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage,
To fright astonish’d reason from the stage.
Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey,
Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay;
Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade,
A puff can make them, as a puff has made,
But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride,
When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.
* * * * *
Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close,
Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose;
There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow,
In Hamlet—looked unutterable woe!
Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved,
Barry grew agonised in—“not much mov’d.”
There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court,
Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport.
There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn.
Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn.
There the apt tune in timely moment play’d,
To fill each pause the exeunt had made.
But now simplicity’s soft accents fail,
And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail.
No friends to Nature on the boards now tread,
But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled!
* * * * *
Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet,
Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street,
There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool,
Good Master Shuter first was put to school.
Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low,
“Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.”
Well did the tittering audience love to trace
The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face;
Well would the busy whisper circle round,
When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d;
Yet he was kind—but if absurd in aught,
The love he bore to blackguards was in fault.
The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew,
’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too.
While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound,
Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around:
And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew,
That one droll head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame—the Rose and Crown,
Where he so oft got tipsy—is burnt down.
Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high,
Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye;
Dull is that dressing-room—by Quin inspir’d,
Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d;
When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound,
And apt quotations—meant for wit—went round;
Imagination fondly stoops to trace,
The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place;
The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor,
The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door:
The clothes—their different duties made to pay,
To deck the stage by night, the street by day;
The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan,
Garrick i’ the lanthorn—Quin in the sedan;
The toilet stocked to decorate the play,
Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay;
While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show,
Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row.
Vain transitory splendours could not all
Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall.
Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name,
For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame;
To paltry players, no more shall he impart
An hour’s delight to the convivial heart:
Thither no more shall witty lords repair,
To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care!
No more the anecdote, the luscious tale,
The mirth-inspiring good-thing shall prevail;
No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer,
Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear;
Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found,
Careful to see the chuckling fun go round;
Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried,
Shall blush to speak a smutty speech aside.
——:o:——
There was another Poem written in imitation of The Deserted Village entitled “The Frequented Village, a Poem dedicated to Oliver Goldsmith,” by E. Young, L.L.D. (J. Godwin). Unfortunately there does not appear to be any copy of this Poem in the Library of the British Museum.
Oliver Goldsmith, died on April 4th, 1774, and within a few days of his death a poem, written by Courtney Melmoth, was published by T. Beckett, in the Strand. “The Tears of Genius,” as the Poem was called, was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds; part being written in imitation of the style of The Deserted Village, whilst another part, deploring the death of the poet Gray, was written in imitation of his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. There were also allusions to several other minor Poets but the whole effusion lacks interest.
——:o:——
The Deserted School.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go,
And onward where one hears that dismal yell
Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,”
Or where that dear old School forsaken lies
A weary waste expanding to the skies.
Where’er I roam whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;
My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain,
“Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again.
* * * * *
And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall
To see humanity of man so small;
To turn us all away from that dear School,
And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool.
But my worn soul now deems it for the best
At Kensington to see my fellows blest.
James E. Thompson.
From Pauline, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School,
in the City of London, October, 1885.
——:o:——
The Vicar of Wakefield is probably, of all English stories, the one which has been most widely read, (perhaps only excepting Robinson Crusoe), and has taken most thoroughly hold of the hearts of English speaking people. It was first printed at Salisbury, by Collins, and was issued by Francis Newberry, in 2 vols., in March 1766. A dainty facsimile of this original Edition has recently been published by Mr. Elliot Stock.
A dramatic version of The Vicar of Wakefield, by W. G. Wills, entitled Olivia, has for some time past been attracting large audiences to the Lyceum Theatre, to see Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in the parts of the Vicar and his daughter. The success of Olivia tempted the inevitable travestie, and on Saturday, August 8, 1885, “The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terry-ous Uncle.” a Respectful Burlesque Perversion by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre. The burlesque had but little humour, or literary merit, and although Mr. Arthur Roberts’s imitation of Henry Irving as Dr. Primrose was at times quaint and amusing, the entire success of the production was due to the extraordinary caricature of Miss Ellen Terry given by Miss Laura Linden, who has a perfect genius for such mimicry. Not only in voice, but in gestures, movements, and delivery, the resemblance was striking, and wonderfully sustained throughout the piece, with only just sufficient exaggeration to produce the intended effect of caricature. The plan of the authors of the burlesque consists in making the virtuous persons of the original appear to be more or less villainous and unprincipled, while the villain of the original is made out to be the only pure-minded and moral individual in the piece. For instance, the Vicar is a terrible old scoundrel, who only pretends to have lost all his money, who knows that Mr. Burchell is the baronet in disguise, and who schemes to get his daughters and son married, and performs the nuptials himself, under different disguises, so as to pocket the fees. Burchell is another villain, having unlawfully possessed himself of his nephew’s titles and estates. Olivia is a very forward minx, who tells the virtuous Squire Thornhill all about the pleasures of London, especially the gay and giddy Inventories, and who begs and induces him to run away with her. Even Sophia is cunning enough to discover Burchell’s identity, and to sum up all the worldly advantages of catching him matrimonially.
The Cast when the Burlesque was first produced was as follows:—
THE VICAR OF
WIDEAWAKEFIELD,
OR
THE MISS-TERRY-OUS UNCLE,
Written by H. P. Stephens & W. Yardley,
The Original Music by Florian Pascal.
The Dances arranged by Madame Katti Lanner.
The New Scenery by Mr. E. G. Banks.
CHARACTERS.
| Dr. Primrose | (Vicar of Wideawakefield) | Mr. A. Roberts | ||
| Squire Thornhill | Miss Violet Cameron | |||
| Mr. Burchell | Mr. T. Squire | |||
| Moses | ⎫ | The | ⎧ | Mr. J. Jarvis |
| Bill | ⎬ | Vicar’s | ⎨ | Miss M. Pearce |
| Dick | ⎭ | Sons | ⎩ | Miss G. Tyler |
| Leigh | (a Vagabond) | Miss Lesley Bell | ||
| Farmer Flamborough | Mr. Corry | |||
| Mrs. Primrose | Miss Harriet Coveney | |||
| Olivia | ⎫ | her | ⎧ | Miss Laura Linden |
| Sophia | ⎭ | Daughters | ⎩ | Miss Agnes Hewitt |
| Polly Flamborough | Miss Sylvia Grey | |||
| Gipsy Woman | Miss M. Rayson | |||
In The Retaliation Goldsmith treated David Garrick with some severity, and the cause may perhaps be found in some lines written by Garrick, descriptive of the curious character of Goldsmith, and therefore forming a fitting conclusion to this Collection of Parodies of his works:—
Jupiter and Mercury, a Fable,
Here, Hermes says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow,
Go, fetch me some clay—I will make an odd fellow:
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some dross:
Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking,
Turn’d to learning and gaminq, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it,
This Scholar, Rake, Christian, Dupe, Gamester, and Poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals—be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You—Hermes—shall fetch him—to make us sport here.
