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?”