Tait's Edinburgh magazine

Ballads by Bon Gaultier's Grandsons.

XVI.

TO THE MEMORY OF DOUGLAS JERROLD.

Even in youth did he not e'er abuse
The strength of wit or thought, to consecrate
Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues.-Shelley.
An honest man's the noblest work of God.--Pope.

A man of genius, honest worth, and truth hath passed away; A man who fought the people's fight until his locks grew gray;

A man who never bent his soul an hireling's place to seek; A man who never feared the strong, but aye upheld the weak; The genial wit, the journalist, who would not wield his pen To countenance the little lies and cant of little men;

Let darker minds and lower souls a dead man's praise condemn

To point out spots upon the sun is only fit for them.

And now he's gone!-our loss we feel-we'll daily feel it

more,

For Freedom's cause hath lost the pen that graced her ranks before;

The bigot's heart is hot with joy-dull Mammon's heart may leap,

Life's warfare o'er, their noblest foe at peace doth sweetly sleep!

Yet mourn not idly o'er his grave-the words he left behind

Were something more than empty sounds that die upon the wind;

Their echoes through men's hearts shall ring, as onward years shall roll,

And men will own the master-hand, and say, "God rest h's soul!"

Turn to thy rest, true heart and brave,-let Slander's venomed fongue

Seek bitterly to mar thy fame, and reason right to wrong, But o'er thy grave some hearts will own-as all true na tures can

Here, weary from life's dusty road, doth rest an honest man!

W. B. B. S.

In early days when Time was young, and Whitehall was not standing,

(This is a poor beginning, but I hope I'll get my hand in,) There lived a man hight OCNUS then-the tale, 'pon honour, true is,

And doubtless hath been studied by our learned Theban,
LEWIS.

This OCNUS-poor unfortunate-for some offence or other,
Some angry deity condemned to daily, hourly bother :
To twist an endless rope of hay, and weave it into bands,
sir,

While at his side his donkey is, and eating always standa sir.

As fast as OCNUS made a rope, his donkey ate i' up, sir,
At morn it was his breakfast, and at night he so did sup, sir.
And, sir, you see poor OCNUS thus and cruel donkey clever
Are making ropes and eating them respectively for ever.

"But what of that? what do we care for OCNUS and his

ass, sir ?"

Well, I'm a true disciple of the great PYTHAGORAS, sir ;
Metempsychosis I believe-no doubt the doctrine true is→→→
No doubt that donkey's soul migrates into-Sir G. C. LEWIS!
And this metempsychosis thus affects our Service Civil,
And OCNUS' troubled spirit now migrates to poor clerks'
evil;

The clerk's the OCNUS of to-day-no hope of faith or justice,

So long as in that Chancellor, John Bull's one-sided trust is In vain M.P's may tell how we've been robbed for twenty years now;

A Chancellor's "pooh-pooh's" more weight than any widow's tears, now.

In vain we get petitions up-like OCNUS his hay-bands, sir While donkey-pardon-Chancellor-behind them always stands, sir!

W. B. B. S.

398

MARY ANNE: OR, THE LAW OF DIVORCE.

Men from the mart of Moses,

Swells from Belgravian squares, Hebrews with vulture noses,

Servants with masters' airs:

Haymarket men whose living

Depends upon billiard cues, And legalised sorts of thieving,

Retailers of sporting news:

And here's your Haymarket jolly! And there is a drunken "swell,"

And there leers lean Melancholy,

On a road track-worn too well!

Reel home to thy wife, dram-drinker, Yet hither again thou❜lt come; But go thou sad, silent thinker, Sadder and wiser, home!

ΧΙΧ.

MARY ANNE: OR, THE LAW OF

DIVORCE.

N.B.-No connection with the Laureate's "Mariana in the Moated Grange," or with any other Mary Anne.

BY ALFRED TENNISBALL.

If the poor had more justice, they would need less charity.— Jeremy Bentham.

The cats were mewing in the street,
With many a mew of love's delight:
Policeman X's heavy feet
Returning marked old Time's dall flight,
While, as the laggard hours wore on,
In nightcap, in her wretched room,
Waiting until her husband come,
Sat Mary Anne in tears alone.
She only said: "I'm very weary,

He cometh not," she said;

She said "And if he cometh beery,
He's sure to punch my head!"

Her tears fell all that bitter even,
As sighing she sat there alone,
She 'gan to weep at half-past seven,
And she was weeping there at one.
After the flitting of the bats,
She gazed adown the dreary street,
But nought her aching sight did meet,
Save one policeman and two cats.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;

She said, "And if he cometh beery,
He's sure to punch my head!"

About the middle of the night,
She heard a key clink in the latch,
She went to take her spouse a light,
He cursed her first and then the match.

A wretched life-no hope of change-
Even in her sleep she is forlorn,
In tears at night, in tears at morn
Like her within the "moated grange,"
She only said "Dear John, I'm weary,
You break my heart," she said-
He hiccuped forth-"Best not come near me,
Or I shall break your head!"

About a mile from that sad home.
Our river's sluggish waters creep;

She sought that bridge where wretches come,
To woo oblivion dark and deep,
Maddened by patient love's despite,
With haggard check with salt tears wet,
She stood upon the parapet,

And glared a last glance on the night.
Once more she said-" My life is dreary,
Oh! aching heart and restless head,
Love long has lost all power to cheer me,
But soon I shall be dead!"

A downward plunge-one stifled scream,-
No more she'll watch, and weep, and sigh,
She sank beneath the gurgling stream,
Whose murmurs were her lullaby!
Oh! think awhile on lives like these:
Why should the rich alone divorce?
Why drive the poor from bad to worse,
Because of Doctors' Commons fees?
For many a Mary Anne's aweary,

Oh! widowed wife-oh! lonely bed: And many a husband reels home beery, To punch his poor wife's head!

Yet these must live in hate together,
Because they're poor-they can't afford
To snap their galling, golden tether;
While you, my lady, and my lord,
As neatly as you can your clothes,
Can change your names by process easy,
Ye pay your fees-and, an it please ye,
Adieu for aye to taunts and blows.
The poor wife only sighs; I'm weary,
He cometh not to bed ;-

Death only can divorce me dreary, Oh! would that I were dead !"

XX.

HOW TO LIVE ON NOTHING:

OR, THE ADVENTURES OF JOHN FITZ-FAKEAWAY. My father was a gentleman-a lady was my mother, My name is John Fitz-fakeaway, as good as any other; They always said for gentlemen that work was quite the low

thing,

And practice proved their theory-for they lived well on nothing!

FLOWERS (OF ROTTEN ROW).

They died-as all good people will-and left me for profession,

A stock of "cheek," some railway scrip,-and bailiffs in possession;

My credit gone-my prospects blank-'neath Poverty's cold shadow,

I sat me down to think, and make my brains my Eldorado.

I grew moustache-went on the turf-and learned to make a book soon,

I cleared some money from a friend by easy hook and crook

soon,

Till, one day, cursing every horse that ever wore a halter, I next day bolted tit for Tat a very large defaulter.

That Tattersall's to me was closed, required no second thinking,

And yet despair ne'er drove me to repentance or hard drinking;

I shaved myself-wore quiet clothes-and "went into the City,"

To see if any Midas there my dire distress would pity.

Fall six feet one-good looking, too-with Fitz before my name, sirs,

I thought I ought to turn up trumps at some financial game, sirs,

And fortune ever favours the endeavours of the bold-mine

Soon made me a Director of imaginary Gold Mine!

The Gold Mine smashed-the public paid-I'd bolted in advance, sirs,

To air my British honesty on the favoured shores of France,

sirs,

The storm blew o'er, of course a man of my commercial rank, sirs,

Became at once Director of the "British Brigands' Bank," sirs.

Of course, I soon improved my chance-brought off a little loan, sirs,

Some sixty thousand pounds or so—I'd nothing of my own, sirs,

And so when broke that blessed Bank-say what John Bull may of it,

I lost a gain-that Bank to me was nothing else but profit.

But John Bull's rather wiser now-it is a horrid bore, sirs That people won't be swindled as they have been heretofore, sirs,

And soon, no doubt, there'll be an Act-or some such other low thing,

Enacting bread and water for the class that "live on nothing!"

"Tattersall," for the benefit of the uninitiated.

XXI.

FLOWERS (OF ROTTEN-ROW).

BY SHORTFELLOW.

Spake full well in language most descriptive,
One who walked by the Serpentine,
When he called these ladies fair, deceptive,
Beauties lost in crinoline.

Monstrous are those petticoats inflated,

Altering the syrens' figures quite,
While the swells who unto them are mated
Are eclipsed from the beholders' sight.
Wondrous fashions, manifold as wondrous,
Modern genius cats its cloth into,

From the head-dress to the sandals under us,
From the "tile "unto the walking shoe.

And the costume-connoisseur, observant,
Sees alike in male or female dress,
More than is by wearer, him or her, meant,
More of folly-but of beauty less :

Gorgeous neck-ties, glistening in the sunlight,

399

Hats c'en whiter than their wearers' hands, "All round" collars made to screw the neck tight, Coats "high-church "-like, and suggesting

"bands."

Trousers in such "knee plush-ultra "fashion,
Wide above and at the aucles tight,

As would put the ghost of Stultz into a passion,-
Thus ye see the swell in all his might!

"Hiawatha's" author tells us in his verses,
Men and flowers are very much alike,
But methinks-although his language trim and

terse is,

Hyde Park flowers the simile won't strike. Solomon, we know, in all his glory,

Couldn't to the lily's dress compare ; Shall then moderns, less than him in story,

Likened be unto the flow'rets fair ?

Nay-to Solomon we'll give the credit,

(This we hope his tailor gave him too,) And believe, although no Rabbi said it, He ne'er clothed himself as modern Britons do:

For if like theirs had been his usual covering,
We cannot help remarking, by-the-bye,
That old Israel's far-renowned sovereign,
Little wiser was, dear sir, than you and I.

C. O.

TANGLED TALK.

"Sir, we had talk."-Dr. Johnson.

"Better be an outlaw than not free."-Jean Paul, the Only One.

"The honourablest part of talk is to give the occasion; and then to moderate again, and pass to somewhat else."—Lerd Bason.

IT WAS ALL THAT BULLFINCH.

In the first number of "Tangled Talk," I promised occasionally to "take my readers for a ramble among out-of-the-way books." I do nt know that I should have remembered the promise just now, if it had not been for

A little bird that sings,

somewhere in the gardens at the back of my house, a bullfinch, probably. The "little bird that sings" does not sing as Lord Byron's did

The people by-and-bye will be the stronger

for it has been taught to whistle the first few bars of "There is nae luck about the house," which it does with great pertinacity. But, to-day, it seems to me to have taken up a rider to its old familiar theme, and, when it has finished "There is nae luck," to say "Browne's Pastorals, Browne's Pastorals, O dear me!"

Can the soul of Browne have passed into this melodious bird? Can the soul of Browne, so located at this present hour, be supposed to know that there is "a party who writes" in the terrace, and to intimate in this way his desire to be spoken of at my first leisure to my kindest public? In his own time, Browne was sensitive to praise and dispraise, and studied the philosophy

of commendation

There goes the bullfinch again-"Browne's Pastorals! Browne's Pastorals! O dear me !" Bullfinch, patience!

Browne made mistakes, as poets will do.
Writing in the age of Shakspeare, Milton, and
Ben Jonson, he says-

The Muses, sitting on the graves of men,
Singing that virtue lives and never dies ;*
Are chased away by the malignant tongues
Of such by whom detraction is adored;
Hence grow the want of ever-living songs,

With which our isle whilome was bravely stored.
And, curiously enough, while he complains of
detraction, there are thirty pages of "commenda-
tory verses," from different friends,-Ben Jonson
and George Withers amongst the number-prefixed
to his "Pastorals." But Browne, addressed, in one
of these queer laudatory poems, as—

my Browne, yet brightest swain, That woons, or haunts, o'er hill and plain.

really understood the philosophy of praise, and
wrote some fine couplets about it. The leading
idea of these has now become a common-place :-

Maud, in the light of her youth and grace,
Singing of death and of hours that cannot die,-

is a couplet in Tennyson's "Mand."

True fame is ever likened to our shade;
He soonest misseth her that most hath made
To overtake her: whoso takes his wing,
Regardless of her, she'll be following:
Her true propriety she thus discovers,
"Loves her contemners, and contemns her lovers."
The applause of common people never yet
Pursued this swain: he knew the counterfeit
Of settled praise, and therefore, at his songs,
Though all the shepherds and the graceful throngs
Of semi-gods compared him with the best
That ever touched a reed or was addressed
In shepherd's coat, he never would approve
Their attributes, given in sincerest love,
Except he truly knew them, as his merit.-
Fame gives a second life to such a spirit.

Is not that good, reader mine? Does it not hit the feeling of every generous mind, in which there is latent or unrecognised faculty concerning praise-the sickness of soul with which it turns from incompetent platitudes-the eagerness with which it recognises the right word, in the right place, from the right speaker? And does not the last line point out why love of fame is

The last infirmity of noble minds?

"Fame gives a second life”—that is it ; only for "second" read "multiple." The true artist values "praise," primarily, as a proof of sympathy, of multiplication of himself in the minds of others. That his "last infirmity" is something quite different from the vulgar love of personal distinction, is proved by the fact that his sensations, when he has reason to believe he has been

successful in waking the echo which gives him
back his own best and dearest, are not dependent
upon his being known personally and by name.
To be known and cherished as "the author of
is, (to take the illustration from litera-
ture, as being the readiest for the purpose,) quite
satisfaction enough for many a fine spirit. The
extent to which the artist may wish to be known
by person and by name, will depend chiefly upon
the greater or less degree of retinence there may
be in his character. In the majority of cases, to
be known by name intensifies the consciousness of
being sympathised with; but the true zest of
celebrity to a true soul is not in being gaped after
and talked about, but in the spiritual sympathy of
which it is the proof. In regard to criticism, that
only is of value to such an one which is to him
the index either of sympathy already awakened,
the needful discipline.
or of power in him to awaken it, if he will undergo

Such, I believe, would be Browne's "sentiments," expressed in modern dialect. But let Browne speak in his own dialect, for your delectation. I think this is very pretty:

Venus, by Adonis' side

AUTHORS AND BOOKSELLERS.

Crying, kiss'd, and kissing cried,
Wrung her hands and tore her hair,
For Adonis dying there.

Stay, quoth she, oh, stay and live!
Nature surely doth not give

To the earth her sweetest flowers,
To be seen but some few hours.

On his face, still as he bled,
For each drop a tear she shed,
Which she kiss'd or wiped away.

Else had drown'd him where he lay.

Fair Proserpina, quoth she,
Shall not have thee yet from me,
Nor thy soul to fly begin,
While my lips can keep it in.

Here she closed again. And some
Say, Apollo would have come,
To have cured his wounded limb,
But that she had smother'd him.

And so is this:

And, as a lovely maiden, pure and chaste,
With naked ivory neck, and gown unlaced,
Within her chamber, when the day is fled,
Makes poor her garments to enrich her bed-
First puts she off her lily silken gown,
That shrieks for sorrow as she lays it down;
And with her arms graceth a waistcoat fine,
Embracing her as it would ne'er untwine;
Her flaxen hair, ensnaring all beholders,
She next permits to wave about her shoulders,
And though she cast it back, the silken slips
Still forward steal, and hang upon her lips;
Whereat she, sweetly angry, with her laces,
Binds up the wanton locks in curious traces,
Whilst twisting with her joints each hair long lingers,
As loath to be enchained, but with her fingers.
Then on her head a dressing like a crown;
Her breasts all bare, her kirtle slipping down;
And all things off (which rightly ever be
Call'd the fair-foul marks of our misery)
Except her last, which enviously doth seize her,
Lest any eye partake with it its pleasure,
Prepares for sweetest rest, while sylvans greet her,
And longingly the down bed swells to meet her,
So, by degrees, &c.

And so is this:

Glide soft ye silver floods,

And every spring;
Within the shady woods,

Let no birds sing!

Nor from the grove a turtle dove

Be seen to couple with her love;

But silence on each dale and mountain dwell, Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell. Now, if I had a taste for hunting up correspondences and branding them as plagiarisms, I might do a fine stroke of business over Browne. That Keats had read him, I know; for the Epistle to George Shelton Mathew is headed with a quotation from the Pastorals." But how about the twenty-sixth verse of the "Eve of St. Agnes," compared with that picture of the maiden retiring to rest ? And if you can get over that, how about "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"? In my last excerpt from Browne occurs the line :

Let no birds sing.

401

and the first verse of "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," occurs

O, what can ail thee knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

where the theft is too obvious to call for comment. Having thus smashed Keats, I proceed to smash the author of the parody on Crabbe in the "Rejected Adresses." Browne says, that the maiden's hair, as she untwines it, "long lingers" -a very noticeable expression. Now, the author in the "Rejected Addresses," has this palpably felonious couplet :—

Boys who long linger at the gallery.door,

With pence twice five, they want but twopence more. Perhaps I may as well add that I think Edgar Poe evidently had the line of Browne in his eyeLet no birds sing

when he wrote in his "Lenore,"

Let no bell toll.

It is true, a bird is one thing, and a bell is another; but the similarity in the structure of the two lines is, in the eye of a candid criticism, quite sufficient to convict the Transatlantic Bard of a quasi-plagiaristic intent, which cannot be too strongly reprobated.

I hope my friend, the Browne Bullfinch, outside will be satisfied for the present. If he is not, I cannot help him, for I never in my life felt so indisposed to write as I have felt this week. The drunken clergyman, when he could not find in the prayer-book his place at the Christening Service, said, "Bless me! this infant is very difficult to baptise!" I am sorry to say I find this number of Tangled Talk very difficult to write.

AUTHORS AND BOOKSELLERS.

"DEAR SENHORA," wrote Robert Southey to a lady in 1826, "I am the worst person in the world to advise upon any transactions with booksellers; having been engaged with them some thirty years, and having been all that time used by them like a goose, that is to say, plucked at their mercy. This, however, I can tell you, that, deal with them as you will, they will have the lion's share; and no one can find it answer to publish on his own account, except it be by subscription, when his friends will take some trouble to assist him. You had better let the Major write to Murray, and propose the book to him. I shall see Murray in the course of three weeks, and take a place for it in the Quarterly Review, which will be giving it a hearty shove. The first thing necessary for them is to announce the translation, lest some other person should get hold of it, which, among so many hungry booksellers, and hungrier authors, will certainly be the case, unless this precaution be taken.

Ꮓ

« Previous Continue »

Books

Tait's Edinburgh magazine, Volume 24