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diff --git a/35536-h/35536-h.htm b/35536-h/35536-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..476b843 --- /dev/null +++ b/35536-h/35536-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2437 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens, edited by F. G. Kitton. + </title> + + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + + body {margin-left: 12%; margin-right: 12%;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right; font-style: normal;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + + hr {width: 33%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + .dent {padding-left: 2em;} + + .huge {font-size: 150%} + .big {font-size: 125%} + + .note {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;} + + .right {text-align: right;} + .center {text-align: center;} + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .smcaplc {text-transform: lowercase; font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + a:link {color:#0000ff; text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:#6633cc; text-decoration:none} + + .spacer {padding-left: 1em; padding-right: 1em;} + .spacer2 {padding-left: 2em; padding-right: 2em;} + + .bracket {font-size: 200%} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens, by +Charles Dickens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens + +Author: Charles Dickens + +Editor: F. G. Kitton + +Release Date: March 10, 2011 [EBook #35536] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, VERSES OF CHARLES DICKENS *** + + + + +Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<p class="center"><span class="huge">THE POEMS AND VERSES OF<br />CHARLES DICKENS</span></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="" /></div> +<p class="center">Maclise. R.A.<span class="spacer2"> </span><span class="spacer2"> </span>C. H. Jeens</p> +<p class="center">CHARLES DICKENS, HIS WIFE, & HER SISTER<br /><small>DRAWN BY MACLISE IN 1842.</small></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<p class="center"><span class="huge">THE<br /> +POEMS AND VERSES<br />OF<br />CHARLES DICKENS</span></p> +<p> </p> +<p class="center">Collected and Edited, with<br />Bibliographical Notes, by<br />F. G. KITTON</p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/printer.jpg" alt="" /></div> +<p> </p> +<p class="center">LONDON<br />CHAPMAN AND HALL, LIMITED<br />1903</p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center">Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. <span class="smcap">Constable</span></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center">TO<br />MISS GEORGINA HOGARTH<br /> +THIS LITTLE VOLUME<br />IS RESPECTFULLY<br />DEDICATED</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">CONTENTS</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Village Coquettes</span> (1836),</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Round.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hail to the merry Autumn days,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Lucy’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Love is not a feeling to pass away,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Squire Norton’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">That very wise head, old Æsop, said,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>George Edmunds’ Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Rose’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some folks who have grown old and sour,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Duet (Flam and Rose).</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">’Tis true I’m caressed by the witty,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Squire Norton’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">The child and the old man sat alone,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Duet (The Squire and Lucy).</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">In rich and lofty station shine,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Sestet and Chorus.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turn him from the farm,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Quartet.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span> +<i>Squire Norton’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s a charm in Spring,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Young Benson’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">My fair home is no longer mine,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Duet (The Squire and Edmunds).</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Listen, though I do not fear you,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Lucy’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">How beautiful at even-tide,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Chorus.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Join the dance, with step as light,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Quintet.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">No light bound of stag or timid hare,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Lamplighter</span> (1838),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Duet (Tom and Betsy).</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">There comes a new moon twelve times a year,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Pickwick Papers</span> (1837),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>The Ivy Green.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>A Christmas Carol.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">I care not for Spring,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Gabriel Grub’s Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Brave lodgings for one,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Romance (Sam Weller’s Song).</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Examiner</span> (1841),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>The Fine Old English Gentleman.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’ll sing you a new ballad,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>The Quack Doctor’s Proclamation.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">An astonishing doctor has just come to town,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Subjects for Painters.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">To you, Sir Martin,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span> +<span class="smcap">The Patrician’s Daughter</span> (1842),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Prologue.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">No tale of streaming plumes and harness bright,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Keepsake</span> (1844),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>A Word in Season.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">They have a superstition in the East,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Daily News</span> (1846),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>The British Lion.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, p’r’aps you may have heard,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh God, who by Thy Prophet’s hand,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Lines addressed to Mark Lemon</span> (1849),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>New Song.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lemon is a little hipped,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Lighthouse</span> (1855),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Prologue.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">A story of those rocks where doom’d ships come,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>The Song of the Wreck.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wind blew high, the waters raved,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Frozen Deep</span> (1856),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>Prologue.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">One savage footprint on the lonely shore,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Wreck of the Golden Mary</span> (1856),</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="dent"><i>A Child’s Hymn.</i><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hear my prayer, O! Heavenly Father,</span></td> + <td valign="top" align="right"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">SONGS, CHORUSES,<br />AND CONCERTED PIECES FROM<br />‘THE VILLAGE COQUETTES’<br /> +A COMIC OPERA<br />1836</span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">THE VILLAGE COQUETTES</p> + +<p>About the year 1834, when the earliest of the <i>Sketches by Boz</i> were +appearing in print, a young composer named John Hullah set to music a +portion of an opera called <i>The Gondolier</i>, which he thought might prove +successful on the stage. Twelve months later Hullah became acquainted with +Charles Dickens, whose name was then unknown to those outside his own +immediate circle, and it occurred to him that he and ‘Boz’ might combine +their forces by converting <i>The Gondolier</i> into a popular play. Dickens, +who always entertained a passion for the theatre, entered into the project +at once, and informed Hullah that he had a little unpublished story by him +which he thought would dramatise well—even better than <i>The Gondolier</i> +notion; confessing that he would rather deal with familiar English scenes +than with the unfamiliar Venetian environment of the play favoured by +Hullah. The title of <i>The Gondolier</i> was consequently abandoned, and a +novel subject found and put forward as <i>The Village Coquettes</i>, a comic +opera<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> of which songs, duets, and concerted pieces were to form +constituent parts. Dickens, of course, became responsible for the +<i>libretto</i> and Hullah for the music; and when completed the little play +was offered to, and accepted by, Braham, the lessee of the St. James’s +Theatre, who expressed an earnest desire to be the first to introduce +‘Boz’ to the public as a dramatic writer. A favourite comedian of that +day, John Pritt Harley, after reading the words of the opera prior to its +representation, declared it was ‘a sure card,’ and felt so confident of +its success that he offered to wager ten pounds that it would run fifty +nights!—an assurance which at once decided Braham to produce it.</p> + +<p><i>The Village Coquettes</i>, described on the title-page of the printed copies +as ‘A Comic Opera, in Two Acts,’ was played for the first time on December +6, 1836, with Braham and Harley in the cast. In his preface to the play +(published contemporaneously by Richard Bentley, and dedicated to Harley) +Dickens explained that ‘the <i>libretto</i> of an opera must be, to a certain +extent, a mere vehicle for the music,’ and that ‘it is scarcely fair or +reasonable to judge it by those strict rules of criticism which would be +justly applicable to a five-act tragedy or a finished comedy.’ There is no +doubt that the merits of the play were based upon the songs set to +Hullah’s music rather than upon the play itself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> and it is said that +Harley’s reputation as a vocalist was established by his able rendering of +them.</p> + +<p><i>The Village Coquettes</i> enjoyed a run of nineteen nights in London during +the season, and was then transferred to Edinburgh, where it was performed +under the management of Mr. Ramsay, a friend of Sir Walter Scott. Sala, as +a boy of ten, witnessed its first representation in London, and ever +retained a vivid impression of the event; while especial interest +appertains to the fact that a copy of the play became the means of first +bringing Dickens into personal communication with John Forster, his +life-long friend and biographer. It is more than probable that ‘Boz’ felt +a little elated by the reception accorded by the public to the ‘dramatic +bantling,’ but as time progressed he realised that the somewhat +unfavourable comments of the critics were not entirely devoid of truth. +Indeed, when in 1843 it was proposed to revive the play, he expressed a +hope that it might be allowed ‘to sink into its native obscurity.’ ‘I did +it,’ he explained, ‘in a fit of damnable good-nature long ago, for Hullah, +who wrote some very pretty music to it. I just put down for everybody what +everybody at the St. James’s Theatre wanted to say and do, and what they +could say and do best, and I have been most sincerely repentant ever +since.’ The novelist confessed that both the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> operetta and a little farce +called <i>The Strange Gentleman</i> (the latter written as ‘a practical joke’ +for the St. James’s Theatre about the same time) were done ‘without the +least consideration or regard to reputation’; he also declared that he +‘wouldn’t repeat them for a thousand pounds apiece,’ and devoutly wished +these early dramatic efforts to be forgotten. <i>À propos</i> of this, the late +Frederick Locker-Lampson has recorded that when he asked Dickens (about a +year before the great writer’s death) whether he possessed a copy of <i>The +Village Coquettes</i>, his reply was, ‘No; and if I knew it was in my house, +and if I could not get rid of it in any other way, I would burn the wing +of the house where it was!’</p> + +<p>Although, perhaps, not of a high order of merit, <i>The Village Coquettes</i> +is not without bibliographical interest, and may be regarded as a musical +and literary curiosity. Copies of the first edition of the little play are +now seldom met with, and whenever a perfect impression comes into the +market it commands a good price, even as much as £10 or £12,—indeed, a +particularly fine copy was sold at Sotheby’s in 1889 for twenty-five +pounds. In 1878 the words of the opera were reprinted in facsimile by +Richard Bentley, for which a frontispiece was etched by F. W. Pailthorpe a +year later.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE VILLAGE COQUETTES</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Round</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>Hail to the merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine,<br /> +Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the monarch’s wine!<br /> +Hail to the merry harvest time, the gayest of the year,<br /> +The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer!<br /> +<br /> +’Tis pleasant on a fine Spring morn to see the buds expand,<br /> +’Tis pleasant in the Summer time to view the teeming land;<br /> +’Tis pleasant on a Winter’s night to crouch around the blaze,—<br /> +But what are joys like these, my boys, to Autumn’s merry days!<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span><br /> +Then hail to merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine,<br /> +Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the monarch’s wine!<br /> +And hail to merry harvest time, the gayest of the year,<br /> +The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer!</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Lucy’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>Love is not a feeling to pass away,<br /> +Like the balmy breath of a summer day;<br /> +It is not—it cannot be—laid aside;<br /> +It is not a thing to forget or hide.<br /> +It clings to the heart, ah, woe is me!<br /> +As the ivy clings to the old oak tree.<br /> +<br /> +Love is not a passion of earthly mould,<br /> +As a thirst for honour, or fame, or gold:<br /> +For when all these wishes have died away,<br /> +The deep strong love of a brighter day,<br /> +Though nourished in secret, consumes the more,<br /> +As the slow rust eats to the iron’s core.</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Squire Norton’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>That very wise head, old Æsop, said,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The bow should be sometimes loose;</span><br /> +Keep it tight for ever, the string you sever:—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let’s turn his old moral to use.</span><br /> +The world forget, and let us yet,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The glass our spirits buoying,</span><br /> +Revel to-night in those moments bright<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which make life worth enjoying.</span><br /> +The cares of the day, old moralists say,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are quite enough to perplex one;</span><br /> +Then drive to-day’s sorrow away till to-morrow,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then put it off till the next one.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;"><i>Chorus</i>—The cares of the day, etc.</span><br /><br /> +Some plodding old crones, the heartless drones!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Appeal to my cool reflection,</span><br /> +And ask me whether such nights can ever<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Charm sober recollection.</span><br /> +Yes, yes! I cry, I’ll grieve and die,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When those I love forsake me;</span><br /> +But while friends so dear surround me here,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let Care, if he can, o’ertake me.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;"><i>Chorus</i>—The cares of the day, etc.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">George Edmunds’ Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;<br /> +Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">How like the hopes of childhood’s day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Thick clust’ring on the bough!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">How like those hopes in their decay—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">How faded are they now!</span><br /> +Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;<br /> +Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!<br /> +<br /> +Wither’d leaves, wither’d leaves, that fly before the gale:<br /> +Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of love once true, and friends once kind,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And happy moments fled:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Dispersed by every breath of wind,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Forgotten, changed, or dead!</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here!<br /> +Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Rose’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>Some folks who have grown old and sour,<br /> +Say love does nothing but annoy.<br /> +The fact is, they have had their hour,<br /> +So envy what they can’t enjoy.<br /> +I like the glance—I like the sigh—<br /> +That does of ardent passion tell!<br /> +If some folks were as young as I,<br /> +I’m sure they’d like it quite as well.<br /> +<br /> +Old maiden aunts so hate the men,<br /> +So well know how wives are harried,<br /> +It makes them sad—not jealous—when<br /> +They see their poor dear nieces married.<br /> +All men are fair and false, they know,<br /> +And with deep sighs they assail ’em,<br /> +It’s so long since they tried men, though,<br /> +I rather think their mem’ries fail ’em.</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Duet</span> (<i>Flam and Rose</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Flam.</i> ’Tis true I’m caressed by the witty,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The envy of all the fine beaux,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The pet of the court and the city,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But still, I’m the lover of Rose.</span><br /> +<i>Rose.</i> Country sweethearts, oh, how I despise!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And oh! how delighted I am</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">To think that I shine in the eyes</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Of the elegant—sweet—Mr. Flam.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Flam.</i> Allow me [<i>offers to kiss her</i>].<br /> +<br /> +<i>Rose.</i> Pray don’t be so bold, sir [<i>kisses her</i>].<br /> +<i>Flam.</i> What sweets on that honey’d lip hang!<br /> +<i>Rose.</i> Your presumption, I know, I should scold, sir,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But I really <i>can’t</i> scold Mr. Flam.</span><br /> +<i>Both.</i> Then let us be happy together,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Content with the world as it goes,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">An unchangeable couple for ever,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Mr. Flam and his beautiful Rose.</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Squire Norton’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>The child and the old man sat alone<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the quiet, peaceful shade</span><br /> +Of the old green boughs, that had richly grown<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the deep, thick forest glade.</span><br /> +It was a soft and pleasant sound,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That rustling of the oak;</span><br /> +And the gentle breeze played lightly round,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As thus the fair boy spoke:—</span><br /> +<br /> +‘Dear father, what can honour be,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of which I hear men rave?</span><br /> +Field, cell and cloister, land and sea,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tempest and the grave:—</span><br /> +It lives in all, ’tis sought in each,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">’Tis never heard or seen:</span><br /> +Now tell me, father, I beseech,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What can this honour mean?’</span><br /> +<br /> +‘It is a name—a name, my child,—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It lived in other days,</span><br /> +When men were rude, their passions wild,<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their sport, thick battle-frays.</span><br /> +When, in armour bright, the warrior bold<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Knelt to his lady’s eyes:</span><br /> +Beneath the abbey pavement old<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That warrior’s dust now lies.</span><br /> +<br /> +‘The iron hearts of that old day<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have mouldered in the grave;</span><br /> +And chivalry has passed away,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With knights so true and brave;</span><br /> +The honour, which to them was life,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Throbs in no bosom now;</span><br /> +It only gilds the gambler’s strife,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or decks the worthless vow.’</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Duet</span> (<i>The Squire and Lucy</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Squire.</i> In rich and lofty station shine,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Before his jealous eyes;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In golden splendour, lady mine,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">This peasant youth despise.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Lucy</i> [<i>apart; the Squire regarding her attentively</i>].<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh! it would be revenge indeed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">With scorn his glance to meet.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I, I, his humble pleading heed!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">I’d spurn him from my feet.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span><br /> +<i>Squire.</i> With love and rage her bosom’s torn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And rash the choice will be;</span><br /> +<i>Lucy.</i> With love and rage my bosom’s torn,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And rash the choice will be.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> From hence she quickly must be borne,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Her home, her home, she’ll flee.</span><br /> +<i>Lucy.</i> Oh! long shall I have cause to mourn<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">My home, my home, for thee!</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Sestet and Chorus</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Young Benson.</i> Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The old man who has tilled it for years!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Ev’ry tree, ev’ry flower, is linked with the past,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And a friend of his childhood appears.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Turn <i>him</i> from the farm! O’er its grassy hillside,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">A gay boy he once loved to range;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">His boyhood has fled, and its dear friends are dead,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">But these meadows have never known change.</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Edmunds.</i> Oppressor, hear me!<br /> +<i>Lucy.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span><span class="spacer2"> </span>On my knees I implore.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +<i>Squire.</i> I command it, and you will obey.<br /> +<i>Rose.</i> Rise, dear Lucy, rise; you shall not kneel before<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The tyrant who drives us away.</span><br /> +<i>Squire.</i> Your sorrows are useless, your prayers are in vain:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I command it, and you will begone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I’ll hear no more.</span><br /> +<i>Edmunds.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span>No, they shall not beg again<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of a man whom I view with deep scorn.</span><br /> +<i>Flam.</i> Do not yield.</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Young Benson.</i><br /><i>Squire.</i><br /><i>Lucy.</i><br /><i>Rose.</i></td> + <td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">}</span></td><td valign="middle">Leave the farm!</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Edmunds.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span>Your pow’r I despise.<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> And your threats, boy, I disregard too.<br /> +<i>Flam.</i> Do not yield.</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Young Benson.</i><br /><i>Squire.</i><br /><i>Lucy.</i><br /><i>Rose.</i></td> + <td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">}</span></td><td valign="middle">Leave the farm!</td></tr></table> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td><i>Rose.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span><span class="spacer2"> </span>If he leaves it, he dies.<br /> +<i>Edmunds.</i> This base act, proud man, you shall rue.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +<i>Young Benson.</i> Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The old man who has tilled it for years?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ev’ry tree, ev’ry flower, is linked with the past,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And a friend of his childhood appears!</span><br /> +<i>Squire.</i> Yes, yes, leave the farm! From his home I will cast<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The old man who has tilled it for years;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Though each tree and flower is linked with the past,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And a friend of his childhood appears.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><i>Chorus.</i></td></tr> +<tr><td>He has turned from his farm! From his home he has cast<br /> +The old man who has tilled it for years;<br /> +Though each tree and flower is linked with the past,<br /> +And a friend of his childhood appears.</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3" align="center"><span class="smcap">Quartet</span></td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Squire.</i> Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Through all changes Fortune may make;</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">The base charge of falsehood I never have known;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This promise I never will break.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Rose and Lucy.</i></td><td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">{</span></td> + <td>Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own<br />Through all changes Fortune may make.</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Rose and Lucy.</i></td><td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">{</span></td> + <td>The base charge of falsehood he never has known;<br />This promise he never will break.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3" align="center">[<i>Enter Young Benson.</i>]</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Young Benson.</i> My sister here! Lucy! begone, I command.<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> To your home I restore you again.<br /> +<i>Young Benson.</i> No boon I’ll accept from that treacherous hand<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As the price of my fair sister’s fame.</span><br /> +<i>Squire.</i> To your home!<br /> +<i>Young Benson</i> [<i>to Lucy</i>]. Hence away!<br /> +<i>Lucy.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span><span class="spacer2"> </span>Brother dear, I obey.<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> I restore.<br /> +<i>Young Benson.</i><span class="spacer"> </span>Hence away!</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Young Benson,<br />Rose, and Lucy.</i></td><td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">}</span></td> + <td><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span>Let us leave.</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +<i>Lucy.</i> He swears it, dear brother.<br /> +<i>Squire.</i><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span>I swear it.<br /> +<i>Young Benson.</i><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span><span class="spacer"> </span>Away!<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> I swear it.<br /> +<i>Young Benson.</i><span class="spacer"> </span>You swear to deceive.<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Through all changes Fortune may make.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Lucy and Rose.</i></td><td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">{</span></td> + <td>Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own<br />Through all changes Fortune may make.</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Young Benson.</i> Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is our own<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Through all changes Fortune may make.</span><br /> +<i>Squire.</i> The base charge of falsehood I never have known,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This promise I never will break.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Lucy and Rose.</i></td><td valign="middle" align="left"><span class="bracket">{</span></td> + <td>The base charge of falsehood he never has known,<br />This promise he never will break.</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3"><i>Young Benson.</i> The base charge of falsehood he often has known,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This promise he surely will break.</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Squire Norton’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>There’s a charm in Spring, when ev’rything<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is bursting from the ground;</span><br /> +When pleasant show’rs bring forth the flow’rs<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And all is life around.</span><br /> +<br /> +In summer day, the fragrant hay<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Most sweetly scents the breeze;</span><br /> +And all is still, save murm’ring rill,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or sound of humming bees.</span><br /> +<br /> +Old Autumn comes;—with trusty gun<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In quest of birds we roam:</span><br /> +Unerring aim, we mark the game,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And proudly bear it home.</span><br /> +<br /> +A winter’s night has its delight,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well warmed to bed we go:</span><br /> +A winter’s day, we’re blithe and gay,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Snipe-shooting in the snow.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span><br /> +A country life, without the strife<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And noisy din of town,</span><br /> +Is all I need, I take no heed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of splendour or renown.</span><br /> +<br /> +And when I die, oh, let me lie<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where trees above me wave;</span><br /> +Let wild plants bloom around my tomb,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My quiet country grave!</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Young Benson’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>My fair home is no longer mine;<br /> +From its roof-tree I’m driven away.<br /> +Alas! who will tend the old vine,<br /> +Which I planted in infancy’s day!<br /> +The garden, the beautiful flowers,<br /> +The oak with its branches on high,<br /> +Dear friends of my happiest hours,<br /> +Among thee I long hoped to die.<br /> +The briar, the moss, and the bramble,<br /> +Along the green paths will run wild:<br /> +The paths where I once used to ramble,<br /> +An innocent, light-hearted child.</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Duet</span> (<i>The Squire and Edmunds</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Squire.</i> Listen, though I do not fear you,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Listen to me, ere we part.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Edmunds.</i> List to <i>you</i>! Yes, I will hear you.<br /> +<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> Yours alone is Lucy’s heart,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I swear it, by that Heav’n above me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Edmunds.</i> What! can I believe my ears!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Could I hope that she still loves me?</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> Banish all these doubts and fears,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If a love were e’er worth gaining,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If love were ever fond and true,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No disguise or passion feigning,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Such is her young love for you.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Squire.</i> Listen, though I do not fear you,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Listen to me, ere we part.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i>Edmunds.</i> List to you! yes, I will hear you,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mine alone is her young heart.</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Lucy’s Song</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 1em;">How beautiful at eventide</span><br /> +To see the twilight shadows pale,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Steal o’er the landscape, far and wide,</span><br /> +O’er stream and meadow, mound and dale.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How soft is Nature’s calm repose</span><br /> +When ev’ning skies their cool dews weep:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The gentlest wind more gently blows,</span><br /> +As if to soothe her in her sleep!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The gay morn breaks,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Mists roll away,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">All Nature awakes</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">To glorious day.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">In my breast alone</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Dark shadows remain;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The peace it has known</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">It can never regain.</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Chorus</span></td></tr> +<tr><td>Join the dance, with step as light<br /> +As ev’ry heart should be to-night;<br /> +Music, shake the lofty dome,<br /> +In honour of our Harvest Home.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span><br /> +Join the dance, and banish care,<br /> +All are young, and gay, and fair;<br /> +Even age has youthful grown,<br /> +In honour of our Harvest Home.<br /> +<br /> +Join the dance, bright faces beam,<br /> +Sweet lips smile, and dark eyes gleam;<br /> +All these charms have hither come,<br /> +In honour of our Harvest Home.<br /> +<br /> +Join the dance, with step as light,<br /> +As ev’ry heart should be to-night;<br /> +Music shake the lofty dome<br /> +In honour of our Harvest Home.</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="smcap">Quintet</span></td></tr> +<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;">No light bound</span><br /> +Of stag or timid hare,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O’er the ground</span><br /> +Where startled herds repair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Do we prize</span><br /> +So high, or hold so dear,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As the eyes</span><br /> +That light our pleasures here.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No cool breeze</span><br /> +That gently plays by night,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O’er calm seas,</span><br /> +Whose waters glisten bright;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No soft moan</span><br /> +That sighs across the lea,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Harvest Home,</span><br /> +Is half so sweet as thee!</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">LYRIC FROM<br />‘THE LAMPLIGHTER’<br /> +A FARCE<br />1838</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE LAMPLIGHTER</p> + +<p>In 1838 Dickens agreed to prepare a little play for Macready, the famous +actor, then the manager of Drury Lane Theatre. It was called <i>The +Lamplighter</i>, and when completed the author read aloud the ‘unfortunate +little farce’ (as he subsequently termed it) in the greenroom of the +theatre. Although the play went through rehearsal, it was never presented +before an audience, for the actors would not agree about it, and, at +Macready’s suggestion, Dickens consented to withdraw it, declaring that he +had ‘no other feeling of disappointment connected with this matter’ but +that which arose from the failure in attempting to serve his friend. The +manuscript of the play, not in Dickens’s handwriting, reposes in the +Forster Library at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and in 1879 it was +printed for the first time, in the form of a pamphlet, of which only two +hundred and fifty copies were issued.</p> + +<p>When rejected by Macready as unsuitable for stage presentation, <i>The +Lamplighter</i> was adapted by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> Dickens to another purpose—that is to say, +he converted it into a tale called <i>The Lamplighter’s Story</i>, for +publication in <i>The Pic-Nic Papers</i>, issued in 1841 for the benefit of the +widow of Macrone, Dickens’s first publisher, who died in great poverty. +Between the farce and the story there are but slight differences. The duet +of two verses, sung by Tom and Betsy to the air of ‘The Young May-moon,’ +cannot of course be regarded as a remarkable composition, but it served +its purpose sufficiently well, and for that reason deserves recognition.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">DUET FROM ‘THE LAMPLIGHTER’<br /> +<span class="smcap">Air</span>—‘<span class="smcap">The Young May-moon</span>’</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td><i>Tom.</i> There comes a new moon twelve times a year.<br /> +<i>Betsy.</i> And when there is none, all is dark and drear.<br /> +<i>Tom.</i> In which I espy—<br /> +<i>Betsy.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span>And so, too, do I—<br /> +<i>Both.</i> A resemblance to womankind very clear—<br /> +<i>Both.</i> There comes a new moon twelve times a year;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And when there is none, all is dark and drear.</span><br /> +<i>Tom.</i> In which I espy—<br /> +<i>Betsy.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span>And so do I—<br /> +<i>Both.</i> A resemblance to womankind very clear.</td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><i>Second Verse.</i></td></tr> +<tr><td><i>Tom.</i> She changes, she’s fickle, she drives men mad.<br /> +<i>Betsy.</i> She comes to bring light, and leaves them sad.<br /> +<i>Tom.</i> So restless wild—<br /> +<i>Betsy.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span>But so sweetly wild—<br /> +<i>Both.</i> That no better companion could be had.<br /> +<i>Both.</i> There comes a new moon twelve times a year;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And when there is none, all is dark and drear.</span><br /> +<i>Tom.</i> In which I espy—<br /> +<i>Betsy.</i><span class="spacer2"> </span>And so do I—<br /> +<i>Both.</i> A resemblance to womankind very clear.</td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">SONGS FROM<br />‘THE PICKWICK PAPERS’<br />1837</span></p> +<p class="center"><br /><span class="big">I.—THE IVY GREEN</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">THE IVY GREEN</p> + +<p>This famous ballad of three verses, from the sixth chapter of <i>Pickwick</i>, +is perhaps the most acceptable of all Dickens’s poetical efforts. It was +originally set to music, at Dickens’s request, by his brother-in-law, +Henry Burnett, a professional vocalist, who, by the way, was the admitted +prototype of Nicholas Nickleby. Mr. Burnett sang the ballad scores of +times in the presence of literary men and artists, and it proved an +especial favourite with Landor. ‘The Ivy Green’ was not written for +<i>Pickwick</i>, Mr. Burnett assured me; but on its being so much admired the +author said it should go into a monthly number, and it did. The most +popular setting is undoubtedly that of Henry Russell, who has recorded +that he received, as his fee, the magnificent sum of ten shillings! The +ballad, in this form, went into many editions, and the sales must have +amounted to tens of thousands.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">THE IVY GREEN</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,<br /> +That creepeth o’er ruins old!<br /> +Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,<br /> +In his cell so lone and cold.<br /> +The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,<br /> +To pleasure his dainty whim:<br /> +And the mouldering dust that years have made<br /> +Is a merry meal for him.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Creeping where no life is seen,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A rare old plant is the Ivy green.</span><br /> +<br /> +Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,<br /> +And a staunch old heart has he.<br /> +How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,<br /> +To his friend the huge Oak Tree!<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>And slily he traileth along the ground,<br /> +And his leaves he gently waves,<br /> +As he joyously hugs and crawleth round<br /> +The rich mould of dead men’s graves.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Creeping where grim death hath been,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A rare old plant is the Ivy green.</span><br /> +<br /> +Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,<br /> +And nations have scattered been;<br /> +But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,<br /> +From its hale and hearty green.<br /> +The brave old plant, in its lonely days,<br /> +Shall fatten upon the past:<br /> +For the stateliest building man can raise<br /> +Is the Ivy’s food at last.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Creeping on, where time has been,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A rare old plant is the Ivy green.</span></td></tr></table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">II.—A CHRISTMAS CAROL</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">A CHRISTMAS CAROL</p> + +<p>The five stanzas bearing the above title will be found in the +twenty-eighth chapter of <i>Pickwick</i>, where they are introduced as the song +which that hospitable old soul, Mr. Wardle, sung appropriately, ‘in a +good, round, sturdy voice,’ before the Pickwickians and others assembled +on Christmas Eve at Manor Farm. The ‘Carol,’ shortly after its appearance +in <i>Pickwick</i>, was set to music to the air of ‘Old King Cole,’ and +published in <i>The Book of British Song</i> (New Edition), with an +illustration drawn by ‘Alfred Crowquill’—<i>i.e.</i>, A. H. Forrester.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">A CHRISTMAS CAROL</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing<br /> +Let the blossoms and buds be borne:<br /> +He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,<br /> +And he scatters them ere the morn.<br /> +An inconstant elf, he knows not himself<br /> +Nor his own changing mind an hour,<br /> +He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,<br /> +He’ll wither your youngest flower.<br /> +<br /> +Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,<br /> +He shall never be sought by me;<br /> +When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,<br /> +And care not how sulky he be!<br /> +For his darling child is the madness wild<br /> +That sports in fierce fever’s train;<br /> +And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,<br /> +As many have found to their pain.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span><br /> +A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light<br /> +Of the modest and gentle moon,<br /> +Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,<br /> +Than the broad and unblushing noon.<br /> +But every leaf awakens my grief,<br /> +As it lieth beneath the tree;<br /> +So let Autumn air be never so fair,<br /> +It by no means agrees with me.<br /> +<br /> +But my song I troll out, for <span class="smcap">Christmas</span> stout,<br /> +The hearty, the true, and the bold;<br /> +A bumper I drain, and with might and main<br /> +Give three cheers for this Christmas old!<br /> +We’ll usher him in with a merry din<br /> +That shall gladden his joyous heart,<br /> +And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,<br /> +And in fellowship good, we’ll part.<br /> +<br /> +In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide<br /> +One jot of his hard-weather scars;<br /> +They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace<br /> +On the cheeks of our bravest tars.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>Then again I sing ’till the roof doth ring,<br /> +And it echoes from wall to wall—<br /> +To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,<br /> +As the King of the Seasons all!</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">III.—GABRIEL GRUB’S SONG</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">GABRIEL GRUB’S SONG</p> + +<p>The Sexton’s melancholy dirge, in the twenty-ninth chapter of <i>Pickwick</i>, +seems a little incongruous in a humorous work. The sentiment, however, +thoroughly accords with the philosophic gravedigger’s gruesome occupation. +‘The Story of the Goblins who Stole a Sexton’ is one of several short +tales (chiefly of a dismal character) introduced into <i>Pickwick</i>; they +were doubtless written prior to the conception of <i>Pickwick</i>, each being +probably intended for independent publication, and in a manner similar to +the ‘Boz’ Sketches. For some reason these stories were not so published, +and Dickens evidently saw a favourable opportunity of utilising his unused +manuscripts by inserting them in <i>The Pickwick Papers</i>.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">GABRIEL GRUB’S SONG</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,<br /> +A few feet of cold earth, when life is done;<br /> +A stone at the head, a stone at the feet,<br /> +A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat;<br /> +Rank grass over head, and damp clay around,<br /> +Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">IV.—ROMANCE</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">ROMANCE</p> + +<p>It will be remembered that while Sam Weller and his coaching-friends +refreshed themselves at the little public-house opposite the Insolvent +Court in Portugal Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, prior to Sam joining Mr. +Pickwick in the Fleet, that faithful body-servant was persuaded to ‘oblige +the company’ with a song. ‘Raly, gentlemen,’ said Sam, ‘I’m not wery much +in the habit o’ singin’ vithout the instrument; but anythin’ for a quiet +life, as the man said ven he took the sitivation at the light-house.’</p> + +<p>‘With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following +wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not +generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call +particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and +fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those +points, but greatly assists the metre.’-<i>The Pickwick Papers</i>, chapter +xliii.</p> + +<p>At the conclusion of the performance the mottled-faced gentleman contended +that the song was ‘personal to the cloth,’ and demanded the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> name of the +bishop’s coachman, whose cowardice he regarded as a reflection upon +coachmen in general. Sam replied that his name was not known, as ‘he +hadn’t got his card in his pocket’; whereupon the mottled-faced gentleman +declared the statement to be untrue, stoutly maintaining that the said +coachman did <i>not</i> run away, but ‘died game—game as pheasants,’ and he +would ‘hear nothin’ said to the contrairey.’</p> + +<p>Even in the vernacular (observes Mr. Percy Fitzgerald), ‘this master of +words [Charles Dickens] could be artistic; and it may fairly be asserted +that Mr. Weller’s song to the coachmen is superior to anything of the kind +that has appeared since.’ The two stanzas have been set to music, as a +humorous part-song, by Sir Frederick Bridge, Mus. Doc., M.V.O., the +organist of Westminster Abbey, who informs me that it was written some +years since, to celebrate a festive gathering in honour of Dr. Turpin (!), +Secretary of the College of Organists. ‘It has had a very great success,’ +says Sir Frederick, ‘and is sung much in the North of England at +competitions of choirs. It is for men’s voices. The humour of the words +never fails to make a great hit, and I hope the music does no harm. “The +Bishop’s Coach” is set to a bit of old Plain-Chant, and I introduce a +Fugue at the words “Sure as eggs is eggs.”’</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">ROMANCE</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td align="center">I</td></tr> +<tr><td>Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath,<br /> +His bold mare Bess bestrode—er;<br /> +Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach<br /> +A-comin’ along the road—er.<br /> +So he gallops close to the ’orse’s legs,<br /> +And he claps his head vithin;<br /> +And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs,<br /> +This here’s the bold Turpin!’</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Chorus</i>—And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">This here’s the bold Turpin!’</span></td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">II</td></tr> +<tr><td>Says Turpin, ‘You shall eat your words,<br /> +With a sarse of leaden bul-let’;<br /> +So he puts a pistol to his mouth,<br /> +And he fires it down his gul-let.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span><br /> +The coachman, he not likin’ the job,<br /> +Set off at a full gal-lop,<br /> +But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,<br /> +And perwailed on him to stop.</td></tr></table> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Chorus</i> (<i>sarcastically</i>)—But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">And perwailed on him to stop.</span></td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">POLITICAL SQUIBS FROM<br />‘THE EXAMINER’<br /> +1841</span></p> + +<p class="center"><br /><span class="big">I.—THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">POLITICAL SQUIBS FROM ‘THE EXAMINER,’ 1841</p> + +<p>In August 1841 Dickens contributed anonymously to <i>The Examiner</i> (then +edited by Forster) three political squibs, which were signed W., and were +intended to help the Liberals in fighting their opponents. These squibs +were entitled respectively ‘The Fine Old English Gentleman (to be said or +sung at all Conservative Dinners)’; ‘The Quack Doctor’s Proclamation’; and +‘Subjects for Painters (after Peter Pindar).’ Concerning those +productions, Forster says: ‘I doubt if he ever enjoyed anything more than +the power of thus taking part occasionally, unknown to outsiders, in the +sharp conflict the press was waging at the time.’ In all probability he +contributed other political rhymes to the pages of <i>The Examiner</i> as +events prompted: if so, they are buried beyond easy reach of +identification.</p> + +<p>Writing to Forster at this time, Dickens said: ‘By Jove, how Radical I am +getting! I wax stronger and stronger in the true principles every day.’... +He would (observes Forster) sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> even talk, in moments of sudden +indignation at the political outlook, ‘of carrying off himself and his +household gods, like Coriolanus, to a world elsewhere.’ This was the +period of the Tory interregnum, with Sir Robert Peel at the head of +affairs.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN<br /> +<span class="smcap">New Version</span><br /> +(<i>To be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners</i>)</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>I’ll sing you a new ballad, and I’ll warrant it first-rate,<br /> +Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate;<br /> +When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate<br /> +On ev’ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev’ry noble gate,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">In the fine old English Tory times;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soon may they come again!</span><br /> +<br /> +The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains,<br /> +With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains,<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins;<br /> +For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Of the fine old English Tory times;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soon may they come again!</span><br /> +<br /> +This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes,<br /> +And ev’ry English peasant had his good old English spies,<br /> +To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies,<br /> +Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">In the fine old English Tory times;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soon may they come again!</span><br /> +<br /> +The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need,<br /> +The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers’ creed,<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed,<br /> +Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed....<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Oh the fine old English Tory times;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">When will they come again!</span><br /> +<br /> +In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark,<br /> +But sweetly sang of men in pow’r, like any tuneful lark;<br /> +Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark;<br /> +And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Oh the fine old English Tory times;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soon may they come again!</span><br /> +<br /> +Those were the days for taxes, and for war’s infernal din;<br /> +For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win;<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin,<br /> +Because they didn’t think the Prince was altogether thin,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">In the fine old English Tory times;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soon may they come again!</span><br /> +<br /> +But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing’d in the main;<br /> +That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain;<br /> +The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain;<br /> +A nation’s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">With the fine old English Tory days,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">All of the olden time.</span><br /> +<br /> +The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land,<br /> +In England there shall be dear bread—in Ireland, sword and brand;<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>And poverty, and ignorance, shall swell the rich and grand,<br /> +So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Of the fine old English Tory days;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Hail to the coming time!</span><br /> +<br />W.</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center"><span class="big">II.—THE QUACK DOCTOR’S PROCLAMATION</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">THE QUACK DOCTOR’S PROCLAMATION<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tune</span>—‘<span class="smcap">A Cobbler there was</span>’</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>An astonishing doctor has just come to town,<br /> +Who will do all the faculty perfectly brown:<br /> +He knows all diseases, their causes, and ends;<br /> +And he begs to appeal to his medical friends.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Diddle doll:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Tol de rol, de dol,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Diddle doll</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Tol de rol doll.</span><br /> +<br /> +He’s a magnetic doctor, and knows how to keep<br /> +The whole of a Government snoring asleep<br /> +To popular clamours; till popular pins<br /> +Are stuck in their midriffs—and then he begins<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span><br /> +He’s a <i>clairvoyant</i> subject, and readily reads<br /> +His countrymen’s wishes, condition, and needs,<br /> +With many more fine things I can’t tell in rhyme,<br /> +—And he keeps both his eyes shut the whole of the time.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<br /> +You mustn’t expect him to talk; but you’ll take<br /> +Most particular notice the doctor’s awake,<br /> +Though for aught from his words or his looks that you reap, he<br /> +Might just as well be most confoundedly sleepy.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<br /> +Homœopathy, too, he has practised for ages<br /> +(You’ll find his prescriptions in Luke Hansard’s pages),<br /> +Just giving his patient when maddened by pain,—<br /> +Of Reform the ten thousandth part of a grain.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<br /> +He’s a med’cine for Ireland, in portable papers;<br /> +The infallible cure for political vapours;<br /> +A neat label round it his ’prentices tie—<br /> +‘Put your trust in the Lord, and keep this powder dry!’<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span><br /> +He’s a corn doctor also, of wonderful skill,<br /> +—No cutting, no rooting-up, purging, or pill—<br /> +You’re merely to take, ’stead of walking or riding,<br /> +The sweet schoolboy exercise—innocent sliding.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<br /> +There’s no advice gratis. If high ladies send<br /> +His legitimate fee, he’s their soft-spoken friend.<br /> +At the great public counter with one hand behind him,<br /> +And one in his waistcoat, they’re certain to find him.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol.</span><br /> +<br /> +He has only to add he’s the real Doctor Flam,<br /> +All others being purely fictitious and sham;<br /> +The house is a large one, tall, slated, and white,<br /> +With a lobby; and lights in the passage at night.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Tol de rol:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Diddle doll:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Tol de rol, de dol,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Diddle doll</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Tol de rol doll.</span><br /> +<br />W.</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center"><span class="big">III.—SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS<br /> +(<span class="smcap">After Peter Pindar</span>)</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 1em;">To you, <span class="smcap">Sir Martin</span>,<small><a name="f1.1" id="f1.1" href="#f1">[1]</a></small> and your co. R.A.’s,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I dedicate in meek, suggestive lays,</span><br /> +Some subjects for your academic palettes;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hoping, by dint of these my scanty jobs,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To fill with novel thoughts your teeming nobs,</span><br /> +As though I beat them in with wooden mallets.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To you, <span class="smcap">Maclise</span>, who Eve’s fair daughters paint</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Nature’s hand, and want the maudlin taint</span><br /> +Of the sweet Chalon school of silk and ermine:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To you, <span class="smcap">E. Landseer</span>, who from year to year</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Delight in beasts and birds, and dogs and deer,</span><br /> +And seldom give us any human vermin:<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">—To all who practise art, or make believe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I offer subjects they may take or leave.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great Sibthorp and his butler, in debate</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(<i>Arcades ambo</i>) on affairs of state,</span><br /> +Not altogether ‘gone,’ but rather funny;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cursing the Whigs for leaving in the lurch</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our d——d good, pleasant, gentlemanly Church,</span><br /> +Would make a picture—cheap at any money.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or Sibthorp as the Tory Sec.—at-War,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Encouraging his mates with loud ‘Yhor! Yhor!</span><br /> +From Treas’ry benches’ most conspicuous end;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or Sib.’s mustachios curling with a smile,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As an expectant Premier without guile</span><br /> +Calls him his honourable and gallant friend.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or Sibthorp travelling in foreign parts,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through that rich portion of our Eastern charts</span><br /> +Where lies the land of popular tradition;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And fairly worshipp’d by the true devout</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In all his comings-in and goings-out,</span><br /> +Because of the old Turkish superstition.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fame with her trumpet, blowing very hard,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And making earth rich with celestial lard,</span><br /> +In puffing deeds done through Lord Chamberlain Howe;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While some few thousand persons of small gains,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who give their charities without such pains,</span><br /> +Look up, much wondering what may be the row.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Behind them Joseph Hume, who turns his pate</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To where great Marlbro’ House in princely state</span><br /> +Shelters a host of lacqueys, lords and pages,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And says he knows of dowagers a crowd,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who, without trumpeting so very loud,</span><br /> +Would do so much, and more, for half the wages.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Limn, sirs, the highest lady in the land,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Joseph Surface, fawning cap in hand,</span><br /> +Delivers in his list of patriot mortals;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those gentlemen of honour, faith, and truth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who, foul-mouthed, spat upon her maiden youth,</span><br /> +And dog-like did defile her palace portals.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paint me the Tories, full of grief and woe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weeping (to voters) over Frost and Co.,</span><br /> +Their suff’ring, erring, much-enduring brothers.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And in the background don’t forget to pack,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Each grinning ghastly from its bloody sack,</span><br /> +The heads of Thistlewood, Despard, and others.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paint, squandering the club’s election gold,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fierce lovers of our Constitution old,</span><br /> +Lords who’re that sacred lady’s greatest debtors;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let the law, forbidding any voice</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or act of Peer to influence the choice</span><br /> +Of English people, flourish in bright letters.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paint that same dear old lady, ill at ease,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Weak in her second childhood, hard to please,</span><br /> +Unknowing what she ails or what she wishes;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With all her Carlton nephews at the door,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deaf’ning both aunt and nurses with their roar,</span><br /> +—Fighting already, for the loaves and fishes.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leaving these hints for you to dwell upon,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I shall presume to offer more anon.</span><br /> +<br />W.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">PROLOGUE TO<br />WESTLAND MARSTON’S PLAY<br />‘THE PATRICIAN’S DAUGHTER’<br /> +1842</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">PROLOGUE TO ‘THE PATRICIAN’S DAUGHTER’</p> + +<p><i>The Patrician’s Daughter</i> was the title bestowed upon a play, in the +tragic vein, by a then unknown writer, J. Westland Marston, it being his +maiden effort in dramatic authorship. Dickens took great interest in the +young man and indicated a desire to promote the welfare of his production +by composing some introductory lines. To Macready he wrote: ‘The more I +think of Marston’s play, the more sure I feel that a prologue to the +purpose would help it materially, and almost decide the fate of any +ticklish point on the first night. Now I have an idea (not easily +explainable in writing, but told in five words) that would take the +prologue out of the conventional dress of prologues, quite. Get the +curtain up with a dash, and begin the play with a sledge-hammer blow. If, +on consideration, you should agree with me, I will write the prologue, +heartily.’ Happily for the author, his little tragedy was the first new +play of the season, and it thus attracted greater attention. Its initial +representation took place at Drury Lane Theatre on December 10, 1842, and +the fact that Dickens’s dignified and vigorous lines were recited by +Macready, the leading actor of his day, undoubtedly gave <i>prestige</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> to +this performance; but the play, although it made a sensation for the +moment, did not enjoy a long run, its motive being for some reason +misunderstood. As explained by the Editors of <i>The Letters of Charles +Dickens</i>, it was (to a certain extent) an experiment in testing the effect +of a tragedy of modern times and in modern dress, the novelist’s Prologue +being intended to show that there need be no incongruity between plain +clothes of the nineteenth century and high tragedy.</p> + +<p><i>The Patrician’s Daughter: A Tragedy in Five Acts</i>, appeared in pamphlet +form during the year prior to its being placed upon the boards. The +Prologue was printed for the first time in the <i>Sunday Times</i>, December +11, 1842, and then in <i>The Theatrical Journal and Stranger’s Guide</i>, +December 17, 1842. By the kind permission of Miss Hogarth, the lines are +here reproduced from the revised and only correct version in <i>The Letters +of Charles Dickens</i>.</p> + +<p>In the preface to the second edition of the play (1842), the author thus +acknowledges his indebtedness to Dickens for the Prologue, which, however, +does not appear in the book: ‘How shall I thank Mr. Dickens for the +spontaneous kindness which has furnished me with so excellent a letter of +introduction to the audience? The simplest acknowledgment is perhaps the +best, since the least I might say would exceed <i>his</i> estimate of the +obligation; while the most I could say would fail to express <i>mine</i>.’</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">PROLOGUE TO<br />‘THE PATRICIAN’S DAUGHTER’<br /> +(<span class="smcap">Spoken by Mr. Macready</span>)</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>No tale of streaming plumes and harness bright<br /> +Dwells on the poet’s maiden harp to-night;<br /> +No trumpet’s clamour and no battle’s fire<br /> +Breathes in the trembling accents of his lyre;<br /> +Enough for him, if in his lowly strain<br /> +He wakes one household echo not in vain;<br /> +Enough for him, if in his boldest word<br /> +The beating heart of <span class="smcaplc">MAN</span> be dimly heard.<br /> +<br /> +Its solemn music which, like strains that sigh<br /> +Through charmèd gardens, all who hearing die;<br /> +Its solemn music he does not pursue<br /> +To distant ages out of human view;<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>Nor listen to its wild and mournful chime<br /> +In the dead caverns on the shore of Time;<br /> +But musing with a calm and steady gaze<br /> +Before the crackling flames of living days,<br /> +He hears it whisper through the busy roar<br /> +Of what shall be and what has been before.<br /> +Awake the Present! Shall no scene display<br /> +The tragic passion of the passing day?<br /> +Is it with Man, as with some meaner things,<br /> +That out of death his single purpose springs?<br /> +Can his eventful life no moral teach<br /> +Until he be, for aye, beyond its reach?<br /> +Obscurely shall he suffer, act, and fade,<br /> +Dubb’d noble only by the sexton’s spade?<br /> +Awake the Present! Though the steel-clad age<br /> +Find life alone within its storied page,<br /> +Iron is worn, at heart, by many still—<br /> +The tyrant Custom binds the serf-like will;<br /> +If the sharp rack, and screw, and chain be gone,<br /> +These later days have tortures of their own;<br /> +The guiltless writhe, while Guilt is stretch’d in sleep,<br /> +And Virtue lies, too often, dungeon deep.<br /> +Awake the Present! what the Past has sown<br /> +Be in its harvest garner’d, reap’d, and grown!<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span><br /> +How pride breeds pride, and wrong engenders wrong,<br /> +Read in the volume Truth has held so long,<br /> +Assured that where life’s flowers freshest blow,<br /> +The sharpest thorns and keenest briars grow,<br /> +How social usage has the pow’r to change<br /> +Good thoughts to evil; in its highest range<br /> +To cramp the noble soul, and turn to ruth<br /> +The kindling impulse of our glorious youth,<br /> +Crushing the spirit in its house of clay,<br /> +Learn from the lessons of the present day.<br /> +Not light its import and not poor its mien;<br /> +Yourselves the actors, and your homes the scene.</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">A WORD IN SEASON<br />FROM THE ‘KEEPSAKE’<br /> +1844</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">A WORD IN SEASON</p> + +<p><i>The Keepsake</i>, one of the many fashionable annuals published during the +early years of Queen Victoria’s reign, had for its editor in 1844 the +‘gorgeous’ Countess of Blessington, the reigning beauty who held court at +Gore House, Kensington, where many political, artistic, and literary +celebrities forgathered—Bulwer Lytton, Disraeli, Dickens, Ainsworth, +D’Orsay, and the rest. Her ladyship, through her personal charm and +natural gifts, succeeded in securing the services of eminent authors for +the aristocratic publication; even Dickens could not resist her appeal, +and in a letter to Forster (dated July 1843) he wrote: ‘I have heard, as +you have, from Lady Blessington, for whose behalf I have this morning +penned the lines I send you herewith. But I have only done so to excuse +myself, for I have not the least idea of their suiting her; and I hope she +will send them back to you for <i>The Examiner</i>.’ Lady Blessington, however, +decided to retain the thoughtful little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> poem, which was referred to in +the <i>London Review</i> (twenty-three years later) as ‘a graceful and sweet +apologue, reminding one of the manner of Hood.’ The theme of the poem, +which Forster describes as ‘a clever and pointed parable in verse,’ was +afterwards satirised in Chadband (<i>Bleak House</i>), and in the idea of +religious conversion through the agency of ‘moral pocket-handkerchiefs.’</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">A WORD IN SEASON</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>They have a superstition in the East,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That <span class="smcap">Allah</span>, written on a piece of paper,</span><br /> +Is better unction than can come of priest,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper:</span><br /> +Holding, that any scrap which bears that name,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In any characters, its front imprest on,</span><br /> +Shall help the finder through the purging flame,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And give his toasted feet a place to rest on.</span><br /> +<br /> +Accordingly, they make a mighty fuss<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With ev’ry wretched tract and fierce oration,</span><br /> +And hoard the leaves—for they are not, like us,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A highly civilized and thinking nation:</span><br /> +And, always stooping in the miry ways,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To look for matter of this earthy leaven,</span><br /> +They seldom, in their dust-exploring days,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have any leisure to look up to Heaven.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span><br /> +So have I known a country on the earth,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where darkness sat upon the living waters,</span><br /> +And brutal ignorance, and toil, and dearth<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were the hard portion of its sons and daughters:</span><br /> +And yet, where they who should have ope’d the door<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of charity and light, for all men’s finding,</span><br /> +Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And rent the Book, in struggles for the binding.</span><br /> +<br /> +The gentlest man among these pious Turks,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">God’s living image ruthlessly defaces;</span><br /> +Their best high-churchman, with no faith in works,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places:</span><br /> +The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(They curse all other men, and curse each other),</span><br /> +Walks thro’ the world, not very much the worse—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Does all the good he can, and loves his brother.</span></td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">VERSES FROM<br />THE ‘DAILY NEWS’<br /> +1846</span></p> +<p class="center"><br /><span class="big">I.—THE BRITISH LION</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">VERSES FROM THE ‘DAILY NEWS,’ 1846</p> + +<p>The <i>Daily News</i>, it will be remembered, was founded in January 1846 by +Charles Dickens, who officiated as its first editor. He soon sickened of +the mechanical drudgery appertaining to the position, and resigned his +editorial functions the following month. From January 21st to March 2nd he +contributed to its columns a series of ‘Travelling Sketches,’ afterwards +reprinted in volume form as <i>Pictures from Italy</i>. He also availed himself +of the opportunity afforded him, by his association with that newspaper, +of once more taking up the cudgels against the Tories, and, as in the case +of the <i>Examiner</i>, his attack was conveyed through the medium of some +doggerel verses. These were entitled ‘The British Lion—A New Song, but an +Old Story,’ to be sung to the tune of ‘The Great Sea-Snake.’ They bore the +signature of ‘Catnach,’ the famous ballad-singer, and were printed in the +<i>Daily News</i> of January 24, 1846.</p> + +<p>Three weeks later some verses of a totally different character appeared in +the columns of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> <i>Daily News</i>, signed in full ‘Charles Dickens.’ One +Lucy Simpkins, of Bremhill (or Bremble), a parish in Wiltshire, had just +previously addressed a night meeting of the wives of agricultural +labourers in that county, in support of a petition for Free Trade, and her +vigorous speech on that occasion inspired Dickens to write ‘The Hymn of +the Wiltshire Labourers,’ thus offering an earnest protest against +oppression. Concerning the ‘Hymn,’ a writer in a recent issue of +<i>Christmas Bells</i> observes: ‘It breathes in every line the teaching of the +Sermon on the Mount, the love of the All-Father, the Redemption by His +Son, and that love to God and man on which hang all the law and the +prophets.’</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE BRITISH LION<br /> +A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tune</span>—‘<span class="smcap">The Great Sea-Snake</span>’</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Oh, p’r’aps you may have heard, and if not, I’ll sing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the British Lion free,</span><br /> +That was constantly a-going for to make a spring<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon his en-e-me;</span><br /> +But who, being rather groggy at the knees,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Broke down, always, before;</span><br /> +And generally gave a feeble wheeze<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Instead of a loud roar.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The British Lion bold!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That was always a-going for to do great things,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And was always being ‘sold!’</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span><br /> +He was carried about, in a carawan,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And was show’d in country parts,</span><br /> +And they said, ‘Walk up! Be in time! He can<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eat Corn-Law Leagues like tarts!’</span><br /> +And his showmen, shouting there and then,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To puff him didn’t fail,</span><br /> +And they said, as they peep’d into his den,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘Oh, don’t he wag his tail!’</span><br /> +<br /> +Now, the principal keeper of this poor old beast,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="smcap">Wan Humbug</span> was his name,</span><br /> +Would once ev’ry day stir him up—at least—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wasn’t that a Game!</span><br /> +For he hadn’t a tooth, and he hadn’t a claw,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In that ‘Struggle’ so ‘Sublime’;</span><br /> +And, however sharp they touch’d him on the raw,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He couldn’t come up to time.</span><br /> +<br /> +And this, you will observe, was the reason why<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="smcap">Wan Humbug</span>, on weak grounds,</span><br /> +Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In all unlikely sounds.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>So, there wasn’t a bleat from an Essex Calf,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim;</span><br /> +But he said, with a wery triumphant laugh,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘I’m blest if that ain’t him.’</span><br /> +<br /> +At length, wery bald in his mane and tail,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The British Lion growed:</span><br /> +He pined, and declined, and he satisfied<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The last debt which he owed.</span><br /> +And when they came to examine the skin,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It was a wonder sore,</span><br /> +To find that the an-i-mal within<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was nothing but a Boar!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">The British Lion bold!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That was always a-going for to do great things,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And was always being ‘sold!’</span><br /> +<br /><span class="smcap">Catnach.</span></td></tr></table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="big">II. THE HYMN OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURERS</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">THE HYMN OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURERS</p> + +<div class="note"> +<p>‘Don’t you all think that we have a great need to Cry to our God to put it +in the hearts of our greassous Queen and her Members of Parlerment to +grant us free bread!’<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;"><span class="smcap">Lucy Simpkins</span>, <i>at Bremhill</i>.</span></p></div> + + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Oh <span class="smcap">God</span>, who by Thy Prophet’s hand<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Didst smite the rocky brake,</span><br /> +Whence water came, at Thy command,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy people’s thirst to slake;</span><br /> +Strike, now, upon this granite wall,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stern, obdurate, and high;</span><br /> +And let some drops of pity fall<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For us who starve and die!</span><br /> +<br /> +The <span class="smcap">God</span>, who took a little child,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And set him in the midst,</span><br /> +And promised him His mercy mild,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As, by Thy Son, Thou didst:</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>Look down upon our children dear,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So gaunt, so cold, so spare,</span><br /> +And let their images appear<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Lords and Gentry are!</span><br /> +<br /> +Oh <span class="smcap">God</span>, teach them to feel how we,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When our poor infants droop,</span><br /> +Are weakened in our trust in Thee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And how our spirits stoop;</span><br /> +For, in Thy rest, so bright and fair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All tears and sorrows sleep:</span><br /> +And their young looks, so full of care,<br /> +Would make Thine Angels weep!<br /> +<br /> +The <span class="smcap">God</span>, who with His finger drew<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Judgment coming on,</span><br /> +Write, for these men, what must ensue,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ere many years be gone!</span><br /> +Oh <span class="smcap">God</span>, whose bow is in the sky,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let them not brave and dare,</span><br /> +Until they look (too late) on high,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And see an Arrow there!</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span><br /> +Oh <span class="smcap">God</span>, remind them! In the bread<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They break upon the knee,</span><br /> +These sacred words may yet be read,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘In memory of Me!’</span><br /> +Oh <span class="smcap">God</span>, remind them of His sweet<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Compassion for the poor,</span><br /> +And how He gave them Bread to eat,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And went from door to door!</span><br /> +<br /><span class="smcap">Charles Dickens.</span></td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">NEW SONG<br />LINES ADDRESSED TO MARK LEMON<br /> +1849</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">NEW SONG</p> + +<p>Dickens, like Silas Wegg, would sometimes ‘drop into poetry’ when writing +to intimate friends, as, for example, in a letter to Maclise, the artist, +which began with a parody of Byron’s lines to Thomas Moore—</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>‘My foot is in the house,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My bath is on the sea,</span><br /> +And, before I take a souse,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Here’s a single note to thee.’</span></td></tr></table> + +<p>A more remarkable instance of his propensity to indulge in parody of this +kind is to be found in a letter addressed to Mark Lemon in the spring of +1849. The novelist was then enjoying a holiday with his wife and daughters +at Brighton, whence he wrote to Lemon (who had been ill), pressing him to +pay them a visit. After commanding him to ‘get a clean pocket-handkerchief +ready for the close of “Copperfield” No. 3—“simple and quiet, but very +natural and touching”—<i>Evening Bore</i>,’ Dickens invites his friend in +lines headed ‘New<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> Song,’ and signed ‘T. Sparkler,’ the effusion also +bearing the signatures of other members of the family party—Catherine +Dickens, Annie Leech, Georgina Hogarth, Mary Dickens, Katie Dickens, and +John Leech.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> +<p class="center">NEW SONG<br /> +<span class="smcap">Tune</span>—‘<span class="smcap">Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye</span>’</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td align="center">I</td></tr> +<tr><td>Lemon is a little hipped,<br /> +And this is Lemon’s true position—<br /> +He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped,<br /> +Yet wants a little fresh condition.<br /> +Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon<br /> +Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers,<br /> +Than on the Houses every one<br /> +That form the street called Saint Anne’s Willers!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh my Lemon, round and fat,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh my bright, my right, my tight ’un,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Think a little what you’re at—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Don’t stay at home, but come to Brighton!</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>II</td></tr> +<tr><td>Lemon has a coat of frieze,<br /> +But all so seldom Lemon wears it,<br /> +That it is a prey to fleas,<br /> +And ev’ry moth that’s hungry, tears it.<br /> +Oh, that coat’s the coat for me,<br /> +That braves the railway sparks and breezes,<br /> +Leaving ev’ry engine free<br /> +To smoke it, till its owner sneezes!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then my Lemon, round and fat,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">L., my bright, my right, my tight ’un,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Think a little what you’re at—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On Tuesday first, come down to Brighton!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">T. Sparkler.</span></td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">WILKIE COLLINS’S PLAY<br />‘THE LIGHTHOUSE’<br /> +1855</span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="big"><br />I.—THE PROLOGUE</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">‘THE LIGHTHOUSE’</p> + +<p>Wilkie Collins composed two powerful dramas for representation at +Dickens’s residence, Tavistock House, a portion of which had been already +adapted for private theatricals, the rooms so converted being described in +the bills as ‘The Smallest Theatre in the World.’ The first of these plays +was called <i>The Lighthouse</i>, and the initial performance took place on +June 19, 1855. Dickens not only wrote the Prologue and ‘The Song of the +Wreck,’ but signally distinguished himself by enacting the part of Aaron +Gurnock, a lighthouse-keeper, his clever impersonation recalling Frédérick +Lemaître, the only actor he ever tried to take as a model.</p> + +<p>With regard to ‘The Song of the Wreck,’ Dickens evidently intended to +bestow upon it a different title, for, in a letter addressed to Wilkie +Collins during the preparation of the play, he said: ‘I have written a +little ballad for Mary—“The Story of the Ship’s Carpenter and the Little +Boy, in the Shipwreck.”’ The song was rendered by his eldest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> daughter, +Mary (who assumed the rôle of Phœbe in the play); it was set to the +music composed by George Linley for Miss Charlotte Young’s pretty ballad, +‘Little Nell,’ of which Dickens became very fond, and which his daughter +had been in the habit of singing to him constantly since her childhood. +Dr. A. W. Ward, Master of Peter-house, Cambridge University, refers to +‘The Song of the Wreck’ as ‘a most successful effort in Cowper’s +manner.’</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">THE PROLOGUE<br /> +(<i>Slow music all the time; unseen speaker; curtain down</i>.)</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>A story of those rocks where doom’d ships come<br /> +To cast them wreck’d upon the steps of home,<br /> +Where solitary men, the long year through—<br /> +The wind their music and the brine their view—<br /> +Warn mariners to shun the beacon-light;<br /> +A story of those rocks is here to-night.<br /> +Eddystone Lighthouse!</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><br />(<i>Exterior view discovered.</i>)</td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">In its ancient form,</span><br /> +Ere he who built it wish’d for the great storm<br /> +That shiver’d it to nothing,<small><a name="f2.1" id="f2.1" href="#f2">[2]</a></small> once again<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>Behold outgleaming on the angry main!<br /> +Within it are three men; to these repair<br /> +In our frail bark of Fancy, swift as air!<br /> +They are but shadows, as the rower grim<br /> +Took none but shadows in his boat with him.<br /> +<br /> +So be <i>ye</i> shades, and, for a little space,<br /> +The real world a dream without a trace.<br /> +Return is easy. It will have ye back<br /> +Too soon to the old beaten dusty track;<br /> +For but one hour forget it. Billows, rise;<br /> +Blow winds, fall rain, be black, ye midnight skies;<br /> +And you who watch the light, arise! arise!<br /> +<br /> +(<i>Exterior view rises and discovers the scene.</i>)</td></tr></table> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="big">II.—THE SONG OF THE WRECK</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">THE SONG OF THE WRECK</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td align="center">I</td></tr> +<tr><td>The wind blew high, the waters raved,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A ship drove on the land,</span><br /> +A hundred human creatures saved<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kneel’d down upon the sand.</span><br /> +Three-score were drown’d, three-score were thrown<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the black rocks wild,</span><br /> +And thus among them, left alone,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They found one helpless child.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">II</td></tr> +<tr><td>A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stood out from all the rest,</span><br /> +And gently laid the lonely head<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon his honest breast.</span><br /> +And travelling o’er the desert wide<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It was a solemn joy,</span><br /> +To see them, ever side by side,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sailor and the boy.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">III</td></tr> +<tr><td>In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The two were still but one,</span><br /> +Until the strong man droop’d the first<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And felt his labours done.</span><br /> +Then to a trusty friend he spake,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘Across the desert wide,</span><br /> +O take this poor boy for my sake!’<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And kiss’d the child and died.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">IV</td></tr> +<tr><td>Toiling along in weary plight<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through heavy jungle, mire,</span><br /> +These two came later every night<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To warm them at the fire.</span><br /> +Until the captain said one day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘O seaman good and kind,</span><br /> +To save thyself now come away,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And leave the boy behind!’</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>V</td></tr> +<tr><td>The child was slumbering near the blaze:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘O captain, let him rest</span><br /> +Until it sinks, when God’s own ways<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall teach us what is best!’</span><br /> +They watch’d the whiten’d ashy heap,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They touch’d the child in vain;</span><br /> +They did not leave him there asleep,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He never woke again.</span></td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">PROLOGUE TO<br />WILKIE COLLINS’S PLAY<br />‘THE FROZEN DEEP’<br /> +1856</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">‘THE FROZEN DEEP’</p> + +<p>The second drama written by Wilkie Collins for the Tavistock House Theatre +was first acted there in January 1857, and subsequently at the Gallery of +Illustration in the presence of Queen Victoria and the Royal Family. As in +the case of <i>The Lighthouse</i>, the play had the advantage of a Prologue in +rhyme by Charles Dickens, who again electrified his audiences by +marvellous acting, the character of Richard Wardour (a young naval +officer) being selected by him for representation.</p> + +<p>The Prologue was recited at Tavistock House by John Forster, and at the +public performances of the play by Dickens himself.</p> + +<p>It is not generally known that a by no means inconsiderable portion of the +drama was composed by Dickens, as testified by the original manuscripts of +the play and of the prompt-book, which contain numerous additions and +corrections in his handwriting. These manuscripts, by the way, realised +£300 at Sotheby’s in 1890.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>The main idea of <i>A Tale of Two Cities</i> was conceived by Dickens when +performing in <i>The Frozen Deep</i>. ‘A strong desire was upon me then,’ he +writes in the preface to the story, ‘to embody it in my own person; and I +traced out in my fancy the state of mind of which it would necessitate the +presentation to an observant spectator, with particular care and interest. +As the idea became familiar to me, it gradually shaped itself into its +present form. Throughout its execution, it has had complete possession of +me: I have so far verified what is done and suffered in these pages, as +that I have certainly done and suffered it all myself.’</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">PROLOGUE TO ‘THE FROZEN DEEP’<br /> +(<i>Curtain rises; mists and darkness; soft music throughout.</i>)</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>One savage footprint on the lonely shore<br /> +Where one man listen’d to the surge’s roar,<br /> +Not all the winds that stir the mighty sea<br /> +Can ever ruffle in the memory.<br /> +If such its interest and thrall, O then<br /> +Pause on the footprints of heroic men,<br /> +Making a garden of the desert wide<br /> +Where Parry conquer’d death and Franklin died.<br /> +<br /> +To that white region where the Lost lie low,<br /> +Wrapt in their mantles of eternal snow,—<br /> +Unvisited by change, nothing to mock<br /> +Those statues sculptured in the icy rock,<br /> +We pray your company; that hearts as true<br /> +(Though nothings of the air) may live for you;<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>Nor only yet that on our little glass<br /> +A faint reflection of those wilds may pass,<br /> +But that the secrets of the vast Profound<br /> +Within us, an exploring hand may sound,<br /> +Testing the region of the ice-bound soul,<br /> +Seeking the passage at its northern pole,<br /> +Softening the horrors of its wintry sleep,<br /> +Melting the surface of that ‘Frozen Deep.’<br /> +<br /> +Vanish, ye mists! But ere this gloom departs,<br /> +And to the union of three sister arts<br /> +We give a winter evening, good to know<br /> +That in the charms of such another show,<br /> +That in the fiction of a friendly play,<br /> +The Arctic sailors, too, put gloom away,<br /> +Forgot their long night, saw no starry dome,<br /> +Hail’d the warm sun, and were again at Home.<br /> +<br /> +Vanish, ye mists! Not yet do we repair<br /> +To the still country of the piercing air;<br /> +But seek, before we cross the troubled seas,<br /> +An English hearth and Devon’s waving trees.</td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">A CHILD’S HYMN FROM<br />‘THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY’<br /> +1856</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">A CHILD’S HYMN</p> + +<p>The Christmas number of <i>Household Words</i> for 1856 is especially +noteworthy as containing the Hymn of five verses which Dickens contributed +to the second chapter. This made a highly favourable impression, and a +certain clergyman, the Rev. R. H. Davies, was induced to express to the +editor of <i>Household Words</i> his gratitude to the author of these lines for +having thus conveyed to innumerable readers such true religious +sentiments. In acknowledging the receipt of the letter, Dickens observed +that such a mark of approval was none the less gratifying to him because +he was himself the author of the Hymn. ‘There cannot be many men, I +believe,’ he added, ‘who have a more humble veneration for the New +Testament, or a more profound conviction of its all-sufficiency, than I +have. If I am ever (as you tell me I am) mistaken on this subject, it is +because I discountenance all obtrusive professions of and tradings in +religion, as one of the main causes why real<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> Christianity has been +retarded in this world; and because my observation of life induces me to +hold in unspeakable dread and horror those unseemly squabbles about the +letter which drive the spirit out of hundreds of thousands.’—<i>Vide</i> +Forster’s <i>Life of Charles Dickens</i>, Book <span class="smcaplc">XI</span>. iii.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center">A CHILD’S HYMN</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Hear my prayer, O! Heavenly Father,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ere I lay me down to sleep;</span><br /> +Bid Thy Angels, pure and holy,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Round my bed their vigil keep.</span><br /> +<br /> +My sins are heavy, but Thy mercy<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Far outweighs them every one;</span><br /> +Down before Thy Cross I cast them,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Trusting in Thy help alone.</span><br /> +<br /> +Keep me through this night of peril<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Underneath its boundless shade;</span><br /> +Take me to Thy rest, I pray Thee,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When my pilgrimage is made.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span><br /> +None shall measure out Thy patience<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the span of human thought;</span><br /> +None shall bound the tender mercies<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which Thy Holy Son has bought.</span><br /> +<br /> +Pardon all my past transgressions,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give me strength for days to come;</span><br /> +Guide and guard me with Thy blessing<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till Thy Angels bid me home.</span></td></tr></table> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center">Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. <span class="smcap">Constable</span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><strong>Footnotes:</strong></p> + +<p><a name="f1" id="f1" href="#f1.1">[1]</a> Sir Martin Archer Shee, P.R.A.</p> + +<p><a name="f2" id="f2" href="#f2.1">[2]</a> When Winstanley had brought his work to completion, he is said to have +expressed himself so satisfied as to its strength, that he only wished he +might be there in the fiercest storm that ever blew. His wish was +gratified, and, contrary to his expectations, both he and the building +were swept completely away by a furious tempest which burst along the +coast in November 1703.</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens, by +Charles Dickens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, VERSES OF CHARLES DICKENS *** + +***** This file should be named 35536-h.htm or 35536-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/5/3/35536/ + +Produced by David E. 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