,1 ' ' " ' "^""V^^lfl^lH^^^^^^^^^^^nl ' ' '■ ■ ' ^m Tl .i CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1 89 1 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE Date Due . ^ KAY 31 m OUN\Al )4& OFC 1 ' ; 1950 iAY 11 1 iyb3HV. i'^i^^-t^ mij^ flllC'-tS ijjBgn Ay**** I B-fei^nia ^9 e!SWa> Cornell University Library PR 5602.S82 1899 Ballads, critical reviews, tales, variou 3 1924 013 562 073 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013562073 THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION THE WORKS OF WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY WITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTIONS BY HIS DAUGHTER, ANNE RITCHIE IN THIRTEEN VOLUMES Volume XIII. BALLADS AND MISCELLANIES Jsscph Bro A '. b^hjJjl-t^oulji^^^ PuhliahPdbyHarperBralhBrs.NewYork BALLADS CRITICAL REVIEWS, TALES VARIOUS ESSAYS, LETTERS SKETCHES, Etc. BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY WITH A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR BY LESLIE STEPHEN AND A BIBLIOGRAPHY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, AND JOHN LEECH HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON 1899 4.PHICAL EDITIC THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION OF W. M. THACKERAY'S COMPLETE WORKS Edited by Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie The volumes are issued as far as possible in order of original publication 1. VANITY FAIR 2. PENDENNIS 3. YELLOWPLUSH PAPERS, Etc. 4. BARRY LYNDON, Etc. 5. SKETCH BOOKS 6. CONTRIBUTIONS TO "PUNCH," Etc. 7. HENR'^ ESMOND, Etc. 8. THE NEWCOMES 9. CHRISTMAS BOOKS, Etc. 10. THE VIRGINIANS 11. PHILIP, Etc. 12. DENIS DUVAL, Etc. 13. BALLADS & MISCELLANIES Illustrated, Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $1 75 per volume HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK AND LONDON Copyright, 1899, by Harper & Brothers All rights rfurved CONTENTS INTRODUCTION : I. BALLADS ...... P.S. CONCERNING GRANDFATHERS AND MOTHERS ..... THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF LORD BATEMAN II. DRAMATIC FUND SPEECH III. NOTE-BOOKS ..... PAGE • XV GEAND- xxxvi Iv . Ixii , , Ixiv BALLADS SONG OF THE VIOLET THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM, PART I. „ „ „ PART II. THE KING OF BRENTFORD's TESTAMENT FAIRY DAYS .... PEG OF LIMAVADDY TITMARSH's carmen IILLIENSE JEAMES »F BUCKLEY SQUARE A HELIGY LINES UPON MY SISTER's PORTRAIT A DOE IN THE CITY RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS THE WHITE SQUALL THE AGE OP WISDOM THE MAHOGANY TREE THE CANE-BOTTOM'd CHAIR "AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR' vii 3 4 10 19 27 29 34 38 41 42 44 46 50 51 52 54 VIU CONTENTS the eose upon my balcony .... abd-el-kadee at toulon ; oe, the caged ha"vvk at the chuech gate . the end op the play . the ballad qp bouillabaisse may-day ode. the pen and the album Lucy's biethday . the yankee volunteees piscatoe and piscateix soeeows op weethee . the last op may . the legend op st. sophia op kioff pocahontas . peom pocahontas . vanitas vanitatum little billee MES. KATHEEINE's LANTEEN CATHEEINE HAYES . PA8B 55 56 58 59 62 65 69 72 73 76 78 79 80 98 99 100 103 105 107 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY SEEENADE . . 113 THE MINAEET BELLS .114 COME TO THE GEEENWOOD TEEE ... 115 TO MAEY . . 116 WHAT MAKES MY HEAET TO THEILL AND GLOW? . 117 THE GHAZUL, OE OEIENTAL LOVE-SONG : THE EOCKS . 120 THE MEEEY BAED 121 THE CAIQUE 122 MY NORA 123 CONTENTS ix FIVE GERMAN DITTIES FAQE A TRAGIC STORY 127 THE CHAPLET 128 THE KING ON THE TOWEE 129 TO A VERY OLD WOMAN 130 A CREDO 131 FOUR IMITATIONS OF BfiRANGER LE Eoi d'yvetot . 135 THE KING OF YVETOT 137 THE KING OF BRENTFORD . . .139 LE GRENIEE 140 THE GARRET 142 ROGER-BONTEMPS 144 JOLLY JACK 146 IMITATION OF HORACE TO HIS SERVING BOY 151 AD MINISTRAM 151 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES friar's SONG .... KING CANUTE ..... THE WILLOW-TREE ..... THE WILLOW-TREE (ANOTHER VERSION) . WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS . 155 156 159 161 164 CONTENTS ATEA CURA COMMANDBES OF THE FAITHFUL EEQUIESCAT DEAE JACK WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN THE EBD FLAG . . . . THE KNIGHTLY GUEEDON THE ALMACK'S adieu PASS 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 173 LYRA HIBERNICA THE ROSE OP FLOEA ....... 177 THE PIMLICO PAVILION 178 LAEEY o'tOOLE . 181 THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK . . . . . .182 ME. MOLONY's account OF THE BALL GIVEN TO THE nepaulese ambassadoe by the peninsulae and oeiental company . . . . . . .186 the last leish geievance . . . . . .189 the ceystal palace . . . . . . .191 molony's lament . . . , . . . .196 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X JACOB homnium's hoss 201 THE THEEE CHEISTMAS WAITS 206 THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS 211 THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOEEDITCH 215 LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT . . . .218 THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN 222 DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS 224 CONTENTS A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD OF THE PEOTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE's LIFE THE OEGAN-BOY's APPEAL THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY XI PAGE 227 230 232 THE SPECULATORS 235 CEITIOAL REVIEWS caelyle's feench revolution fashnable pax and polite annygoats steictuees on PICTUEES a second lecture on the fine arts geoege ceuikshank a piotoeial ehapsody . a pictorial ehapsody : concluded on' men and pictuees . jeeome paturot ; with consideeations on GENBEAL A BOX OF NOVELS .... MAY GAMBOLS .... PICTUEE GOSSIP .... A BEOTHEE OF THE PEESS ON THE HISTOEY OF A LITERARY MAN, LAMAN BLANCHAED, AND THE CHANCES OF THE LITEEAEY PEOPESSION JOHN leech's PICTUEES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER . NOVELS IN 239 251 261 272 285 320 341 361 384 398 419 446 465 480 TALES the peopessoe Bluebeard's ghost 493 508 xii CONTENTS VARIOUS ESSAYS, LETTERS, SKETCHES, ETC. pAan TIMBUCTOO • 531 BEADING A POEM, PART I • 534 „ „ PART 11. . . . . • .544 A ST. Philip's day at pakis, part i. . . • • 552 ., » „ part II 562 shrove TUESDAY IN PARIS .566 MEMORIALS OF GORMANDISING 573 MEN AND COATS 598 GREENWICH WHITEBAIT . . . . . .614 AN EASTERN ADVENTURE OP THE FAT CONTRIBUTOR . 621 THE DIGNITY OF LITERATURE ...... 629 MR. THACKERAY IN THE UNITED STATES . . . .634 GOETHE IN HIS OLD AGE ...... 640 A LEAF OUT OF A SKETCH BOOK 643 DR. JOHNSON AND GOLDSMITH 648 THE HISTORY OF DIONYSIUS DIDDLER .... 652 THE ORPHAN OF PIMLICO 671 THE LIFE OF W. M. THACKERAY (1811-1863). By Leslie Stephen (Reprinted from the "Dic- tionary OF National Biography") . . . 687 A BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE WORKS OF W. M. THACKERAY . 719 INDEX 745 LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS POETEA.IT OF W. M. THACKERAY . Frvm a Brawmg by Swmuel Lmirence, Engraved by Brawn. COVEE OF "second FUNEEAL OF NAPOLEON^ TOM fool's POETFOLIO . THBEE AEE NO MAIDS . EDITOE AND AUTHOE . SKETCHES — lEISH BALLADS MON CHEVAL BOIT LA PLUIE VIVALDI )) . . DOBDS FAMILY SOLDIBE AND PEASANT GIEL BUCK AND NUESEMAID . MUSICIANS . YSSENGIETTEEY FAMILY GEOUP NAVAL COUETESY . POETEAIT OF AECHDBACON THACKERAY PORTRAIT OF MRS. THACKERAY, WIDOW OF ARCHDEACON THACKERAY . POETEAIT OF W. M. THAOKEEAY, THE GRAND- FATHER a 749-1 8 13) . . . . xiii Frontispiece page To face page XVI xxiv xxvi xxvi xxvii xxviii xxviii xxix XXX xxxi xxxii xxxiii xxxiii xxxiv XXXV XXXV xxxvi xl xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS RICHMOND THACKERAY, HIS WIFE AND CHILD (w. M. THACKERAY AT THREE YEARS OP age) From a Drawing by Chinrwry i THE COURSE .... PEOPLE AT TABLE. GENTLEMAN PROPOSING . THE WILL .... NAPOLEON AND MAJOR GAHAGAN THE BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN To face page xlviii page li li lii lii liii pages Iv to Lxi CRITICAL REVIEWS PHILOPROGENITIVENESS . IGNORANCE IS BLISS TELL TALE TERM TIME ..... JANUARY LAST YEAR's BILLS MAY MAY — BEATING THE BOUNDS . JUNE HOLIDAY AT THE PUBLIC OFFICES JUNE AUGUST — " SIC OMNES '' . To face page 286 300 302 304 306 308 310 312 314 316 VARIOUS ESSAYS, LETTERS, SKETCHES THE PAT CONTRIBUTOR . DR. JOHNSON AND GOLDSMITH THE HISTORY OP DIONYSIUS DIDDLER THE ORPHAN OF PIMILICO . To face page 626 page 649 . pages 653 to G69 ., 673 to 685 INTEODUCTION TO MISCELLANIES 1840-1863 I BALLADS When my father first published his " Ballads and Poems," he wrote a preface, dated Boston, October 27, 1855, saying: " These ballads have been written during the past fifteen years, and are now gathered by the author from his own books and the various periodicals in which the pieces appeared originally. They are published simultaneously in England and America, where a public which has been interested in the writer's prose stories, he hopes, may be kindly disposed to his little volume of verses." The next edition of the "Ballads" was that of 1861, when Messrs. Bradbury & Evans published the " Miscellanies." "The Chronicle of the Drum" came out in a little volume in 1841, and was published with the "Second Funeral of Napo- leon." It was a cheap little book, costing a few pence ; but I see that by one of those curious freaks of fashion, with which it is diflScult to sympathise, a copy was sold lately at Sotheby's for £19 ; and another, so The Times states, realised forty guineas a little while ago. The " Second Funeral of Napoleon '' was reprinted in The Cornhill Magazine for January 1866, two years after my father's death, with a prefatory note by Mr. Greenwood. He writes : " The intelligent public of the time MISCELLANIES refused to read it. The gentleman who sends us the original MS. from which we reprint the long-forgotten narrative, says : ' I had the pleasure of editing the tiny volume for Mr.Titmarsh, and saw it through the press, and after a while, on the dismal THE SECOND FUNERAL THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM, By Mb. M. A. TITMARSH. COVER OF SECOND PtTNERAL OP NAPOLEON. tidings that the little effort made no impression on the public, Mr. Titmarsh wrote to me from Paris a pretty little note, com- mencing, " So your poor Titmarsh has made another fiasco. How are we to take this great stupid public by the ears ? Never INTRODUCTION xvii mind, I think I have something which will surprise them yet." ' He had just begun ' Vanity Fair.' " The story of " Little Billee " is told by Mr, Samuel Bevan in a book called " Sand and Canvas," in which that ballad was first printed under the title of " The Three Sailors." It was in the autumn of 1844, at Rome, that Mr. Bevan met my father, who was then on his way back from the East. " I met Titmarsh," Mr. Bevan writes, " at many of the evening parties which were held by the artists at this season. . . . " Perhaps the greatest display of this sort was made on a cer- tain holiday, when the whole of us dined together at Bertini's, and he was voted into the chair. . . . Just at this time there was a schism among the members of the English Academy in Rome, and an important question was fresh on the tapis ; it was no wonder, therefore, that a considerable portion of the even- ing was consumed in long-winded speeches, and had it not been for a proposal on the part of our friend Beardman ' to take the basso part in a glee,' a harmonious feeling would hardly have been arrived at. His instigation was succeeded by a call for a song from the chair, amid a vociferous shout of ' Viva Tit- marsh !' and a deafening clatter of dessert furniture. " Our great friend assured us he was unable to sing, but wonld endeavour to make amends by a recitation, if some one in the meantime would make a beginning. Whilst a few, therefore, on the right of the chair were tantalising the company by a tortured version of one of Calcott's glees, Titmarsh, busy with his tablets, produced the affecting narrative of the Three Sailors, of which he soon after delivered himself in a fittingly lugubrious tone of voice." Next to Little Billee, Policeman X is perhaps one of the most popular of incarnations. The great constable seems to have been made for Punch and Punch for him, as he treads his " Beat with steady steps and slow, All huppandownd — of Eanelagh Street; Ranelagh Street, Pimlico. While marching huppandownd — Upon that fair May morn — Beold the booming cannings sound, A Royal child is born!" xviii MISCELLANIES Had Policeman X been still among us there is no knowing what different awards might not have been made of certain honours lately distributed ; as he himself justly observes — "The Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found, For honest Pleasemau X" The ballads of Policemen X are in the " Miscellanies," all except '■ The Organ Boy's Appeal," which was ray father's last poetical contribution to Punch. " Jacob Omnium's Hoss " interested and amused us all at the time it came out. In this ballad, Pleaseman X exclaims — " Who was this master good, Of whomb I makes these rhymes? His name is Jacob Homnium Exquire ; And if I'd committed crimes, Good Lord! I wouldn't 'are that man. Attack me in the Times! " As I quote from Pleaseman X there comes before me the well-remembered stately figure of Jacob Omnium, so dignified, so gallant, that keen, handsome face, so significant with sense and wit. I can think of no one very easily comparable in looks or in manner with Mr. Higgins, that most lovable and most fearable gentleman. Nor can I imagine how any average jury of the usual stature ever found courage to give a verdict against him. " I would give half-a-crown an hour," my father used to say, " if only Higgins would stand outside in the garden and let me make studies from his figure." One morning — it must have been on the 1st of May 1851 — my father was sitting at breakfast in the bow-windowed dining-room in Young Street, when we came in and found him reading The Times. He held out the sheet and pointed to his name at the foot of a long column of verses, the Ode upon the Great Exhibition — " But yesterday a naked sod, The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, And cantered o'er it to and fro ; And see 'tis done ! As though 'twere by a wizard's rod, A blazing arch of lucid glass Leaps like a fountain from the grass To meet the sun !" INTRODUCTION xix He said he liked the simile of the fountain, it was so simple and yet it described the building exactly. Our old friend Sir Henry Cole was one of the chief origi- nators of the Great Exhibition of '51, and he used often to come and talk about the scheme to my father, who greatly admired it, and who has written more than one account of that wonderful building. Besides the ode in the Times there is also the poem by Mr. Malony of Malony, which was published in Punch — " With jauial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nymphs of Findus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing. The Palace made o' windows !" The " Legend of St. Sophia of Kiofi " provided its author with an unexpected little experience when he was lecturing on the " Four Georges " in Scotland. He wrote from Aberdeen : — " I wonder if sneering is of the devil and laughter is not' wicked ? At a delightful industrial school at Aberdeen (where the children's faces and voices choked me and covered my spec- tacles with salt water) the founder of the school, Sheriff Watson, pulled my ' Ballads ' out of his pocket, and bade one of the little ones read out, ' A hundred years ago and more, a city built by burghers stout, and fenced with ramparts round about,' which the little man did in an innocent voice, and a strong Scotch ac- cent of course ; but the tone of levity in the ballad pained me coming from guileless lips, and I turned away ashamed and said to myself, ' Pray God I may be able some day to write some- thing good for children.' That will be better than glory or Par- liament. We must try and do it, mustn't we ? As soon as we have made a competence for the two young ones, we must see if we can do anything for the pleasure of young ones in general. That truth suggested itself to me in the industrial schools in Aberdeen." The lines to K. E. P. are well known — " The Pen and the Album "— "Stranger, I never writ a flattery, Nor signed the page that registered a lie." Miss Perry has given her own notes about my father, and XX MISCELLANIES they have been published by Mrs. Brookfield in her collection of letters. " In most cases there is a prelude of friendship," says the lady, who so faithfully remembers the past, " but Mr. Thack- eray and I went through no gradations of growth in our friend- ship," and she goes on to compare it to Jack's beanstalk, which reached up sky-high without culture, and, " thank God," she says, " so remained to the end." Miss Perry adds that they frequently met at the Miss Berrys. By degrees these ladies, who had not liked my father at first, began to care for him. They read his works 'with delight, says Miss Perry, and whenever they were making up a pleasant din- ner, used to say they must have Thackeray. Miss Berry's criti- cisms seem to have been somewhat biased by her friendships. She found Miss Austen so tedious, that she could not under- stand her works having obtained " such a celebrity." " Thackeray and Balzac," she observed, " write with great mi- nuteness, but do so with a brilliant pen." " Here," says Miss Perry, " Thackeray made two bows, one for himself and one for Balzac." Miss Agnes Berry died before her sister, and my father always maintained she was the more gifted of the two. He took us to see her once when we were children, a pretty, gentle eveille little old lady, in a white tippet with pink ribbons, who, besides know- ing Horace Walpole, had danced with Gustavus of Sweden at a court ball, and who lived to nearly ninety. There were some schools at Pimlico for which Miss Perry and her sister Mrs. Elliot were greatly responsible, and which always interested my father. When Miss Perry found odd sov- ereigns lying under the children's subscription lists, she used to attribute them to him, knowing his ways. On one occasion she found a pen and ink sketch in the account book itself, of chil- dren crowding round the schoolmistress, who was represented ladling out soup into mugs of various sizes. So much for the owner of the album, in which my father wrote the charming lines — * " Kind lady, till ray last of lines are penned, My master's love, grief, laugiiter at an end, Whene'er I write your name may I write friend." Among the women's names he ever wrote as friends' names INTRODtrCTlON xxi was that of Helen Faucit, " one of the sweetest women in Cliristendom," as my father called her. Her gracious gift of genius belonged to the world, the charm of her goodness was for her home and for those who loved her. To a second K. E. P.,* whcralso cared for my father, some lines were written — " An old lantern brought to me ! Ugly, dingy, battered, black (Here a, lady, I suppose, Tarning up her pretty nose), Pray, sir, take the old thing back, I've no taste for brick-a-brac. Please to mark the letters twain (I'm supposed to speak again), Graven on the lantern pane, Can you tell me who was she, . ■ Mistress of the flowery wreath. And the anagram beneath. The mysterious K. E. ?" They were among the last verses my father ever wrote. K. E. has had many friends, but few more appreciative than he was. I once asked the lady of the lantern if she had any memento of my father or any of his letters, but she said that when, he died she had tied them all together with a ribbon and put them in the fire and watched them burn away to ashes. A friend of earlier days, called Eug6rie,| used to sit to my father for Amelia in " Vanity Fair," for the Miss Osbornes, for various charming figures in " Mrs. Perkins's Ball." It is the remembrance of my mother which comes back as I look at. the picture of the cane-bottom'd chair, " that bandy-legged, high- shouldered, worm-eaten seat." " It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck and a smile on her face, A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair. And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottom'd chair." He once told his neighbour. Dr. Merriman, that this was his favourite among his ballads. One more poem should be men- * Mrs. Charles Perugini, the younger daughter of Charles Dickens, f Almost as I write her name I hear of the death of Mrs. Wynne at Nice, January 1899. xxii MISCELLANIES tioned here, the ballad of " Catherine Hayes," to which allusion was made in the preface to " Barry Lyndon." The original version has only just been sent me through the kindness of my old friend Dr. Weir Mitchell of New York, and it is republished for the first time, in this volume. In that preface I told the story of the confusion which arose in the mind of the Irish public between the murderess Catherine Hayes and the popular singer of that name, and how my father sent the ballad on the subject to Adelaide Procter. One of the letters to Miss Procter shows that my father had time to read other people's verses as well as to rewrite his own — "36 Onslow Square, /sme 4(1860). " My DEAR Adelaide, — Thank you for the little book with the kind little inscription on the first page. There will always be an " a " between us, won't there? and we shall like each other out of our books and melancholies and satires, and poetries and proses. Why are your verses so very, very grey and sad ? I have been reading them this morning till the sky has got a crape over it — other folks' prose I have heard has sometimes a like dismal effect, one man's specially I mean, with whom I am pretty intimate, and who writes very glumly, though I believe he is inwardly a cheerful, wine-bibbing, easy-going person, liking the wicked world pretty well in spite of all his grumbling. We can't help what we write though ; an unknown something works within us and makes us write so and so. I'm putting this case de me (as usual) and de te. I don't like to think you half so sad as your verses. I like some of them very much indeed, especially the little tender bits. All the allusions to children are full of a sweet, natural compassionateness ; and you sit in your poems like a grey nun with three or four little prattlers nestling round your knees, and smiling at you, and a thin hand laid upon the golden heads of one or two of them ; and having smoothed them and patted them, and told them a little story, and given them a bonbon, the grey nun walks into the grey twilight, taking up her own sad thoughts and leaving the parvulos silent and wist- ful. There goes the Angelus ! There they are, lighting up the chapel. Go home, little children, to your bread and butter and teas, and kneel at your bedside in crisp little nightgowns. INTKODUOTION xxiii " I wonder whether this has anything on earth to do with Adelaide Anne Procter's poems ? I wish the tunes she sang were gayer ; but que voulez vous f The Lord has made a multi- tude of birds and fitted them with various pipes (there goes singing in her room, with a voice that is not so good as Adelaide Sartorises', but which touches me inexpressibly when I hear it), and the chorus of all is Laus Domino. " I am writing in this queer way, I suppose, because I went to St. Paul's yesterda}' — Charity Children's day, miss, and the sight and sound immensely moved and charmed yours aSection- ately, dear Adelaide, W. M. Thackeray." When my father wrote a poem he used to be more agitated than when he wrote in prose. He would come into the room worried and excited, saying, " Here are two more days wasted. I have done nothing at all. It has taken me four mornings' work to produce six lines." Then, after a further struggle, all would go well. There is some such account given in the life of Lady Blessing- ton concerning the little poem called " Piscator and Piscatrix." He nearly gave it up in despair, but finally the pretty verses came to him. I have still some of his poems torn down the centre. They are as often as not in pencil. The volume of " Ballads" finishes with " The End of the Play," of which the last verses might seem almost to speak of his own history — " My song save this is little worth ; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth. As fits the solemn Christmas-tide, As fits the holy Christmas birth. Be this, good friends, our carol still. Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. To men of gentle will." If ever peace came at Christmas-time to a man of gentle will, it was to the writer of those lines. " Good Will " was the name some one gave him in some verses written after his death. MISCELLANIES TOM fool's POKTPOLIO. INTRODUCTION The pictures and stetches from which we have heen drawing are not yet exhausted. Among those which are here published some tell their own stories, some have to do with things belong- ing to many long-agos of fun and youthful impression. Take, for instance, the illustration to the old song, "There are no Maids like English Maids," or the sketches from wood blocks or the Irish Ballads, or the notes from abroad, such as Mon Cheval Boit and La Pluie, and the pretty group of the Soldier and the Peasant Girl. The Buck seems of English extraction, but the Musicians and Yssengiettery certainly come from the land of Caran d'Ache, who was not yet in existence. Tom Fool's country, who shall divine ? Besides these sketches we give others, such as the portraits of the Dobus family, in their different avocations. Here, also, are the adventures of " Vivaldi," with their de- lightful horrors, which have never yet been put before the public, and of which a more elaborate version is in the British Museum. The MS. was sent to us for verification, a discriminating little schoolboy having bartered his collection of stamps for it with an- other little schoolboy, who had become the lawful possessor of the picture by inheritance, I think. The family of the stamp-col- lector demurred, if I remember rightly, and thought the stamps far too valuable to part with for mere sketches; but Professor Colvin, at the British Museum, finally settled the controversy by ofiering a sum of money, which was accepted, and the pictures are now safely in their niche in the British Museum. MISCELLANIES fer^,p^f'>"f:il[tli' M THERE ARE NO MAIDS. BDITOB AND AUTHOB. INTRODUCTION SKETCHES — IRISH BAIXADS. MISCELLANIES INTRODUCTION 7JL'^^^}i'^-i^cL^'.. ~-r A, unuTM^niaH c^ iiMn ' ^ Sun&eo/v. MISCELLANIES '}'V •ftc oi^^ncftli /..vfcn. ^ breads:. )t*6r. Co^c^ i.]5MmX *litWovv«<. VA)iul,-birU» - P^^ cCr Ji^'~J)ohuJ M.K ted.) f(Un6a 'i> ohui 13 DOBPS FAMILY. xxxu MISCELLANIES SOLDIER AND PEASANT OIKL. ^^JM, BDCK AND NOKSEMAID, XXXIV MISCELLANIES YSSENGIETTERY. YSSENGIETTERF. FAMILY QROtrP. y J ! HATAL OO0BTI1ST. xxxvi MISCELLANIES P.S.—CON-GEBNING GRANDFATHERS AND GRANDMOTHERS The author of " Vanity Fair " was always very much interested in his grandfathers and grandmothers^ong before the present fashion for heredity had set in. I have often heard him describe the Thackerays as a race, though he did not seem exactly to be^ long to it himself. They were tall, thin people, with marked eyebrows, and clear dark eyes, simple, serious. They were schoolmasters, parsons, doctors, Indian Civil Servants, and some officers thrown in to give us an air. My father once went to see the place in Yorkshire — Hampsthwaite, near Harrogate — from whence his ancestors first came, and he took me with him. We walked through the village and down a steep road, until we came to an old grey bridge across the rushing Nidd, beyond which rolls a long line of hills. (Visiting the place again with my own children after a lifetime, it seemed even prettier to me than I remembered it. The waters were fuller, the ash trees had spread their branches, starting from between the rocks and hanging over the stream.) I have been told that there is a brook called the Thackwray not far from Hampsthwaite (wray means running water). After walking through the village my father went into the old church. The clergyman came out to meet him, and showed us the Parish Registers, kept in an an- cient, worm-eaten chest, where Dorothys and Cicelys and Tim- othys and Timotheas were inscribed from 1660 downwards. We were told that the Thackeray farm was an old Elizabethan dwell- ing, which had only lately been pulled down, and which had stood on the slope on the other side of the stream. For two hundred years or more generations of farmers had dwelt among these hills and breathed the life-giving Yorkshire air, before the first of their race came to the front. This worthy was Elias Thackeray of Hampsthwaite, a hand- some man and a good scholar, who went to Cambridge, took orders, and was appointed to the living of Hawkhurst in his native Yorkshire. Elias Thackeray never married, but his broth- er Timothy, the farmer, had a well-favoured son called Thomas, who also distinguished himself at his books, and was finally or- dained and became a schoolmaster. He was then successively ARCHDEACON THACKERAY INTRODUCTION xxxvii a master at Eton, Headmaster of Harrow in 1746, Chaplain to the Prince of Wales in 1748. In the Whitehall Evening Post for Tuesday the 28th of June of that year we read : " On Sun- day last the Rev. Dr. Thackeray, master of the school at Harrow on the Hill, kissed H. R. H. the Prince of Wales's hand on being appointed one of his Chaplains -in -Ordinary." This piece of news appears among other more important facts, such as the Return of the French from the Netherlands, Conferences between Marshal Saxe and the Envoy- Extraordinary of the King of Poland, Account of Admiral Byng's successful en- counter in the Mediterranean with a convoy of eighty ships. Dr. Thackeray was Archdeacon of Surrey at his death in 1760. The Archdeacon is described as a dignified person, with a charming manner, dark eyes, and a powdered wig ; he must have been a good Headmaster, for he more than doubled the numbers at Harrow. He was just about to be made a bishop when he died, but none of his descendants, although there were a great many of them, ever reached to such a dignity. He was also distinguished as an apparition, and is said to have been seen walking into his own house a few hours after his death. We have a picture kindly given to us by the Rennell Rodds ; it is that of an old lady sitting in a red velvet chair. She wears loner white gloves up to her elbows, a grey dress with short frilled sleeves made in the fashion of George the Third's time, a white kerchief folded and tucked away into black velvet bands, a quaint cap with a frill to it tied under her chin. She also wears a big black silk apron, and sits demurely with her hands folded. Her face is pleasant but determined, as should be that of the mother of sixteen children and the wife of a Head- master of Harrow. When Miss Anne Woodward married Dr. Thackeray, a family historian declares that they were the hand- somest couple of their time. Their grandchildren certainly were very good-looking people, and I can trace a look of many of the old lady's descendants in her own spirited, smiling face. William Makepeace, Mrs. Thackeray's sixteenth child, was my father's grandfather. He went to India, and soon after his return home, still a young man, but already somewhat broken in health, he settled with his wife, Amelia Richmond Webb, at Hadley, in Middlesex, where were born many sons and daughters. xxxviii MISCELLANIES The story of William Makepeace ThacJieray the first, as well as of his seven sons, has been told by Sir William Hunter in his delightful and spirited records of the history of an empire, with the story of the making of which he has interwoven the lives of these good, self-respecting, and public-spirited young men. In Sir William's pages we find the earlier history of the father of them all, William Makepeace Thackeray, the " elephant hunter" as he is called, "arriving in India on his seventeenth birthday with his mother's Bible in his trunk." We hear of his rapid promotion under Mr. Cartier, the predecessor of Warren Hastings as Governor of Bengal ; of the wild territo- ries he was set to govern, of his adventurous wanderings, his speculations in elephants and tigers, his audacious disputes with the Court of Directors — all happening within the ten years he remained in India. He was not unlike the hero of a fairy tale, somewhat limited, but brave and single-minded. Family feeling was strong in this enterprising young civilian. He sailed for India in 1766; in 1768, at the age of nineteen, he had sent home for his sisters, Jane, ten years his senior, and Henrietta, who was a little younger and very beautiful. Sir William quotes the old family story of Mrs. Thackeray's exclamation, " If there is a sensible man in India, he will find out my Jane." This is a copy of the petition of the sisters : "" To the Hon"'' the Court of Directors— " For the Hon"' East India Company. " The humble petition of Jane and Henrietta Thackeray — " Sheweth " That your Petitioner having a Brother in your Service, a writer in Bengal, who is desirous of their going there, and an invitation being also sent them by John Cartier Esq', they there- fore humbly beg permission so to do, by one of the Ships bound thither, and the Security required will be duly given by Your Honours' most obedient Servants (signed) ^''''^ Thackeray. "Endorsed: Henribtta Thackeray. " Request of Misses Jane and Henrietta Thackeray to go to their friends at Bengal. Read in Court. "Granted. 2 Nov. 1768," MRS. THACKERAY Widovj of Archdeacon Thackeray INTEODUCTION xxxix Eventually under their young brother's auspices the two sisters both married, Jane became the wife of Major Rennell, and Henrietta married Mr. Harris, chief of the Council of Dacca. William Makepeace Thackeray in Calcutta also married about this time. His wife was Amelia Richmond Webb, a daughter of Colonel Richmond Webb, who commanded a company at the battle of Culloden, and lies buried in the East Cloister of West- minster Abbey.* Colonel Webb was a kinsman of the General Webb who appears in " Esmond." A letter from Colonel Webb to his son still exists, and is char- acteristic enough to be inserted here : — Col. R. Webb to his Son. " Bath, Aitgust 25, 1765. " Mt dear Richmond, — I have received a letter this day, by which I perceive that there is no likelyhood of getting you to the East Indies (in the fair and genteel prospect I would send you) this next year. ... In the meantime, you have time enough ; you may keep at your college, and as I shall be in Lon- don I will procure a master to instruct you in arithmetic, that you may not go abroad ignorant of what every man must know, and every mechanic does know. You shall be taught under my eye, and will not have it to learn among little boys when you go abroad, but be immediately able to enter on merchant's accounts. As to the Church, it does not seem to be your choice, and therefore I'll not name it. " If the two new pair of shoes and two new pair pumps are not made, forbid them, and only bespeak one pair of each ; which will serve you to wear in college. Pray, are your new clothes made ? Write me word by return of post. . . . " I do not doubt of your readiness to acquiesce in whatever I propose, that you will make a figure in whatever way of life fort- une shall put you in. I am convinced that you will conduct * His name is recorded on a tablet on the cloister wall. The inscription on the gravestone below has been worn away by the steps of the congrega- tions passing into the Abbey, but the tablet has been restored quite lately by one of the family of the Moores : it records Colonel Webb's virtues in the language of the day, and tells of the death of his wife Sarah Webb, who could not long survive her loss. xl MISCELLANIES yourself with honour and good, and keep clear of vice and idle- ness, these rocks which so many youths split upon; and for my part, if Heaven spares my life, I will do my utmost to protect, encourage, and support you in anything that's praiseworthy. " Be honest and good, you have a good stock of learning which I hope you won't neglect. Make yourself master of your pen and your sword, and you will be enabled to serve your king, country, yourself and friends, and there's nothing that you, who are born a gentleman and educated like one, may not pretend to. . . . " I must now busy myself with putting all your sisters out, and Mama and you and I spend the winter in London. — Adieu, my dear boy. ' R- Webb." The younger Richmond subsequently entered the army and was killed in the American War. Apparently the poor Webb sisters were all " put out," as their father says, and shipped off to India. Three of them married there. Amelia met Mr. Thackeray at Calcutta, at the age of seventeen. Another, Augusta, became Mrs. Evans ; a third, Sarah, married Mr. Peter Moore. On the unmarried daughter, Charlotte, some sad tragedy seems to have fallen ; although her start in life was happy. After the Thackerays' departure for England she made her home with Mrs. Moore. One of this lively lady's letters describing her sister's adventures has been pre- served, and reads like a page out of " Evelina " or " Cecilia." From Mrs. Moorb in Calcutta to Mrs. Thackeray in England. " The day following Dr. Williams being discarded as a lover came Mr. Wodsworth, who had teased us with his company al- most incessantly for some time before. He took Mr. Moore aside and declared a most violent love for Charlotte, entreating that P. M. should give him his interest. Mr. Moore replied with great coolness that she was at her own disposal, and that he did not mean to interfere. Mr. Wodsworth then came to me and told me that Mr. Moore had something to say to me. I accord- ingly went out, and was a little astonished at Wodsworth's as- W. M THACKERAY, THE GBANDfATHER (17W-1B13) INTRODUCTION xli surance. I rejoined the company with a very grave aspect, and took no further notice, but saw that Mr. W., agreeable to Ms bold and constant custom, had stayed supper without being aslced. We had not an opportunity to mention the matter to Charlotte, so that you may guess her surprise when, as we were walking with the Auriols to the door, Mr. W. laid hold on her, and with- out further preface began with, ' dear Miss Webb, don't dis- tract iTie, I love you to distraction.' Poor Charlotte, who was thunderstruck at so abrupt and indelicate a declaration, was much provoked, and turning short on him only said, ' Bless me, sir, you're mad, sure ! ' and immediately joined us in the ve- randah. Notwithstanding this rebuff he had the boldness to come the next day to tea, and joined us in our walk ; but we re- ceived him very coolly, and hardly spoke to him, and Mr. Moore took this opportunity of telling him he must be much less fre- quent in his visits. He expressed great concern lest Mr Thom- son should have overheard his speech to Charlotte. Mr. Moore told him he might well be ashamed of it, for he never heard anything like it in his life, and added that he spoke so loud, that not only Mr Thomson, but the two Mr. Auriols must have heard it. You know P. M. loves a little mischief. Here endeth the chapter of Mr. Wodsworth. " Auriol of late has paid her very great and constant atten- tion, which she seems to receive with much pleasure." . . . Mrs. Moore goes on to hope that Charlotte will soon make np her mind, as Augusta, — still wearing short frocks, and with her hair over her forehead, — is also beginning to receive verses and offers, which she refuses with great spirit. The following pathetic letter from the mother in England to Warren Hastings — which was found in the British Museum and given us by Mr. Malcolm Low — comes in vivid contrast to all the merriment and feasting : — From Mrs. Webb to Warren Hastings, Esq. "London, High Street, Marylebone, •'December 20, 1781. " Sir, — Distracted with the sufferings of our dear beloved and unfortunate daughter, Charlotte Webb, I hope, will plead my ex- xlii MISCELLANIES cuse for the liberty of thus addressing you on her behalf. Ap- prehending Mr. Evans may possibly be absent from Calcutta, as (or?) fearing any other accident should put it out of his power to convey our dear child to England, in compliance to most ear- nest and repeated request. If, therefore, she is not already on her passage home, I beg and implore that you, Sir, will have the great goodness and compassion to her wretched state, and ours, as to have her conveyed home with all possible speed and safety, which shall ever be esteemed as the greatest obligation, which favour I should never have presumed to ask, but that urgent ne- cessity prompts me to it ; the miserys she has already sufEered, and the great loss of time past owing to Mrs. Moore's imprudence in keeping her summer after summer since her first illness, which has perhaps rendered all our future endeavour to recover her, lost. These dreadful considerations, together with their com- pleting her tradgedy by a sham marriage, all which shocking events makes her poor father and I really fear that even murder may be the next cruel scene with which we may be presented. Our troubles and reflections are of the bitterest kind, that so good, so fine a girl should meet with such a load of woes, for, if there are Truth, Innocence, and Honour in the Humane breast, our dear Charlotte Webb had her full portion. Such was her character from infancy while in England, but that fatal period in which I unhappily suffered her to depart from under the pro- tection of her parents has ruined her, and I am the innocent cause, for which I shall never forgive myself. " Pardon, Sir, my thus trespassing on your time and patience, but I trust your humanity will consider this comes from an un- happy mother, who weeps over every line as she writes, so full is my heart of sorrow for my dear Charlotte, that I am almost frantic. Her father and I have both wrote long letters to Mr. Evans pressing him to send our poor girl home, we likewise got a friend to convey a small letter to the same purpose over land. But she has suffered so very much and so have we, on her ac- count, which has obliged us to try every method to convey our wishes to Mr. Evans, and even (here a word or two blurred) feel- ing heart, and which I hope will apologise for the freedom. — I have the honor to be. Sir, your most obliged and most humble servant, Sarah Webb." INTRODUCTION xliii This letter makes us realise, as indeed does many another in- stance, what a remarkable role Warren Hastings was called on to perform. He seems to have been Father Confessor as well as Dictator to the whole colony. They turn to him in every difficulty, invariably counting on his help and good offices. Seven or eight years later we find Amelia Thackeray and Sarah Moore and their husbands settled on Hadley Green, where they are afterwards joined by Henrietta, now Mrs. Harris, a widow, and vis- ited by Jane and her distinguished husband, Major James Rennell. Some volumes of old letters were lately found at a second- hand bookseller's ; they are from Great-grandpapa Thackeray, the elephant-hunter, and chiefly addressed to his solicitor. Mr. Thackeray seems fond of business, and is deputed to look after investments for his brothers and sisters. He has also wards who have been left to his guardianship. They had been sent by their dying father in India to Mr. Thackeray's care, and to that of Mr. Morgan Thomas the friendly man of business. They arrived with a patrimony consisting among other things of dia- monds and cashmere shawls, to be disposed of for their benefit. Mrs. Rennell is prepared to buy some of the treasures. Mr. Thackeray's family is so large, he cannot have his wards to stay with him, he says. The family preoccupies him very much. .One year he is engaged in having it " occulated," another year he and his wife have just returned from France, to find Mrs. Moore and her little family established on the Green. There is a story of a black boy, who has stolen Mrs. Thackeray's purse with " a guinea " in it, the year in which my grandfather, Richmond Thackeray, was born. Great-grandpapa Thackeray wishes the black boy out of the house, and begs Mr. Thomas to find him a lodging at a hairdresser's until he can be sent on board ship. One might be puzzled by this cure for dishonesty, but the writer goes on to explain that at the barber's the boy might make some progress in hairdressing, which would be of service to him in India, and enable him to earn an honest living there, without stealing purses. Parents nowadays might envy Mr. Thackeray's complaints of the expenses of education. " I can speak from experience," he says, " it is to me a most serious matter. My son's bills at Eton for the last year came to near xliv MISCELLANIES £80." Incidentally some of the family names occur— the other dwellers upon Hadley Green are mentioned. Mr. Peter Moore arrives from India, brothers and sisters cross the scene; so does Mr. Cartier, his former chief, and a Mr. Baronneau, who lends Mrs. Thackeray his carriage. Mrs. Bayne, the family historian, tells us how Mr. Thackeray al- ternately wore a pepper and salt suit, and a blue one with brass but- tons, and that Mrs. Thackeray used to dress in white, and lie upon a sofa, rather to the scandal of her more energetic contemporaries. Among the various letters bound up with Mr. Thackeray's is a very unexpected epistle addressed to one of the wards by Miss Amelia Alderson, better known as Mrs. Opie. They had met on some country visit. It is as long as letters seemed to be in those days, and a somewhat ponderous mixture of heavy flirta- tion and lively good advice. It was from this family home on Hadley Green that the sons started one by one — never to return. Six of them followed their father's example, and went to India ; William, Richmond, Tom, Webb, St. John, Charles, each one in turn, some soldiers, some civil servants. Richmond, my own grandfather, went out at sixteen, in the Company's Civil Service, and held various appointments. He was the only one of the Indian brothers who married, and my own father was his only son. The history of William is also told — the handsomest and foremost of them all. He was the friend of Sir Thomas Munro, the Governor of Madras, and he worked with him for many years. The task, says Sir William, assigned to Munro and his assistants was to bring order to chaos, and substitute a fair revenue system for extortion by the sword. " They spent their days in the saddle, and their nights in tents, in ruined forts, and Hindu temples, or under the shadow of some crum- bling town gate. One by one each hamlet was visited, and the people were assured that the British Government only asked for a moderate rental, and would protect them in the undisturbed possession of their homesteads." William Thackeray was famous for his horses and horsemanship, as well as for being an authority on financial subjects. He was President of the Board of Revenue in the Madras Government when he died, January 11, 1823, aged forty-four. INTRODUCTION xlv St. John Thackeray was also in the Civil Service ; he was chosen to help to bring into order the territories just won from the Mahrattas, and we read that he lost his life as he advanced unguarded with a flag of truce to a Kittur fort which the in- surgents had seized. Webb, who had a special gift for lan- guages, lived but a year after his arrival as a Madras civilian, but he lived long enough to make his mark. Then there is the story of Thomas, killed in action in the Nepal War of 1814, after showing " extraordinary valour." We have a letter dated from the camp, " On ye banks of the Jumna." It is docketed in a sister's handwriting, " My beloved brother Thomas's last letter, written fourteen days before he fell." "The appearance of a left-hand epistle," he says, "will not alarm you, my dear Charlotte, even though you should not have been apprised of the trifling accident which gives me no pain and little uneasiness, except that it will for a time put it out of my power to write to you. I trust," he continues, " I shall soon have occasion to address you again, to thank you for the Had- ley news, and very shortly my right hand will be able to apologise for this awkward attempt of my left to express my afEection." It is odd to read letters in the familiar family phraseology, almost not quite in the familiar handwriting — letters full of the doings of people who are almost not quite those one has known. Here is a letter of 1801 ; it is written to his sister by my grand- father at the age of nineteen from the college at Calcutta. It is very like one of my father's early letters. "I hope to be out of this in ten months," he says; "I am almost sorry I entered it, as the people begin to give themselves airs, and you know I always hated a jack in office. I could make Mater laugh with a few anecdotes, but I believe it is dan- gerous, and therefore will not indulge myself. Should I leave college next December I shall hope to see you here, but I sup- pose you won't come without a formal invitation. A CARD. Mb. Thackeray requests the honour of Miss Thackeray's com- pany at his house in Calcutta. "Joking apart, I think, my dear Emily, should I leave college xlvi MISCELLANIES by that time, and you have no great fears, you had better come. . . . For next to our dear father and mother you have no bet- ter friend than me." My kind young grandfather goes on making plans for his family at home, just as my own father used to do. " Should any accident, which God forbid, happen in England, this would be a good situation for the whole family." Then he speculates about his father being appointed to some place at home. " But I could not see him attending a levee of a lord, whose highest good quality would be totally obscured by the least conspicuous one of Pater's." " Go down the Grove," he says in a post- script, "and read this on the bench by yourself, and then per- haps you will have patience to make out the epistle." There are some brotherly jokes in it ; he is sending his letter by the hand of a friend, " a good sort of man ; indeed, I intend him for either an admirer of yours or one of the Moores i.e. if you are not already married." The Moore cousins lived next door to the Thackerays at Hadley. Mr. Peter Moore was named my father's guardian in my grandfather's will. He was an in- teresting and brilliant man, the friend of Sheridan, who indeed died in Mr. Moore's house in Westminster. He was M.P. for Cov- entry for twenty-one years.* Fortune deserted him in later life. There is a second letter from Richmond Thackeray to his mother, urging that his sister when she comes to India should bring letters of introduction, " for to tell you the truth," he says, " I am very far from a lady's man. It will be my and William's business to see that Emily is as well provided with everything as possible. I find economy will carry a small salary a great way, and am in hopes of having at least 800 rupees a month before she arrives." Emily accepted the invitation, and my grandfather then writes to beg that another of his sisters may come out. It is Charlotte he wishes for, beautiful Char- lotte, barely sixteen. Augusta he loves quite as well, he says, but he has set his heart on Charlotte. Parents in those days were less influenced by their children's wishes than they are now. Charlotte remained at Hadley, Augusta * Mr. Richmond Moore ot Guildford has a fine oil painting of Mr. Peter Moore. INTRODUCTION xlvii was sent out to her brother, being next in rotation. She was a very stately, and, when I knew her, a most alarming old lady. I just came up to her knees, and used to gaze in awe at her white stockings and sandalled shoes, as she walked along the Champs Elysees, where so many of our relations had congregated by that time. Among these was Charlotte, my Great-aunt Ritchie ; and I loved her, as who did not love that laughing, loving, romantic, handsome, humorous, indolent old lady. Shy, expansive in turn, she was big and sweet looking, with a great look of my father. Though she was old when I knew her, she would still go ofE into peals of the most delightful laughter, just as if she were a girl. When she was still quite young, soon after her parents' death (both of whom she had devotedly nursed with the help of her brother Charles), she came out of the house at Hadley one day dressed in the deepest mourning, and got into the London coach which passed through the village. She looked so blooming, and so beautiful in her crape veils, that Mr. John Ritchie, a well-to- do merchant of a suitable age, who was travelling in the coach, fell in love with her then and there. He inquired who she was, " paid his addresses,'' and was accepted very soon after. One autumn day, just before his second visit to America, my father sent for an open carriage and a pair of horses, and we drove to Hadley, near Barnet, to see the early Thackeray home. It was a square family house, upon a green. It was not high, but spread comfortably, with many windows, and it was to let. The Thackerays were gone from it long since, the seven sons and the many daughters. My father seemed to know it all, though he had never been there before. He went into the garden exclaiming, There was the old holly tree that his father used to write about. Half the leaves were white on the branches that spread across the path ; that gravel path, which my grandfather, Richmond Thackeray, used to roll as a boy, and which he longed for in India some- times. At the back of the drawing-room was a study, with a criss-cross network of wire bookcase along the walls ; it was here that Amelia Thackeray was sitting when her husband came in agitated and very pale ; he said there was terrible news from India, and as she started, terrified, from her seat, he exclaimed, "Not William, not William, but Webb." " Webb, my Webb," xlviii MISCELLANIES cried the poor motlier, and dropped senseless on the ground. She never quite recovered the use of her limbs, though she re- gained consciousness. Until then she had never told anybody that she loved Webb the best of all her children. We have but one record of her own, a letter written to her son St. John, aged sixteen, at the East India College, Hertford, written with very motherly and touching expressions : — Mrs. W. M. Thackeray to St. John Thackeray. "December 12, 180T. " I feel impatient to wish my dear boy every success, at the same time not to feel discouraged should it prove otherwise than my anxious wishes would have it. If you do but profit by the past, which can't be recalled, it will still prove beneficial by af- fording you experience for the future ; for, as you most justly observe, 'the loss of time in youth is certainly most unfortunate, because irreparable.' But, thank God, ray dear boy has still left enough of early youth to redeem all past neglect, and since, thank God, he has sense and true understanding to enable him to perceive the mighty advantages of diligence in order to sow in due season to make sure of a good harvest. ... I feel much for your approaching trial on Saturday, and can't forbear recommending you, my dearest St. John, still to exert your utmost until that day in getting by heart the parts you have to exhibit in as perfectly as possible. Do your best and leave the rest to Providence. Be sure on no account to neglect your precious health. Kemember that a cheerful, open countenance and fine, graceful carriage is the characteristic of a gentleman and a young man of sense. To feel quite well — and to be so — are quite essential requisites towards succeeding. Pray be at the trouble to peruse this y/iih. attention, and forget not the hints of your most afEectionate mother, " A. T. " F.S.—^Be as neatly dressed as possible on Saturday, and with your own pleasing, manly, yet modest, open countenance you need not fear that any one will excel my dear boy ; and the next year I am, please God, at least certain that in superiority of talents Published b^Harper and Bros.Newybrk -. IJSrTRODTJCTION xlix and abilities, as well as person, none will surpass you. God ever bless you." Amelia Thackeray was only a little over fifty when she died ; she and her husband were both buried at Hadley in the church- yard. I can remember my own father as he stood by the stone which was half hidden in the ivy at his feet. " Do you see what is written there," he said gravely, and with his finger he pointed to William Makepeace Thackeray carved upon the slab. I have never seen any picture of Mrs. Amelia Thackeray, but there are pretty miniatures of Mrs. Peter Moore, gay, and sprightly, and of another sister, Mrs. Evans, a very charming person to look at. The Webbs, if they took after my father's favourite hero, General Webb, must have been an audacious, outspoken . race. Any reserve in the family comes from the Thackeray side of the house. My father used to say that it was through his grandmother that the wits had come into the family, for certainly Great-grandpapa Thackeray was a practical but not at all a clever man. There is a picture we used to look at in the nursery at home, and which my own children look at now as it hangs upon the wall. It is a water-colour sketch delicately pencilled and tinted, done in India some three quarters of a century ago by Chin- nery, a well-known artist of those days, who went to Calcutta and drew the people there with charming skill. This picture represents a family group ; father, mother, infant child, a sub- ject which has been popular with painters ever since they first began their craft. Long before Raphael's wondrous art was known this particular composition was a favourite with artists and spectators, as I think it will ever be from generation to generation, while mothers continue to clasp their little ones in their arms. This special group of Thackerays is almost the only glimpse we have of my father's earliest childhood, but it gives a vivid passing impression of that first home which lasted so short a time. My long, lean young grandfather sits at such ease as people allowed themselves in those classic days, propped in a stiff chair with tight white ducks and pumps, and with a kind grave face. He was at that time collector of the district 1 MISCELLANIES called the 24 Pergunnahs. My grandmother, a beautiful young woman of some two-and-twenty summers, stands draped in white, and beside her, perched upon half-a-dozen big piled books, with his arms round his mother's neck, is her little son, William Makepeace Thackeray, a round-eyed boy of three years old, dressed in a white muslin frock. He has curly dark hair, and a very sweet look and smile. This look was almost the same indeed after a lifetime. Neither long years of work and trouble, nor pain nor chill anxiety ever dimmed its clear simplic- ity, though the gleam of his spectacles may have sometimes come between his eyes and those who did not know him very well.* My father would take his spectacles ofE when he looked at this old water-colour. "It is a pretty drawing," he used to say, but he added that if his father in the picture had risen from the chair in which he sat, he would have been above nine feet high from the length of the legs there depicted. My father could just remember him, a very tall thin man rising out of a bath. He could also remember the crocodiles floating on the Ganges, and that was almost all he ever described of India, though in his writings there are many allusions to Indian life. A year after this sketch was painted the poor young collector died of a fever on board a ship, where he had been carried from the shore for fresher air. Forty years afterwards my father de- scribed a visit he paid to Paris to his aunt Mrs. Halliday, the Augusta who was sent to India in the place of Charlotte. The old lady was ill, and wandering in her mind, and she imagined herself still on board that ship on the Ganges beside her dying brother. Richmond Thackeray was little over thirty when he died. The account of his solid and lasting work in India is given by Sir William Hunter, and must not be altogether omitted here. He seems to have had the family gift for administration, for brilliant and conscientious public work. His tastes and amusements curiously recall my father's — his drawings, his love of art, the paint box with the silver clasps, the horses, the port- folios of prints, the bric-a-brac, his collections of various kinds, and his pleasure in hospitality. Richmond Thackeray was a * Much of this is reprinted, by tlie permission of Messrs. Scribner, from the St. Nicholas Magazine. INTRODUCTION li reserved man, but he was no recluse. He was a great road maker, I have been told. As for his love of drawing, it will be seen from the facsimiles here given how great his taste was, and i45fe&iiftj THE COURSE. PEOPLE AT TABLE. from whom my own father inherited his love of drawing. His grave * is in the old cemetery at Calcutta, where he was laid * An Indian correspondent has sent me the photograph of the tall obelisk put up to the memory of Richmond Thackeray. Hi MISCELLANIES with all sympathy and respect. Richmond Thackeray's widow remained out in India with her mother and sisters. She must have been about twenty-five when she married for the second time. Meanwhile her little son had come back to England with a cousin of his own age, both returning under the care of a civilian, Mr. James Macnab, who had promised to befriend the children on the journey home, and of whose kindness we have often heard in after times. There was an ofBcer called Reed on board the ship, whom V Hi K iJ-titi I AH i-j GENTLEMAN PROPOSING. my father met long after when lecturing in the North, and with whom he talked over those almost forgotten days. In one of the " Roundabout Papers " there is a mention of this coming home, and of the cousin Richmond Shakespear, who had been his little playfellow and friend from the time of their birth ; there is a description of a ghaut or river stair in Calcutta, and of the day " when down those steps to a boat which was wait- ing, came two children whose mothers remained on the shore." One of these ladies was never to see her boy more, he says, speaking of his aunt Mrs. Shakespear — the Emily to whom Richmond Thackeray's letter had been written. My grand- mother's was a happier fate, for she returned to make a home iNTHODtrCTlON llii for her son, ahd to see him grow up and prosper, and set his mark upon the time. " When I first saw England," my father writes in his lecture upon George III., " she was in mourning for the young Princess Charlotte, the hope of the Empire. I came from India as a child, and our ship touched at an island on the way home, where my black servant took me a long walk over rocks and hills until HAPOIEON AND MAJOR GAHAGAN. we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking. 'That is he,' said the black man, ' that is Buonaparte ; he eats three sheep every day, and all the little children he can lay hands on.' " The traveller was six years old when he landed. He was sent to Fareham, in Hampshire, to the care of his mother's aunt and grandmother in the same quiet old house where his mother also had lived as a child. " Trix's house " it was called in those days, and still may be for all I know. It stood in Fareham High Street, with pretty old-fasbioned airs and graces, with a high liv MISCELLANIES sloping roof and narrow porch. The front windows looted across a flower bed into the village roadway, the back windows opened into a pleasant fruit garden sloping to the river. It was from this house that my grandmother had started to go to India when she was about sixteen, dressed for the journey in a green cloth riding-habit, so she used to tell us. She was destined to be married, to be a mother, and a widow, and to be married again, before a decade had gone by. It was to Fareham my father returned in thought at the end of his life, and where he meant to place the closing scenes of " Denis Duval." INTEODUCTION Iv Ivi MISCELLANIES /i»/iiS ilti ^^ <»■/&• ^B^xm"' ^•fuc- ■iftn ytt f'''''^^^'^' !^i«.«ni yW^t^ ' ,:(ue -^iva, ^rx,^ -^i^^t^^jS^ * These drawings of Lord Bateman were found by Mrs. Julia Stephen in iin old drawer, where they had been forgotten for a quarter of a century, and were given to me by her. The sketches here reproduced are a reduced fac- simile of the originals. This particular page is very carefully coloured, the rest of the drawings are in pen and ink, INTRODUCTION Ivii V ORD Bateman he was a noble lord, MA A noble lord of high degree. He shipped himself on board a ship. Some foreign country he would go see He sailed East, and he sailed West, Until he came to proud Turkey, Where he was taken and put to prison,* Until his life was almo&t weary. Iviii MISCELLANIES ■WiwAic And in thft prison there gre\^ treCi It grew so stout and strong. Where he was chained by themiddle. Until his life was til moat gone. This Turk he had one only daughter. The fairest creature my eyea did sec. She stole the keys of her father's prison. And 9 wore Lord sateman she would set free Have you got houses have you got lands. Or does Northmnbetland beloijg to thee. What would you giveto iEhe fair young lady « -. Th&t out of prison would set you free- V I have got houses. I have got lands. ^ > And half Northumberland belongs tome, I'llgive it all tothefaic young lady, l^at out of prisojD would set me free. O then she took liim to her father's hall, And gave to him the best of wine. And every health she drank unto him, I wish Lord Bateman that you were miaek Now in seven years III make a vow, And seven years Til keep it strong, Uyou'U wed with no other woman, I willwedwiUi no other man. O then she took him to her father's harbour And gave to him a ship of fbme, FareweU farewell ta^you.Lord Baxemen I'm a&aid I ne'ea^ shall see you acain; INTKODUCTION lix k MISCELLANIES Whatnews what news, my proud young por. What news hast thou brought unto me (ter There is the fairest of all young creatures, ^ That e'er my two eyes did see. She has got rings on every finger, And round oneoftheraslie has got threes And as much gay cipathing round her mid. As would buy all Northumberland, (die She bids you send her a slice of bread, And a bottle of the best wine. And not forgetting the fair young lady, Who did release you when close confined, LordBateman he then in a passion flew. And broke his sword in splinters three. Saying 1 will give all my father's riches. That if Sophia has crossed the sea. Then up spoke the young bride's mother, Who never was heard to speak so free, You'll not forget my only daughter. That if Sophia has crossed the sea. ■ U ]} INTRODUCTION Ixi /^ I own I made a bride of yotir daughter, y She's neither the better nor verse for me /) j She came to me wlt}i her horse and saddle, M i ' She may go back in her coach and three. LtordBateman prepared another marriage. With both their Hearts so ftill of glee. riPrange no more in foreign countries. Now since Sophia has crossed the sea. "l^- ^ Ixii MISCELLANIES II DEAMATIC FUND SPEECH Mr, Bram Stoker kindly obtained for me the report of a speech delivered on the thirteenth anniversary festival of the General Theatrical Fund, held at the Freemason's Tavern on the 29th of March 1858, W. M. Thackeray in the chair, and all the Vice-Presidents, with well-known names, such as Dickens, Landseer, Lytton, Milnes, Macready, &c., present on the occa- sion. The chairman's speech was as follows : — "You are not perhaps aware — I only became acquainted with the fact this very day — that the celebrated Solon was born 592 years before the present era. He was one of the Seven Sages of Greece. He invented a saying, as each of the wise men are said to have done. He was a warrior, a statesman, a philoso- pher, of considerable repute. I make these statements to you, being anxious to give you a favourable idea of my learning, and also pleased to think of the perplexity of some ingenuous per- sons here present who are asking themselves, 'What on earth does he mean by dragging in old Solon, neck and heels, to pre- face the toast of the evening.' Solon once attended one of Thespis's dramatic entertainments — a professional godfather to professional gentlemen here present, the inventor of the drama, who used to go about from place to place, as we read, and act his plays out of a waggon ; I suppose a stage waggon. Well, the great Solon having attended one of poor Thespis's per- formances, sent for that wandering manager when the piece was over, and it is recorded flapped his cane down upon the ground and said to Thespis, 'How dare you utter such a number of lies as I have heard you tell from your waggon ?' " The first manager of the world humbly interceded with the great magistrate, beak, or Mayor before whom he stood, and represented that his little interludes were mere harmless fictions intended to amuse or create laughter or sympathy, that they were not to be taken as matter-of-fact at all. Solon again banged his stick upon the ground, ordered the poor vagrant about his business, saying that the man who will tell fibs in a INTEODUCTION Ixiii play will forge a contract. Plutarch relates the anecdote in his celebrated Life of Solon. . . . Thespis and Solon, who were alive twenty-four hundred years ago, have left their descendants : Thespis continues to this time, and there are Solons too. Solon has a little not illegitimate suspicion regarding Thespis, or Solon is a pompous old humbug, and calls out to his children to keep away from that wicked man, passes the door of his booth with horror, and thanks Heaven he is so much more virtuous than that vagrant. Or finally, and this is the more charitable and natural supposition, Solon is simply stupid, can't understand a joke when it is uttered; and when the artist sings before him, or plays his harmless interlude, slaps his great stupid stick on the ground and says, ' I never heard such lies and nonsense in my life.' Suppose Solon says that because he is virtuous there should be no more cakes and ale, all youth, all life, all pleasure, all honest humour laugh in the pompous old dotard's face, and continue their fun. The curtain shall rise, the dance shall go on ; Harlequin shall take Columbine round the waist, clowns shall prig the sausages. Hamlet shall kill his wicked old Uncle ; Pauline shall walk up and down the garden with Claude Melnotte ; William shall rescue Susan from the hands of the amatory but kind-hearted Crosstree. We will have our provision of pleasure, wonder, laughter, tears, in spite of old Solon, though he flourish a stick as big as a beadle's. " Now I take it be a most encouraging sign for Thespis that he is becoming orderly, frugal, prosperous, a good accountant, a good father to his children, a provider against a rainy day, a subscriber to such an admirable institution as this which we have all met to-night to support." Mr. Dickens winds the proceedings up with a pretty compli- ment, saying " That none of the present company can have studied life from the stage waggons of Thespis downwards to greater advantage, to greater profit, and to greater contentment than in the airy books of ' Vanity Fair.' " To this skilful showman, who has so much delighted us, and whose words have so charmed us to-night, ... we will now, if you please, join in drinking a bumper toast. To the chair- man's health." 13 3 \xiv MISCELLANIES III NOTE-BOOKS Thbee is almost material for another lecture in the note- books which remain for " The Four Georges," of which notes a certain number are here reproduced as they stand. Some of the quotations are so intei'esting that they are given verbatim, even though they may be familiar to many of our readers. Most of the annotations to the " Lectures on the Humourists " were added by Mr. Hannay at my father's request, as the publi- cation only took place after his start for America. Of the note- books which served for these I have no trace.* The extracts here given all concern the Four Georges. These first pages were evidently intended to make part of the lecture on George the First. l''he Konigsmarks. — Count Philip of Konigsmark descended from an ancient noble family of Brandenburg, where there is a place of that name. The Konigsmarks had also passed over into Sweden, where they had acquired property, and this Swed- ish branch especially distinguished itself by producing several powerful men. Philip's grandfather, Hans ChristofE, was first page at the court of Frederic Ulric of Brunswick, and in the storm of the Thirty Years War rose to be a famous general ; was a partisan of Gustavns Adolphus of Torstensohn, stormed Prague, and contributed to the Peace of Westphalia. By this peace the principalities of Verden and Bremen were ceded to the Swedes, over which Hans Christoff became governor, build- ing a castle near Stade, which he named after his wife, Agathen- burg. In 1651 he received the title of Count, and died a field- marshal at Stockholm in 1663. He left his children an income * Nor have I any of the notes for " Esmond," except one very small memorandum-book. Mr. Andrew Lang, who has read my father to such good purpose, would have liked him to give another version of the character of the Old Pretender. Mr. Lang has his authorities for defending the morals of James Stuart, and for rehabilitating those of the lady mentioned as Queen Oglethorpe. He has written an interesting account of her as the member of a respectable family who lived and died in loyal devotion to the Stuarts in their misfortunes. INTRODUCTION Ixv of 130,000 dollars, so that his sons were enabled to marry into the first Swedish houses, with the daughters of lords who had espoused German princesses. No one understood how to levy booty better than this bold partisan of the Thirty Years War. In Lower Saxony he cut down whole forests, and sold the wood to the merchants of Hamburg and Bremen. In Prague he took an immense plunder, having seized no less than twelve barrels of gold in the house of Count Collorado, the Commandant. He was a fierce, passionate man, of herculean build and giant strength. When he was angry his hair bristled on his head like that of a boar, so that his friends and foes were frightened at him. Tn his castle of Agathenburg he had his portrait paint- ed after this fashion, jokingly bidding the painter so to depict him that the world might see the fierce countenance which had frightened the enemy in the Thirty Years War. (Part of the next paragraph is given in the Lecture itself.) One of his sons was Otto Wilhelm, a notable lion in the great society of the seventeenth century, and a great traveller to for- eign lands and courts. He had for tutor Esaias Pufiendorfl, brother of the famous philosopher who was afterwards Swedish Envoy to Vienna. With this leader the young bear frequented various German universities ; learnt to ride at Blois and An- gers; made the grand tour of France, Spain, Portugal, and Eng- land; and in 1667, being then twenty-six years old, appeared as ambassador at the Court of Louis XIV. He had to make a Swedish speech at his reception before the most Christian king, and forgetting his speech recited the Paternoster and several other prayers in Swedish to the edification of the Court at Versailles, not one of whom understood a word of his lingo with the exception of his own suite, who had to keep their gravity as best they might. Subsequently he entered into the French service, raising for the king the regiment of Royal Allemand. He died, finally, in 1 688, before Negropont, in Morea — generalissimo of the Vene- tian army against the Turks. Count Philip Konigsmark, Otto's nephew, the lover of the an- cestress of the Brunswick kings of England, was born in 1662. He inherited from his mother the beauty of the noble Swedish house of Wrangel, and was as handsome a gallant, and as dis- Ixvi MISCELLANIES solute a cavalier as any of his time. In youth he had been bred up with the Electress of Hanover at her father's court of Zcll, and vowed to her Electoral Highness that he had loved her from those early days, though not daring at this modest period to de- clare his passion. From Zell the young gentleman came over to one Faubert's Academy in London, perfecting his education in the neighbourhood of the polite court, of which the Chevalier de Grammont has left such an edifying history. And here the lad was implicated in that notorious adventure of which his elder brother, Carl Johann, was the chief actor, and which ended in a murder and a criminal trial. Carl Johann had the fierceness of his grandfather the Boar, and the accomplishments of his uncle the Field-Marshal and pretty fellow. He began his life at fifteen in gaming and all sorts of adventures in love and war. His uncle introduced him to the world at Paris, whence he shipped himself for Malta, and took part with the knights of the Order in a crusade against the Barbaresques. He fought so bravely that he won the Malta Cross, though he was only eighteen years old, and a Protestant to boot. Returning from this campaign he visited Leghorn, Rome, Venice, lona, Madrid, Lisbon, and Paris again finally ; and it was on this journey that he was accompanied by the Countess of Southampton, who was so desperately in love with him, that she followed him everywhere in page's clothes. In 1680 he sought service in the English army, and performed wonders at the siege of Tangiers, whence returning covered with laurels, and forgetting my Lady Southampton, his page, who sub- sided into a convent with her little daughter, Konigsmark fell in love with the rich and lovely Elizabeth Percy, heiress of the Earls of Northumberland and widow of the Lord Ogle, last son of the Cavendish Dukes of Newcastle. Charming as Konigs- mark was, the widow preferred to him another pretty fellow, Thomas Thynne of Longleat, "Tom of Ten Thousand," as he was called in those days — a gentleman of the highest fashion, who had the friendship of Rochester, and royally entertained the Duke of Monmouth at his princely Wiltshire mansion. Lord Ogle's widow was but sixteen years old when she espoused the Lord of Longleat, and it was agreed that she should pass a year on the Continent away from her husband ere they dwelt together, INTRODUCTION kvii Konigsmark, indignant at this preference shown to " Tom of Ten Thousand," engaged three gentlemen to murder Mr. Thynne, who accordingly was shot in his carriage on the night of the 12th of February 1682. Both the Konigsmarks were taken up for this murder, the actors in which, stoutly refusing to peach against tlieir employers, were duly hanged, and the Konigs- marks left England to finish their brilliant careers elsewhere. The young gentleman from Faubert's Academy entered the service of the Elector Ernest Augustus of Hanover, and became lieutenant-colonel in a regiment of his Electoral Highness' dra- goons, and here he renewed the relations with the fair young Princess of Zell, which ended so lucklessly for the pair. Crisett calls Sophia Dorothea's fatiier, the Duke of Zell, an old Trojan, and an excellent huntsman. He kept some famous champagne for King William's tasting, and gave his minister. Lord Lexington, a bottle of it. George I. assisted at the raising of the siege of Vienna and the defeat of the Turks in 1684 ; he made three campaigns in Austria and Hungary, where he commanded a body of 1000 men of Brunswick. In 1689 he was with 8000 before Bonn ; in 1690 he commanded 11,000 with the Spaniards ; and in '92, '93, a like number being with his father's troops under King William. The Royal Household. — A Dean of the Chapel Royal, five other Almoners and Clerks of the Closet, forty-eight Chaplains- in-Ordinary, six Chaplains at Whitehall, and Household Chap- lains at Kensington and Hampton Court, twenty-seven gentle- men and ten children of the Chapel ; besides Organist, Lutenist, Violist, and Tuner of the Regals, Confessor of the Household, Organ-blower, Bell-ringer, and Surplice -washers; one officer, whose salary is £18, is called the "Cock and Cryet." Add to these three French, two Dutch, and three German Lutheran chaplains. And fancy King Geoi'ge, who did not care a fig for any religion, with this prodigious train of professional theolo- gians. Then come His Majesty's Household oflicers (under com- mand of his Grace William, Duke of Devonshire, Lord Steward), attending in the several offices below stairs. These begin with the ten noblemen and gentlemen forming the supervisional Board of Green Cloth, with salaries varying from £1.300 to £500 Ixviii MISCELLANIES a year. After these follow the officers of the Accompting House, Bakehouse, Pantry, Cellar,' Buttery, Spicery, Confectionery, Ewry, Laundry, King's Kitchen (in which there are thirty-five male persons, such as cooks, yeomen, scourers, turn-broaches, &c.). After the Kitchen comes the Larder, Acatery, Poultery, Scalding-house, Pastry, Scullery, and Woodyard ; then the Al- moners, Gate Porters, Cartakers, Tailcartakers, Officers of the Hall, Marshals, Vergers, and Breadbearers, Wine Porters, Clerks and Purveyors, in all 174 in number, with salaries amounting altogether to £1300. Now we come to the King's servants upstairs under my Lord Chamberlain, the most noble Charles, Duke of Bolton: he has a Vice Chamberlain, 45 Gentlemen of the Privy chamber, 4 Cup- bearers, 4 Sewers, 18 Gentlemen Ushers, 14 Grooms of the Chambers, 4 Pages of the Presence Chamber, 6 of the Bed Chambers and Back Stairs, 8 Servers, 28 Officers of the Ward- robe and Armoury, a Treasurer and Comptroller of the Chamber, a Master of the Ceremonies and Assistants, 10 Serjeants-at- Arms, a Groom Porter, a Master of the Revels, a Knight Har- binger and a Secretary to the Lord Chamberlain, 44 Messengers and 2 Clerks of the Cheque, 30 Musicians, a Physician-in-Ordi- nary, 3 Apothecaries, 2 Surgeons, 30 Housekeepers, Warders, Surveyors, Rangers, Woodwards, 1 3 Trumpeters, 4 Kettle Drums and a Drum-major, a Repairer of Bridges, a Master of the Tennis Court, a Master of the Barges, and 48 Watermen. The Court. — Our first Georges' Court was rather a dull one. "Their Majesties don't seem to be fond of noisy pleasures," says Mr. Pollnitz, a peripatetic fortune-hunter and ambulatory court-newsman of the last century, whose works were very eagerly read by our great-great-grandfathers. Any gentleman who wished to go to Court had but to send his name to the King's Lord Chamberlain, or Queen Caroline's Master of the Horse, and the interview was granted. The Queen's Drawing-room was held at 10 o'clock at night in those days, and thrice in a week ; this reception took place in three great saloons of St. James's, made by the direction of Queen Anne the only tolerable rooms in the palace. The King came attended by the Queen, who was led by the Prince of Wales when he was not in disgrace, and accompanied by her royal INTEODTCTION Ixix daughters. Their Majesties conversed for a few moments with such persons as they were pleased to distinguish, after which the Queen made a profound curtsey to the King, and went to cards for about an hour, retiring at midnight. On other days their Majesties partook of the delights of the opera or the play- house. The former was a very splendid and costly aristocratic resort. A seat in the gallery cost five shillings, and the boxes a guinea. The theatre was illuminated with a multiplicity of expensive wax candles ; and as for the singers, some of those warbling sopranos from the Pope's chapel were paid no less a sum than £1500 a year. " You will observe, amongst the livery-servants of the King and their Royal Highnesses, a most remarkable circumstance which you will not encounter in your visits in any other court of Europe, viz. : that the footmen when they are in waiting wear, instead of a hat, plain caps of black velvet, made like the caps of running-footmen. His Majesty preferred a chair, slow as that conveyance was — doubtless because the city of London was one of the worst paved in Europe." That queer traveller, PoUnitz, from whom I have extracted the invaluable informa- tion just given regarding the habits of the European courts and footmen, deplores pathetically the state of his bones after a ride in a London hackney-coach of the year 1725. The horses galloped, it appears, over those abominable roads, but the wretched coaches had no springs, and the story goes that the French king offered to make a bargain with the English king some years previous, and to provide London with paving stones, if his Britannic Majesty would lay down Versailles with gravel. The Town. — My friend Peter Cunningham has a print of Piccadilly planted with trees and thick heavy railings before them, about the time of King William III. ; a few boys, beggars, and dogs sauntering about the countrified place, and my Lord Duke of Albemarle bolt upright in jack -boots, a mounted servant with saddle-bags following him, riding forth from his great gate at Clarendon House, which the porter and other servants are closing behind his Grace. The porter is in a long tasseled gown, with a mace in his hand. Such figures you still see amongst Roman and Prussian noblemen. All beyond Pall Mail is country. Chesterfield House was Ixx MISCELLANIES not built until sixty years afterwards, nor the great Mayf air district northward, where London has now dwelt for some six score years. The grand house-warming of Chesterfield House took place in 1751. The lovely Gunnings— those stars of beauty — were present, and it was there that Duke Hamilton fell so .raptur- ously in love with the younger sister, that he called for a parson and married her with a curtain-ring at midnight on the night after. At Oxford and Tyburn Road began country again. There were fields then all the way to Hampstead — fields profusely ornamented by cut-throats and footpads. Fields stretched all the way eastward to Montague House and Bedford House ; the Foundling Hospital lay pleasantly in the country ; it has taken about a century to build the most genteel district of spacious squares and broad streets which run northwards to the foot of Hampstead Hill and westward across hundreds of once pleasant acres to Bayswater. I can myself remember the sublime Belgravia a marshy flat; snipes have been shot in it quite within the memory of man ; and amiable footpads sprang out of the hedges, as gentle- folk knew to their cost in their journeys from Chelsea to town. The Spectator and Tatler are full of delightful glimpses of the town-life of those days. . . . Under the arm of that charm- ing guide one can go to the opera, the puppet-show, or the cock-pit. We can see Broughton and Figg set to, we can listen to Robinson and Senesino, we can appraise the different merits of Pinkerman and Bullock. " Mr. William Bullock and Mr. William Pinkerman are of the same age, profession, and sex. They both distinguished themselves in a very particular manner under the discipline at Crabtree's, with this only differ- ence, that Mr. Bullock has the most agreeable squall and Mr. Pinkerman the most graceful shrug. Pinkerman devours a cold chick with great applause ; Bullock's talent lies chiefly in asparagus. Pinkerman is very dextrous at conveying himself under a table, Bullock is no less active in leaping over a stick ; and Pinkerman has a great deal of money, but Mr. Bullock is the taller man." Delightful kindly humour, how it lives and smiles yet, after a hundred and fifty years — with gentle sympathy, with true loving-kindness, with generous laughter. Shall we take a boat and go in company with two of the finest gentlemen in the world, Sir Roger Je Coverley and Mr. INTRODUCTION Ixxi Spectator, to Spring Garden ? There is another Spring Garden in the town, near to where Mrs. Centlivre lives, the jolly widow of Queen Anne's Jolly Yeoman of the Month, where Coiley Gib- ber has a house near to the Bull Head Tavern ; come, let us go take water with Sir Roger and take a turn in this delightful place. We can have other amusements if we like, and my be- fore-quoted friend, Baron de Pollnitz, will conduct us to those. I warrant me that old rogue knew every haunt of pleasure in every city in the world, and that he would not have been shock- ed by some of the company from whom Sir Roger's noble eyes turned away with such a sweet, simple rebuke. From Pollnitz. — " At the chocolate house, where I go every morning, there are dukes and other peers mixed with gentlemen ; to be admitted there needs nothing more than to dress like a gentleman. At one o'clock they go to Court to the King's levee, and from thence to the Queen's apartments, where is commonly a great number of ladies very well dressed. At three o'clock they all retire to their several apartments. Dinners here are very expensive, and parties at taverns very much in fashion. " When the company breaks up from table, if it be fine weath- er they go out again for the air, either in a coach to Hyde Park, where the ring is, or else on foot to St. James's Park. In the winter they make visits till the plays begin. After the opera or plays the company goes to the assemblies, or else they repair to the drawing-room. At midnight they go to supper ; the com- panies formed at the taverns are the merriest, and at daylight the jolly carouser returns home. Judge now, after what I have said, whether a young gentleman has not enough to amuse him- self at London, as at Paris or Rome. Believe me, that they who say this city is too melancholy for them only say so to give them- selves an air." Queen Caroline. — There are some curious specimens of Queen Caroline's spelling. She wrote to Leibnitz : " Nous panson ii faire tradevuire votre Deodise " ; and to a contemporary mon- arch, " Le ciel, chalou de notre bonheur, nous vien d'enlever notre adorable reine ; le coup fadalle m'a ploug6e dans une affliction mordelle, et il y a rien qui ne puise consoller. Je vous plaint de tout mon ccBur Monsieur et suis avec un parfait adachement Votre servant, Caroline." Ixxii MISCELLANIES The King was always talking of her when she was gone, and judging what she would have thought had she been alive regard- ing events of the day. He ordered payment to be continued to all her officers and servants, and of all her contributions to be- nevolent societies, in order that nobody should suffer by her death but himself. Baron Bourkman had a portrait of his wife, which the King asked to see, and bade the Baron leave it with him till he rang. At the end of two hours the Baron was called, and found the King in tears, who said, " Take it away — take it away." Prince Frederick of Wales. — Without being such a wretch as his fond papa and mamma held him to be, the Prince Frederick of Wales was not, it must be confessed, a very virtuous character, quarrelled with papa, made debts, sowed wild oats as Princes of Wales will do, and died but little lamented except by his Prin- cess, who was balked of her natural wish to be Queen of Eng- land. They say she was in an awful state for some days after that tragic disappointment. Let us throw a respectful curtain over that royal anguish. Mackay, Bute's Secretary. — The peace of 1763 was made with money : there was no other way of conquering the opposition. Tlie money went through my hands : £80,000 was the sum em- ployed. Forty M.P.'s had lost £1000 apiece, eighty others £500. A regular counting-house was opened in the Treasury, where mem- bers came and received the price of their treason in bank-notes. When the peace of '63 was made, the Princess of Wales cried : " Now my son is King of England." Murphy dedicated a play to Lord Bute, and narrating the cir- cumstance at Holland House, Lord Hillsborough asked Murphy whether his lordship had invited him to sit down. " No," said Murphy, " he walked me up and down a long gallery during the whole time." " I thought so," said Lord Hillsborough. From the Correspondence between Lady Hertford and Lady Pomfret. — " Mrs. Purcell sent to me yesterday to ask if I would see the Princess Mary's clothes and laces. They were all laid in order on the two tables, which are the whole length of the poor Queen's state bedchamber, from whence the bed is removed. There are four nightgowns, three trimmed, and one blue tabby embroidered with silver. Four sacks or robes, all trimmed — INTRODUCTION Ixxiii that for the wedding night in silver tissue, faced and doubled to the bottom with pink coloured satin, and trimmed with a silver point-d'Espagne. The stifE-bodiced gown she is to be married in is very nearly the same as the Princess Royal's was. There is an embroidery upon white, with gold and colours verv rich, and a stuff on a gold ground, prodigiously fine, witli flowers shaded up the middle of the breadths like painting, and a kind of embossed work of blue and silver towards the edges. Mrs. Purcell assured me that she bought the gold by itself be- fore the stufE was woven, and that there was in it no less than eighteen pounds weight." Atterbury. — Macaulay in the Encyclopmdia has hit some awfully damaging blows at the reputation of Pope's friend At- terbury, at the scantiness of his scholarship, the blunders of his Greek, the duplicity of his life as a priest and politician. Was selfishness more undisguised, were principles looser, were temp- tations greater for public men in those days than ours ? They certainly lied more broadly and boldly than nowadays, and their friends were not so much shocked at discovered treason. At- terbury went off to exile, putting a Bible into Pope's hand, giving him a parting blessing, and telling him a parting fib. The year 1721, in Atterbury's opinion, was the hour of dark- ness and the power thereof. Here is a paragraph contrasting Lord Chesterfield's character of George I. with Addison's. " George I. was an honest, dull German gentleman, as unfit as he was unwilling to act the part of king, which is to shine and to oppress," says Lord Chester- field. " Lazy and inactive in his pleasures, which were there- fore lowly sensual, he was coolly intrepid, and indolently benevo- lent. He was difiident of his own parts, which made him speak little in public, and prefer, in his social, which were his fa- vourite, hours the company of wags and buffoons. Even his mistress, the Duchess of Kendal, with whom he passed most of his time, was very little above an idiot." Addison declares him, on the contrary, " to be the most amiable monarch that ever filled a throne." From Reliquice Hearniance. — " George, Duke of Northumber- land, Charles the Second's son, being at King George's court, by chance touched the Prince of Wales, who turned round Ixxiv MISCELLANIES fiercely and said, ' One can't move here for bastards !' ' Sir,' said Northumberland, 'my father was as great a king as yours, and as for our mothers, the less we say about them the better. From the same source comes the following character of George II. : — " George II. was very well-bred, but in a stifiE and foj-mal manner. He spoke French and Italian well, English very prop- erly, but with something of a foreign accent. He had a con- tempt for the belles lettres, which he denominated trifling. He troubled himself little about religion, but jogged on in that which he had been bred, without scruples, doubts, zeal, or inquiry." Chatham, writhing under the " malign influence " which had turned him out of George III.'s confidence, ruefully recalled the superior frankness of the King's grandfather. " Among his many royal virtues," says Chatham, " was eminently that of sincerity. He had something about him which made it possible to know whether he liked or disliked you." George II. was prejudiced against his father's minister, but wisely kept him. George III., who would be a king, disliked Chatham, and dismissed him. George III. — My father had an old kinswoman for whom he had a great regard. She was the widow of a well-known ad- miral, who presented Nelson at Court after the battle of the Nile. " Lady Rodd told me " (my father writes) " that all that George III. said to Nelson was, ' My lord, this is very rainy weather. I heard you were too ill to come out in rainy weather.' " Moore mentions a similar story of Nelson's mortification at the King's treatment of him. The King asked the Duchess of Gordon how she liked Lon- don. " Not much, sir ; it is knock, knock all day ; and friz, friz all night." A Scotch lady saw the King robing for Parliament. Two peers put his robes on, but he lifted his crown with his own hands ; and, placing it on himself, he looked round to us all a perfect king, and his tongue never lay. Boots. — Mr. Frost, of Hull, remembers going on the terrace at Windsor about 1 803-4, and seeing the royal family walking there. He was obliged to take o£E his boots before going on the terrace, and people at the gate supplied shoes or slippers to strangers. INTRODUCTION Ixxv Lord North. — Having made up a quarrel between the King and the Prince, Lord North besought the latter to conduct him- self differently in future. " Do so on all accounts," said Lord North ; " do so for your own sake — do so for your excellent father's sake — do so for the sake of that good-natured man Lord North, and don't oblige hira again to tell the King, your good father, so many lies as he has been obliged to tell him this morning." Drink. — The pulse of pleasure beat more strongly a hundred years since than it appears to do in our languid century. There was more amusement and more frolicking, more commerce among mankind, a very great deal more idleness, so much so indeed that one wonders how business was done. I knew a Scotch judge, a famous bon-vivant, who was forced to drink water for two months, and being asked what was the effect of the regime, owned that he saw the world really as it was for the first time for twenty years. For a quarter of a century he had never been quite sober. The fumes of the last night's three bottles and whisky-toddy inflamed all the day's thought and business. He transacted his business, got up his case, made his speech as an advocate, or delivered his charge as a judge with great volubility and power; but his argument was muzzy with dreams ; he never saw the judge before him except through a film of whisky. I wonder how much claret went to inflame the judgment of the orator and the auditors of the House of Commons which debated the American War? Men dined at three o'clock, and regaled themselves with beer, wine, and quantities of punch after. What business were they good for after such a diet? The best thing they could do was to play at cards perhaps, and then about ten or eleven, you know, they would be hungry again and behold, broiled bones and Madeira and more punch — quantities more punch — and to bed after midnight, and plenty of rest required to sleep off all that feasting ; and compute the mere time for pleasure, and there remain really but three or four hours for work, with a headache. A lady of little more than my own age has told me that at her father's table — he was a peer of ancient name and large estates in the Midland counties — dinner was served at two or three, the old nobleman sitting with such company as the county afforded, Ixxvi MISCELLANIES and strong ale went on all dinner time, then port, then punch, then supper, and so forth. People in those days were continu- ally carried away drunk and put to bed, and I suppose had no shame in meeting their families the next morning. No wonder the pulse of pleasure beat with all this liquor to inflame it ! Father of Whitstable.— There was a parson who, if any of his congregation held up a lemon whilst he was preaching, could not resist, but finished his discourse and went to the public- house for punch. 1111. A rencontre at the Adelphi Tavern between the Rev. Mr. Bate of the Morning Post and Captain Andrew Robinson Stony, in consequence of a paragraph reflecting upon a lady ; after firing a case of pistols without effect they fought with swords, and each received a wound ; but they were interrupted, and the Captain on the following Sunday married the lady. Cards. — The soldier pulled out of his pocket the pack of cards, which he spread before the Mayor. " When I see the ace," he said, " it puts me in mind that there is one God only ; when I see the deuce, it puts me in mind of the F. and the S. ; when I see the tray, it puts me in mind of F., S., and H. G. ; when I see the four, it puts me in mind of the four Evangelists that penned the Gospel, viz., Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John ; when I see the five, it puts me in mind of the five wise virgins who trimmed the lamps — there were ten, but five were shut out ; when I see the six, it puts me in mind that in six days heaven and earth were made ; when I see the seven, it puts me in mind of Sunday ; when I see the eight, it puts me in mind of the eight righteous persons who were in the ark ; when I see the nine, it puts me in mind of the nine lepers that were healed — there were ten, but nine never returned thanks ; when I see the ten, it puts me in mind of the ten commandments ; when I see the king and queen, I think of their Majesties, and long life to them ; and when I see the knave, of the rogue who brought mc before your worship. " When I count how many spots there are in a pack of cards, I find 365 ; how many cards in a pack, 52 ; how many tricks in a pack, 13. Thus you see this pack of cards is Bible, almanac, Common Prayer-book, and pack of cards to me." Then the Mayor called for a loaf of bread, a piece of good INTEODUCTION Ixxvii cheese, and a pot of good beer, and giving the soldier a piece of money, bid him go about his business, saying he was the cleverest man he had ever seen. In 1793, Dr. Rennell of the Temple wrote a sermon against card-playing, and put it under Fox's door in South Street. A friend of mine, one of the few great whist-players still ex- tant in London, told me that he knew a few years since at the Portland Club a very agreeable old Irish gentleman of the old school, who had come to London of late, had a good house, gave excellent dinners, and told a hundred pleasant anecdotes of the great world of fifty' years ago. It came out after a while that the poor old gentleman had been of this great world himself, and had been detected hiding " nines " at the game of Macao with Charles Fox, and had been forced to retire. He returned, and was found out again after fifty years of exile. Poor old Punter ! The second discovery killed him. He went home to Ireland and presently died. There was a certain Jones said to have borrowed £10,000 in half-crowns; these little debts were not debts of honour, and not, therefore, necessarily to be repaid. It was different with debts of honour. This same Jones having lost £5 to the Colo- nel Dash at the Admiralty Coffee-house (fancy two gentlemen gambling in the forenoon at a cofiee-house now !), and it being near dinner-time, the Colonel declined playing any longer. Mr. Jones whispered that he was a little out of cash, and hoped the Colonel would give him credit. " How is that, sir ?" cries the Colonel ; " when I saw you come out of Drummond's an hour ago ?" " It was because I went to pay in all my money, and have not a shilling left," says Jones. " So much the better, give me your draft." " Sir, I have not a cheque about me." " Then, by Jove! you must go out of the window and get one." Half-crown Jones pleaded for being kicked out of doors and not thrown out of window — and kicked out he accordingly vpas. Sir Fletcher Norton had the reputation of not adhering strict- ly to truth. It was imputed to him that he said, " My dear lady is the most unfortunate player of cards that ever was known. She has played at whist for twenty years, and never had a trump." " Nay," said somebody, " how can that be ? She Ixxviii MISCELLANIES must have had a trump when she dealt ?" " Oh, as to that," said he, " she lost every deal during the whole twenty years !" Queen Charlotte. — At her marriage Queen Charlotte was dressed in white and silver, an endless mantle of violet-coloured velvet, lined with ermine, and attempted to be fastened on her shoulder by a bunch of large pearls, dragged itself and the rest of her clothes half down her waist. On her head was a beauti- ful little tiara of diamonds ; she had a diamond necklace and a stomacher worth £60,000, which she is to wear at her coronar tion. Besides, she had hired diamonds for £9000. The Queen said of the " Sorrows of Werther," " It is very finely writ in German, and I can't bear it." Nelson apud Collingwood. — " My friend Nelson, whose spirit is equal to all undertakings, and whose resources are fitted to all occasions, was sent with three sail of the line and some other ships to Teneriffe to surprise and capture it. After a series of adventures, tragic and comic, that belong to romance, they were obliged to abandon their enterprise. Nelson was shot in the right arm when landing, and was obliged to be carried on board. He himself hailed the ship and desired the surgeon would get his instruments ready to disarm him. And in half-an-hour after it was off he gave all the orders necessary for carrying on their operations, as if nothing had happened to him." Successors of Brummell. — Mr. Ball Hughes, called the " Golden Ball," may be mentioned first for his taste in dress, equipages, appointments. The papers rang with his doings : he was a man of exceedingly good taste, and in whatever he did he never lost sight of the appearance and character of a gentleman. Coaching was the rage of his day, and those who saw his well- built, dark chocolate-coloured coach, with the four white horses a^d two neat grooms in brown liveries behind, saw that it was possible for a gentleman to drive four-in-hand without adopt- ing the dress and manners of a stage-coachman. Mr. Ball was a beautiful dresser : his colours were quiet — chiefly black or white — and he was the only man we ever saw who could carry off a white waistcoat in a morning. He was the introducer of the large black-fronted cravats which helped to set ofE the other- wise difficult attire. No man, it has been said, is a hero to his valet-de-chambre, but the illustrious Ball wais an exception to this INTRODUCTION Ixxix rule, for we heard his valet publicly declare at a table d'hdte in a continental town, that he was the handsomest man in the place, except his master. Him Pea-Green Hayne followed, conspicuous for the colour of his coat and his dressing-case, which cost £1500. Lord Wellesley also must be mentioned as a dandy of eminence, and one of the first that turned back the wristbands of his shirts ; and after him Mr. Bayley's name must be recorded. Mr. Bayley was a dandy of the butterfly order, a patron of bright colours, light-blue coats, coloured silk cravats, and fancy waistcoats. To have seen him cantering up Rotten Row of a summer's evening on his well-groomed hack, perfuming the air as he fanned the flies from his noble horse with his well-scented handkerchief, and to observe him in the crush-room of the opera with gauze silk stockings, thin pumps, and silver buckles, his hair hanging in ringlets over his ears, with a waistcoat of pink and blue satin embroidered with silver and gold — a stranger would have set him down as an effeminate puppy, and yet this languid dandy, one night single-handed, actually thrashed all the watchmen in Bond Street ! It is sad to be obliged to own that all these heroes came to misfortune like Brummell. The paper from which I quote says " Ball has for some time resided in Paris ; Hayne, we believe, lives at Brussels ; Mr. Wellesley is also abroad ; and the last time we saw Mr. Bailey he was vegetating on the beach at Os- tend." (Fraser, 1837.) The Prince drove a beautiful phaeton and six, the leaders guided by a diminutive postilion and the rest driven by himself, and is to be revered as one of the latest supporters of hair pow- der. The Princess, his consort, said that he looked like a great serjeant-major with his powdered ears ; which speech, when it reached the powdered ears, offended their royal owner. In 1794 the Stadtholder who had fled from Holland was the guest of the Prince of Wales, and amused his host and the pub- lic by his great alacrity in sleeping. The Princess commanded a play for him ; he slept and snored in the box beside her, and was only awakened with difl5culty. He was invited to a ball, fell asleep whilst eating his supper, and snored so loud as to vie with the music. Other celebrated sleepers were Lord North, 13 4 Ixxx MISCELLANIES Selwyn, and the Duke of Norfolk, regarding whom Eldon is de- lighted to record the circumstance that the Duke was performing his usual music when a paper was read from the village of Great Snorham, in Norfolk. •- Jockey of Norfolk " had a clergyman who was a valuable friend to him. The Duke, when drunk, lost his voice, but retained the use of his limbs; his friend retained his power of speech, but could not stand. So the Duke who could not speak rang the bell, and the parson who could not move ordered more wine. In 1798, at the Crown and Anchor, Norfolk drank " the peo- ple, the only scource of legitimate power," for which the King removed him from the Lieutenancy of the West Riding and the Colonelcy of the West York Militia. Fox repeated the toast at Brooks's, and the King struck his name off the list of Privy Councillors. You remember what uniform he wore, blue and bufi, and who wore it on their side of the Atlantic ? George IV. — Mr. Milnes, who knew him well, says he never was in a house with twenty people but he fascinated them all. He (Mr. M.) gives a counter-story to Jesse's of Brummell, as told by Brummell himself, that on arrival at Calais the King sent Lord Blomfield to Mr. Brummell with his snuff-box, saying, " No one knew how to mix snuff so well in old times, would Brummell fill his box!" And at the same time the King told Blomfield to inquire what the poor dandy's circumstances were. Brummell may have told both stories, pro and con the King, his lies were constant, and at the end of his time he was utterly untrustworthy. Lady Hertford said the reason George IV. broke from the Whigs was that, being on terms of "entire confidence" with a celebrated lady, he went one day to visit her, and found Lord Grey in possession already, from which time, Lady Hertford said, he never could bear the sight of a Whig. " The Prince was a very plain dresser — nothing flaunting in his attire at all." How does this accord with the sale of his wondrous wardrobe at his death ? W^e read that three waggons were needed to bring the royal wardrobe from Windsor to London. It was displayed in two chambers in Mount Street at the King's cabinetmakers. In the former were the coronation robes, regimentals, British and for- eign, covered with a profusion of lace, robes of the various or- INTKODUCTION Ixxxi ders of which the late King was a member, ermine and. silken hose ; the other room contained the habiliment of ordinary wear — coats, waistcoats, trousers, and especially boots, shoes, and hats enough to equip a regiment. One spectator purchased 150 hats, 200 whips, and a great portion of the contents of this room. Among the buyers we hear of Prince Esterhazy, Lord Londonderry a cane at the price of 30 guineas, and Lord Chesterfield purchased for 220 a cloak lined with sable, the original cost of which was 800. Hamlet, the jeweller, bought the whole of the gold-headed canes. Gray's description of Southampton Row in I'ZSO. — " I am now settled in my new territories commanding Bedford Gardens and all the fields as far as Highgate and Hampstead, with such a concourse of moving pictures as would astonish you — so rus in Mr6e-ish that I believe I shall stay here, except little excursions and vagaries, for a year to come. What though I am separated from the fashionable world by the broad St. Giles's and many a dirty court and alley, yet here is quiet and air and sunshine. However, to comfort you, I shall confess that I am basking with heat all the summer, and, I suppose, shall be blown down all the winter, besides being robbed every night. I trust, how- ever, that the Museum, with all its manuscripts and rarities by the cartload, will make amends for the aforesaid inconveniences. I this day passed through the jaws of the great leviathan super- intendent of the Eeading-room." Johnsoniana. — Besides his household, Johnson had a score of outdoor dependants on his bounty, " People who didn't like to see him," he said, " unless he brought ''em money." He called upon his rich friends to help them, making it his duty to urge their charity upon them. He excused himself for turning his back upon a lord because his lordship was not in a rich dress becoming his rank. Rudely treated by Dr. Johnson, Dean Barnard wrote : " Dear Knight of Plympton, teach me how To suffer with unclouded brow And smile serene as thine The jest uncouth, the truth severe, Like thee to turn my deafest ear And calmly drink my wine." Ixxxii MISCELLANIES Johnson always praised Addison, though he did not seem really to like him. He was greatly disgusted with the coarse language used on board a man-of-war. He asked an officer what was the name of some part of the ship, and was answered it was the place where the loblolly man kept his loblolly. The reply he con- sidered as " disrespectful, gross, and ignorant." I should like to have seen his face when the officer spoke. He said of a pious man, " I should as soon have thought of contfadieting a Bishop." He once saw Chesterfield's son in Dodsley's shop, and was so much struck by his awkward manner and appearance, he could not help asking wh6 the gentleman was. Johnson's Funeral. — His body was brought out of Bolt Court preceded by two clergymen, to a hearse and six in Fleet Street. This was followed by the executors, Reynolds, Sir W. Scott, &c., in a coach and four ; by the Literary Club in eight coaches and four; by two coaches and four containing the pall-bear- ers, Burke, Windham, Bunbury, &c. After these followed two other mourning-coaches and four, and thirteen gentlemen's car- riages closed the procession. He was deposited in the Abbey by the side of Mr. Garrick, with the feet opposite Shakespeare's monument. Not far from Johnson's grave, by the monument to Addison, stands the bust which was put up by some of my father's friends to his memory. It is not in marble that he is best portrayed, but in the constant impressions of his life and words and ways, and in these collected fragments enough has been given to show what he was in himself, something more than a writer and master of his art. A. I. R. I3th February 1899. ' / have to thank those old and new friends, and old friends' children, who have assisted me to put these notes together ; most of all my sister-in-law, Emily Ritchie, whose help has alone enabled me to finish this work. BALLADS BALLADS SONG OF THE VIOLET A HUMBLE flower long time I pined Upon the solitary plain, And trembled at the angry wind, And shrank before the bitter rain. And oh ! 'twas in a blessed hour A passing wanderer chanced to see, And, pitying the lonely flower. To stoop and gather me. I fear no more the tempest rude, On dreary heath no more I pine. But left my cheerless solitude. To deck the breast of Caroline. Alas ! our days are brief at best. Nor long, I fear, will mine endure. Though sheltered here upon a breast So gentle and so pure. It draws the fragrance from my leaves, It robs me of my sweetest breath. And every time it falls and heaves, It warns me of my coming death. But one I know would glad forego AU joys of life to be as I ; An hour to rest on that sweet breast, . And then, contented, die. THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM Paet I. A T Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, /A Whoever will choose to repair, -» *■ Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors May haply fall in with old Pierre. On the sunshiny bench of a tavern He sits and he prates of old wars. And moistens his pipe of tobacco With a drink that is named after Mars. The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, And as long as his tap never fails. Thus over his favourite liquor Old Peter will tell his old tales. Says he, " In my life's ninety summers Strange changes and chances I've seen, — So here's to all gentlemen drummers That ever have thumped on a skin. ' Brought up in the art military For four generations we are ; My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry, The Huguenot lad of Navarre. And as each man in life has his station According as Fortune may fix, While Cond^ was waving the baton, My grandsire was trolling the sticks. ' Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! What glories my grandfather won. Ere bigots, and lacqueys, and panders The fortunes of France had undone ! THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, — What foeman resisted us then 1 No ; my grandsire was ever victorious, My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. " He died : and our noble battalions The jade fickle Fortune forsook ; And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, The victory lay with Malbrook. The news it was brought to King Louis ; Corbleu ! how His Majesty swore When he heard they had taken my grandsire : And twelve thousand gentlemen more. " At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet Were we posted, on plain or in trench r Malbrook only need to attack it. And away from him scamper'd we French. Cheer up ! 'tis no use to be glum, boys, — 'Tis written, since fighting begun. That sometimes we fight and we conquer. And sometimes we fight and we run. To fight and to run was our fate : Our fortune and fame had departed. And so perish'd Louis the Great, — Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. His coffin they pelted with mud. His body they tried to lay hands on ; And so having buried King Louis, They loyally served his great-grandson. " God save the beloved King Louis ! (For so he was nicknamed by some). And now came my father to do his King's orders and beat on the drum. My grandsire was dead, but his bones Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy. To hear daddy drumming the English From the meadows of famed Fontenoy. " So well did he drum in that battle That the enemy showed us their backs ; Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle The sticks and to follow old Saxe ! BALLADS We next had Soubise as a leader, And as luck hath its changes and fits, At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. " And now daddy cross'd the Atlantic, To drum for Montcalm and his men ; Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic To think we were beaten again ! My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean. My mother brought me on her neck. And we came in the year fifty-seven To guard the good town of Quebec. " In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, — Full well I remember the day, — They knocked at our gates for admittance, Their vessels were moor'd in our bay. Says our general, ' Drive me yon red coats Away to the sea whence they come ! ' So we march'd against Wolfe and his bull-dogs, We marched at the sound of the drum. " I think I can see my poor mammy With me in her hand as she waits, And our regiment, slowly retreating, Pours back through the citadel gates. Dear mammy she looks in their faces, And asks if her husband has come 1 — He is lying all cold on the glacis. And wiU never more beat on the drum. " Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys ! He died like a soldier in glory ; Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys, And now I'll commence my own story. Once more did we cross the salt ocean, We came in the year eighty-one ; And the wrongs of my father the drummer Were avenged by the drummer his son. " In Ohesapeak Bay we were landed. In vain strove the British to pass : Rochambeau our armies commanded. Our ships they were led by De Grasse THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM Morbleu ! how I rattled the drumsticks The day we march'd into Yorktown ; Ten thousand of beef-eating British Their weapons we caused to lay down. " Then homewards returning victorious, In peace to our country we came, And were thanked for our glorious actions By Louis, Sixteenth of the name. What drummer on earth could be prouder Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles To the lovely Court ladies in powder. And lappets, and long satin-tails 'i "The princes that day pass'd before us, Our countrymen's glory and hope ; Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope. One night we kept guard for the Queen At Her Majesty's opera box. While the King, that majestical monarch, Sat filing at home at his locks. " Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette, And so smiling she look'd and so tender. That our officers, privates, and drummers, AU vow'd they would die to defend her. But she cared not for us honest fellows. Who fought and who bled in her wars, She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambeau, And turned Lafayette out of doors. " Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath, No more to such tyrants to kneel ; And so, just to keep up my drumming. One day I drumm'd down the Bastille. Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine. Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try. And drink to the year eighty-nine And the glorious fourth of July ! " Then bravely our cannon it thunder'd As onwards our patriots bore. Our enemies were but a hundred. And we twenty thousand or more. BALLADS They carried the news to King Louis. He heard it as calm as you please, And, like a majestical monarch, Kept filing his locks and his keys. " We show'd our Republican courage, We storm'd and we broke the great gate in, And we murder'd the insolent governor For daring to keep us arwaiting. Lambesc and his squadrons stood by : They never stirr'd finger or thumb. The saucy aristocrats trembled As they heard the republican drum. " Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! The day of our vengeance was come ! Through scenes of what carnage and ruin Did I beat on the patriot drum ! Let's drink to the famed tenth of August : At midnight I beat the tattoo. And woke up the pikeraen of Paris To follow the bold Barbaroux. " With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches March'd onwards our dusty battalions. And we girt the tall castle of Louis, A million of tatterdemalions ! We storm'd the fair gardens where tower'd The walls of his heritage splendid. Ah, shame on him, craven and coward. That had not the heart to defend it ! " With the crown of his sires on his head, His nobles and knights by his side. At the foot of his ancestors' palace 'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. But no : when we burst through his barriers, Mid heaps of the dying and dead. In vain through the chambers we sought him — He had turn'd like a craven and fled. " You all know the Place de la Concorde 1 'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall. Mid terraces, fountains, and statues. There rises an obelisk tall. THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM There rises an obelisk tall, All garnish'd and gilded the base is : 'Tis surely the gayest of all Our beautiful city's gay places. " Around it are gardens and flowers, And the Cities of France on their thrones Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers. Sits watching this biggest of stones ! I love to go sit in the sun there. The flowers and fountains to see, And to think of the deeds that were done there In the glorious year ninety-three. " 'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom ; And though neither marble nor gilding Was used in those days to adorn Our simple republican building, Corbleu ! but the mSee guillotine Cared little for splendour or show. So you gave her an axe and a beam, And a plank and a basket or so. " Awful, and proud, and erect. Here sat our republican goddess. Each morning her table we deck'd With dainty aristocrats' bodies. The people each day flocked around As she sat at her meat and her wine : 'Twas always the use of our nation To witness the sovereign dine. " Young virgins with fair golden tresses, Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses. Were splendidly served at her feasts. Ventrebleu ! but we pampered our ogress With the best that our nation could bring, And dainty she grew in her progress. And called for the head of a King ! " She called for the blood of our King, And straight from his prison we drew him ; And to her with shouting we led him, And took him, and bound him, and slew him 10 BALLADS ' The monarchs of Europe against me Have plotted a godless alliance : I'll fling them the head of King Louis,' She said, ' as my gage of defiance.' " I see him as now, for a moment, Away from his gaolers he broke ; And stood at the foot of the scaffold, And linger'd, and fain would have spoke. ' Ho, drummer ! quick, silence yon Capet,' Says Santerre, ' with a beat of your drum. Lustily then did I tap it. And the son of Saint Louis was dumb." Part II. " The glorious days of September Saw many aristocrats fall ; 'Twas then that our pikes drank the blood In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady ! I seldom have look'd on her like ; And I drumm'd for a gallant procession, That marched with her head on a pike. " Let's show the pale head to the Queen, We said — she'll remember it well. She looked from the bars of her prison. And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell. We set up a shout at her screaming. We laugh'd at the fright she had shown At the sight of the head of her minion — How she'd tremble to part with her own ! " We had taken the head of King Capet, We called for the blood of his wife ; Undaunted she came to the scaffold. And bared her fair neck to the knife. As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her, She shrank, but she deigned not to speak : She look'd with a royal disdain, And died with a blush on her cheek ! THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 11 " 'Twas thus that our country was saved ; So told us the safety committee ! But psha ! I've the heart of a soldier, All gentleness, mercy, and pity. I loathed to assist at such deeds, And my drum beat its loudest of tunes As we offered to justice offended The blood of the bloody tribunes. " Away with such foul recollections ! No more of the axe and the block ; I saw the last fight of the sections. As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Roch. Young Bonaparte led us that day ; When he sought the Italian frontier, I foUow'd my gallant young captain, I foUow'd him many a long year. " We came to an army in rags, Our general was but a boy When we first saw the Austrian flags Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. In the glorious year ninety-six, We march'd to the banks of the Po ; I carried my drum and my sticks, And we laid the proud Austrian low. " In triumph we enter'd Milan, We seized on the Mantuan keys ; The troops of the Emperor ran. And the Pope he fell down on his knees." — Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle. And clubbing together their wealth, They drank to the Army of Italy, Aiid General Bonaparte's health. The drummer now bared his old breast. And show'd us a plenty of scars. Rude presents that Fortune had made him In fifty victorious wars. " This came when I follow'd bold Kleber — 'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; And this from an Austrian sabre, When the field of Marengo was won. 12 BALLADS " My forehead has many deep furrows, But this is the deepest of all : A Brunswicker made it at Jena, Beside the fair river of Saal. This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it ; (God bless him !) it covers a blow ; I had it at Austerlitz fight. As I beat on my drum in the snow. " 'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought ; But wherefore continue the story ? There's never a baby in France But has heard of our chief and our glory, - But has heard of our chief and our fame. His sorrows and triumphs can tell, How bravely Napoleon conquer'd, How bravely and sadly he fell. " It makes my old heart to beat higher. To think of the deeds that I saw ; I foUow'd bold Ney through the fire. And charged at the side of Murat." And so did old Peter continue His story of twenty brave years ; His audience follow'd with comments — Rude comments of curses and tears. He told how the Prussians in vain Had died in defence of their land ; His audience laugh'd at the story. And vow'd that their captain was grand ! He had fought the red English, he said. In many a battle of Spain ; They cursed the red English, and prayed To meet them and fight them again. He told them how Russia was lost, Had winter not driven them back ; And his company cursed the quick frost. And doubly they cursed the Cossack. He told how the stranger arrived ; They wept at the tale of disgrace ; And they long'd but for one battle more. The stain of their shame to efface. THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 13 " Our country their hordes overrun, We fled to the fields of Champagne, And tought them, though twenty to one, And beat them again and again ! Our warrior was conquer'd at last ; They bade him his crown to resign ; To fate and his country he yielded The rights of himself and his line. ' He came, and among us he stood. Around him we press'd in a throng : We could not regard him for weeping. Who had led us and loved us so long. ' I have led you for twenty long years,' Napoleon said ere he went ; ' Wherever was honour I found you. And vrith you, my sons, am content ! " ' Though Europe against me was arm'd, Your chiefs and my people are true ; I stUl might have struggled with fortune, And baffled all Europe with you. " ' But France would have suffer'd the while, 'Tis best that I suflfer alone ; I go to my place of exile. To write of the deeds we have done. " ' Be true to the king that they give you. We may not embrace ere we part ; But, General, reach me your hand. And press me, I pray, to your heart.' " He call'd for our battle standard ; One kiss to the eagle he gave. ' Dear eagle ! ' he said, ' may this kiss Long sound in the hearts of the brave ! ' 'Twas thus that Napoleon left us ; Our people were weeping and mute. As he passed through the lines of his guard And our drums beat the notes of salute. 14 BALLADS " I look'd when the drumming was o'er, I look'd, but our hero was gone ; We were destined to see him once more, When we fought on the Mount of St. John. The Emperor rode through our files ; 'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn. The lines of our waniors for miles Stretch'd wide through the Waterloo com. " In thousands we stood on the plain. The red-coats were crowning the height ; ' Go scatter yon English,' he said ; ' We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.' We answer'd his voice with a shout ; Our eagles were bright in the sun ; Our drums and our cannon spoke out, And the thundering battle begun. " One charge to another succeeds, Like waves that a hurricane bears ; All day do our galloping steeds Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. At noon we began the fell onset : We charged up the Englishman's hill ; And madly we charged it at sunset — His banners were floating there still. " — Go to ! I will tell you no more ; You know how the battle was lost. Ho ! fetch me a beaker of wine. And, comrades, I'll give you a toast, I'll give you a curse on all traitors. Who plotted our Emperor's ruin ; And a curse on those red-coated English, Whose bayonets helped our undoing. " A curse on those British assassins. Who order'd the slaughter of Ney ; A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured The life of our hero away. A curse on all Russians — I hate them — On all Prussian and Austrian fry ; And oh ! but I pray we may meet them, And fight them again ere I die." THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 15 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude His chronicle with curses fit. He spoke the tale in accents rude, In ruder verse I copied it. Perhaps the tale a moral bears (All tales in time to this must come), The story of two hundred years Writ on the parchment of a drum. What Peter told with drum and stick, Is endless theme for poet's pen : Is found in endless quartos thick. Enormous books by learned men. And ever since historian writ. And ever since a bard could sing, Doth each exalt with all his wit The noble art of murdering. We love to read the glorious page, How bold Achilles kill'd his foe ; And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, Went howling to the shades below. How Godfrey led his red-cross knights. How mad Orlando slash'd and slew ; There's not a single bard that writes But doth the glorious theme renew. And while, in fashion picturesque. The poet rhymes of blood and blows. The grave historian at his desk Describes the same in classic prose. Go read the works of Reverend Coxe, You'll duly see recorded there The history of the self-same knocks Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre. Of battles fierce and warriors big. He writes in phrases dull and slow. And waves his cauliflower wig, And shouts " Saint George for Marlborow ' " 16 BALLADS Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, An LL.D., — a peaceful man ; Good Lord, how doth he plume himself Because we beat the Corsican ! From first to last his page is filled With stirring tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, And praises God for our good luck. Some hints, 'tis true, of politics The Doctor gives and statesman's art : Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, And understands the bloody part. He cares not what the cause may be, He is not nice for wrong and right ; But show him where's the enemy. He only asks to drum and fight. They bid him fight, — perhaps he wins ; And when he tells the story o'er. The honest savage brags and grins. And only longs to fight once more. But luck may change, and valour fail. Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, And with a moral points his tale — The end of all such tales — a curse. Last year, my love, it was my hap Behind a grenadier to be, And, but he wore a hairy cap, No taller man, methinks, than me. Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot (Be blessings on the glorious pair !), Before us passed. I saw them not — I only saw a cap of hair. THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 17 Your orthodox historian puts In foremost rank the soldier thus, The red-coat bully in his boots, That hides the march of men from us. He puts him there in foremost rank, You wonder at his cap of hair : You hear his sabre's cursed clank. His spurs are jingling everywhere. Gro to ! I hate him and his trade : Who bade us so to cringe and bend, And all God's peaceful people made To such as him subservient 1 TeU me what find we to admire In epaulets and scarlet coats — In men, because they load and fire. And know the art of cutting throats 1 Ah, gentle, tender lady mine ! "The winter wind blows cold and shriU ; Come, fill me one more glass of wine. And give the silly fools their will. And what care we for war and wrack. How kings and heroes rise and fall f Look yonder,* in his coflBn black There lies the greatest of them all ! To pluck him down, and keep him up. Died many miUion human souls. — 'Tis twelve o'clock and time to sup ; Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. He captured many thousand guns ; He wrote " The Great " before his name ; And dying, only left bis sons The recollection of his shame. * This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon. 18 BALLADS Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own ; And borrow'd from his enemies Six foot of ground to lie upon. He fought a thousand glorious wars, And more than half the world was his ; And somewhere now, in yonder stars. Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. 1841. THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT THE noble King of Brentford Was old and very sick, He summon'd his physicians To wait upon him quick ; They stepp'd into their coaches And brought their best physick. They cramm'd their gracious master With potion and with pill ; They drench'd him and they bled him : They could not cure his ill. " Go fetch," says he, " my lawyer ; I'd better make my will." The monarch's royal mandate The lawyer did obey ; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. " What is't," says he, "your Majesty Would wish of me to-day % " " The doctors have belabour'd me With potion and with pill : My hours of life are counted, man of tape and quill ! Sit down and mend a pen or two ; 1 want to make my will. " O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord, and eke of Kew : I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents ; My debts are but a few ; And to inherit after me I have but children two. 20 BALLADS " Prince Thomas is my eldest son ; A sober prince is he, And from the day we breech'd him Till now — he's twenty-three — He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me. " At school they never flogg'd him ; At college, though not fast. Yet his little-go and great-go He creditably pass'd, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last. " He never owed a shilling, Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head — In all respects he diifers From my second son, Prince Ned. " When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end. Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman. Or borrows from a friend. " While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse : While Tom frequents his banker. Young Ned frequents the Jews. " Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus ; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus ? Why make of Tom a dullard, And Ned a genius ? " THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT 21 " You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits : "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, " Sir Lawyer, as befits. And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits." " Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said ; " On your commands I wait." " Be silent, sir," says Brentford, " A plague upon your prate ! Come take your pen and paper. And write as I dictate." The will as Brentford spoke it Was writ and signed and closed ; He bade the lawyer leave him. And turn'd him round and dozed ; And next week in the chiu'chyard The good old King reposed. Tom, dressed in crape and hatband. Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief : Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief. Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He falter'd in his walk ; Tom never shed a tear. But onwards he did stalk. As pompous, black, and solemn As any catafalque. And when the bones of Brentford — That gentle King and just — With bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, " Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, " Let business be discussed. 22 BALLADS " When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him (I mean to tax your bill) ; And, as you signed and wrote it, I prithee read the will." The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out ; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about : Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt. " My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom : Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from. " Ned hath a brilliant genius. And thou a plodding brain ; On thee I think with pleasure. On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, " What he thought about us twain.") " Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store ; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er. "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out at each his pace ; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race ; And since the w^orld's beginning This ever was the case. THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT 23 " Ned's genius, blithe and singing, Steps gaily o'er the ground ; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound ; But dulness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound " O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet ; You heed not one nor t'other, But onwards go your beat ; While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet ; " And ever as he wanders. Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning. Or loitering to dine. Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the shine. " Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him His flashing genius throws. Are excellently suited To look before your nose. " Thank Heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes ; The stupidest are strongest. The witty are not wise ; Oh, bless your good stupidity ! It is your dearest prize. " And though my lands are wide, And plenty is ray gold. Still better gifts from Nature, My Thomas, do you hold — A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold. 24 BALLADS " Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cold to yield to passion Or silly tenderness. March on — your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success. " Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("!' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") '' In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I cannot trust. " Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards. My houses and my rents, My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents, " I leave to you, my Thomas " ("What, all?" poor Edward said. " Well, well, I should have spent them. And Tom's a prudent head ") — " I leave to you, my Thomas, — To you IN TEUST for Ned." The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face ; The wonder of the company. And honest Ned's amaze 1 " 'Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned ; The lawyer answered gravely, " 'Tis even as I said ; 'Twas thus his gracious Majesty Ordain'd on his death-bed. THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT 25 " See, here the will is witness'd. And here's his autograph." " In truth, our father's writing," Says Edward, with a laugh ; " But thou shalt not be a loserj Tom ; We'll share it half and half." " Alas ! my kind young gentleman, This sharing cannot be ; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me, ' I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a halfpenny. ' He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it ; He never helped his brother ; The poor he ne'er befriended ; He hath no need of property Who knows not how to spend it. " ' Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard ; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord ; And as the honest labourer Is worthy his reward, " ' I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year ; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer.' " Such was old Brentford's honest testament, He did devise his moneys for the best. And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent ; But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd. To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest. And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. 26 BALLADS Long time the famous reign of Ned endured O'er Ohiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two. FAIRY DAYS BESIDE the old hall-fire — upon my nurse's knee, Of happy fairy days — what tales were told to me ! I thought the world was once — all peopled with princesses, And my heart would beat to hear — their loves and their distresses ; And many a quiet night, — in slumber sweet and deep, The pretty fairy people — would visit me in sleep. I saw them in my dreams — come flying east and west, With wondrous fairy gifts — the new-bom babe they bless'd ; One has brought a jewel — and one a crown of gold. And one has brought a curse — but she is wrinkled and old. The gentle Queen turns pale — to hear those words of sin. But the King he only laughs — and bids the dance begin. The babe has grown to be — the fairest of the land, And rides the forest green — a hawk upon her hand. An ambling palfrey white — a golden robe and crown : I've seen her in my dreams — riding up and down : And heard the ogre laugh — as she fell into his snare, At the little tender creature — who wept and tore her hair ! But ever when it seemed — her need was at the sorest, A prince in shining mail — comes prancing through the forest, A waving ostrich-plvraie — a buckler burnished bright ; I've seen him in my dreams — good sooth ! a gallant knight. His lips are coral red — beneath a dark moustache ; See how he waves his hand — and how his blue eyes flash ! " Come forth, thou Paynira knight ! " — he shouts in accents clear. The giant and the maid — both tremble his voice to hear. Saint Mary guard him well ! — he draws his falchion keen, The giant and the knight — are fighting on the green. I see them in ray dreams — his blade gives stroke on stroke, The giant pants and reels — and tumbles hke an oak ! 28 BALLADS With what a blushing grace — he falls upon his knee And takes the lady's hand — and whispers, " You are free ! " Ah ! happy childish tales — of knight and faerie ! I waken from my dreams — but there's ne'er a knight for me ! I waken from my dreams — and wish that I could be A child by the old hall-fire — upon my nurse's knee ! PEG OF LIMAVADBY RIDING from Coleraine (Famed for lovely Kitty), Came a Cockney bound Unto Derry city ; Weary was his soul, Shivering and sad, he Bumped along the road Leads to Limavaddy. Mountains stretch'd around. Gloomy was their tinting, And the horse's hoofs Made a dismal dinting ; Wind upon the heath Howling was and piping, On the heath and bog. Black with many a snipe in. Mid the bogs of black, Silver pools were flashing, Crows upon their sides Pecking were and splashing. Cockney on the car Closer folds his plaidy. Grumbling at the road Leads to Limavaddy. Through the crashing woods Autumn brawl'd and bluster'd, Tossing round about Leaves the hue of mustard ; Yonder lay Lough Foyle, Which a storm was whipping. Covering with mist Lake, and shores, and shipping 30 BALLADS Up and down the hill (Nothing could be bolder), Horse went with a raw Bleeding on his shoulder. " Where are horses changed ? " Said I to the laddy Driving on the box : " Sir, at Limavaddy." Limavaddy inn's But a humble bait-house, Where you may procure Whisky and potatoes ; Landlord at the door Gives a smiling welcome To the shivering wights Who to his hotel come. Landlady within Sits and knits a stocking. With a wary foot Baby's cradle rocking. To the chimney nook Having found admittance, There I watch a pup Playing with two kittens ; (Playing round the fire, Which of blazing turf is, Roaring to the pot Which bubbles with the murphies.) And the cradled babe Fond the mother nursed it, Singing it a song As she twists the worsted ! Up and down the stair Two more young ones patter (Twins were never seen Dirtier or fatter). Both have mottled legs, Both have snubby noses, Both have Here the host Kindly interposes : PEG OF LIMAVADDY 31 " Sure you must be froze With the sleet and hail, sir : So will you have some punch, Or will you have some ale, sir 1 " Presently a maid Enters with the liquor (Half-a^pint of ale Frothing in a beaker). Gads ! I didn't know What my beating heart meant : Hebe's self, I thought, Entered the apartment. As she came she smiled. And the smile bewitching, On my word and honour, Lighted all the kitchen ! With a curtsey neat Greeting the new comer, Lovely, smiling Peg Offers me the rummer ; But my trembling hand Up the beaker tilted. And the glass of ale Every drop I spilt it : Spilt it every drop (Dames, who read my volumes, Pardon such a word) On my what-d'ye-call-'ems ! Witnessing the sight Of that dire disaster. Out began to laugh Missis, maid, and master ; Such a merry peal 'Specially Miss Peg's was (As the glass of ale Trickling down my legs was), That the joyful sound Of that mingling laughter Echoed in my ears Many a long day after. 32 BALLADS Such a silver peal ! In the meadows listening, You who've heard the bells Einging to a christening ; You who ever heard Oaradori pretty, Smiling like an angel. Singing " Giovinetti " ; Fancy Peggy's laugh. Sweet, and clear, and cheerful, At my pantaloons With half-a-pint of beer fuU ! When the laugh was done. Peg, the pretty hussy. Moved about the room Wonderfully busy ; Now she looks to see If the kettle keep hot ; Now she rubs the spoons, Now she cleans the teapot ; Now she sets the cups Trimly and secure : Now she scours a pot, And so it was I drew her. Thus it was I drew her Scouring of a kettle (Faith ! her blushing cheeks Redden'd on the metal !) Ah ! but 'tis in vain That I try to sketch it ; The pot perhaps is like. But Peggy's face is wretched. No ! the best of lead And of india-rubber Never could depict That sweet kettle-scrubber ! See her as she moves, Scarce the ground she touches Airy as a fay. Graceful as a duchess : PEG OP LIMAVADDY 33 Bare her rounded arm, Bare her little leg is, Vestris never show'd Ankles like to Peggy's. Braided is her hair, Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist Comfortably bodiced. This I do declare, Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy. Married if she were Blest would be the daddy Of the children fair Of Peg of Limavaddy. Beauty is not rare In the land of Paddy, Fair beyond compare Is Peg of Limavaddy. Citizen or Squire, Tory, Whig, or Radi- cal would all desire Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer's fire. Or that of Serjeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire, Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy ! TITMARSH'8 CARMEN LILLIENSE Lille: Sept. 2, 1843. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? / have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. WITH twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille. Confiding in my ample means — In troth, I was a happy chiel ! I passed the gates of Valenciennes, I never thought to come by Lille. I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal ; I gaily passed the Belgic bounds At Qui^vrain, twenty miles from LUle. To Antwerp town I hastened post, And as I took my evening meal, I felt my pouch, — my purse was lost, Heaven ! Why came I not by LiUe 1 I straightway called for ink and pen. To Grandmamma I made appeal ; Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten 1 borrowed from a friend So leal. TITMARSH'S CAEMEN LILLIENSE 35 I got the cash from Grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel), But where I went, and what I saw, What matters ? Here I am at Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone. How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. II. To stealing I can never come. To pawn my watch I'm too genteel : Besides, I left my watch at home — How could I pawn it then at Lille ? " La note," at times the guests will say. I turn as white as cold boil'd veal ; I turn and look another way, / dare not ask the bill at Lille. I dare not to the landlord say, " Good sir, I cannot pay your bill ; " He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille. He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille. Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochineal ; And think, did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal ^ I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. BALLADS m. The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel ; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise — How can I, -without cash at LUle 1 I pass in sunshine burning hot By caf& where in beer they deal ; I think how pleasant were a pot, A frothing pot of beer of LUle ! What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille ? O gracious gods ! it makes me sick. It is the prison-house of LiUe ! cursed prison strong and barred. It does my very blood congeal ! 1 tremble as I pass the guard. And quit that ugly part of LUle. The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal : Ah, church-door beggar ! go thy ways ! You're not the poorest man in Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. rv. Say, shall I to yon Flemish church. And at a Popish altar kneel ? Oh, do not leave me in the lurch, — I'U cry, ye patron-saints of Lille ! Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops. Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down ! before you stoops The miserablest man in LUle. TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE 37 And lo ! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), It smiled, and turned to Grandmamma ! — It did ! and I had hope in Lille ! 'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay my meal : I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best in Lille. What see I on my table stand, — A letter with a well-known seal ? 'Tis Grandmamma's ! I know her hand, — " To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille." I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel ! It is — it is— a ten-pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille ! [He goes off, by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.] JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE A HELIGT COME all ye gents vot cleans the plate, Come all ye ladies' maids so fair — VUe I a story vill relate Of cruel Jeames of Buckley Square. A tighter lad, it is confest, Neer valked with powder in his air, Or vore a nosegay in his breast, Than andsum Jeames of Buckley Square. Evns ! it vas the best of sights. Behind his Master's coach and pair, To see our Jeames in red plush tights, A driving hoff from Buckley Square. He vel became his hagwilletts. He cocked his at with such a hair ; His calves and viskers vas such pets. That hall loved Jeames of Buckley Square. He pleased the hupstairs folks as veil. And o ! I vithered vith despair, Missis vould ring the parler bell, And call up Jeames in Buckley Square. Both beer and sperrits he abhord (Sperrits and beer I can't a bear). You would have thought he vas a lord Down in our All in Buckley Square. Last year he visper'd, " Mary Ann, Ven I've an under'd pound to spare, To take a public is my plan. And leave this hojous Buckley Square.'' JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE 39 how my gentle heart did bound, To think that I his name should hear ! " Dear Jeames," says I, " I've twenty pound," And gev them him in Buckley Square. Our master vas a City gent, His name's in railroads everywhere. And lord, vot lots of letters vent Betwigst his brokers and Buckley Square : My Jeames it was the letters took, And read them all (I think it's fair). And took a leaf from Master's book, As hothers do in Buckley Square. Encouraged with my twenty pound, Of which poor / was unavare. He wrote the Companies all round, And signed hisself from Buckley Square. And how John Porter used to grin, As day by day, share after share, Came railvay letters pouring in, " J. Plush, Esquire, in Buckley Square." Our servants' All was in a rage — Scrip, stock, curves, gradients, bull and bear, Vith butler, coachman, groom and page, Vas all the talk in Buckley Square. But ! imagine vot I felt Last Vensday veek as ever were ; I gits a letter, which I spelt " Miss M. A. Hoggins, Buckley Square." He sent me back my money true — He sent me back my lock of air. And said, " My dear, I bid ajew To Mary Hann and Buckley Square. Think not to marry, foolish Hann, With people who your betters are : James Plush is now a gentleman. And you — a cook in Buckley Square. 40 BALLADS " I've thirty thousand guineas won, In six short months, by genus rare ; You little thought what Jeames was on, Poor Mary Hann, in Buckley Square. I've thirty thousand guineas net. Powder and plush I scorn to vear ; And so. Miss Mary Hann, forget For hever Jeames of Buckley Square." LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT BY THE LOED SOUTHDO\Wf THE castle towers of Bareacres are feir upon the lea, Where the cliffi of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea : I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more. I stood upon the donjon keep — it is a sacred place, — Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race ; Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field ; There ne'er was nobler cognisance on knightly warrior's shield. The first time England saw the shield 'twas round a Norman neck, On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. A Normau lance the colours wore, in Hastings' fatal fray — St. WUlibald for Bareacres ! 'twas double gules that day ! O Heaven and sweet Saint Willibald ! in many a battle since A loyaJ-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince ! At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears ! 'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing : Oh grant me, sweet Saint Willibald, to listen to such singing ! Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us. And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus ! knights, my noble ancestors ! and shall I never hear Saint Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear ? I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride. And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side ! Dash down, dash down yon mandolin, beloved sister mine ! Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line : Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls. The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls. Sing not, sing not, my Angeline ! in days so base and vile, 'Twere sinftd to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smUe. I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob I'll muse on other days, and wish — and wish I were — A Snob. A DOE IN THE CITY LITTLE Kitty Loeimek, Fair, and young, and witty, ■^ What has brought your ladyship Rambling to the City 1 All the Stags in Capel Court Saw her lightly trip it ; AH the lads of Stock Exchange Twigg'd her muff and tippet. With a sweet perplexity. And a mystery pretty. Threading through Threadneedle Street, Trots the little Kitty. What was my astonishment — What was my compunction, When she reached the Offices Of the Didland Junction ! Up the Didland stairs she went, To the Didland door, Sir; Porters, lost in wonderment, Let her pass before. Sir. " Madam," says the old chief Clerk, " Sure we can't admit ye." " Where's the Didland Junction deed ? " Dauntlessly says Kitty. " If you doubt my honesty. Look at my receipt. Sir." Up then jumps the old chief Clerk, Smiling as he meets her. A DOE IN THE CITY 43 Kitty at the table sits (Whither the old Clerk leads her), " / deliver this," she says, " As my act and deed, Sir." When I heard these funny words Come from lips so pretty, This, I thought, should surely be Subject for a ditty. What ! are ladies stagging it ? Sure, the more's the pity ; But I've lost my heart to her, — Naughty little Kitty. RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS " Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir k la chandelle, Assise aupres du feu devisant et filant, Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant : Bonsard me o^lebroit du temps que j'^tois belle." SOME winter night, shut snugly in Beside the faggot in the hall, I think I see you sit and spin, Surrounded by your maidens all. Old tales are told, old songs are sung. Old days come back to memory ; You say, " When I was fair and young, A poet sang of me ! " There's not a maiden in your hall, Though tired and sleepy ever so, But wakes, as you my name recall, And longs the history to know. And, as the piteous tale is said. Of lady cold and lover true. Each, musing, carries it to bed, And sighs and envies you ! " Our lady's old and feeble now," They'll say ; " she once was fresh and fair. And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow. And heartless left him to despair : The lover lies in silent earth. No kindly mate the lady cheers : She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years ! " Ah ! dreary thoughts and dreams ai-e those. But wherefore yield me to despair, EONSAED TO HIS MISTRESS 45 While yet the poet's bosom glows, While yet the dame is peerless fair ? Sweet lady mine ! while yet 'tis time Eequite my passion and ray truth, And gather in their blushing prime The roses of your youth ! THE WHITE SQUALL ON deck, beneath the awning, I dozing lay and yawning ; It was the grey of dawning, Ere yet the sun arose ; And above the funnel's roaring, And the fitful winds deploring, I heard the cabin snoring With universal nose. I could hear the passengers snorting, I envied their disporting — Vainly I was courting The pleasure of a doze ! So I lay, and wondered why light Came not, and watched the twilight. And the glimmer of the skylight. That shot across the deck And the binnacle pale and steady. And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye. And the sparks in fiery eddy That whirled from the chimney neck. In our jovial floating prison There was sleep from fore to mizen. And never a star had risen The hazy sky to speck. Strange company we harboured ; We'd a hundred Jews to larboard. Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered — Jews black, and brown, and grey ; With terror it would seize ye. And make your souls uneasy. To see those Kabbis greasy. Who did nought but scratch and pray : THE WHITE SQUALL 47 Their dirty children puking — Their dirty saucepans cooking — Their dirty fingers hooking Their swarming fleas away. To starboard, Turks and Greeks were — Whiskered and brown their cheeks were — Enormous wide their breeks were, Their pipes did puff alway ; Each on his mat allotted In silence stnoked and squatted, Whilst round their children trotted In pretty, pleasant play. He can't but smile who traces The smiles on those brown faces, And the pretty prattling graces Of those small heathens gay. And so the hours kept tolling, And through the ocean rolling Went the brave Iberia bowling Before the break of day When A SQUALL, upon a sudden. Came o'er the waters scudding ; And the clouds began to gather, And the sea was lashed to lather. And the lowering thunder grumbled, And the lightning jumped and tumbled, And the ship, and all the ocean, Woke up in wild commotion. Then the wind set up a howling, And the poodle dog a yowling. And the cocks began a crowing, And the old cow raised a lowing. As she heard the tempest blowing ; And fowls and geese did cackle. And the cordage and the tackle Began to shriek and crackle ; And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, And down the deck in runnels ; And the rushing water soaks all. From the seamen in the fo'ksal To the stokers whose black faces Peer out of their bed-places ; 48 BALLADS And the captain he was bawling, And the sailors pulling, hauling, And the quarter-deck tarpauling AVas shivered in the squalling ; And the passengers awaken, Most pitifully shaken ; And the steward jumps up, and hastens For the necessary basins. Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, As the plunging waters met them. And splashed and overset them ; And they call in their emergence Upon countless saints and virgins ; And their marrowbones are bended. And they think the world is ended. And the Turkish women for'ard Were frightened and behorror'd ; And shrieking and bewildering, The mothers clutched their children ; The men sang "Allah ! Illah ! Mashallah Bismillah ! " As the warring waters doused them And splashed them and soused them, And they called upon the Prophet, And thought but little of it. Then all the fleas in Jewry Jumped up and bit like fury ; And the progeny of Jacob Did on the main-deck wake up (I wot those greasy Eabbins Would never pay for cabins) ; And each man moaned and jabbered in His filthy Jewish gaberdine. In woe and lamentation, And howling consternation. And the splashing water drenches Their dirty brats and wenches ; And they crawl from bales and benches In a hundred thousand stenches. THE WHITE SQUALL This was the White Squall famous, Which latterly o'ercame us, And which all will well remember On the 28th September ; When a Prussian captain of Lancers (Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) Came on the deck astonished, By that wild squall admonished, And wondering cried, " Potztausend ! Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend ? " And looked at Captain Lewis, Who calmly stood and blew his Cigar in all the bustle. And scorned the tempest's tussle. And oft we've thought thereafter How he beat the storm to laughter ; For well he knew his vessel With that vain wind could wrestle ; And when a wreck we thought her. And doomed ourselves to slaughter, How gaily he fought her. And through the hubbub brought her, And as the tempest caught her. Cried, " George ! some brandy- and-wateb ! ' And when, its force expended. The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea, I thought, as day was breaking. My little girls were waking. And smiling, and making A prayer at home for me. 1844. THE AGE OF WISDOM HO, pretty page, with the dimpled chin. That never has known the barber's shear. All your wish is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin, — Wait tiU you come to Forty Year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under BonnybeU's window panes, — Wait till you come to Forty Year. Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — Then you know a boy is an ass. Then you know the worth of a lass. Once you have come to Forty Year. Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, AU good fellows whose beards are grey, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was passed away 1 The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list. Or look away, and never be missed. Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian's dead, God rest her bier. How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. THE MAHOGANY TREE CHEISTMAS is here : Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we : Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom ; Night-birds are we : Here we carouse, Singing like them. Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit ; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short — When we are gone. Let them sing on Round the old tree. Evenings we knew, Happy as this ; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust ! We sing round the tree. Care, like a dun. Lurks at the gate : Let the dog wait ; Happy we'll be ! Drink, every one ; Pile up the coals. Fill the red bowls. Bound the old tree ! Drain we the cup. — Friend, art afraid ? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up ; Empty it yet ; Let us forget. Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone ! Life and its ills. Duns and their bills. Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn. Blue-devil sprite. Leave us to-night. Round the old tree. THE GANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure. But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old nicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Orack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd). Old rickety tables, and (ihairs broken-backed ; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require. Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muflBns upon. Long long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times ; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR 53 But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best : For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms ! I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. It was but a moment she sat in this place. She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair. And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare. The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone. In the silence of night as I sit here alone — I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room ; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. "AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR" AH ! bleak and barren was the moor, j^ Ah ! loud and piercing was the storm, The cottage roof was sheltered sure, The cottage hearth was bright and warm. An orphan-boy the lattice pass'd, And, as he marked its cheerful glow, Felt doubly keen the midnight blast. And doubly cold the fallen snow. They marked him as he onward press'd. With fainting heart and weary limb ; Kind voices bade him turn and rest. And gentle faces welcomed him. The dawn is up — the guest is gone. The cottage hearth is blazing still : Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone ! Hark to the wind upon the hiU ! THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring ; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming : It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen : And if. Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing. It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. Thus each performs his part, Mamma : the birds have found their voices. The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye ; And there's sunshine in my heart. Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush. Mamma, and that's the reason why. ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON; OR, THE CAGED HAWK NO more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert life for thee; No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swoopmg free: Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain, Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er mayst spread again. Long, sitting by their watchflres, shall the Kabyles tell the tale Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja vale ; How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down the wild El Riff, From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif ; How thy white burnous went streaming, like the storm-rack o'er the sea. When thou rodest in the vanward of the Moorish chivalry ; How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a simoom. How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing death from out the gloom ! Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to spare and save, Of brave men wisest counsellor, of wise counsellors most brave ; How the eye that flashed destruction could beam gentleness and love; How lion in thee mated lamb, how eagle mated dove ! Availed not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed life secure, Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up the golden lure ; And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, faithless, to the cast. And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and caged at last. ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON 57 Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom ! Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief and gloom ! Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless lance. And stoop your necks and bare your backs to yoke and scourge of France ! 'Twas not in fight they bore him down : he never cried aman ; He never sank his sword before the Prince of Feanghistan ; But with traitors all around him, his star upon the wane. He heard the voice of Allah, and he would not strive in vain. They gave him what he asked them : from king to king he spake. As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth how to break : " Let me pass from out my deserts, be't mine own choice where to go; I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a show." And they promised, and he trusted them, and proud and calm he came. Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword of fame. Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto the Frankish throng ; He knew them false and fickle — but a Prince's word is strong. How have they kept their promise 1 Turned they the vessel's prow Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en now 1 Not so : from Oran northwards the white sails gleam and glance, And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to France ! Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks southward o'er the wave. Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis gave. O noble faith of noble heart ! And was the warning vain, The text writ by the Boukbon in the blurred black book of Spain ? They have need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. Words are but wind ; conditions must be construed by Guizot ; Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show ! AT THE CHURCH GATE A LTHOUGH I enter not, Z-\ Yet round about the spot •* *■ Ofttimes I hover ; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming : They've hush'd the Minster bell : The organ 'gins to swell : She's coming, she's coming ! My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast. And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast : She comes — she's here — she's past — May Heaven go with her ! Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly ; I will not enter there. To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place. Lingering a minute Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it. THE END OF THE PLAY THE play is done ; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell : A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme. And pledge a hand to all young friends. As fits the merry Christmas time.* On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; Good night ! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway ! Gfood night ! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page. The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men ; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive. Not less nor more as men than boys ; With grizzled beards at forty-five. As erst at twelve in corduroys. These verses were printed at the end of a Christmas book (1848-9), " Dr. Birch and his Young Friends. " 60 BALLADS And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift ; The prize "be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitUessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design ? Blessed be He who took and gave J Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave ? * We bow to Heaven that will'd it so, That darkly rules the fate of all. That sends the respite or the blow. That's free to give, or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit : Who brought him to that mirth and state ? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus 1 Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance. Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance. And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen ! whatever fate be sent. Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. * C. B. ob. 29th November 1848, aet. i2. THE END OP THE PLAY 6l Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part. And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses or who wins the prize. Go, lose or conquer as you can ; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young ! (Bear kindly with ray humble lays) ; The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days : The shepherds heard it overhead — The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men. My seng, save this, is little worth ; I lay the weary pen aside. And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Ohristmastide. As fits the holy Christmas birth. Be this, good friends, our carol still — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — - The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid. But still in comfortable ease ; The which in youth I oft attended. To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo : Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, safi'ron. Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : All these you eat at Teer^'s tavern In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks. Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting. Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling red-cheeked ^caillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Teeee still alive and able % I recollect his droll grimace : He'd come and smile before your table. And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 63 We enter — nothing's changed or older. " How's Monsieur TEERi:, waiter, pray 1 " The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder— " Monsieur is dead this many a day." " It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest Tekeb's run his race.'' " What will Monsieur require for dinner 1 " " Say, do you still cook BoniUabaisse 1 " " Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; " Quel vin Monsieur d^sire-t-il ? " "Tell me a good one."— "That I can. Sir: The Chambertin with yeUow seal." " So Teeee's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place ; " He's done with feasting and with drinking. With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is. The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanished many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face. And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine 1 Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — I'U pledge them in the good old wipe. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace ; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; There's poor old Feed in the Gazette ; On James's head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing. And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 64 BALLADS Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear dear face looked fondly up. And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me — There's no one now to share my cup. I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. — Here comes the smoking BouUlabaisse 1 MAY-DAY ODE BUT yesterday a naked sod The dandies sneered from Eotten Row, And cantered o'er it to and fro : And see 'tis done ! As though 'twere by a wizard's rod A blazing arch of lucid glass Leaps like a fountain from the grass To meet the sun ! A quiet green but few days since, With cattle browsing in the shade : And here are lines of bright arcade In order raised ! A palace as for fairy prince, A rare pavilion, such as man Saw never since mankind began. And built and glazed ! A peaceful place it was but nov/, And lo ! within its shining streets A multitude of nations meets ; A countless throng I see beneath the crystal bow, And Gaul and German, Euss and Turk, Each with his native handiwork And busy tongue. I felt a thrill of love and awe . To mark the different garb of each. The changing tongue, the various speech Together blent : A thrill, methinks, like His who saw " All people dwelling upon earth Praising our God with solemn mirth And one consent." 13 E 66 BALLADS High Sovereign, in your Royal state, Captains, and chiefs, and councillors, Before the lofty palace doors Are open set, — Hush ! ere you pass the shining gate ; Hush ! ere the heaving curtain draws. And let the Royal pageant pause A moment yet. People and prince a silence keep ! Bow coronet and kingly crown. Helmet and plume, how lowly down. The while the priest, Before the splendid portal step (While still the wondrous banquet stays). From Heaven supreme a blessing prays Upon the feast. Then onwards let the triumph march ; Then let the loud artillery roll. And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll, And pass the gate. Pass underneath the shining arch, 'Neath which the leafy elms are green ; Ascend unto your throne, Queen ! And take your state. Behold her in her Royal place ; A gentle lady ; and the hand That sways the sceptre of this land. How frail and weak ! Soft is the voice, and fair the face : She breathes amen to prayer and hymn ; No wonder that her eyes are dim. And pale her cheek. This moment round her empire's shores The winds of Austral winter sweep, And thousands lie in midnight sleep At rest to-day. Oh ! awful is that crown of yours. Queen of innumerable realms Sitting beneath the budding elms Of English May ! MAY-DAY ODE 67 A wondrous sceptre 'tis to bear : Strange mystery of God which set Upon her hrovf yon coronet, — The foremost crown Of all the world, on one so fair ! That chose her to it from her birth, And bade the sons of all the earth To her bow down. The representatives of man Here from the far Antipodes, And from the subject Indian seas, In congress meet ; From Afric and from Hindustan, From Western continent and isle, The envoys of her empire pile Gifts at her feet ; Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides. Loading the gallant decks which once Roared a defiance to our guns, With peaceful store ; Symbol of peace, their vessel rides ! * O'er English waves float Star and Stripe, And firm their friendly anchors gripe The father shore ! From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, As rivers from their sources gush, The swelling floods of nations rush. And seaward pour : From coast to coast in friendly chain. With countless ships we bridge the straits, And angry ocean separates Europe no more. From Mississippi and from Nile — From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorus, In England's ark assembled thus Are friend and guest. Look down the mighty sunlit aisle, And see the sumptuous banquet set, The brotherhood of nations met Around the feast ! * The U.S. frigate St. Lawrence. 68 BALLADS May 1851. Along the dazzling colonnade, Par as the straining eye can gaze, Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase, In vistas bright ; And statues fair of nymph and maid, And steeds and pards and Amazons, Writhing and grappUng in the bronze, In endless fight. To deck the glorious roof and dome. To make the Queen a canopy. The peaceful hosts of industry Their standards bear. Yon are the works of Brahmin loom ; On such a web of Persian thread The desert Arab bows his head And cries his prayer. Look yonder where the engines toil : These England's arms of conquest are. The trophies of her bloodless war : Brave weapons these. Victorious over wave and soil. With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, Pierces the everlasting hills And spans the seas. The engine roars upon its race. The shuttle whirrs along the woof, The people hum from floor to roof. With Babel tongue. The fountain in the basin plays, The chanting organ echoes clear, An awful chorus 'tis to hear, A wondrous song ! Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, March, Queen and Royal pageant, march By splendid aisle and springing arch Of this fair Hall : And see ! above the fabric vast, God's boundless heaven is bending blue, God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through, And shines o'er aU THE PEN AND THE ALBUM " T AM Miss Catherine's book," the Album speaks ; I " I've lain among your tomes these many weeks ; •*■ I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks. " Quick, Pen ! and write a line with a good grace : Come ! draw me ofif a funny little face ; And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place." PEN. " I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen ; I've served him three long years, and drawn since then Thousands of funny women and droll men. " Album ! could I tell you all his ways And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days, Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze ! " ALBUM. " His ways 1 his thoughts 1 Just whisper me a few ; Tell me a curious anecdote or two. And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do ! " PEN. " Since he my faithful service did engage To follow him through his queer pilgrimage, I've drawn and written many a line and page. " Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes. And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes. And merry little children's books at times. 70 BALLADS " I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ; The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain ; The idle word that he'd wish back again. " I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread ; To joke, with sorrow aching in his head ; And make your laughter when his own heart bled. " I've spoke with men of all degree and sort — Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court ; Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport ! " Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago, Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow, Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low ; " Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, Tradesmen's polite reminders of his small Account due Christmas last — I've answer'd all. " Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half- Guinea ; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph ; So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, " Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff, Day after day still dipping in my trough, And scribbling pages after pages off. " Day after day the labour's to be done. And sure as come the postman and the sun, The indefatigable ink must run. " Go back, my pretty little gilded tome. To a fair mistress and a pleasant home, Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come ! " Dear friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit. However rude my verse, or poor my wit, Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it. " Kind lady ! till my last of lines is penn'd. My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end. Whene'er I write your name, may I write fkend ! THE PEN AND THE ALBUM 71 " Not all are so that were so in past years ; Voices, familiar once, no more he hears ; Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears. " So be it : — joys will end and tears will dry Album ! my master bids me wish good-bye, He'll send you to your mistress presently. " And thus with thankful heart he closes you : Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew So gentle, and so generous, and so true. " Nor pass the words as idle phrases by ; Stranger ! I never writ a flattery. Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie." LUCY'S BIRTHDAY SEVENTEEN rose-buds in a ring, Thick with sister flowers beset, In a fragrant coronet, Lucy's servants this day bring. Be it the birthday wreath she wears Fresh and fair, and symbolling The young number of her years, The sweet blushes of lier spring. Types of youth and love and hope ! Friendly hearts your mistress greet, Be you ever fair and sweet. And grow lovelier as you ope ! Gentle nurseling, fenced about With fond care, and guarded so, Scarce you've heard of storms without, Frosts that bite, or winds that blow ! Kindly has your life begun, And we pray that Heaven may send To our floweret a warm sun, A calm summer, a sweet end. And where'er shall be her home, May she decorate the place ; Still expanding into bloom, And developing in grace. THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS "A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that nine-tenths of the men had en- listed on account of some female difficulty." — Morning Paper. YE Yankee volunteers ! It makes my bosom bleed When I your story read, Though oft 'tis told one. So — in both hemispheres The women are untrue, And cruel in the New, As in the Old one ! What — in this company Of sixty sons of Mars, Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn. Nine-tenths of aU we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to join This Hope Forlorn ? Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipp'd her wicked chains, Fled and outran her. And now, with sword and helm, Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Star- Embroider'd banner ! And is it so with all The warriors ranged in line. With lace bedizen'd fine And swords gold-hilted ? 74 BALLADS Yon lusty corporal, Yon colour-man who gripes The flag of Stars and Stripes — Has each been jilted ? Come, each man of this line. The privates strong and tall, " The pioneers and all," The fifer nimble — Lieutenant and Ensign, Captain with epaulets. And Blacky there, who beats The clanging cymbal. — cymbal-beating black. Tell us, as thou canst feel. Was it some Lucy Neal Who caused thy ruin 1 nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin. With thy rat-tat-tooing — Confess, ye volunteers. Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line, As bold as Eoman — Confess, ye grenadiers. However strong and tall, The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman ! No corselet is so proof But through it from her bow The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle. No champion e'er so tough But 's in the struggle thrown, And tripp'd and trodden down By her slim ankle. THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS 75 Thus always it was ruled : And when a woman smiled, The strong man was a child, The sage a noodle. Alcides was befool'd, And silly Samson shorn, Long long ere you were born, Poor Yankee Doodle ! PISOATOR AND PISCATRIX UNES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT AS on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook ^ As though it were a novel-book Amuses and engages : I know them both, the boy and girl ; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My Lord the County's page is. A pleasant place for such a pair ! The fields lie basking in the glare ; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens. Hard by you see the castle tall ; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens. It is too hot to pace the keep ; To climb the turret is too steep ; My Lord the Earl is dozing deep. His noonday dinner over : The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep) : And so from out the gate they creep, And cross the fields of clover. Their lines into the brook they launch ; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion : PISCATOK AND PISOATEIX 77 He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch ; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection ! heedless pair of sportsmen slack ! You never mark, though trout or jack. Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture. What care has she for Une and hook ? She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture. loving pair ! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always. The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder ; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet your beholder. To be brave, handsome, twenty-two ; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo : It were a pleasant calling. And had I such a partner sweet ; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet ; — I'd let the world flow at my feet. And never heed its brawling. SORROWS OF WERTHER WEETHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter ; Would you know how first he met her 1 She was cutting bread and butter, Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out. And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter. Like a well-conducted person. Went on cutting bread and butter. THE LAST OF MAY IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE IST. BY fate's benevolent award, . Should I survive the day, I'U drink a bumper with my lord Upon the last of May. That I may reach that happy time The kindly gods I pray, For are not ducks and peas in prime Upon the last of May ? At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then, My knife and fork shall play ; But better wine and better men I shall not meet in May. And though, good friend, with whom I dine, Your honest head is grey, And, like this grizzled head of mine, Has seen its last of May ; Yet, with a heart that's ever kind, A gentle spirit gay, You've spring perennial in your mind, And round you make a May ! THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS The Poet de- scribes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova. A THOUSAND years ago, or more, A city filled with burghers stout, And girt with ramparts round about, Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore. In armour bright, by day and night. The sentries they paced to and fro. Well guarded and walled was this town, and called By different names, I'd have you to know ; For if you looks in the g'ography books. In those dictionaries the name it varies, And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow. Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil. II. Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt, Kiova within was a place of renown. With more advantages than in those dark ages Were commonly known to belong to a town. There were places and squares, and each year four fairs, And regular aldermen and regular lord mayors ; And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace ; And a church with clocks for the orthodox — With clocks and with spires, as religion desires ; And beadles to whip the bad little boys Over their poor little corduroys. In service-time, when they didn't make a noise ; And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green With ancient trees, underneath whose shades Wandered nice young nursery-maids. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a ring-ding. The bells they made a merry merry ring THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC From the tall tall steeple ; and all the people (Except the Jews) came and filled the pews — Poles, Russians, and Germans, To hear the sermons Which Hyacinth preached to those Germans and Poles For the safety of their souls. III. A worthy priest he was and a stout — You've seldom looked on such a one ; For, though he fasted thrice in a week. Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek ; His waist it spanned two yards about. And he weighed a score of stone. 81 The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kio«E, a godly clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons. How this priest was short and Jat of body. IV. A worthy priest for fasting and prayer And mortification most deserving. And as for preaching beyond compare : He'd exert his powers for three or four hours With greater pith than Sydney Smith Or the Reverend Edward Irving. And like unto the author of "Plymley's Letters." He was the Prior of Saint Sophia (A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know) — Of Saint Sophia, that Church in Kiow, Built by missionaries I can't tell when ; Who by their discussions converted the Russians, And made them Christian men. Of what convent he was prior, and when the convent was built. Sainted Sophia (so the legend vows) With special favour did regard this house ; And to uphold her converts' new devotion Her statue (needing but her legs for her ship) Walks of itself across the German Ocean ; And of a sudden perches In this the best of churches, Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful worship. Of Saint Sophia of Kioif ; and how her statue miraculously travelled thither. 82 BALLADS And how Kioff should have been a happy city ; but that Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachers Recorded here in catalogue precise, A goodly city, worthy magistrates, You would have thought in all the Russian states The citizens the happiest of all creatures, — The town itself a perfect Paradise. . Certain wiclced CoBsacks did besiege it, Murdering the citizens, Until they a^eed to pay a tribute yearly. How they paid the tribute, and: then suddenly refused it. VIII. No, alas ! this well-built city Was in a perpetual fidget ; For the Tartars, without pity, Did remorselessly besiege it. Tartars fierce, with swords and sabres, Huns and Turks, and such as these. Envied much their peaceful neighbours By the blue Borysthenes. Down they came, these ruthless Russians, From their steppes, and woods, and fens, For to levy contributions On the peaceful citizens. Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn, Down they came to peaceful Kiofi^, Killed the burghers when they caught 'em, If their lives they would not buy off. Till the city, quite confounded By the ravages they made. Humbly with their chief compounded. And a yearly tribute paid. Which (because their courage lax was) They discharged while they were able : Tolerated thus the tax was, TiU it grew intolerable. To the wonder of the Cossack envoy. And the Calmuc envoy sent, As before to take their dues all. Got, to his astonishment, A unanimous refusal ! THE GKEAT COSSACK EPIC " Men of Kioff ! " thus courageous Did the stout Lord Mayor harangue them, "Wherefore pay these sneaking wages To the hectoring Russians t hang them ! 83 Of a mighty gallant speech " Hark ! I hear the awful cry of Our forefathers in their graves, ; " ' Fight, ye citizens of Kioff ! Kioff was not made for slaves.' That the Lord Mayor made, ' All too long have ye betrayed her ; Rouse, ye men and aldermen, Send the insolent invader — Send him starving back again." Exhorting the burghers to pay no longer. He spoke and he sat down ; the people of the town. Who were fired with a brave emulation. Now rose with one accord, and voted thanks unto the Lord Mayor for his oration : Of their thanks and heroic resolves. The envoy they dismissed, never placing in his fist So much as a single shilling ; And all with courage fired, as his Lordship he desired. At once set about their drilling. Tliey dismiss the envoy, and set about drilling. Then every city ward established a guard. Diurnal and nocturnal : MUitia volunteers, light dragoons, and bombardiers, With an alderman for colonel. Of the City guard : viz. militia, dragoons, and bombardiers, and their com- manders. There was muster and roll-calls, and repairing city walls. And filling up of fosses : And the captains and the majors, so gallant and courageous, of the majors A -riding about on their bosses. and captains ; To be guarded at all hours they built themselves watch-towers, The fortiflca- With every tower a man on ; ^'tmery* And surely and secure, each from out his embrasure, Looked down the iron cannon ! 84 BALLADS A battle-song was writ for the theatre, where it Was sung with vast energy Of the conduct And rapturous applause ; and besides, the public cause the de1^°."*"* ^^ supported by the clergy. The pretty ladies'-maids were pinning of cockades, And tying on of sashes ; And dropping gentle tears, while their lovers bluster'd fierce About gunshot and gashes ; Of the ladies, The ladies took the hint, and all day were scraping lint. As became their softer genders ; And got bandages and beds for the limbs and for the heads Of the city's brave defenders. The men, both young and old, felt resolute and bold, And panted hot for glory ; And, Hnaiiy, of Even the tailors 'gan to brag, and embroidered on their flag, *"' **'"'"'• " AUT WINCEBB AUT MOKI." Of the Cossack chief, — his stratagem ; X. Seeing the city's resolute condition, The Cossack chief, too cunning to despise it. Said to himself, "Not having ammunition Wherewith to batter the place in proper form, Some of these nights I'll carry it by storm, And sudden escalade it or surprise it. And the bur- ghers' sillie victorie. " Let's see, however, if the cits stand flrmish.'' He rode up to the city gates ; for answers, Out rushed an eager troop of the town Slite, And straightway did begin a gallant skirmish : The Cossack hereupon did sound retreat, Leaving the victory with the city Jancers. What prisoners they took, They took two prisoners and as many horses, And the whole town grew quickly so elate With this small victory of their virgin forces. That they did deem their privates and commanders So many Csesars, Pompeys, Alexanders, Napoleons, or Fredericks the Great. THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC 85 And puffing with inordinate conceit They utterly despised these Cossack thieves ; And thought the ruffians easier to beat Than porters carpets think, or ushers boys. Meanwhile, a sly spectator of their joys, The Cossack captain giggled in his sleeves. And how con- ceited they were " Whene'er you meet yon stupid city hogs " (He bade his troops precise this order keep), " Don't stand a moment — run away, you dogs ! " 'Twas done ; and when they met the town battalions, The Cossacks, as if frightened at their vaJiance, Turned tail, and bolted like so many sheep. They fled, obedient to their captain's order : And now this bloodless siege a month had lasted. When, viewing the country round, the city warder (Who, like a faithful weathercock, did perch Upon the steeple of Saint Sophy's church). Sudden his trumpet took, and a mighty blast he blasted. His voice it might be heard through all the streets (He was a warder wondrous strong in lung), " Victory, victory ! the foe retreats ! " " The foe retreats ! " each cries to each he meets ; " The foe retreats ! " each in his turn repeats. Gfods ! how the guns did roar, and how the joy-bells rung ! Of the Cossack chief, — his orders ; And how he feigned a retreat. The warder pro- clayms the Cos- sacks' retreat, and the citie greatly rejoyces. Arming in haste his gallant city lancers, The Mayor, to learn if true the news might be, A league or two out issued with his prancers. The Cossacks (something had given their courage a damper) Hastened their flight, and 'gan like mad to scamper ; Blessed be all the saints, Kiova town was free ! XI. Now, pufied with pride, the Mayor grew vain, Fought all his battles o'er again ; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 'Tis true he might amuse himself thus. And not be very murderous ; 86 BALLADS For as of those who to death were done The number was exactly none, His Lordship, in his soul's elation, Did take a bloodless recreation — The manner of Going home again, he did ordain re:foydiS, ^ '^^^ Splendid cold collation For the magistrates and the corporation ; Likewise a grand illumination For the amusement of the nation. , That night the theatres were free. The conduits they ran Malvoisie ; Each house that night did beam with light And sound with mirth and jollity : And its impiety. But shame, shame ! not a soul in the town. Now the city was safe and the Cossacks flown, Ever thought of the bountiful saint by whose care The town had been rid of these terrible Turks — Said ever a prayer to that patroness fair For these her wondrous works ! How the priest. Lord Hyacinth waited, the meekest of priors — waWe" at' He waited at church with the rest of his friars ; church, and He went there at noon and he waited till ten, thither. ^™ Expecting in vain the Lord Mayor and his men. He waited and waited from mid-day to dark ; But in vain — you might search through the whole of the church. Not a layman, alas ! to the city's disgrace. From mid-day to dark showed his nose in the place. The pew-woman, organist, beadle, and clerk, Kept away, from their work, and were dancing like mad Away in the streets with the other mad people, Not thinking to pray, but to guzzle and tipple Wherever the drink might be had. XII. How he went Amidst this din and revelry throughout the city roaring, forth to bid m. •] -i i.i ji- i • i ■ them to prayer. ^ "^ Silver moon rose silently, and high in heaven soaring ; Prior Hyacinth was fervently upon his knees adoring : " Towards my precious patroness this conduct sure unfair is ; I cannot think, I must confess, what keeps the dignitaries And our good Mayor away, unless some business them con- traries." THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC 87 He puts his long white mantle on, and forth the Prior sallies — (His pious thoughts were bent upon good deeds and not on malice) : Heavens ! how the banquet lights they shone about the Mayor's palace ! About the hall the scullions ran with meats both fresh and How the grooms Tiottpd • and lacqueys putieUj jeered him. The pages came with cup and can, all for the guests allotted ; Ah, how they jeered that good fat man as up the stairs he trotted ! He entered in the ante-rooms where sat the Mayor's court in ; He found a pack of drunken grooms a-dicing and a-sporting ; The horrid wine and 'bacco fumes, they set the Prior a-snorting ! The Prior thought he'd speak about their sins before he went hence. And lustily began to shout of sin and of repentance ; The rogues, they kicked the Prior out before he'd done a sentence ! And having got no portion small of buffeting and tussling. At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat the Mayor a-guzzling. And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white sprig muslin. Around the table in a ring the guests were drinking And the mayor, !,„„_„ . mayoress, and "^"'' ■' ' aldermen, being They drank the Church, and drank the King, and the Army tipsie, refused and the Navy; to go to church. In fact they'd toasted everything. The Prior said, " God save ye ! " The Mayor cried, "Bring a silver cup — there's one upon the buffet ; And, Prior, have the venison up — it's capital rdehauff^. And so. Sir Priest, you've come to sup? And pray you, how's Saint Sophy ? " 88 BALLADS The Prior's face quite red was grown with horror and with anger ; He flung the proffered goblet down — it made a hideous clangour ; And 'gan a^preaching with a frown — he was a fierce haranguer. He tried the Mayor and aldermen — they all set up a-jeering : He tried the common-councilmen — they too began a- sneering : He turned towards the May'ress then, and hoped to get a hearing. He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the muslin snowy, " To church, to church, my sweet mistress ! " lie cried : " the way I'U show ye." Alas, the Lady Mayoress fell back as drunk as Chloe ! XIII. How the Prior Out from this dissolute and drunken Court w n ac a one, Went the good Prior, his eyes with weeping dim : He tried the people of a meaner sort — They too, alas, were bent upon their sport, And not a single soul would follow him ! But all were swigging schnapps and guzzling beer. He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and spouses, Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses : Alas, unthinking of the danger near ! One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded. The rest were sharing in the general feast : " God wot, our tipsy town is poorly warded ; Sweet Saint Sophia help us ! " cried the priest. Alone he entered the cathedral gate. Careful he locked the mighty oaken door ; Within his company of monks did wait, A dozen poor old pious men — no more. Oh, but it grieved the gentle Prior sore. To think of those lost souls, given up to drink and fate ! brethren. THE GEEAT COSSACK EPIC 89 The mighty outer gate well barred and fast, And shut him- The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones, sophia^B chapel And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones, J'''!\,*'" They through the solitary chancel passed. The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast. And rendered, ghost-Uke, melancholy tones. Onward the fathers sped, till coming nigh a Small iron gate, the which they entered quick at, They locked and double-locked the inner wicket And stood within the chapel of Sophia. Vain were it to describe this sainted place, Vain to describe that celebrated trophy, The venerable statue of Saint Sophy, Which formed its chiefest ornament and grace. Here the good Prior, his personal griefs and sorrows In his extreme devotion quickly merging. At once began to pray with voice sonorous ; The other friars joined in pious chorus, And passed the night in singing, praying, scourging, In honour of Sophia, that sweet virgin. XIV. Leaving thus the pious priest in The episode Humble penitence and prayer, ^Unka.*"'* And the greedy cits a^feasting. Let us to the walls repair. Walking by the sentry-boxes. Underneath the silver inoon, Lo ! the sentry boldly cocks his — Boldly cocks his musketoon. Sneezofif was his designation. Fair-haired boy, for ever pitied ; For to take his cruel station. He but now Katinka quitted. Poor in purse were both, but rich in Tender love's delicious plenties ; She a damsel of the kitchen. He a haberdasher's 'prentice. 90 BALLADS 'Tinka, maiden tender-hearted, Was dissolved in tearful fits, On that fatal night she parted From her darling fair-haired Fritz. Warm her soldier lad she wrapt in Comforter and muffettee ; Called him " general " and " captain," Though a simple private he. " On your bosom wear this plaster, 'Twill defend you from the cold ; In your pipe smoke this canaster — Smuggled 'tis, my love, and old. " All the night, my love, I'll miss you." Thus she spoke ; and from the door Fair-haired Sneezoff made his issue. To return, alas, no more. He it is who calmly walks his Walk beneath the silver moon ; He it is who boldly cocks his Detonating musketoon. He the bland canaster puffing. As upon his round he paces, Sudden sees a ragamuffin Clambering swiftly up the glacis. " Who goes there f " exclaims the sentry ; " When the sun has once gone down No one ever makes an entry Into this here fortified town ! " How the sentne Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff: Sneezoff was -d , t ■, surprised and J5ut, ere any one replied, *'*y"- Wretched youth ! he fired his piece off, Started, staggered, groaned, and died ! THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC 91 Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, " Who goes there 1 " But echo was frightened too much to declare. Who goes there 1 who goes there "i Can any one swear To the number of sands sur les lords de la mer, Or the whiskers of D'Orsay count down to a hair t As well might you tell of the sands the amount, Or number each hair in each curl of the Count, As ever proclaim the number and name Of the hundreds and thousands that up the wall came ! Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with sword : There were thieves from the Danube and rogues from the Don ; There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting Cossacks ; Of all nations and regions, and tongues and religions — Jew, Christian, idolater, Frank, Mussulman : Ah, a horrible sight was Kioff that night ! The gates were all taken — no chance e'en of flight ; And with torch and with axe the bloody Cossacks Went hither and thither a-hunting in packs : They slashed and they slew both Christian and Jew — Women and children, they slaughtered them too. Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats. Or the river — but oh, they had burned all the boats ! How the CoB- Backs rushed in suddenly and took the citie. Of the Cossack troops, And of their manner of burning, mur- deringj and ravishing. But here let us pause — for I can't pursue further This scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther. Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed ! His plan of attack was successful indeed ! The night was his own — the town it was gone ; 'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone. One building alone had escaped from the fires. Saint Sophy's fair church, with its steeples, and spires. Calm, stately, and white. It stood in the light ; And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power, — As if nought had occurred. Might clearly be heard The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour ! How they burned the whole citie down, save the church. Whereof the bells began to ring. BALLADS How the Cossack chief bade them hum the church too. How they stormed it ; and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat, XVI. The city was defunct — silence succeeded Unto its last fierce agonising yells ; And then it was the conqueror first heeded The sound of these calm bells. Furious towards his aides-de-camp he turns, And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew) " Villains ! " he fiercely cries, " the city burns. Why not the temple too? Burn me yon church, and murder aU within ! " The Cossacks thundered at the outer door ; And Father Hyacinth, who heard the din, (And thought himself and brethren in distress. Deserted by their lady patroness) Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes outpour. His prayer to the Saint Sophia. . " And is it thus, falsest of the saints. Thou hearest oiu- complaints ? Tell me, did ever my attachment falter To serve thy altar 1 Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep, The last upon my lip 1 Was not thy name the very first that broke From me when I awoke 1 Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance. And mortified count&ance For to find favour, Sophy, in thy sight 1 And lo ! this night, Forgetful of my prayers and thine own promise, Thou turnest from us ; Lettest the heathen enter in our city. And, without pity. Murder our burghers, seize upon their spouses, Bum down their houses ! Is such a breach of faith to be endured ? See what a lurid Light from the insolent invader's torches Shines on your porches ! E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer And hideous clamour, THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC 93 With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, The conquering foemen, O Sophy ! beat your gate about your ears, Alas ! and here's A humble company of pious men, Like muttons in a pen, Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted. Because in you they trusted. Do you not know the Oalmuc chief's desires — Kill all the peiaes ! And you, of all the saints most false and fickle, Leave us in this abominable pickle." " Rash HyACINTHUS ! " The statue sud- (Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, '*™"* ^^^"^^ Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws, Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers. Began), " I did not think you had been thus, — monk of little faith ! Is it because A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen Besiege our town, that you distrust in me, then '! Think'st thou that I, who in a former day Did walk across the sea of Marmora (Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas), — That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes, Without so much as wetting of my toes, Am frightened at a set of men like those ? 1 have a mind to leave you to your fate : Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires." Saint Sophy was here But is inter- Cut short in her words, — toe^?ng'in''of For at this very moment in tumbled the gate, *^^ Cossacks. And with a wild cheer. And a clashing of swords. Swift through the church porches, With a waving of torches. And a shriek and a yell Like the devils of hell. With pike and with axe In rushed the Cossacks, — In rushed the Cossacks, crying, " Muedee the peiaes ! " (}4 Of Hyacinth, his courageous address ; BALLADS Ah ! what a thrill felt Hyacinth, When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc ! Now, thought he, my trial beginneth ; Saints, give me courage and pluck ! " Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk ! " Thus unto the friars he began : " Never let it be said that a monk Is not likewise a gentleman. Though the patron saint of the church, Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd, Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch, Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid ? " And preparation for dying. As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke, He, with an air as easy and as free as If the quick- coming murder were a joke. Folded his robes around his sides, and took Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak. Like Osesar at the statue of Pompeius. The monks no leisure had about to look (Each being absorbed in his particular case), Else had they seen with what celestial grace A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face. Saint Sophia, her speech. " Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son ! " Thus spoke the sainted statue, " Though you doubted me in the hour of need, And spoke of me very rude indeed, You deserve good luck for showing such pluck, And I won't be angry at you." She gets on the Prior's shoulder straddlebaclc, And bids him run. The monks bystanding, one and all. Of this wondrous scene beholders. To this kind promise listened content, And couldn't contain their astonishment. When Saint Sophia moved and went Down from her wooden pedestal, And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs. Round Hyacinthus's shoulders ! " Ho ! forwards," cries Sophy, " there's no time for waiting, The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in : See, the glare of their torches shines red through the grating; We've still the back door, and two minutes or more. " THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC 95 Now, boys, now or never, we must make for the river, For we only are safe on the opposite shore. Eun swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran, — Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man ; And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through, Only scamper as fast as you can." XTIII. Away went the priest through the little back door, He'runneth And light on his shoulders the image he bore : The honest old priest was not punished the least, Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four. Away went the Prior, and the monks at his tail Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail ; And just as the last at the back door had passed, In furious hunt behold at the front The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers ; With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears. With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in. They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the psalter, They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar ; The vestments they burned -with their blasphemous fires. And many cried, " Curse on them ! where are the friars 1 " When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more. One chanced to fling open the little back door. Spied out the friars' white robes and long shadows In the moon, scampering over the meadows. And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons. By crying out lustily, " Theee go the parsons ! " With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout, And the Tartars At once the whole murderous body turned out ; *'**'' ''™' And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon. Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion. When the sound of that cheering came to the monks' How the friars 1 . sweated, heanng, O Heaven ! how the poor fellows panted and blew ! At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running. When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they dol " They'll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars ! " Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh. 96 BALLADS The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew nearer ; Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights shone ! " I cannot get further, this running is murther ; Come carry me, some one ! " cried big Father John. And even the statue grew frightened : " Od rat you ! " It cried, " Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on ! " On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with fire. On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's desire, — A scramble through bramble, through mud, and through mire. The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness. Nigh done his business, fit to expire, Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they tugged after : The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter. And the pur- And hurl'd their long spears round the poor brethren's ears arrowsfnto ^° *''"^! ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^V ^^ ^^^ '^°^^ °f ^^'^^ priest, their tayis. Though never a wound was given, there were found A dozen arrows at least. How, at the last Now the chase seemed at its worst, sasp, Prior and monks were fit to burst ; Scarce you knew the which was first, Or pursuers or pursued ; When the statue, by Heaven's grace, Suddenly did change the face Of this interesting race. As a saint, sure, only could. For as the jockey who at Epsom rides, When that his steed is spent and punished sore, Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides, And thereby makes him run one or two furlongs more ; Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the ninth. The saint rebuked the Prior, that weary creeper ; Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted, One bound he made, as gay as when he started. The friars won, Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak, BowsSfs'"'" '^^^ ^*^*"^ o'l ^i^ shoulders— fit to choke— fluvius. One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth, And soused friars, statue, and all, slapdash into the Dnieper ! THE GKEAT COSSACK EPIC 97 XIX. And when the Russians, in a fiery rank, Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore ; (For here the vain pursuing they forbore, Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank) ; Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank, A sight they witnessed never seen before, And which, with its accompaniments glorious. Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus. And how the KusBiauB saw Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and friends, - They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke. When suddenly his most miraculous cloak Over the billowy waves itself extends, Down from his shoulders quietly descends The venerable Sophy's statue of oak ; Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample, Bids all the brethren follow its example ! The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars on Hyacinth his cloak. Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease ; The statue 'gan a gracious conversation, And (waving to the foe a salutation) Sail'd with her wondering happy prot^g^s Gaily adown the wide Borysthenes, Until they came unto some friendly nation. And when the heathen had at length grown shy of ■ Their conquest, she one day came back again to Kioff. How in this manner of boat they sayled away. XX. Think not, Reader, that we'ee laughing at you ; Finis, or the You MAY GO to KiOPF NOW AND SEE THE STATUE ! *'"'• POCAHONTAS WEARIED arm and broken sword Wage in vain the desperate fight : Eound Mm press a countless horde, He is but a single knight. Hark ! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As, with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still. Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light ; Ah ! 'tis hard to die of fire ! Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd. Cold the victim's mien, and proud, And his breast is bared to die. Who will shield the fearless heart 1 Who avert the murderous blade 1 From the throng, with sudden start, See there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight : " Loose the chain, unbind the ring ; I am daughter of the King, And I claim the Indian right ! " Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted axe and thirsty knife ; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life ! In the woods of Powhattan, Still 'tis told by Indian fires, How a daughter of their sires Saved the captive Englishman. FROM POCAHONTAS RETURNING from the cruel fight How pale and faint appears my knight ! He sees me anxious at his side ; " Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide ? Or deem your English girl afraid To emulate the Indian maid 1 " Be mine my husband's grief to cheer, In peril to be ever near ; Whate'er of ill or woe betide. To bear it clinging at his side ; The poisoned stroke of fate to ward, His bosom with my own to guard : Ah ! could it spare a pang to his. It could not know a purer bliss ! 'Twould gladden as it felt the smart. And thank the hand that flung the dart ! VANITAS VANITATUM HOW spake of old the Royal Seer 1 (His text is one I love to treat on.) This life of ours, he said, is sheer Mataiotes Mataioteton. Student of this gilded Book, Declare, while musing on its pages, If truer words were ever spoke By ancient or by modern sages ? The various authors' names but note,* French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans . And in the volume polyglot. Sure you may read a hundred sermons ! What histories of life are here. More wild than all romancers' stories ; What wondrous transformations queer, What homilies on human glories ! What theme for sorrow or for scorn ! What chronicle of Fate's surprises — Of adverse fortune nobly borne, Of chances, changes, ruins, rises ! Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke. How strange a record here is written ! Of honours, dealt as if in joke ; Of brave desert unkindly smitten. * Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the Turkish Ambassador, in Madame de R 's album, containing the autographs of kings, princes, poets, marshals, musicians, diplomatists, statesmen, artists, and men of letters of all nations. VANITAS VANITATUM 101 How low men were, and how they rise ! How high they were, and how they tumble ! O vanity of vanities ! laughable, pathetic jumble ! Here between honest Janin's joke And his Turk Excellency's firman, I write my name upon the book ; I write my name — and end my sermon. Vanity of vanities ! How wayward the decrees of Fate are ; How very weak the very wise. How very small the very great are ! What mean these stale moralities. Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble 1 Why rail against the great and wise, And tire us with your ceaseless grumble 1 Pray choose us out another text, man morose and narrow-minded ! Come turn the page — I read the next, And then the next, and still I find it. Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, And Folly set in place exalted ; How Princes footed in the dust, While lacqueys in the saddle vaulted. Though thrice a thousand years are past Since David's son, tlie sad and splendid, The weary King Ecclesiast, Upon his awful tablets penned it, — Methinks the text is never stale. And life is every day renewing Fresh comments on the old old tale Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruui. 102 BALLADS Hark to the Preacher, preaching still He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, Here at St. Peter's on Oornhill, As yonder on the Mount of Hermon : For you and me to heart to take (0 dear beloved brother readers) To-day as when the good King spake Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. LITTLE BILLEE* Air — " II y avait un petit navire." THERE were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she. There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They'd nothing left but one split pea. Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, " I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, " We've nothing left, us must eat we." Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, " With one another we shouldn't agree ! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he. " Oh ! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information He used his pocket-handkerchie. " First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mammy taught to me." ' Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. * As different versions of this popukir song have been set to music and sung, no apology is needed for the insertion in these pages of what is con- sidered to be the correct version. 104 BALLADS So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee. He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps. " There's land I see : " Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee : There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." So when they got aboard of the Admiral's He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee ; But as for little Bill he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three. MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN WRITTEN IN A lady's ALBUM COMING from a gloomy court, Place of Israelite resort, This old lamp I've brought with me. Madam, on its panes you'll see The initials K and E." " An old lantern brought to me'? Ugly, dingy, battered, black ! " (Here a lady I suppose Turning up a pretty nose) — " Pray, sir, take the old thing back. I've no taste for bric-a-brac." " Please to mark the letters twain " — (I'm supposed to speak again) — "Graven on the lantern pane. Can you tell me who was she, Mistress of the flowery wreath, And the anagram beneath — The mysterious K E 1. Full a hundred years are gone Since the little beacon shone From a Venice balcony : There, on summer nights, it hung, And her lovers came and sung To their beautiful K E. " Hush ! in the canal below Don't you hear the splash of oars Undenie^th the lantern's glow. loe BALLADS And a thrilling voice begins To the sound of mandolins ? — Begins singing of amore And delire and dolore — the ravishing tenore ! " Lady, do you know the tune ? Ah, we all of us have hummed it ! I've an old guitar has thrummed it. Under many a changing moon. Shall I try iti i)o ee MI .. . What is this ] Ma foi, the fact is, That my hand is out of practice. And my poor old fiddle cracked is, " And a man — I let the truth out, — Who's had almost every tooth out. Cannot sing as once he sung, When he was young as you are young, When he was young and lutes were strung. And love-lamps in the casement hung." CATHERINE HAYES Part I. IN the reign of King George and Queen Amie, In Swift's and in Marlborough's days, There lived an unfortunate man, A man by the name of John Hayes. A decent respectable life, And rather deserving of praise, Lived John, but his curse was his wife — His horrible wife Mrs. Hayes. A heart more atrociously foul Never beat under any one's stays : As eager for blood as a ghoul Was Catherine the wife of John Hayes. By marriage and John she was bored (He'd many ridiculous traits) ; And she hated her husband and lord, This infamous, false Mrs. Hayes. When madness and fury begin. The senses they utterly craze ; She called two accomplices in. And the three of 'em killed Mr. Hayes. And when they'd completed the act, The old Bailey Chronicle says. In several pieces they hacked The body of poor Mr. Hayes. The body and limbs of the dead They buried in various ways. And into the Thames flung his head. And there seemed an end of John Hayes. 108 BALLADS The head was brought back by the tide, And what was a bargeman's amaze One day, in the mud, when he spied The horrible head of John Hayes ! In the front of St. Margaret's church (Where the Westminster Scholars act plays) They stuck the pale head on a perch. None knew 'twas the head of John Hayes. Long time at the object surprised. Did all the metropolis gaze. Till some one at last recognised The face of the late Mr. Hayes. And when people knew it was he They went to his widow straightways, For who could the murderess be. They said, but the vile Mrs. Hayes 1 As sooner or later 'tis plain For wickedness every one pays. They hanged the accomplices twain, And burned the foul murderess Hayes. And a writer who scribbles in prose. And sometimes poetical lays, The terrible tale did compose Of Mr. and Mrs. John Hayes. Part II. Where Shannon's broad wathers pour down And rush to the Imerald seas, A lady in Limerick Town Was bred, and her name it was Hayes. Her voice was so sweet and so loud, So favoured her faytures to playse. No wonder that Oireland was proud Of her beautiful singer. Miss Hayes. CATHERINE HAYES 109 At Neeples and Doblin the fair (In towns with whose beautiful bays I'd loike to see England compare) Bright laurils were awarded Miss Hayes. When she'd dthrive in the Phaynix for air, They'd take out the horse from her chaise, For we honour the gentle and fair, And gentle and fair was Miss Hayes. When she gracefully stepped on the steage Our thayatre boomed with huzzays : And each man was glad to obleege, And longed for a look of Miss Hayes. A Saxon who thinks that he dthraws Our porthralts as loike as two pays, Insulted one day without cause. Our innocent singer, Miss Hayes. And though he meant somebody else (At layst so the raycreant says. Declaring that history tells Of another, a wicked Miss Hayes), Yet Ireland, the free and the brave. Says, what's that to do with the case ? How dare he, the cowardly slave, To mintion" the name of a Hayes 1 In vain let him say he forgot. What base hypocritical pleas ! The miscreant ought to be shot : How dare he forget our Miss Hayes ! The Freeman in language refined, The Post whom no prayer can appayse. Lashed fiercely the wretch who maligned The innocent name of a Hayes. no BALLADS And Grattan upraises the moight Of his terrible arrum, and flays The sides of the shuddering wight That ventured to speak of a Hayes. Accursed let his memory be, Who dares to say aught in dispraise Of Oireland, the land of the free, And of beauty and janius and Hayes. LOYE-SONGS MADE EASY LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY N SERENADE OW the toils of day are over, And the sun hath sunk to rest, Seeking, like a fiery lover, The bosom of the blushing West — The faithful night keeps watch and ward. Raising the moon her silver shield. And summoning the stars to guard The slumbers of my fair Mathilde ! The faithful night ! Now all things lie Hid by her mantle dark and dim, In pious hope I hither hie. And humbly chant mine evening hymn. Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine ! (For never holy pilgrim kneel'd Or wept at feet more pure than thine). My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde ! THE MINARET BELLS TINK-A-TINK, tink-a-tink, By the light of the star, On the blue river's brink, I heard a guitar. I heard a guitar On the blue waters clear, And knew by its mjisic That Selim was near ! Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink, How the soft music swells, And I hear the soft clink Of the minaret beUs ! GOME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE COME to the greenwood tree, Come where the dark woods be, Dearest, O come with me ! Let us rove — my love — my love ! Come — 'tis the moonlight hour : Dew is on leaf and flower : Come to the linden bower, — Let us rove — O my love — my love ! Dark is the wood, and wide ; Dangers, they say, betide ; But, at my Albert's side, Nought I fear, my love — my love ! Welcome the greenwood tree. Welcome the forest free, Dearest, with thee, with thee, Nought I fear, my love — my love ! TO MARY I SEEM, in the midst of the crowd, The lightest of all ; My laughter rings cheery and loud In banquet and ball. My lip hath its smiles and its sneers. For all men to see ; But my soul, and my truth, and my tears, Are for thee, are for thee ! Around me they flatter and fawn — The young and the old, The fairest are ready to pawn Their hearts for my gold. They sue me — I laugh as I spurn The slaves at my knee ; But in faith and in fondness I turn Unto thee, unto thee ! WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW? THE MAYFAIE LOVE-SONG WINTER and summer, night and morn, I languish at this table dark ; My office window has a corn- er looks into St. James's Park. I hear the foot-guards' bugle horn, Their tramp upon parade I mark ; I am a gentleman forlorn, I am a Foreign-Office Clerk. My toils, my pleasures, every one, I find are stale, and dull, and slow ; And yesterdaj', when work was done, I felt myself so sad and low, I could have seized a sentry's gun My wearied brains out out to blow. What is it makes my blood to run ? What makes my heart to beat and glow ? My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps 1 Some one has paid my tailor's bill ? No : every morn the tailor raps ; My I U's are extant still. I still am prey of debt and dun ; My elder brother's stout and well. What is it makes my blood to run 1 What makes my heart to glow and swell ? I know my chief's distrust and hate ; He says I'm lazy, and I shirk. Ah ! had I genius like the late Right Honourable Edmund Burke ! 118 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY My chance of all promotion's gone, I know it is, — he hates me so. What is it makes my blood to run, And all my heart to swell and glow ? Why, why is all so bright and gay 1 There is no change, there is no cause ; My office-time I found to-day Disgusting as it ever was. At three, I went and tried the Clubs, And yawned and saunter'd to and fro ; And now my heart jumps up and throbs, And all my soul is in a glow. At half-past four I had the cab ; I drove as hard as I could go. The London sky was dirty drab. And dirty brown the London snow. And as I rattled in a cant- er down by dear old Bolton Row, A something made my heart to pant. And caused my cheek to flush and glow. What could it be that made me find Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club ? Why was it that I laughed and grinned At whist, although I lost the rub ? What was it made me drink like mad Thirteen small glasses of Cura9ao ? That made my inmost heart so glad. And every fibre thrill and glow 1 She's home again ! she's home, she's home ! Away all cares and griefs and pain ; I knew she would — she's back from Rome ; She's home again ! she's home again ! "The family's gone abroad," they said, September last — they told me so ; Since then ray lonely heart is dead, My blood, I think's forgot to flow. WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO GLOW? 119 She's home again ! away all care ! O fairest form the world can show ! beaming eyes ! golden hair ! tender voice, that breathes so low ! gentlest, softest, purest heart ! O joy, hope ! — " My tiger, ho ! " Fitz-Clarence said ; we saw him start — He galloped down to Bolton Row. THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG THE ROCKS I WAS a timid little antelope ; My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks. I saw the hunters scouring on the plain ; I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks. I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat ; I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks. Zuleikah brought me water from the well ; Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. I saw her face reflected in the well ; Her camels since have marched into the rocks. I look to see her image in the well : I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. My mother is alone among the rocks. THE MERRY BARD ZULEIKAH ! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly grey. Praise be to Allah ! I am a merry bard. There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to Allah ! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming. There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to Allah ! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard. The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul. I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah ! I am a merry bard. THE CAIQUE YONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caique. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek. Quick ! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak. Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores. Swift bending to your oars. Beneath the melancholy sycamores, Hark ! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours ! Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright. As mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. Under the boughs I sat and listened still, I could not have my fill. "How comes," I said, "such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill." " Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, "But looked upon the Rose; And in the garden where the loved one grows, I straightway did begin sweet music to compose." " bird of song, there's one in this caique The Rose would also seek. So he might learn like you to love and speak." Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, " The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek." M7 NORA BENEATH the gold acacia buds My gentle Nora sits and broods, Far, far away in Boston woods, My gentle Nora ! I see the tear-drop in her e'e. Her bosom's heaving tenderly ; I know — I know she thinks of me, My darling Nora ! And where am I ? My love, whilst thou Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough. Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow, I stand, my Nora ! Mid carcanet and coronet. Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set — Where England's chivalry are met, Behold me, Nora ! In this strange scene of revelry. Amidst this gorgeous chivalry, A form I saw was like to thee, My love, my Nora ! She paused amidst her converse glad ; The lady saw that I was sad, She pitied the poor lonely lad, — Dost love her, Nora t In sooth, she is a lovely dame, A lip of red, and eye of flame. And clustering golden locks, the same As thine, dear Nora ! 124 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY Her glance is softer than the dawn's, Her foot is lighter than the fawn's, Her breast is whiter than the swan's. Or thine, my Nora ! Oh, gentle breast to pity me ! Oh, lovely Ladye Emily ! Till death— till death I'll think of thee— Of thee and Nora ! FIVE GERMAN DITTIES TO A VERY OLD WOMAN LA MOTTE FOUQTJE "Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare." AND thou wert once a maiden fair, A blushing virgin warm and young : ^ With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, And glossy brow that knew no care — Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung. The golden locks are silvered now, The blushing cheek is pale and wan ; The spring may bloom, the autumn glow, All's one — in chimney comer thou Sitt'st shivering on.- A moment — and thou sink'st to rest ! To wake perhaps an angel blest In the bright presence of thy Lord. Oh, weary is life's path to all ! Hard is the strife, and light the fall. But wondrous the reward ! A CREDO FOR the sole edification Of this decent congregation, Goodly people, by your grant I will sing a holy chant — I will sing a holy chant. If the ditty sound but oddly, 'Twas a father, wise and godly. Sang it so long ago — Then sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang : " Who loves not wine, woman, and song, He is a fool his whole life long ! " II. He, by custom patriarchal, LovBd to see the beaker sparkle ; And he thought the wine improved, Tasted by the lips he loved — By the kindly lips he loved. Friends, I wish this custom pious Duly were observed by us, To combine love, song, wine. And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang : " Who loves not wine, woman, and sonr He is a fool his whole life long ! " THE CHAPLET FROM UHLAND " Es pfluekte Bliimlein mannigfalt." A LITTLE girl through field and wood Went plucking flowerets here and there, When suddenly beside her stood A lady wondrous fair. The lovely lady smiled, and laid A wreath upon the maiden's brow : " Wear it ; 'twill blossom soon," she said, " Although 'tis leafless now." The little maiden older grew And wandered forth of moonlight eves, And sighed and loved as maids will do ; When, lo ! her wreath bore leaves. Then was our maid a wife, and hung Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom ; When from the garland's leaves there sprung Fair store of blossom. And presently a baby fair Upon her gentle breast she reared ; When midst the wreath that bound her hair Rich golden fruit appeared. But when her love lay cold in death, Sunk in the black and silent tomb, All sere and withered was the wreath That wont so bright to bloom. Yet still the withered wreath she wore ; She wore it at her dying hour ; When, lo ! the wondrous garland bore Both leaf, and fruit, and flower ! THE KING ON THE TOWER PROM UHLAND " Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Hohen." THE cold grey hills they bind me around, The darksome valleys lie sleepiiig helow, But the winds, as they pass o'er all this ground, Bring me never a sound of woe. Oh ! for all I have suffered and striven, Care has embfttered my cup and my feast ; But liere is the night and the dark blue heaven, And my soul shall be at rest. golden legends writ in the skies ! I turn towards you with longing soul. And list tt/ t"M awful HSrrnonies Of the Spheres as on they roll. My hair is grey and my sight uigh gone ; My sword it rusteth upon the wall ; Right have I spoken, and right have I done ; When shall I rest me once for all 1 blessed rest ! royal night ! Wherefore seemeth the time so long Till I see yon stars in their fullest light, And list to their loudest song ? TO A VERY OLD WOMAN LA MOTTE FOUQTJE "Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare." AND thou wert once a maiden fair, A blushing virgin warm and young : ^ With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, And glossy brow that knew no care — Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung. The golden locks are silvered now, The blushing cheek is pale and wan ; The spring may bloom, the autumn glow. All's one — in chimney comer thou Sitt'st shivering on.- A moment — and thou sink'st to rest ! To wake perhaps an angel blest In the bright presence of thy Lord. Oh, weary is life's path to all ! Hard is the strife, and light the fall. But wondrous the reward ! A CREDO FOR the sole edification Of this decent congregation, Goodly people, by your grant I will sing a holy chant — I will sing a holy chant. If the ditty sound but oddly, 'Twas a father, wise and godly, Sang it so long ago — Then sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang : " Who loves not wine, woman, and song, He is a fool his whole life long ! " 11. He, by custom patriarchal, LovBd to see the beaker sparkle ; And he thought the wine improved. Tasted by the lips he loved — By the kindly hps he loved. Friends, I wish this custom pious Duly were observed by us. To combine love, song, wine. And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang : " Who loves not wine, woman, and son,':', He is a fool his whole life long ! " 132 PIVE GERMAN DITTIES III. Who refuses this our Credo, And who will not sing as we do, Were he holy as John Knox, I'd pronounce him heterodox ! I'd pronounce him heterodox. And from out this congregation, With a solemn commination, Banish quick the heretic. Who will not sing as Luther sang. As Doctor Martin Luther sang : " Who loves not wine, woman, and song, He is a fool his whole life long ! " FOUR IMITATIONS OF BEHANGER FOIJE IMITATIONS OF BERANGER LE ROI B'YVETOT IL ^tait un roi d'Yvetot, Peu connu dans I'histoire, Se levant tard, se couchant tot, Dormant fort bien sans gloire, Et couronn^ par Jeanneton D'un simple bonnet de coton. Dit-on. Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! Quel bon petit roi c'^tait Ik! La, la. II fesait ses quatre repas Dans son palais de chaume, Et sur un ane, pas k pas, Parcourait son royaume. Joyeux, simple, et croyant le bien, Pour toute garde il n'avait rien Qu'un chien. Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c II n'avait de golit on&eux Qu'une soif un peu viva ; Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux, II faut bien qu'un roi vive ; Lui-mgme h, table, et sans supp6t, Sur chaque muid levait un pot D'impot. Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. 136 FOUR IMITATIONS OF STRANGER Aux filles (le bonnes inaisons Comme il avait su plaire, Ses sujets avaient cent raisons De le nommer leur pfere : D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban Que pour tirer quatre fois I'an Au blanc. Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. II n'agrandit point ses ^tats, Fut un voisin commode, Et, module des potentats, Prit le plaisir pour code. Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira, Que le peuple qui I'enterra Pleura. Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. On conserve encor le portrait De ce digne et bon prince ; O'est I'enseigne d'un cabaret Fameux dans la province. Les jours de f§te, bien souvent, La foule s'^crie en buvant Devant : Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. THE KING OF YVETOT THERE was a king of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said, Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days abed ; And every night, as night came round. By Jenny with a nightcap crowned, Slept very sound : Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! That's the kind of king for me. And every day it came to pass. That four lusty meals made he ; And, step by step, upon an ass, Rode abroad, his realms to see ; And wherever he did stir. What think you was his escort, sir ? Why, an old cur. Sing ho, ho, ho ! &c. If e'er he went into excess, 'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst ; But he who would his subjects bless, Odd's fish ! — must wet his whistle first ; And so from every cask they got. Our king did to himself allot At least a pot. Sing ho, ho! &c. To all the ladies of the land, A courteous king, and kind, was he — The reason why, you'll understand. They named him Pater Patriae. Each year he called his fighting men. And marched a league from home, and then Marched back again. Sing ho, ho! &c. 138 FOUR IMITATIONS OF Bl^RANGER Neither by force nor false pretence, He sought to make his kingdom great, And made (0 princes, leam from hence) — " Live and let live," his rule of state. 'Twas only when he came to die. That his people who stood by. Were known to cry. Sing ho, ho ! &c. The portrait of this best of kings Is extant still, upon a sign That on a village tavern swings. Famed in the country for good wine. The people in their Sunday trim. Filling their glasses to the brim, Look up to him, Singing ha, ha, ha ! and he, he, he That's the sort of king for me. THE KING OF BRENTFORD ANOTHER VEESION THERE was a king in Brentford, — of whom no legends tell, But who, without his glory, — could eat and sleep right well. His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crown of state. He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings late. All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four meals. And for a guard of honour — a dog ran at his heels ; Sometimes, to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this monarch good. And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrode. There were no costly habits — ^with which this king was curst, Except (and where's the harm on't X) — a somewhat lively thirst ; But people must pay taxes, — and kings must have their sport. So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a quart. He pleased the ladies round him, — with manners soft and bland ; With reason good, they named him — the father of his land. Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in gallant show ; Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they were tow. He vexed no quiet neighbour, — no useless conquest made, But by the laws of pleasure — his peaceful realm he swayed. And in the years he reigned, — through all this country wide. There was no cause for weeping, — save when the good man died. The faithful men of Brentford — do still their king deplore. His portrait yet is swinging — beside an alehouse door. And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest phiz, And envy times departed, — that knew a reign like his. LE GRENIER JE viens re voir I'asile oil ma jeunesae De la misfere a subi les lemons. J'avais vingt ans, une foUe maltresse, De francs amis et Tamour des chansons. Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages, Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, Leste et joyeux je montais six Stages. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien "k vingt ans ! C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on I'ignore. Lk fut mon lit, bien cli^tif et bien dur ; Lk fut ma table ; et je retrouve encore Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnds sur le mur. Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel Sge, Que d'un coup d'aile a fustigds le temps : Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien k vingt ans ! Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre, Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau ; D^jk sa main k I'^troite fengtre Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette ; Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. J'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien k vingt ans ! A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'alWgresse : A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. Le canon gronde ; un autre chant commence ; Nous c^Wbrons tant de faits dclatans. Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien k vingt ans ! LE GRENIER ]41 Quittons ce toit oil ma raison s'enivre. Oh ! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettfe ! J'^changerais ce qu'U. me reste k vivre Contra un des mois qu'ici Dieu m'a compt^, Pour rgver gloire, amour, plaisir, folie, Pour d^penser sa vie en pen d'instans, D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien k vingt ans ! THE GARRET WITH pensive eyes the little room I view, Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long, With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two. And a light heart still breaking into song : Making a mock of life and all its cares. Rich in the glory of my rising sun. Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs. In the brave days when I was twenty-one. Yes ; 'tis a garret — let him know't who wiU — There was ray bed — full hard it was and small ; My table there — and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Oome to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and ifun ; For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. And see my little Jessy, first of all ; She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes : Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise ; Now by the bed her petticoat glides down. And when did woman look the worse in none ? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. One jolly evening, when my friends and I Made happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high. And distant cannon opened on our ears : We rise, — we join in the triumphant strain, — Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won — Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. THE GARRET 143 Let us begone — the place is sad and strange — How far, far off, these happy times appear ; All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here — To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun. And drink all life's quintessence in an hour. Give me the days when I was twenty-one. B0QER-B0NTEMP8 A UX gens atrabilaires /-* Pour exemple donnd, ■* *■ En un temps de misferes Roger-Bontemps est nd. Vivre obscur k sa guise, Narguer les mdoontens ; Eh, gai ! c'est la devise Du gros Roger-Bontemps. Du chapeau de son pfere Coiffd dans les grands jours ; De roses ou de lierre Le rajeunir toujours ; Mettre un manteau de bure, Vieil ami de vingt ans ; Eh, gai ! c'est la parure Du gros Roger-Bontemps. Possdder dans sa hutte Une table, un vieux lit, Des cartes, une illite, Un broc que Dieu remplit ; Un portrait de maltresse, Un coffre et rien dedans ; Eh, gai ! c'est la richesse Du gros Roger-Bontemps. Aux enfans de la ville Montrer de petits jeux ; Etre feseur habile De contes graveleux ; Ne parler que de danse Et d'almanachs chantans : Eh, gai ! c'est la science Du gros Roger-Bontemps. EOGER-BONTEMPS 145 Faute de vins d'^te, Sabler ceux du canton : PrdKrer Marguerite Aux dames du grand ton : De joie et de tendresse Eemplir tous ses instans : Eh, gai ! c'est la sagesse Du gros Koger-Bontenips. Dire au ciel : Je me fie, Mon pfere, k ta bont^ ; De ma philosophie Pardonne la galt^ : Que ma saison demifere Soit encore un printemps ; Eh, gai ! c'est la prifere Du gros Eoger-Bontemps. Vous pauvreB, pleins d'envie, Vous riches, d&ireux, Vous, dont le char d^vie Aprfes un cours heureux : Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre Des titres Platans, Eh, gai ! prenez jwur maitre Le gros Roger-Bontemps. JOLLY JACK WHEN fierce political debate Throughout the isle was storming, And Kads attacked the throne and state, And Tories the reforming, To calm the furious rage of each, And right the land demented. Heaven send us Jolly Jack, to teach The way to be contented. Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, His chair, a three-legged stool ; His broken jug was emptied oft, Yet, somehow, always full. His mistress' portrait decked the wall, His mirror had a crack ; Yet, gay and glad, though this was all His wealth, Hved Jolly Jack. To give advice to avarice, Teach pride its mean condition. And preach good sense to dull pretence, Was honest Jack's high mission. Our simple statesman found his rule Of moral in the flagon, And held his philosophic school Beneath the " George and Dragon." When village Solons cursed the Lords, And called the malt-tax sinful, Jack heeded not their angry words. But smiled and drank his skinful. And when men wasted health and life In search of rank and riches. Jack marked aloof the paltry strife, And wore his threadbare breeches. JOLLY JACK 147 " I enter not the church," he said, " But I'll not seek to rob it ; " So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, While others studied Cobbett. His talk it was of feast and fun ; His guide the Almanack ; From youth to age thus gaily run The life of Jolly Jack. And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, He humbly thanked his Maker ; " I am," said he, " Father good ! Nor Catholic nor Quaker : Give each his creed, let each proclaim His catalogue of curses ; I trust in Thee, and not in them, In Thee and in Thy mercies ! " Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, No hint I see of damning ; And think there's faith among the Turks, And hope for e'en the Brahmin. Harmless my mind is, and my mirth. And kindly is my laugliter ; I cannot see the smiling earth. And think there's hell hereafter." Jack died ; he left no legacy. Save that his story teaches : — Content to peevish poverty ; Humility to riches. Ye scornful great, ye envious small. Come follow in his track ; We all were happier, if we all Would copy Jolly Jack. IMITATION OF HOEACE IMITATION OF HOEACE TO HIS SERVING BOY PERSICOS odi, Puer, apparatus; Displicent nexae Philyra coronse : Mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum Sera moretur. Simplici myrto Nihil allabores, Sedulus, euro : Neque te ministrum Dedecet myrtus, Neque me sub arctS, Vite bibentem. AB MINISTRAM DEAR Lucy, you know what my wish is,- I hate all your Frenchified fuss : Your siUy entries and made dishes Were never intended for us. No footman in lace and in ruffles Need dangle behind my arm-chair ; And never mind seeking for truffles, Although they be ever so rare. But a plain leg of mutton, my Liicy, I prithee get ready at three : Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy, And what better meat can there be ? And when it has feasted the master, 'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, And tipple my ale in the shade. OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES FRIAR'S SON'G SOME love the matin-chimes, which tell The hour of prayer to sinner : But better far's the mid-day bell. Which speaks the hour of dinner ; For when I see a smoking fish. Or capon drown'd in gravy, Or noble haunch on silver dish. Full glad I sing ray aye. My pulpit is an alehouse bench, Whereon I sit so jolly ; A smiling rosy country wench My saint and patron holy. I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, I press her ringlets wavy, And in her willing ear I speak A most religious ave. And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind, And holy saints forgiving ; For sure he leads a right good life Who thus admires good living. Above, they say, our flesh is air. Our blood celestial ichor : Oh, grant ! mid all the changes there. They may not change our liquor ! KING CANUTE KING CANUTE was weary-hearted ; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more ; And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore. 'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate. Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, — all tlie officers of state. Sliding after like a shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws; If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws. But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young : Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favourite gleemen sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue. " Something ails my gracious master,'' cried the Keeper of the Seal. " Sure, my Lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal 1 " "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch. "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel. " 'Tis the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair ; Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care ? Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary." — Some one cried, " The King's arm-chair ! " KING CANUTE 157 Then towards the lacqueys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King's great chair was brought him by two footmen able-bodied ; Languidly he sank into it : it was comfortably wadded. " Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, " over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered ! Where was glory like to mine ? " Loudly all the courtiers echoed : " Where is glory like to thine 1 " " What avail me all my kingdoms ■? Weary am I now and old ; Those fair sons I have begotten long to see me dead and cold ; Would I were, and quiet buried underneath the silent mould ! " Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent ! at my bosom tears and bites ; Horrid horrid things I look on, though I put out all tlie lights ; Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights. " Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires ; Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered sires." — " Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, " every one admires. " But for such unpleasant bygones cease, my gracious lord, to search, They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church ; Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch. "Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty raised ; Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised : You, my Lord, to think of dying ? on my conscience I'm amazed ! " " Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, " that my end is drawing near." "Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear). " Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year.'' " Live these fifty years ! " the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit. "Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute? Men have lived a thousand years, and sure His Majesty will do't. 158 OLD FKIENDS WITH NEW FACES " Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainaii, Mahaleel, Methuselah, Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as they r' "Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "fervently I trust he may.'' "He to die % " resumed the Bishop. " He a mortal like to vs ? Death was not for him intended, though communis om,nibus : Keeper, you are irreligious for to talk and cavil thus. " With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet ; Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet. " Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still 1 So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will." " Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bishop 1 " Canute cried ; " Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide. " Will the advancing waves obey me. Bishop, if I make the sign t " Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my Lord, are thine.'' Canute turned towards the ocean — " Back ! " he said, " thou foaming brine. " From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat ; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat : Ocean, be thou still ! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet ! " But the sullen ocean answered with a louder deeper roar, And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore ; Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the King and courtiers bore. And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey ; And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. King Canute is dead and gone : Parasites exist alway. THE WILLOW-TREE KNOW ye the willow-tree Whose grey leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river? Lady, at eventide Wander not near it : They say its branches hide A sad, lost spirit ! Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful ; Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful. Soon as she saw the tree. Her step moved fleeter ; No one was there — ah me ! No one to meet her ! Quick beat her heart to hear The far bells' chime ToU from the chapel-tower The trysting time : But the red sun went down In golden flame. And though she looked round, Yet no one came ! Presently came the night. Sadly to greet her, — Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter ; Then sank the moon away Under the billow, Still wept the maid alone — There by the willow ! 160 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling. Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly ; Shrill came the night-wind, Piercing and chilly. Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold. Bleak peers the grey dawn Over the wold. Bleak over moor and stream Looks the grey dawn. Grey, with dishevelled hair, Still stands the willow there — The maid is gone ! Domiine, Domine I Sing we a litany. Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary ; Domine, Domine ! Sing we a litany. Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere 1 13 THE WILLOW-TREE ANOTHER VERSION LONG by the wDlow-trees Vainly they sought her, -' Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the grey water : " Where is my lovely one 1 Where is my daughter? II. " Eouse thee, Sir Constable — ■ Eouse thee and look ; Fisherman, bring your net. Boatman, your hook. Beat in the Uly-beds, Dive in the brook ! " Vainly the constable Shouted and called her ; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder ; Vainly he flung the net. Never it hauled her ! IV. Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in ; 162 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping ! V. And a pale countenance Looked through the casement, Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her. Shrieked in an agony — " Lor ! it's Elizar ! " VI. Yes, 'twas Elizabeth — Yes, 'twas their girl ; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. " Mother ! " the loving one. Blushing, exclaimed, " Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed. VII. "Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-hey ! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep." VIII. Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her. That we shall never know. Stern they received her ; THE WILLOW-TREE l63 And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night, Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight. IX. MORAL Hey diddle diddlety. Gat and the Fiddlety, Maidens of England, take caution by she t Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key. WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS WHEN moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft efifulgeiice swells, When silver jews and balmy br^ze Bend down the Lily's bells ; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline ! E lady mine ! Dost thou remember Jeames ? I mark thee in the Marble All, Where England's loveliest shine — I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse. With recollection teems — And then I hask, with weeping lips. Dost thou remember Jeames ? Away ! I may not teE thee hall This soughring heart endures — There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures ; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams ; It is the Star of Hope — but ar ! Dost thou remember Jeames i ATRA CUBA BEFOKE I lost my five poor wits, I mind me of a Komish clerk, Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, Beside the belted horseman sits. Methought I saw the grisly sprite Jump up but now behind my Knight, And though he gallop as he may, I mark that cursM monster black Still sits behind his honour's back, Tight squeezing of his heart alway. Like two black Templars sit they there Beside one crupper. Knight and Care. No knight am I with pennoned spear To prance upon a bold destrere : I will not have black Care prevail Upon my long-eared charger's tail ; For lo, I am a witless fool. And laugh at Grief and ride a mule. COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL THE Pope he is a happy man, His Palace is the Vatican, And there he sits and drains his can : The Pope he is a happy man. I often say when I'm at home, I'd like to be the Pope of Rome. And then there's Sultan Saladin, That Turkish Soldan full of sin ; He has a hundred wives at least, By which his pleasure is increased : I've often wished, I hope no sin, That I were Sultan Saladin. But no, the Pope no wife may choose, And so I would not wear his shoes ; No wine may drink the proud Paynim, And so I'd rather not be him : My wife, my wine, I love, I hope, And would be neither Turk nor Pope, u REQUIESGAT NDER the stone you behold, Buried, and coflBned, and cold, Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold. Always he marched in advance, Warring in Flanders and France, Doughty with sword and with lance. Famous in Saracen fight. Rode in his youth the good knight, Scattering Paynims in flight. Brian, the Templar untrue, Fairly in tourney he slew, Saw Hierusalem too. Now he is buried and gone, Lying beneath the grey stone : Where shall you find such a one ? Long time his widow deplored. Weeping the fate of her lord, Sadly cut off by the sword. When she was eased of her pain, Came the good Lord Athelstane, When her Ladyship married again. DEAR JACK DEAR Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of Sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot — In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass. And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass. One morning in summer, while seated so snug. In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug. Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, " Honest Thomas, come take your last bier." We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From vhich let ns drink to the health of my Nan. WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN WHEN the moonlight's on the mountain And the gloom is on the glen, At the cross beside the fountain There is one will meet thee then. At tlie cross beside the fountain, Yes, the cross beside the fountain. There is one will meet thee then ! I have braved, since first we met, love, Many a danger in my course ; But I never can forget, love. That dear fountain, that old cross, Wliere, her mantle shrouded o'er her — For the winds were chilly then — First I met my Leonora, When the gloom was on the glen. Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, Many a land I've wandered o'er ; But a valley like that glen, love, Half 80 dear I never sor ! Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer. Than wert thou, my true love, when In the gloaming first I saw yer. In the gloaming of the glen ! THE RED FLAG WHERE the quivering lightning flings His arrows from out the clouds, And the howling tempest sings And whistles among the shrouds, 'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride Along the foaming brine — Wilt be the Rover's bride? Wilt follow him, lady mine? Hurrah ! For the bonny bonny brine. Amidst the storm and rack. You shall see our galley pass, As a serpent, lithe and black, Glides through the waving grass. As the vulture, swift and dark, Down on the ring-dove flies. You shall see the Rover's bark Swoop down upon his prize. Hurrah ! For the bonny bonny prize Over her sides we dash. We gallop across her deck — Ha ! there's a ghastly gash On the merchant-captain's neck — Well shot, well shot, old Ned ! Well struck, well struck, black James ! Our arms are red, and our foes are dead. And we leave a ship in flames ! Hurrah ! For the bonny bonny flames ! THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON* UNTRUE to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er : My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd. As I gave you the Battle-Axe marked with your crest ! When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball ? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride. Was there ever a smile save with Thee at my side ? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your Banneb and broider your crest. ♦ "WAPPING OLD STAIRS "Your Molly has never been false, she declares, Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs ; When I said that I would continue the same, And gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name. When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you, Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew ? To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd, For his trousers I washed, and hia grog too I made. Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sail, In silence I stood your unkindness to hear. And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sail, or should Susan, than me be more prized ? For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised, Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake ; Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog too I'll make." 172 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES The knights were assembled, the toumey was gay ! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mSl^e. In the dire battle-hour, when the toumey was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won ! Though I never reproached thee, cold cold was my breast. As I thought of that Battle- Axe, ah ! and that crest ! But away with remembrance, no more will I pine That others usurped for a time what was mine ! There's a Festival Hour for my Ulric and me : Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee ; Once more by the side of the knight I love best Shall I blazon his Banner and broider his crest. THE ALMAGK'S ADIEU YOUR Fauny -was never false-hearted, And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House ! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget ; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette ! We spent en province all December, And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses ; Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses. And the smartest black satin cravat ! At night with that vUe Lady Frances (Jefaisais moi tapisserie) You danced every one of the dances. And never once thought of poor me ! Mon pauvre petit coeur I what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set ; And you gave, mon Dieu I to revive her My beautiful vinegarette ! Return, love ! away with coquetting ; This flirting disgraces a man ! And ah ! all the while you're forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan ! Reviens I break away from those Circes, Reviens, for a nice little chat ; And I've made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat ! LYEA HIBEUNICA THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY LYEA HIBERNICA THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY THE ROSE OF FLORA SENT BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF QUALITY TO JIISS BR-DY, OF CASTLE BEADY ON Brady's tower there grows a flower, It is the loveliest flower that blows, — At Castle Brady there lives a lady, (And how I love her no one knows) ; Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora Presents her with this blooming rose. " O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora, " I've many a rich and bright parterre ; In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers, But you're the fairest lady there : Not aR the county, nor Ireland's bounty. Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair ! " What cheek is redder ? sure roses fed her ! Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let. That darkly glistens with gentle jew ! The lily's nature is not surely whiter Than Nora's neck is, — and her arrums too. " Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora " My dearest creature, take my advice : There is a poet, full well you know it, Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs, — • Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry. If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise." THE PIMLICO PAVILION YE pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, Descind from your station and make observation Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico. This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know) And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico. 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row. Forgetful what state is among the pataties And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico. There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus Of " God save the Queen " as they hop to and fro ; And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico. There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses That round in the gardens resplindently grow, Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins. Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico. You see when you inthcr, and stand in the cinther. Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico. And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid You see on its summit a wondtherful show — A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, The famous Pavihon of sweet Pimlico. THE PIMLICO PAVILION 179 Prince Albert of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow), With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico. There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that's shaped liked a bow ; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed Pimlico. lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque ; And while round the chamber astonished I go, 1 think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico. Eastlake has the chimney (a good one to limn he), And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below ; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers. Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico. And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it ; O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow : But Sir Ross's best faiture is small miniature — He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico. There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings ; There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show ; And the flowers and the sthrawberries, sure he no dauber is. That painted the panels of famed Pimlico. In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio ; And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in. And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico. There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles, too, deserve a bravo ; Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janius abounds in't ;) And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico. 180 LYRA HIBERNICA That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, But some I won't mintion is rather so so ; For sweet philosdphy, or crumpets and coffee, O Where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico "i to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero ; So, heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, And silence, my lyre ! about sweet Pimlico. LARRY 0' TOOLE YOU'VE all heard of Larry O'Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole ; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by — Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l ! A fool He made of de girls, dis O'Toole. 'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, That tuck down pataties and mail ; He never would shrink From any sthrong dthrink, Was it whisky or Drogheda ale ; I'm bail This Larry would swallow a pail. Oh, many a night at the bowl, With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl ; He's gone to his rest. Where there's dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl. THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK r ' E Genii of the nation, Who look with veneration, And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore ; Ye sons of General Jackson, Who thraraple on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug, With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valliance Insthructed his battalions To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. Since that capitulation. No city in this nation So grand a reputation could boast before. As Limerick prodigious. That stands with quays and bridges, And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. A chief of ancient line, 'Tis William Smith O'Brine, Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more : the Saxons can't endure To see him on the flure. And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore ! This valiant son of Mars Had been to visit Par's, That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor ; And to welcome his returrn From pilgrimages furren, We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore ! THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK 183 Then we summoned to our board Young Meagher of the Sword ; 'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore : And Mitchil of Belfast We bade to our repast, To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. Convaniently to hould These patriots so bould, We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store ; And with omamints and banners (As becomes gintale good manners) We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore. 'Twould binifit your sowls, To see the butthered rowls. The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, And the muffins and the crumpets, And the band of harps and thrumpets, To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. Sure the Imperor of Bohay Would be proud to dthrink the tay That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour ; And, since the days of Strongbow, There never was such Congo — Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it — by Shannon shore. But Clamdon and Corry Connellan beheld this sworry With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core ; And they hired a gang of ruffins To interrupt the muffins And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore. When full of tay and cake, O'Brine began to spake ; But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar Of a ragamuffin rout Began to yell and shout, And frighten the projiriety of Shannon shore. 184, LYRA HIBERNICA As Smith O'Brine harangued, They batthered and they banged : Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore ; They smashed the lovely windies (Hung with musKn from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. With throwing of brickbats. Drowned puppies and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower ; Tin kettles, rotten eggs. Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs. They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. the girls began to scrame And upset the milk and crame ; And the honourable gintlemin, they cursed and swore : And Mitchil of Belfast, 'Twas he that looked aghast. When they roasted him in eflSgy by Shannon shore. O the lovely tay was spilt On that day of Ireland's guilt ; Says Jack Mitchil, " I am kilt ! Boys, where's the back door ? 'Tis a national disgrace : Let me go and veil me face ; " And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore. " Cut down the bloody horde ! " Says Meagher of the Sword, " This conduct would disgrace any blackamore ; " But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore. Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line ; 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar ; In his glory he arose. And he rusli'd upon his foes. But, they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK 185 Then the Futt and the Dthragoons In squadthrons and platoons, With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore ; And they bate the rattatoo, But the Peelers came in view, And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. MR. MOLONTS ACCOUNT OF THE BALL GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY OWILL ye choose to hear the news, Bedad I cannot pass it o'er : I'll tell you all about the Ball To the Naypaulase Ambassador. Begor ! this ffite all balls does bate At which I've worn a pump, and I Must here relate the splendthor great Of th' Oriental Company. These men of sinse dispoised expinse. To fete these black Achilleses. " We'll show the blacks," says they, " Almack's, And take the rooms at Willis's." With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, They hung the rooms of Willis up, And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, With roses and with lilies up. And Jullien's band it tuck its stand So sweetly in the middle there, And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, And violins did fiddle there. And when the Coort was tired of spoort, I'd lave you, boys, to think there was A nate buffet before them set. Where lashins of good dthrink there was. At ten before the ballroom door, His moighty ExceU^noy was. He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, So gorgeous and immense he was. ME. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL 187 His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, Into the doorway followed him ; And the noise of the blackguard boys, As they hurrood and hollowed him ! The noble Chair * stud at the stair, And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he Did thus evince, to that Black Prince, The welcome of his Company. O fair the girls, and rich the curls. And bright the oys you saw there was, And fixed each oye, j'e there could spoi. On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was ! This Gineral great then tuck his sate. With all the other giuerals (Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, All bleezed with precious minerals) ; And as he there, with princely air, Eecloinin on his cushion was. All round about his royal chair The squeezin and the pushin was. O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls, Such fashion and nobilitee ! Just think of Tim, and fancy him Amidst the hoigh gentilitee ! There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese Ministher and his lady there. And I reckonised, with much surprise, Oiu: messmate. Bob O'Grady, there ; There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, And Baroness Rehausen there. And Countess RouIUer, that looked peculiar AVell, in her robes of gauze in there. There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first, When only Mr. Pips he was). And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, That after supper tipsy was. * James Mathesou, Esquire, to whom, and the Board of Directors of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker on board the Iberia, the Lady Mary Wood, the Tagus, and the Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful muse. 188 LYRA HIBEKNICA There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, And Lords Eileen and Duiferin, And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife ; I wondther how he could stuff her in.. There was Lord Belfast, that by me past. And seemed to ask how should I go there ? And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, And the Marchioness of Sligo there. Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; And some beside (the rogues !) I spied. Behind the windies, coorting there. 0, there's one I know, bedad, would show As beautiful as any there, And I'd like to hear the pipers blow. And shake a fut with Fanny there ! THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of Hek Majesty's Godless Colleges, Master Molloy Molony, brother of Thaddeus Molony, Esq., of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the following spirited lines : — AS I think of the insult that's done to this nation, /-\ Red tears of rivinge from me faytures I wash, -* *■ And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation, The sleeves that appointed Peofessoe MacCosh. I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience, And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise, — Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schoUars, grammarians, All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise ; I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion ; Laed Jahn and his minions in Council I ask. Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion) But children of Erin were fit for that task ? What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition ? What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun. To think that our countree has ne'er a logician In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun ! On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance. And, rather from Saxon than gather its rules, I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science, And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools ! false SiE John Kane ! is it thus that you praych me 1 I think all your Queen's Universitees Bosh ; And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me, I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon MacCosh. 190 LYEA HIBERNICA There's Wiseman and Chume, and his Grace the Lord Primate, That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe ; 'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate. And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe ! 'Tia there as a Student of Science I'll enther, Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint ! Saint Pathrick's sweet Statue shall stand in the centher, And wink his dear oi every day during Lint. And good Doctor Newman, that praycher unwary, 'Tis he shall preside the Academee School, And quit the gay robe of St. Philip of Neri, To wield the soft rod of St. Lawrence O'Toole ! THE CRYSTAL PALACE WITH ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing, The Palace made o' windows ! Say, Paxton, truth. Thou wondthrous youth. What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial. would before That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of godlike song. Cast oi on that cast oiron ! And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums. My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there ; Her wings she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles. And cracks her silly brains there. 192 lyua hibeenica This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which Imperors might covet, Stands in High Park, Like Noah's Ark, A rainbow bint above it. The towers and fanes. In other scaynes. The fame of this will undo. Saint Paul's big doom. Saint Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo. 'Tis here that roams. As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And lioulds in state The Congress of the Nations. Her subjects pours From distant shores. Her Injians and Canajians ; And also we. Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance. Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian ; Prom East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean. I seen (thank Grace !) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honour Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pass. And let me see what is there). THE CRYSTAL PALACE 193 With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring. There's holy saints And window paints. By Maydiayval Pugin ; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in. There's fountains there And crosses fair ; There's water-gods with urrns : There's organs three, To play, d'ye see 1 " God save the Queen," by turrns. There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper ; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper. There's staym ingynes, That stands in lines. Enormous and amazing. That squeal and snort Like whales in sport. Or elephants a-grazing. There's carts and gigs. And pins for pigs. There's dibblers and there's harrows, And ploughs like toys For little boys. And iligant wheelbarrows. 13 194 LYEA HIBERNICA For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em : There's droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium. There's cabs on stands And shandthrydanns ; There's waggons from New York liere ; There's Lapland sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And jaunting cyars from Cork here. Amazed I pass From glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em ; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum ! Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A sabre from Damasco : There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow. There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples macaronies ; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay ; Polonia her polonies. There's granite flints That's quite imminse. There's sacks of coals and fuels. There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And gingerbread and jewels. THE CRYSTAL PALACE 195 There's taypots there, And cannons rare ; There's coffins fill'd with roses ; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints. And shuits of clothes by Moses. There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't reraimber ; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber ! Ah, Judy thru ! With eyes so blue. That you were here to view it ! And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it ! So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition. 1851. MOLONTS LAMENT OTIM, did you hear of thim Saxons, And read what the peepers report 1 They're goan to recal the Liftinant, And shut up the Castle and Coort ! Our desolate counthry of Oireland They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, And now having murdthered our counthry, They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy ; 'Twas he was our proide and our joy ! And will we no longer behould him, Surrounding his carriage in throngs, As he waves his cocked-hat from the windies, And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs 1 I liked for to see the young haroes. All shoining with sthripes and with stars, A horsing about in the Phaynix, And winking the girls in the cyars, Like Mars, A smokin' their poipes and cigyars. Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies, Your beautiful cUids you'll ope, And there'll be an abondance of croyin' From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope, When they read of this news in the peepers, Acrass the Atlantical wave. That the last of the Oirish Liftinints Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. God save The Queen — she should betther behave. MOLONY'S LAMENT 197 And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, And who'll ait the puflfe and the tarts, Whin the Ooort of iraparial splindor From Doblin's sad city departs 1 And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers, When the deuce of a Coort there remains ? And where'U be the bucks and the ladies, To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains 1 In sthrains, It's thus that ould Erin complains ! There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy, 'Twas she in the Ooort didn't fail, And she wanted a plinty of popplin, For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail ; She bought it of Misthress O'Grady, Eight shillings a yard tabinet, But now that the Ooort is concluded, The diwle a yard will she get ; I bet, Bedad, that she wears the old set. There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs' ; Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson. They mounted the neatest of wigs. When Spring, with its buds and its dasies, Oomes out in her beauty and bloom, Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, Becase there is no dthrawing-room, For whom They'd choose the expense to ashumc. There's Alderman Toad and his lady, 'Twas they gave the Olart and the Poort, And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters, To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort. But now that the quality's goin, I warnt that the aiting will stop. And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble The devil a bite or a dthrop, Or chop ; And the butcher may shut up his shop. 198 LYRA HIBERNICA Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin, And his Lordship, the dear honest man, And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy. And Oorry, the bould Connellan, And little Lord Hyde and the chUdthren, And the Chewter and Governess tu ; And the servants are packing their boxes,— Oh, murther, but what shall I due Without you ? O Meery, with ois of the blue ! BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS A NEW PALLICE COUET CHAUNT ONE sees in Viteall Yard, Vere pleacemen do resort, A wenerable hiiistitute, 'Tis caUed the Pallis Court. A gent as got his i on it, I think 'twill make some sport. The natiir of this Court My hindignation riles : A few fat legal spiders Here set & spin their viles ; To rob the town theyr privlege is, In a hayrea of twelve miles. The Judge of this year Court Is a mellitary beak, He knows no more of Lor Than praps he does of Greek, And prowides Jiisself a deputy Because he cannot speak. Four counsel in this Court — Misnamed of Justice — sits ; These lawyers owes their places to Their money, not their wits ; And there's six attornies under them, As here their living gits. 202 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X These lawyers, six and four, Was a livin at their ease, A sendin of their ■writs abowt, And droring in the fees, When there erose a cirkimstance As is like to make a breeze. It now is some monce since A gent both good and trew Possest an ansum oss vith vich He didn know what to do ; Peraps he did not like the oss, Peraps he was a scru. This gentleman his oss At Tattersall's did lodge ; There came a wulgar oss-dealer. This gentleman's name did fodge, And took the oss from Tattersall's : Wasn that a artful dodge ? One day this gentleman's groom This villain did spy out, A mounted on this oss A lidin him about ; " Get out of that there oss, you rogue,' Speaks up the groom so stout. The thief was cruel whex'd To find himself so pinn'd : The oss began to whinny. The honest groom he grinn'd ; And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind. And phansy with what joy The master did regard His dearly bluvd lost oss again Trot in the stable j'ard ! JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS 203 Who was this master good Of whomb I makes these rhymes 1 His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire ; And if FA committed crimes, Good Lord ! I wouldn't ave that manu Attack me in the Times I Now shortly after the groomb His master's oss did take up, There came a livery-man This gentleman to wake up ; And he handed in a little bill, Which h angered Mr. Jacob. For two pound seventeen This livery-man eplied. For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss. Which the thief had took to ride. " Do you see anythink green in me ? " Mr. Jacob Homnium cried. • " Because a raskle chews My oss away to robb. And goes tick at your Mews For seven-and-fifty bobb. Shall / be call'd to pay 1 — It is A iniquitious Jobb." Thus Mr. Jacob cut The conwasation short ; The livery-man went ome, Detummingd to ave sport, And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court. Pore Jacob went to Court, A Counsel for to fix. And choose a barrister out of the four. An attorney of the six : And there he sor these men of Lor, And watch'd 'em at their tricks. 204 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X The dreadful day of trile In the Pallis Court did come ; The lawyers said their say, The Judge look'd wery glum, And then the British Jury cast Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um. a weary day was that For Jacob to go through ; The debt was two seventeen (Which he no mor owed than you), And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two. And then there was his own. Which the lawyers they did fix At the wery moderit figgar Of ten pound one and six. Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, And all its bold ver-dicks ! I cannot settingly tell If Jacob swaw and cust. At aving for to pay this sumb ; But I should think he must. And av drawn a cheque for £24 4s. 8d. With most igstreme disgust. Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound. A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt With two-and-twenty pound. Good sport it is to you To grind the honest pore, To pay their just or unjust debts With eight liundred per cent, for Lor ; Make haste and get your costes in, Thev will not last much mor ! JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS 205 Come down from that tribewn, Thou shameless and Unjust ; Thou Swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth august : Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy, For die thou shalt and must. And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply your iron pen. And rise up. Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den : That sty for fattening lawyere in On the bones of honest men. Pleaceman X. THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS MY name is Pleaceman X ; Last night I was in bed, A (Ireaui did me perplex, Which came into my Edd. I dreamed I sor three Waits A playing of their tune, At Pimlico Palace gates, All underneath the moon. One puffed a hold French horn, And one a hold Banjo, And one chap seedy and torn A Hirish pipe did blow. They sadly piped and played, Dexcribing of their fates ; And this was what they said, Those three pore Christmas Waits :- "When this black year began. This Eighteen-forty-eight, I was a great great man, And king both vise and great, • And Munseer Guizot by me did show As Minister of State. " But Febuwerry came, And brought a rabble rout, And me and my good dame And children did turn out. And us, in spite of all our right, Sent to the right about. " I left my native ground, I left my kin and kith, THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS 207 I left my Royal crownd, Vich I couldn't travel vith, And without a pound came to English ground In the name of Mr. Smith. " Like any anchorite I've lived since I came here, I've kep myself quite quite, I've drank the small small beer. And the vater, you see, disagrees vith me And aU my famly dear. " Tweeleries so dear, darling Pally Royl, Vas it to finish here That I did trouble and toyl ? That all my plans should break in my ands, And should on me recoil ? ' My state I fenced about Vith baynicks and vith guns ; My gals I portioned hout. Rich vives I got my sons ; varn't it crule to lose my rule. My money and lands at once ? " And so, vith arp and woice, Both troubled and shagreened, I bid you to rejoice, glorious England's Queend ! And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep, Because you out are cleaned. " Prins, so brave and stout, I stand before your gate ; Pray send a trifle hout To me, your pore old Vait ; For nothink could be vuss than it's been along vith us In this year Forty-eight." 208 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X " Ven this bad year began," The nex man said, saysee, " I vas a Journeyman, A taylor black and free, And my wife went out and chaired about. And my name's the bold Cuffee. " The Queen and Halbert both I swore I would confound, I took a hawfle hoath To drag them to the ground ; And sevral more with me they swore Aginst the British Crownd. " Aginst her Pleaceman all We said we'd try our strenth ; Her scarlick soldiers tall We vow'd we'd lay full lenth : And out we came, in Freedom's name. Last Aypril was the tenth. " Three 'undred thousand snobs Came out to stop the vay, Vith sticks vith iron knobs. Or else we'd gained the daj'. The harmy quite kept out of sight. And so ve vent avay. " Next day the Pleacemen came — Kewenge it was their plann — And from my good old dame They took her tailor-mann : And the hard hard beak did me bespeak To Newgit in the Wann. " In that etrocious Cort The Jewry did agree ; The Judge did me transport, To go beyond the sea : And so for life, from his dear wife They took poor old Cuffee. THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS 209 " Halbert, Appy Prince ! With children round your knees, Ingraving ansum Prints, And taking hoflf your hease ; think of me, the old Ouffee, Beyond the solt solt seas ! " Although I'm hold and black. My hanguish is most great ; Great Prince, call me back, And I vill be your Vait ! And never no more vill break the Lor, As I did in 'Forty-eight." The taller thus did close (A pore old blackymore rogue), Wlien a dismal gent uprose, And spoke with Hirish brogue : " I'm Smith O'Brine, of Royal Line, Descended from Rory Ogue. " When great O'Connle died. That man whom all did trust. That man whom Henglish pride Beheld with such disgust. Then Erin free iixed eyes on me. And swoar I should be fust. " ' The glorious Hirish Crown,' Says she, ' it shall be thine : Long time, it's wery well known. You kep it in your line ; That diadem of hemerald gem Is yours, my Smith O'Brine. " ' Too long the Saxon churl Our land encumbered hath ; Arise, my Prince, my Earl, And brush them from thy path : Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep 'em vith The besom of your wrath.' 210 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X " Then in my might I rose, My country I surveyed, I saw it filled with foes, I viewed them undismayed ; ' Ha, ha ! ' says I, ' the harvest's high, I'll reap it with my blade.' " My warriors I enrolled. They rallied round their lord ; And cheafs in council old I summoned to the board — Wise Doheny and Duflfy bold. And Meagher of the Sword. " I stood on Slievenamaun, They came with pikes and bills ; They gathered in the dawn, Like mist upon the hills, And rushed adown the mountain side Like twenty thousand rills. " Their fortress we assail ; Hurroo ! my boys, hurroo ! The bloody Saxons quad To hear the wild shaloo : Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, O'Brine aboo, aboo ! " Our people they defied ; They shot at 'em like savages, Their bloody guns they plied With sanguinary ravages : Hide, blushing Glory, hide That day among the cabbages ! "And so no more I'll say. But ask your Mussy great, And humbly sing and pray, Your Majesty's poor Wait : Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nine Will blush for 'Forty-eight." THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS GALLIANT gents and lovely ladies. List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, Vere the little children sings : (Lor ! I likes to hear on Sundies Them there pooty little things !) In this street there lived a housemaid. If you particklarly ask me where — Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square. Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer : In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her. Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look : Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal — " Pray," saysee, " excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal ! " You're so like my Sister Sally, Both in valk and face and size, Miss, that — dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my heyes ! 212 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X " I'm a mate on board a wessel, I'm a sailor bold and true ; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you ! " What's your name, my beauty, tell me ;" And she faintly hansers, " Lore, Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, And I live at tventy-four." Hofttimes came this British seaman. This deluded gal to meet ; And at tventy-four was welcome, Tventy-four in Guilford Street. And Eliza told her Master (Kinder they than Missuses. are), How in marridgfe he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar. And he brought his landlady vith him (Vich vas all his hartful plan). And she told how Charley Thompson Reely vas a good young man ; And how she herself had lived in Many years of union sweet Vith a gent she met promiskous, Valkin in the public street. And Eliza listened to them. And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin, Hand the clergyman jine their ands. And he ast about the lodgers (Vich her master let some rooms), Likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons. Hand this vicked Charley Thompson Came on Sundy veek to see her ; And he sent Eliza Davis Hout to fetch a pint of beer. THE BALLAD OP ELIZA DAVIS 213 Hand while pore Eliza vent to Fetch the beer, devoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson Let his wile accomplish hin. To the lodgers, their apartments, This abandingd female goes. Prigs their shirts and umberellas ; , Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes. Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, Lest his wictim should escape, Hocust her with rum and vater, Like a fiend in burning shape. But a hi was fixt upon 'em Vich these raskles little sore ; Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord Of the house at tventy-four. He vas valking in his garden. Just afore he vent to sup ; And on looking up he sor the Lodgers' vinders lighted hup. Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled ; "Something's going wrong," he said; And he caught the vicked voman Underneath the lodgers' bed. And he called a brother Pleaseman, Vich vas passing on his beat. Like a true and galliant feller, Hup and down in Guilford Street. And that Pleaseman able-bodied Took this voman to the cell ; To the cell vere she was quodded, In the Close of Clerkenwell. And though vicked Charley Thompson Boulted like a miscrant base, Presently another Pleaseman Took him to the self-same place. 214: THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X And this precious pair of raskles Tuesday last came up for doom ; By the beak they was committed, Vich his name was Mr. Combe. Has for poor Eliza Davis, Simple gurl of tventy-four. She, I ope, viU never listen In the streets to sailors moar. But if she must ave a sweet-art (Vich most every gurl expex), Let her take a jolly pleaseman ; Vich his name peraps is — X. THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF IHE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITGH COME all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail, It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail, By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares 1 don't desire). From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire. A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employed With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd, And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchest- er, a lady entered in to them most elegantly dressed. She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step, And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep ; The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty. Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty. She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said ; Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust, And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust. A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail, To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail ; Saysee " You look unwell, ma'am ; I'll elp you if I can, And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man.'' " Thank you, sir," the lady said, " I only look so pale, Because I ain't accustom'd to travelling on the Bale ; I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest : " And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast. 216 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X So ill conwersation the journey they beguiled, Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady and the child, Till the warious stations along the line was passed, For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last. When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped the train, This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again. "Thank you, sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear; My carridge and my osses is probibbly come here. " Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see 1 " The Doctor was a famly man : " That I will," says he. Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently. With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, Then she gave the Doctor the child — wery kind he nust it : Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from. Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform. Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays. The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze ; Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby. There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore : Never, never back again did that lady come To that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of his Thum ! What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus. When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss ? Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild. And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child. That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, And made it very comfortable by giving it some pap ; And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found 1 A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little gownd ! Also ill its little close, was a note which did conwey, That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way And for its Headucation they reglarly would pay. And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the child one day. If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say, Per adwertisement in the Times, where the baby lay. THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH 217 Pity of this bayby many people took, It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look ; And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see Any kind lady as would do as much for me ; And I wish with all my art, some night in my night gownd, I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound) — There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say. She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away. While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair. Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire. To send the little Infant back to Devonshire. Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man. Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran ; Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak. That takes his seat in Worship Street four times a week. , " Justice ! " says the Doctor, " instrugt me what to do. I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you ; My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills (There they are in Suffolk without their draffts and pills 1). " I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose Of this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note, and the close, And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez. Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, " This year application does me much perplesk ; What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby In the Parish where it was left by its mother shabby." The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart — He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows. To the tender mussies of the Union House. Mother, who left this little one on a stranger's knee. Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he ! Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she ; And do not take unkindly this little word of me : Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be ! LINES ON A LATE HOSFICIOUS EWENT* BY A GENTLEMAN OP THE FOOT-GTTAEDS (bLUe). 1 PACED upon my beat "With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street ; Ran'lagh St. Pimlico. While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born ! The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for. With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp. Lord John he next elights ; And who comes here in haste ? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste. Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss. Towards them steps with joy ; Says the brave old Duke, " Come tell to us, Is it a gal or a boy 1 " * The birth of Prince Arthur. LINES ON A LATE HOSPIOIOUS EWENT 219 Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, " Your Grace, it is a Prince.'' And at that nuss's bold rebuke He did both laugh and wince. He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then says the wenerable Duke, " Egad, it's my buthday." By memory backards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born Upon the first of May. Perhaps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim ; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him. I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin' ; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne. His father praps he sees. Most musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords. Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee ! Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she? And I shoudn be surprize WhUe this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind. To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor !). 220 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his Ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as veil, And vears a Veskit red). To see that carriage come, The people round it press : " And is the galliant Duke at ome t " " Your Royal Ighness, yes." He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone ; And X, although the people push. Says wery kind, " Move hon." The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, " Dear Duke, my little son and you Was born the self-same day. " The Lady of the land. My wife and Sovring dear. It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here. " That lady is as well As can expected be ; And to your Grace she bid me tell This gracious message free. " That offspring of our race, Whom yesterday you see. To show our honour for your Grace, Prince Arthur he shall be. " That name it rhymes to fame ; All Europe knows the sound : And I couldn't find a better name If you'd give me twenty pound. " King Arthur had his knights That girt his table round. But you have won a hundred fights, Will match 'em, I'll be bound, LINES ON A LATE HOSPIOIOUS EWENT 221 " You fought with Bonypart, And likewise Tippoo Saib ; I name you then with all my heart The Godsire of this babe." That Prince his leave was took, His hinterview was done. So let us give the good old Duke Good luck of his god-son, And wish him years of joy In this our time of Schism, And hppe he'll hear the Eoyal boy His little catechism. And my pooty little Prince That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince A welcomin of you ere. And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X. THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE BONEY AND MABY BBOWN AN igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek — I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, ^ Vera Mrs. Jane Eoney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she. This Mary was pore and in misery once. And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce. Sheadn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea. And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three. Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be. Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she. "Mrs. Roney, Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill ? " " That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she ; And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be. No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed ; She hopens all the trunks without never a key — She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free. Mrs. Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close. Her children's little coats and things, her boots, and her hose. She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee. Mrs. Roney's situation — you may think vat it vould be ! Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day. Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she ? JANE KONEY AND MARY BROWN 223 She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man, They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand ; And the Church bells was a ringin for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee. When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me ; " I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman," says she. " Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know. But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin," says Mary says she. " I don't care three fardens for the parson and dark. And the bell may keep ringin from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me ; And I think this young man is lucky to be free." So, in spite of the tears which bejew'd Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak ; That exlent Justice demanded her plea — But never a suUable said Mary said she. On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she. Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek, To puU you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak. DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS SPECIAL Jurymen of England ! who admire your country's laws, And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's applause ; Gaily compliment each other at the issue of a cause Which was tried at Guildford 'sizes this day week as ever was. Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief (Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the Baron Chief), Comes a British man and husband — asking of the law relief, For his wife was stolen from him — he'd have vengeance on the thief. Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was crowned. Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound. And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth re- nowned, To award him for his damage twenty hundred sterling pound. He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear, Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear : But I can't help asking, though the lady's guilt was all too clear, And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the plaintiff rather queer 1 First the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd seen her daughter cry But a fortnight after marriage : early times for piping eye. Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black. And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back. Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door. Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more. As she would not go, why he went : thrice he left his lady dear ; Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year. DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS 225 Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed, She had seen him pull his lady's nose and make her lip to Dleed ; If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he said : Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady's head. Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury note How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat. How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit, Till the pitying next-door neighbours crossed the wall and wit- nessed it. Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt ; Mrs. Owers's foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt (Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not developed in her) ; But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner — God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner ! Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched hfe. Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife ; He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months' space. Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant's case. Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury ; said the woman's guilt was clear : That was not the point, however, which the Jury came to hear ; But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear. This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear — Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving, year by year. Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her ear — What the reasonable damage this afilicted man could claim By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame 1 Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round. Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound : And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound ; — " My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred pound." 13 J- 226 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X So, God bless the Special Jury ! pride and joy of English ground, And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound ! British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper : If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a right to whop her. Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her. You are welcome to neglect her : to the devil you may send her : You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned ; And if after this you lose her, — why, you're paid two hundred pound. A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT COME all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear ; 'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear ; 'Twill make youf hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow, When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know. The news of this consperracy and vUlianous attempt, I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent : It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow. And our Holy Father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No no. And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites no longer. Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger. And 'tis there I knelt beside my Lord when he kiss'd the Pope his toe, And hung his neck with chains at Saint Peter's Vinculo. And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playing grand. And the palace of Prince Toblonia, likewise the Vatican ; And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararys blow. And it's there I drove my Lady and Lord in the Park of Pincio. And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride and glory. Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory ; And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo. 228 THE BALLADS OP POLICEMAN X Now in this town of famous Eoom, as I dessay you liave heard, There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard. And ever since the world began it was ordained so, That there should always barbers be wheresumever beards do grow. And as it always has been so since the world it did begin, The Pope, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin ; And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow. There comes a certing pai-ty to wait on Pope Pio. There comes a certing gintleman with razier, soap, and lather, A shaving most respectfully the Pope, our Holy Father. And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show, Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against Nono. Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate, Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate ; And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blow Against our gentle Father, the Holy Pope Pig. Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heerd or read of; What do you think them Prodestants wished? to cut the good Pope's head off! And to the kind Pope's Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did go. And proposed him to decapitate the innocent Pio. " What hever can be easier," said this Clerk — this Man of Sin, " When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness's chin. Than just to give the razier a little slip — just sol — And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent Pio ! " This wicked conversation it chanced was overerd By an Italian lady ; she heard it every word : Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to go With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo. When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege. As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege. " Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so), " They're going for to massyker our Holy Pope Pio. " The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark, His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark ! And I would recommend you in prison for to throw These viUians would esassinate the Holy Pope Pig ! A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD 229 " And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crownd I humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound ; Because I was a Marchioness many years ago, Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo." That saekreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his man, Wouldn't, though ask'd continyally, own their wicked plan — And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go That was plotting of the murder of the good Pio Nono. Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home. How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at Rome ; So let us drink confusion to Lord John and Loed Minto, And a health unto His Eminence, and good Pio Nono. THE ORGAN-BOTS APPEAL " Westminster Police Court. — Policeman X brought a paper of doggerel verses to the Magistrate, which had been thnist into his hands, X said, by an Italian boy, who ran away immediately afterwards, ' ' The Magistrate, after perusing the lines, looked hard at X, and said he did not think they were written by an Italian. "X, blushing, said he thought the paper read in court last week, and which frightened so the old gentleman to whom it was addressed, was also not of Italian origin." OSIGNOR BRODEKIP, you are a wickid ole man, You wexis us little horgin-boys whenever you can : How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek To pussicute us horgin-boys, you senguinary Beek? Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by your crushers, Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortaerat of hall the Rushers, Yet there is a better vurld I'd have you for to know, Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys will go. you vickid Heeod without any pity ! London vithout horgin-boys vood be a dismal city. Sweet Saint Cicilt who first taught horgin-pipes to blow Soften the heart of this Magistrit that haggerywates us so ! Good Italian gentlemen, fatherly and kind. Brings us over to London here our horgins for to grind ; Sends us out vith little vite mice and guinea-pigs also A poppin of the Veasel and a Jumpin of Jim Ceow. And as us young horgin-boys is grateful in our turn We gives to these kind gentlemen hall the money we earn. Because that they vood vop us as wery wel we know Unless we brought our burnings back to them as loves us so. THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL 231 Me. Beodeeip ! wery much I'm surprise, Ven you take your valks abroad where can be your eyes 1 If a Beak had a heart then you'd compryend Us pore little horgin-boys was the poor man's friend. Don't you see the shildren in the droring-rooms Clapping of their little ands when they year our toons 1 On their mothers' bussums don't you see the babbies crow And down to us dear horgin-boys lots of apence throw ? Don't you see the ousemaids (pooty Follies and Maries), Ven ve bring our urdigurdis, smiling from the hairies ? Then they come out vith a slice o' cole puddn or a bit o' bacon or so And give it us young horgin-boys for lunch afore we go. Have you ever seen the Hirish children sport When our velcome music-box brings sunshine in the Court? To these little paupers who can never pay Surely aU good horgin-boys, for God's love, will play. Has for those proud gentlemen, like a serting B — k (Vich I von't be pussonal and therefore vil not speak). That flings their parler-vinders hup ven ve begin to play And cusses us and swears at us in such a wiolent way, Instedd of their abewsing and calling hout Poleece, Let em send out John to us vith sixpence or a shillin apiece. Then like good young horgin-boys avay from there we'll go, Blessing sweet Saint Cicily that taught our pipes to blow. THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY T HERE'S in the Vest a city pleasant To vich King Bladud gev his name, And in that city there's a Crescent Vera dwelt a noble knight of fame. Although that galliant knight is oldish, Although Sir John as grey grey air, Hage has not made his busum coldish, His Art still beats tewodds the Fair ! 'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid, Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines. To Paris towne his phootsteps bended In sutch of gayer folks and seans. His and was free, his means was easy, A nobler, finer gent than he Ne'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy, Or paced the Eoo de Rivolee. A brougham and pair Sir John prowided, In which abroad he loved to ride ; But ar ! he most of all enjyed it, When some one helse was sittin' inside ! That " some one helse " a lovely dame was, Dear ladies, you will heasy tell — Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was, A noble title, ard to spell. This faymus Countess ad a daughter Of lovely form and tender art ; A nobleman in marridge sought her. By name the Baron of Saint Bart. THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY 233 Their pashn touched the noble Sir John, It was so pewer and profound ; Lady Grabrowski he did urge on With Hyraing's wreeth their loves to crownd. " 0, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent," Says kind Sir John, " and live with me ; The living there's uncommon pleasant — I'm sure you'll find the hair agree. " O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski, And bring your charming girl," sezee ; " The Barring here shall have the ouse-key, Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea. " And when they've passed an appy winter, Their opes and loves no more we'll bar ; The marridge-vow they'll enter inter. And I at church will be their Par." To Bath they went to Lansdowne Orescent, Where good Sir John he did provide No end of teas and balls incessant. And bosses both to drive and ride. He was so Ospitably busy, When Miss was late, he'd make so bold Upstairs to call out, " Missy, Missy, Come down, the coffy's getting cold ! " But ! 'tis sadd to think such bounties Should meet with such return as this ; Barring of Saint Bart, Countess Grabrowski, and cruel Miss ! He married you at Bath's fair Habby, Saint Bart he treated like a son — And wasn't it uncommon shabby To do what you have went and done ! My trembling And amost refewses To write the charge which Sir John swore, Of which the Countess he ecuses. Her daughter and her son-in-lore. 234 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X My Mews quite blushes as she sings of Tlie fatle charge which uow I quote : He says Miss took his two best rings off, And pawned 'em for a tenpun note. " Is this the child of honest parince, To make away with folks' best things ? Is this, pray, like the wives of Bamns, To go and prig a gentleman's rings 1 " Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on, And to rewenge his injured cause. He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton, Last Vensday veek as ever waws. If guiltless, how she have been slandered ! If guilty, wengeance will not fail : Meanwhile the lady is remanded And gev three hundred pouns in bail. T THE SPECULATORS HE night /was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep ; Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep. I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow ; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro. There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet ; He stood with his 'tato can In the lonely Haymarket. Two gents of dismal mien. And dank and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin. Swaggering over the flags : Swaggering over the stones, These shabby bucks did walk ; And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk. Was I sober or awake ? Could I believe my ears 1 Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares. I wondered more and more : Says one — " Good friend of mine, How many shares have you wrote for. In the Diddlesex Junction line?" " I wrote for twenty," says Jim, " But they wouldn't ^ve me one ; " His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly he had done : "0 Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of this bad town; /always write for five hundred shares, And then they put me down." " And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, " for all your boast ; " " I would have wrote," says Jack, " but where Was the penny to pay the post 1 " 236 THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X " I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up ; But here's taters smoking hot — I say, Let's stop, my boy, and sup." And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumb-nail. Their talk did me perplex, All night I tumbled and tost. And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and lost. " Bless railroads everywhere,'' I said, " and the world's advance ; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, France ; For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance." CRITICAL REVIEWS CRITICAL REVIEWS CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION* [1837] SINCE the appearance of this work, within the last two months, it has raised among the critics and the reading public a strange storm of applause and discontent. To hear one party you would fancy the author was but a dull madman, indulg- ing in wild vagaries of language and dispensing with common sense and reason, while, according to another, his opinions are little short of inspiration, and his eloquence unbounded as his genius. We confess, that in reading the first few pages, we were not a little inclined to adopt the foimer opinion, and yet, after perusing the whole of this extraordinary work, we can allow, almost to their fullest extent, the high qualities with which Mr. Carlyle's idolaters endow him. But never did a book sin so grievously from outward appear- ance, or a man's style so mar his subject and dim his genius. It is stiff, short, and rugged, it abounds with Germanisms and Latin- isms, strange epithets, and choking double words, astonishing to the admirers of simple Addisonian English, to those who love history as it gracefully runs in Hume, or struts pon)pously in Gibbon — no such style is Mr. Carlyle's. A man, at the first onset, must take breath at the end of a sentence, or, worse still, go to sleep in the midst of it. But these hardships become lighter as the traveller grows accustomed to the road, and he speedily learns to admire and sympathise ; just as he would admire a Gothic cathedral in spite of the quaint carvings and hideous images on door and buttress. There are, however, a happy few of Mr. Carlyle's critics and readers to whom these very obscurities and mysticisms of style are * " The French Revolution : A History." In three volumes, By Thomag Carlyle. London ; James Fraser, 1837. 240 CRITICAL REVIEWS welcome and almost intelligible ; the initiated in metaphysics, the sages who have passed the veil of Kantian philosophy, and dis- covered that the " critique of pure reason " is really that which it purports to be, and not the critique of pure nonsense, as it seems to worldly men : to these the present book has charms unknown to us, who can merely receive it as a history of a stirring time, and a skilful record of men's worldly thoughts and doings. Even through these dim spectacles a man may read and profit much from Mr. Carlyle's volumes. He is not a party historian like Scott, who could not, in his benevolent respect for rank and royalty, see duly the faults of either : he is as impartial as Thiers, but with a far loftier and nobler impartiality. No man can have read the admirable history of the French ex-Minister who has not been struck with this equal justice which he bestows on all the parties or heroes of his book. He has com- pletely mastered the active part of the history : he has no more partiality for court than for regicide — scarcely a movement of intriguing king or ^republican which is unknown to him or un- described. He sees with equal eyes Madame Roland or Marie Antoinette — bullying Brunswick on the frontier, or Marat at his butcher's work or in his cellar — he metes to each of them justice, and no more, finding good even in butcher Marat or bullying Brunswick, and recording what he finds. What a pity that one gains such a complete contempt for the author of all this cleverness ! Only a rogue could be so impartial, for Thiers but views this awful series of circumstances in their very meanest and basest light, like a petty, clever statesman as he is, watching with wonderful accuracy all the moves of the great game, but looking for no more, never drawing a single moral from it, or seeking to tell aught beyond it. Mr. Carlyle, as we have said, is as impartial as the illustrious Academician and Minister ; but witli what different eyes he looks upon the men and the doings of this strange time ! To the one the whole story is but a hustling for places — a list of battles and intrigues — of kings and governments rising and falling ; to the other, the little actors of this great drama are striving but towards a great end and moral. It is better to view it loftily from afar, like onr mystic poetic Mr. Carlyle, than too nearly with sharp- sighted and prosaic Thiers. Thiers is the valet de chambre of this history, he is too familiar with its dishabille and oft'-scourings : it can never be a hero to him. It is difiScult to convey to the reader a fair notion of Mr. Carlyle's powers or his philosophy, for the reader has not grown familiar with the strange style of this book, and may laugh perhaps CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION 241 at the grotesqueness of his teacher : in this some honest critics of the present day have preceded him, who have formed their awful judgments after scanning half-a-dozen lines, and damned poor Mr. Carlyle's because they chanced to be lazy. Here, at hazard, how- ever, we faU upon the story of the Bastille capture ; the people are thundering at the gates, but Delaunay will receive no terms, raises his drawbridge and gives fire. Now, cries Mr. Carlyle with an uncouth Orson-like shout : — " Bursts forth Insurrection, at sight of its own blood, into endless explosion of musketry, distraction, execration ; — and over- head, from the Fortress, let one great gun go booming, to show what we covZd do. The Bastille is besieged ! " On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies ! Roar with all your throats, of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of Liberty ; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in you, soul, body, or spirit ; for it is the hour ! Smite, thou Louis Toumay, cartwright of the Marais, old-soldier of the Regiment Dauphin^ ; smite at that Outer Drawbridge-chain, though the iiery hail whistles round thee ! Never, over nave or felloe, did thy axe strike such a stroke. Down with it, man ; down with it to Orcus : let the whole accursed Edifice sink thither, and Tyranny be swallowed up for ever ! Mounted, some say, on the roof of the guard-room, Louis Toumay smites, brave Aubin Bonnemfere (also an old soldier) seconding him : the chain yields, breaks ; the huge Drawbridge slams down, thundering. Glorious : and yet, alas, it is still but the outworks. The eight grim Towers, with their In- valides, musketry, their paving stones and cannon-mouths, still soar aloft intact; — Ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced; the inner Drawbridge with its back towards us : the Bastille is still to take ! " Did " Savage Rosa " ever " dash " a more spirited battle sketch 1 The two principal figures of the pieces, placed in skilful relief, the raging multitude and sombre fortress admirably laid down ! In the midst of this writhing and wrestling, " the line too labours (Mr. Carlyle's line labours perhaps too often), and the words move slow." The whole story of the fall of the fortress and its defenders is told in a style similarly picturesque and real. "The poor Invalides have sunk under their battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets : they have made a white flag of napkins ; go beating the chamade, or seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the Portcullis look weary of firing: disheartened in the fire-deluge; a porthole at the draw- bridge is opened, as by one that would speak. See Huissier Maiflard, the shifty man ! On his plank, swinging over the abyss of that stone-Ditch ; plank resting on parapet, balanced by weight 13 Q 242 OKITICAL EEVIEWS of Patriots, — he hovers perilous : such a Dove* towards such an Ark ! Deftly, thou shifty Usher : one man already fell ; and lies smashed, far down there against the masonry ! Usher Maillard falls not : deftly, unerring he walks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his porthole; the shifty Usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of surrender : Pardon, immunity to all ! Are they accepted? ' Foi d'officier, on the word of an officer,' answers half-pay Hulin, — or half-pay Elie, for men do not agree on it, ' they are.' Sinks the drawbridge, — Usher Maillard bolting it when down ; rushes in the living deluge : the Bastille is fallen ! Victoire ! La Bastille est prise ! " This is prose run mad — no doubt of it — according to our notions of the sober gait and avocations of homely prose ; but is there not method in it, and could sober prose have described the incident in briefer words, more emphatically, or more sensibly? And this passage, which succeeds the picture of storm and slaughter, opens (grotesque though it be), not in prose, but in noble poetry ; the author describes the rest of France during the acting of this Paris tragedy — and by this peaceful image admirably heightens the gloom and storm of his first description : — " evening sun of July, how, at this hour, thy beams fall slant on reapers amid peaceful woody fields ; on old women spinning in cottages ; on ships far out in the silent main ; on Balls at the Orangerie of Versailles, where high-rouged Dames are even now dancing with double-jacketted Hussar-Officers, and also on this roar- ing Hell-porch of a H6tel-de-Ville ! One forest of distracted steel- bristles, in front of an Electoral Committee ; points itself, in horrid radii, against this and the other accused breast. It was the Titans warring with Olympus ; and they, scarcely crediting it, have conquered." The reader will smile at the double-jackets and rouge, which never would be allowed entrance into a polite modern epic, but, familiar though they be, they complete the picture, and give it reaUty, that gloomy rough Eembrandt-kind of reality which is Mr. Oarlyle's style of historic painting. In this same style Mr. Oarlyle dashes ofi' the portraits of his various characters as they rise in the course of the history. Take, for instance, tliis grotesque portrait of vapouring Tonneau Mirabeau, his life and death ; it follows a solemn, aJmost awful picture of the demise of his great brother : — " Here, then, the wild Gabriel Honor^ drops from the tissue of our History ; not without a tragic farewell. He is gone : the flower of the wild Eiquetti kindred ; which seems as if in him it had done its best, and then expired, or sunk down to the undis- tinguished level. Crabbed old Marquis Mirabeau, the Friend of OARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION 243 Men, sleeps sound. Barrel Mirabeau gone across the Rhine ; his Regiment of Emigrants will drive nigh desperate. ' Barrel Mira- beau,' says a biographer of his, ' went indignantly across the Rhine, and drilled Emigrant Regiments. But as he sat one morning in his tent, sour of stomach doubtless and of heart, meditating in Tartarean humour on the turn things took, a certain Captain or Subaltern demanded admittance on business. Such Captain is refused ; he again demands, with refusal ; and then again, till Colonel Viscount Barrel-Mirabeau, blazing up into a mere brandy barrel, clutches his sword and tumbles out on this canaille of an intruder, — alas, on the canaille of an intruder's sword's point, who iad drawn with swift dexterity ; and dies, and the Newspapers name it apoplexy and alarming accident. So die the Mirabeaus." Mr. Carlyle gives this passage to "a biographer," but he himself must be the author of this History of a Tub; the grim humour and style belong only to him. In a graver strain he speaks of Gabriel : — "New Mirabeaus one hears not of: the wild kindred, as we said, is gone out with this its greatest. As families and kindreds sometimes do ; producing, after long ages' of unnoted notability, some living quintessence of all they had, to flame forth as a man world-noted ; after whom they rest, as if exhausted ; the sceptre passing to others. The chosen Last of the Mirabeaus is gone ; the chosen man of France is gone. It was he who shook old France from its basis ; and, as if with his single hand, has held it toppling there, still unfaUen. What things depended on that one man ! He is as a ship suddenly shivered on sunk rocks : much swims on the waste waters, far from help." Here is a picture of the heroine of the Revolution : — " Radiant with enthusiasm are those dark eyes, is that strong Minerva-face, looking dignity and earnest joy ; joyfulkst slie where all are joyful. Reader, mark that queen-like burgher-woman : beautiful, Amazonian- graceful to the eye ; more so to the mind. Unconscious of her worth (as all worth is), of her greatness, of her crystal clearness ; genuine, the creature of Sincerity and Nature in an age of Artifici- ality, Pollution, and Cant ; there, in her still completeness, in her still invincibility, she, if thou knew it, is the noblest of all living Frenchwomen, — and will be seen, one day." The reader, we think, will not fail to observe the real beauty which lurks among all these odd words and twisted sentences, living, as it were, in spite of the weeds ; but we repeat, that no mere extracts can do justice to the book; it requires time and study. A first acquaintance with it is very unprepossessing ; only familiarity knows its great merits, and values it accordingly. 244 CRITICAL REVIEWS We would gladly extract a complete chapter or episode from the work — the flight to Varennes, for instance, the liuge coach ■ bearing away the sleepy, dawdling, milk-sop royalty of France ; fiery BouilM spreading abroad his scouts and Hussars, " his electric thunder-chain of military outposts," as Mr. Carlyle calls them with one of his great similes. Paris in tremendous commotion, the country up and armed, to prevent the King's egress, the chance of escape glimmering bright until the last moment, and only extin- guished by bewildered Louis himself, too pious and too out-of- breath, too hungry and sleepy, to make one charge at the head of those gallant dragoons — one single blow to win crown and kingdom and liberty again ! We never read this hundred-times told tale with such a breathless interest as Mr. Carlyle has managed to instil into it. The whole of the sad story is equally touching and vivid, from the mean ignominious return down to the fatal 10th of August, when the sections beleaguered the King's palace, and King Louis, with arms, artillery, and 2000 true and gallant men, flung open the Tuileries gates and said " Marchons ! marchons ! " whither ? Not with vive le Eoi, and roaring guns, and bright bayonets, sheer through the rabble who barred the gate, swift through the broad Champs Elysfes, and the near barrier, — not to conquer or fall like a King and gentleman, but to the reporters' box in the National Assembly, to be cooped and fattened until killing time ; to die trussed and tranquil like a fat capon. What a son for St. Louis ! What a husband for brave Antoinette ! Let us, however, follow Mr. Carlyle to the last volume, and passing over the time, when, in Danton's awful image, "coalized Kings made war upon France, and France, as a gage of battle, flung the head of a King at their feet," quote two of the last scenes of that awful tragedy, the deaths of bold Danton and " sea-green " Robespierre, as Carlyle delights to call him. " On the night of the 30th of March, Juryman Piris came rushing in ; haste looking through his eyes : a clerk of the Salut Committee had told him Danton's warrant was made out, he is to be arrested this very night ! Entreaties there are and trepidation, of poor Wife, of PSris and Friends : Danton sat silent for a while ; then answered, ' lis n'oseraient, They dare not ; ' and would take no measures. Murmuring ' They dare not,' he goes to sleep as usual. "And yet, on the morrow morning, strange rumour spreads over Paris city : Danton, Camille, Ph^lippeaux, Lacroix, have been arrested over night ! It is verily so : the corridors of the Luxembourg were all crowded. Prisoners crowding forth to see this giant of the Revolution enter among them. ' Messieurs,' said Danton politely, ' I hoped soon to hj^ve got you all out of this : CAELYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION 245 but here I am myself; and one sees not where it will end.' — Rumour may spread over Paris : the Convention clusters itself into groups ; wide-eyed, whispering, ' Danton arrested ! ' Who then is safe? Legendre, mounting the Tribune, utters, at his own peril, a feeble word for him ; moving that he be heard at that bar before indictment ; but Robespierre frowns him down : ' Did you hear Chabot, or Bazire ? Would you have two weights and measures ? ' Legendre cowers low ; Danton, like the others, must take his doom. " Danton's Prison-thoughts were curious to liave ; but are not given in any quantity : indeed, few such remarkable men have been left so obscure to us as this Titan of the Revolution. He was heard to ejaculate : ' This time twelvemonth, I was moving the creation of that same Revolutionary Tribunal. I crave pardon for it of God and man. They are all Brothers Cain : Briscot would have had me guillotined as Robespierre now will. I leave the whole business in a frightful welter {gdchis epouvantahle) : not one of them understands anything of government. Robespierre will follow me ; I drag down Robespierre. Oh, it were better to be a poor fisherman than to meddle with governing of men.' — Camille's young beautiful Wife, who had made him rich not in money alone, hovers round the Luxembourg, like a disembodied spirit, day and niglit. Camille's stolen letters to her still exist ; stained with the mark of his tears. 'I carry my head like a Saint-Sacrament ? ' So Saint Just was heard to mutter ; ' Perhaps he will carry his like a Saint-Dennis.' "Unhappy Danton, thou still unhappier light Camille, once hght Procureur de la Lanterne, ye also have arrived, then, at the Bourne of Creation, where, like Ulysses Polytlas at the limit and utmost Gades of his voyage, gazing into that dim Waste beyond Creation, a man does see the Shade of his Mother, pale, ineffectual ; — and days when his Mother nursed and wrapped him are all too sternly contrasted with this day ! Danton, Camille, H^rault, Westermann, and the others, very strangely massed up with Bazires, Swindler Chabots, Fabre d'Eglantines, Banker Freys, a most motley Batch, 'FournSe' as such things will be called, stand ranked at the bar of Tinville. It is the 2nd of April, 1794. Danton has had but three days to lie in prison; for the time presses. " ' What is j'our name ? place of abode ? ' and the like, Fouquier asks ; according to formality. ' My name is Danton,' answers he ; 'a name tolerably known in the Revolution: my abode will soon be Annihilation {dans le Neant) ; but I shall live in the Pantheon of History.' A man will endeavour to say something forcible, be it by nature or not ! H^rault mentions epigrammatically that he 246 CRITICAL REVIEWS 'sat in this Hall, and was detested of Parlementeers.' Camille makes answer, ' My age is that of the bon Sansculotte J^sus ; an age fatal to Revolutionists.' Camille, Camille ! And yet in that Divine Transaction, let us say, there did lie, among other things, the fatallest Reproof ever uttered here below to Worldly- Right-honourableness ; ' the highest Fact,' so devout Novalis calls it, ' in the Rights of Man.' Camilla's real age, it would seem, is thirty-four. Danton is one year older. " Some five months ago, the Trial of the Twenty-two Girondins was the greatest that Fouquier had then done. But here is a still greater to do ; a thing which tasks the whole faculty of Fouquier ; which makes the very heart of him waver. For it is the voice of Danton that reverberates now from these domes ; in passionate words, piercing with their wild sincerity, winged with wrath. Your best "Witnesses he shivers into ruin at one stroke. He demands that the Committee-men themselves come as Witnesses, as Accusers ; he ' will cover them with ignominy.' He raises his huge stature, he shakes his huge black head, fire flashes from the eyes of him, — piercing to all Republican hearts : so that the very Galleries, though we fiUeil them by ticket, murmur sympathy ; and are like to burst down, and raise the People, and deliver him ! He complains loudly that he is classed with Chabots, with swindling Stockjobbers ; that his Indictment is a list of platitudes and horrors. ' Danton hidden on the Tenth of August 1 ' reverberates he, with the roar of a lion in the toils : ' Where are the men that had to press Danton to show himself, that day 1 Where are these high- gifted souls of whom he borrowed energy 1 Let them appear, these Accusers of mine : I have all the clearness of my self-possession when I demand them. I will unmask the three shallow scoundrels,' les trois plats coquins, Saint-Just, Couthon, Lebas, ' who fawn on Robespierre, and lead him towards his destruction. Let them produce themselves here ; I will plunge them into Nothingness, out of which they ought never to have risen.' The agitated Presi- dent agitates his bell ; enjoins calmness, in a vehement manner : 'What is it to thee how I defend myself?' cries the other; 'the right of dooming me is thine always. The voice of a man speaking for his honour and his life may well drown the jingling of thy bell ! ' Thus Danton, higher and higher ; till the lion voice of him ' dies away in his throat : ' speech will not utter what is in that man. The Galleries murmur ominously; the first day's Session is over." "Danton carried a high look in the Death-cart. Not so Camille : it is but one week, and all is so topsy-turvied ; angel CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION 247 Wife left weeping; love, riches, Revolutionary fame, left all at the Prison-gate ; carnivorous Rabble now howling round. Pal- pable, and yet incredible ; like a madman's dream ! Oamille struggles and writhes ; his shoulders shuffle the loose coat off them, which hangs knotted, the hands tied : ' Calm, my friend,' said Danton, ' heed not that vile canaille (laissez la cette vile canaille).' At the foot of the Scaffold, Danton was heard to ejaculate, ' my Wife, my well-beloved, I shall never see thee more then ! ' — but, interrupting himself : ' Danton, no weakness ! ' He said to H^rault-Sechelles stepping forward to embrace him : ' Our heads will meet there,' in the Headsman's sack. His last words were to Samson the Headsman himself, ' Thou wilt show my head, to the people ; it is worth showing.' " So passes, like a gigantic mass of valour, ostentation, fury, affection, and wild revolutionary manhood, this Danton, to his unknown home. He was of Areis-sur-Aube ; born of 'good farmer-people ' there. He had many sins ; but one worst sin he had not, that of Cant. No hollow Formalist, deceplrive and self-deceptive, ghastly to the natural sense, was this ; but a very Man : with all his dross he was a Man ; fiery-real, from the great fire-bosom of Nature herself. He saved France from Brunswick ; he walked straight his own wild road, whither it led him. He may live for some generations in the memory of men." This noble passage requires no comment, nor does that in which the poor wretched Robespierre shrieks his last shriek, and dies his pitiful and cowardly death. Tallien has drawn his theatrical dagger, and made his speech, trembling Robespierre has fled to the Hotel de Ville, and Henriot, of the National Guard, clatters through the city, summoning the sections to the aid of the people's friend. " About three in the morning, the dissident Armed-forces have rut. Henriot's Armed Force stood ranked in the Place de Grfeve ; and now Barras's, which he has recruited, arrives there ; and they front each other, cannon bristUng against cannon. Citoyens ! cries the voice of Discretion loudly enough. Before coming to bloodshed, to endless civil war, hear the Convention Decree read : — ' Robespierre and all rebels Out of Law ! ' Out of Law 1 There is terror in the sound : unarmed Citoyens disperse rapidly home ; Municipal Cannoneers range themselves on the Convention side, with shouting. At which shout, Henriot descends from his upper room, far gone in drink as some say ; finds his Place de Grfeve empty ; the cannons' mouth turned towards him; and, on the whole, — that it is now the catastrophe ! " Stumbling in again, the wretched drunk-sobered Henriot an- nounces : ' All is lost ! ' ' Miserable! it is thou that hast lost it,' 248 CRITICAL REVIEWS cry they ; and fling him, or else he flings himself, out of window : far enough down ; into mason work and horror of cesspool ; not into death but worse. Augustin Robespierre follows him ; with the like fate. Saint-Just called on Lebas to kill him ; who would not. Couthon crept under a table ; attempting to kill himself; not doing it. — On entering that Sanhedrim of Insurrection, we find all as good as extinct ! undone, ready for seizure. Robespierre was sitting on a chair, with pistol-shot blown through, not his head, but his under jaw ; the suicidal hand had failed. With prompt zeal, not without trouble, we gather these wrecked Conspirators ; fish up even Henriot and Augustin, bleeding and foul ; pack them all, rudely enough, into carts ; and shall, before sunrise, have them safe under lock and key. Amid shoutings and embracings. " Robespierre lay in an ante-room of the Convention Hall, while his Prison-escort was getting ready ; the mangled jaw bound up rudely with bloody linen : a spectacle to men. He lies stretched on a table, a deal-box his pillow ; the sheath of the pistol is still clenchei convulsively in his hand. Men bully him, insult him : his eyes still indicate intelligence ; he speaks no word. ' He had on the sky-blue coat he had got made for the Feast of the Eire Supreme' — reader, can thy hard heart hold out against that? His trousers were nankeen ; the stockings had fallen down over the ankles. He spake no word more in this world." " The Death-tumbrils, with their motley Batch of Outlaws, some Twenty-three or so, from Maximilien to Mayor Fleuriot and Simon the Cordwainer, roll on. All eyes are on Robespierre's Tumbril, where he, his jaw bound in dirty linen, with his half-dead Brother, and half-dead Henriot, lie shattered, their ' seventeen hours ' of agony about to end. The Gendarmes point their swords at him, to show the people which is he. A woman springs on the Tumbril ; clutching the side of it with one hand ; waving the other Sibyl- like ; and exclaims, ' The death of thee gladdens my very heart, m'enivre de joie ; ' Robespierre opened his eyes ; ' Scel&at, go down to Hell, with the curses of all wives and mothers ! ' — At the foot of the Scafibld, they stretched him on the ground till his turn came. Lifted aloft, his eyes again opened ; caught the bloody axe. Samson wrenched the coat oS him ; wrenched the dirty linen from his jaw ; the jaw fell powerless, there burst from him a cry ; — hideous to hear and see. Samson, thou canst not be too quick ! " Samson's work done, there bursts forth shout on shout of applause. Shout, which prolongs itself not only over Paris, but over France, but over Europe, and down to this Generation. De- CAELYLE'S FKENOH REVOLUTION 249 servedly, and also undeservedly. Oh, unhappiest Advocate of Arras, wert thou worse than other Advocates ? Stricter man, according to his Formula, to his Credo, and his Cant, of probities, benevolences, pleasures-of-virtue, and such like, lived not in that age. A man fitted, in some luckier settled age, to have become one of those incorruptible barren Pattern-Figures, and have had marble-tablets and funeral-sermons ! His poor landlord, the Cabinetmaker in the Rue Saint-Honor^, loved him ; his Brother died for him. May God be merciful to him, and to us ! " The reader will see in the above extracts most of the faults, and a few of the merits, of this book. He need not be told that it is written in an eccentric prose, here and there disfigured by grotesque conceits and images; but, for all this, it betrays most extraordinary powers — learning, observation, and humour. Above all, it has no cant. It teems with sound, hearty philosophy (besides certain transcendentalisms which we do not pretend to understand), it possesses genius, if any book ever did. It wanted no more for keen critics to cry fie upon it ! Clever criiics who have such an eye for genius, that when Mr. Bulwer published his forgotten book concerning Athens, they discovered that no historian was like to him ; that he, on his Athenian hobby, had quite out. trotted stately Mr. Gibbon ; and with the same creditable unanimity they cried down Mr. Oarlyle's history, opening upon it a hundred little piddling sluices of small wit, destined to wash the book sheer away ; and lo ! the book remains, it is only the poor wit which lias run dry. We need scarcely recommend this book and its timely appear- ance, now that some of the questions solved in it seem almost likely to be battled over again. The hottest Radical in England may learn by it that there is something more necessary for him even than his mad liberty — the authority, namely, by which he retains his head on his shoulders and his money in his pocket, which privileges that by-word " liberty " is often unable to secure for him. It teaches (by as strong examples as ever taught any- thing) to rulers and to ruled aUke moderation, and yet there are many who would react the same dire tragedy, and repeat the experiment tried in France so fatally. " No Peers — no Bishops — no property qualification — no restriction of suffrage." Mr. Leader bellows it out at Westminster and Mr. Roebuck croaks it at Bath. Pert quacks at public meetings joke about hereditary legislators, journalists gibe at them, and moody starving labourers, who do not know how to jest, but can hate lustily, are told to curse crowns and coronets as the origin of their woes and their poverty, — and so did the clever French spouters and journalists gibe at royalty, 250 CEITIOAL EEVIEWS until royalty fell poisoned under their satire ; and so did the screaming hungry French mob curse royalty until they overthrew it : and to what end ? To bring tyranny and leave starvation, battering down Bastilles to erect guillotines, and murdering kings to set up emperors in their stead. We do not say that in our own country similar excesses are to be expected or feared ; the cause of complaint has never been so great, the wrong has never been so crying on the part of the rulers, as to bring down such fearful retaliation from the governed. Mr. Eoebuck is not Robespierre, and Mr. Attwood, with his threatened legion of fiery Marseillois, is at best but a Brummagem Barbaroux. But men alter with circumstances ; six months before the kingly decheance, the bitter and bilious advocate of Arras spake with tears in his eyes about good King Louis, and the sweets and merits of constitutional monarchy and hereditary representation : and so he spoke, until his own turn came, and his own delectable guillotining system had its hour. God forbid that we should pursue the simile with Mr. Roebuck so far as this ; God forbid, too, that he ever should have the trial. True ; but we have no right, it is said, to compare the Re- publicanism of England with that of France, no right to suppose that such crimes would be perpetrated in a country so enlightened as ours. Why is there peace and liberty and a republic in America? No guillotining, no ruthless Yankee tribunes retaliating for bygone tyranny by double oppression? Surely tlie reason is obvious — because there was no hunger in America ; because there were easier ways of livelihood than those offered by ambition. Banish Queen, and Bishops, and Lords, seize the lands, open the ports, or shut them (according to the fancy of your trades' unions and democratic clubs, who have each their freaks and hobbies), and are you a whit richer in a month, are your poor Spitalfields men vending their silks, or your poor Irishmen reaping their harvests at home ? Strong interest keeps Americans quiet, not Government ; here there is always a party which is interested in rebellion. People America like England, and the poor weak rickety republic is jostled to death in the crowd. Give us this republic to-morrow and it would share no better fate ; have not all of us the power, and many of us the interest, to destroy it ? FASHNABLE FAX AND POLITE ANNYGOATS BY CHAELES YELLOWPLUSH, ESQ. No. — , Grosvbnor Square ; lOtfi October. (N.B. Hairy Bell.) MY DEAR Y.— Your dellixy in sending me " My Book " * does you honour; for the subjick on which it treats cannot, like politix, metafizzix, or other silly sciences, be criticised by the common writin creaturs who do your and other Magazines at so much a yard. I am a chap of a different sort. I have lived with some of the first families in Europe, and I say it, without fear of contradistinction, that, since the death of George the IV., and Mr. Simpson of Voxall Gardens, there doesn't, praps, live a more genlmnly man than myself As to figger, I beat Simpson all to shivers ; and know more of the world than the late George. He did things in a handsome style enough, but he lived always in one set, and got narrow in his notions. How could he be otherwise? Had he my opportunities, I say he would have been a better dressed man, a better dined man [poor angsy deer, as the French say), and a better furnitured man. These qualities an't got by indolence, but by acute hobservation and foring travel, as I have had. But a truce to heggotism, and let us proceed with blsness. Skelton's " Anatomy " (or Skeleton's, which, I presume, is his real name) is a work which has been long wanted in the littery world. A reglar slap-up, no-mistake, out-an'-out account of the manners and usitches of genteel society, will be appreciated in every famly from Buckly Square to Whitechapel Market. Ever since you sent me the volum, I have read it to the gals in our hall, who are quite delighted of it, and every day grows genteeler and genteeler. So is Jeames, coachman ; so is Sam and George, and little Halfred, the sugar-loafed page :^all 'xcept old Huffy, the fat veezy porter, who sits all day in his hall-chair, and never reads a word of any think but that ojus Hage newspaper. " Huffy," * " My Book ; or. The Anatomy of Conduct. " By John Henry Skelton London : Simpkin & Marshall. 1837. 252 CRITICAL REVIEWS I often say to him, "why continue to read that blaggerd print? Want of decency, Huffy, becomes no man in your high situation : a genlman without morallity, is like a liv'ry-coat without a shoulder-knot." But the old-fashioned beast reads on, and don't care for a syllable of what I say. As for the Sat'rist, that's different : I read it myself, reg'lar ; for it's of uncompromising Raddicle principils, and lashes the vices of the arristoxy. But again I am diverging from Skeleton. What I like about him so pertiklerly is his moddisty. Be fore you come to the book, there is, fust, a Deddication ; then, a Preface; and nex', a Prolygomeny. The fust is about hisself; the second about hisself, too ; and, cuss me ! if the Prolygoly- gominy an't about hisself again, and his schoolmaster, the Rev. John Finlay, late of Streatham Academy. I shall give a few extrax from them : — " Graceful manners are not intuitive : so he, who, through industry or the smiles of fortune, would emulate a polite carriage, must be taught not to outrage propriety. Many topics herein considered have been discussed, more or less gravely or jocosely, according as the subject-matter admitted the varying treatment. I would that with propriety much might be expunged, but that I felt it is aU required from the nature of the work. The public is the tribunal to which I appeal : not friendship, but public attestation, must affix the signet to ' My Book's ' approval or con- deumation. Sheridan, when manager of Drury, was known to say, he had Golicited and received the patronage of friends, but from the public only had he found support. So may it be with me ! " There's a sentence for you, Mr. Yorke ! * We disputed about it, for three-quarters of an hour, in the servants' hall. Miss Simkins, my hady's feel de chamber, says it's complete ungramatticle, as so it is. "I would that," &c., "but that," and so forth: what can be the earthly meaning of it 1 " Graceful manners," says Skeleton, " is not intuitive." Nor more an't grammar, Skelton ; sooner than make a fault in which, I'd knife my fish, or malt after my cheese. As for " emulating a genteel carriage," not knowing what that might mean, we at once asked Jim Coachman ; but neither he nor his helpers could help us. Jim thinks it was a baroosh ; cook says, a brisky ; Sam, the stable-boy (who, from living chiefly among the bosses and things, has got a sad low way of talking), said it was all dicky, and bid us drive on to the nex' page. * Oliver Yorke was the well-known pseudonym of the editor of JVaser's Magazine. FASHNABLE FAX AND POLITE ANNYGOATS 253 " For years, when I have observed anything in false taste, I have remarked that, when ' My Book ' makes its appearance, such an anomaly will be discontinued ; and, instead of an angry reply, it has ever been, ' What ! are you writing such a work ? ' till at length, in several societies, ' My Book ' has been referred to whenever une meprise has taken place. As thus : ' " My Book " is, indeed, wanted ; ' or, ' If " My Book " were here ; ' or, ' We shall never be right without " My Book " ; ' which led me to take minutes of the barbarisms I observed. I now give them to the world, from a con- viction that a rule of conduct should be studied, and impressed upon the mind. Other studies come occasionally into play ; but the conduct, the deportment, and the manner are ever in view, and should be a primary consideration, and by no means left to chance (as at present), 'whether it be good, or whether it be evil.' "Most books that have appeared on this vital subject have generally been of a trashy nature ; intended, one would imagine — if you took the trouble to read them — as advertisements to this trade, or for that man, this draper, or that dentist, instead of attempting to form the mind, and leaving the judgment to act. " To Lord Chesterfield other remarks apply : but Dr. Johnson has so truly and so wittily characterised, in few words, that heart- less libertine's advice to his son, that, without danger of corrupting the mind, you cannot place his works in the hands of youth. "It should ever be kept in our recollection, that a graceful carriage — a noble bearing, and a generous disposition to sit with ease and grace, must be enthroned ' in the mind's eye ' on every virtuous sentiment." There it is, the carriage again ! But never mind that — to the nex' sentence it's nothink : " to sit with ease and grace must be enthroned ' in the mind's eye ' on every virtuous sentiment ! " Heaven bless your bones, Mr. Skeleton ! where are you driving us 1 I say, this sentence would puzzle the very Spinx himself! How can a man sit in his eye 1 If the late' Mr. Finlay, of Streatham Academy, taught John Henry Anatomy Skeleton to do this, he's a very wonderful pupil, and no mistake ! as well as a finominy in natural history, quite exceeding that of Miss Mackavoy. Sich peculiar opportunities for hobservation must make his remarks really valuable.* Well, he observes on every think that is at all observable, and * I canot refrain from quattin, in a note, the following extract, from page 8 : — " To be done with propriety, everything must be done quietly. When the cards are dealt round do not sort them in all possible haste, and, having per- formed it in a most hurried manner, clap your cards on the table, looking 254, CRITICAL EEVIEWS can make a genl'man fit for genTmanly society. His beayviour at dinner and brexfast, at bawls and swarries, at chuoh, at vist, at skittles, at drivin' cabs, at gettin' in an' out of a carriage, at his death and burill — givin', on every one of these subjicks, a plenty of ex'lent maxums ; as we shall very soon see. Let's begin about dinner — it's always a pleasant thing to hear talk of. Skeleton (who is a slap-up heppycure) says : — • " Earn the reputation of being a good carver ; it is a weakness to pretend superiority to an art in such constant requisition, and on which so much enjoyment depends. You must not crowd the plate — send only a moderate quantity, with fat and gravy; in short, whatever you may be carving, serve others as if you were helping yourself: this may be done with rapidity, if the carver takes pleasure in his province, and endeavours to excel. It is cruel and disgusting to send a lump of meat to any one : if at the table of a friend, it is offensive ; if at your own, unpardonable. No refined appetite can survive it." Taken in general, I say this remark is admiral. I saw an instance, only last wick, at our table. There was, first. Sir James and my Lady, in course, at the head of their own table ; then there was Lord and Lady Smigsmag right and left of my Lady ; Captain Flupp, of the huzzas (huzza he may be; but he looks, to my thinkin, much more like a bravo) ; and the Bishop of Biflfeter, with his lady ; Haldermin Snodgrass, and me — that is, I waited. Well, the haldermin, who was lielpin the tuttle, puts on Biffeter's plate a wad of green fat, which might way a pound and three-quarters. His Ludship goes at it very hearty ; but not likin to seprate it, tries to swallow the lump at one go. I recklect Lady Smigsmag saying gaily, "What, my Lord, are you goin that whole hog at once 1 " The bishop looked at her, rowled his eyes, and tried to spick ; but between the spickin and swallerin, and the green fat, the consquinsies were fatle ! He sunk back on his chair, his spoon dropt, his face became of a blew colour, and down he fell as dead as a nit. He recovered, to be sure, nex day ; but not till after a precious deal of bleedin and dosin, which Dr. Drencher described for him. proudly round, conscious of your own superiority. I speak to those in good society, — not to him who, making cards his trade, has his motives for thus hurrying, — that he may remark the countenances of those with whom he plays — that he may make observations in his mind's eye, from what passes around, and use those observations to suit ulterior ends." This, now, is what I call a reg'lar parrylel passidge, and renders quite clear Mr. Skeltonses notin of the situation of the mind's eye. — Chas. Ylflbh. FASHNABLE FAX AND POLITE ANNYGOATS 255 This would never have happened, had not tlie haldermin given him such a plate-full ; and to Skeleton's maxim let me add mine. Dinner was made for eatin, not for talkin : never pay compli- ments with your mouth full. " The person carving must hear in mind that a knife is a saw, by which means it wiU never slip ; and should it be blunt, or the meat overdone, he will succeed neatly and expertly, while others are unequal to the task. For my part, I have been accustomed to think I could carve any meat, with any knife; but lately, in France, I have found my mistake — for the meat was so overdone, and the knives so blunt, that the little merit I thought I possessed completely failed me. Such was never the case with any knife I ever met with in England. " Pity that there is not a greater reciprocity in the world ! How much would France be benefited by the introduction of our cutlery and woollens ; and we by much of its produce ! "When the finger-glass is placed before you, you must not drink the contents, or even rinse your mouth, and spit it back ; although this has been done by some inconsiderate persons. Never, in short, do that of which, on reflection, you would be ashamed ; for instance, never help yourself to salt with your knife — a thing which is not unfrequently done in la belle France in the ' perfumed chambers of the great.' We all have much to unlearn, ere we can learn much that we should. My effort is ' to gather up the tares, and bind them in bundles to destroy them,' and then to 'gather the wheat into the barn.' "When the rose-water is carried round after dinner, dip into it the corner of your napkin lightly ; touch the tips of your fingers, and press the napkin on your lips. Forbear plunging into the liquid as into a bath." This, to be sure, would be diifiklt, as well as ungenlmnly; and I have something to say on this head, too. About them blue water bowls which are brought in after dinner, and in which the company makes such a bubblin and spirtin ; people should be very careful in usin them, and mind how they hire short-sighted servants. Lady Smigsmag is a melancholy instance of this. Her Ladyship wears two rows of false teeth (what the French call a rattler), and is, every body knows, one of the most absint of women. After dinner one day (at her own house), she whips out her teeth, and puts them into the blue bowl, as she always did, when the squirtin time came. Well, the conversation grew hanimated; and so much was Lady Smigsmag &56 CRITICAL REVIEWS interested, that slie clean forgot her teeth, and wen to bed without them. Nex morning was a dreadful disturbance in the house : sumbady had stolen my Lady's teeth out of her mouth ! But this is a loss which a lady don't like positively to advertise ; so the matter was hushed up, and my Lady got a new set from Parkison's. But nobody ever knew who was the thief of the teeth. A fortnight after, another dinner was given. Lady Smigsmag only kep a butler and one man, and this was a chap whom we used to call, professionally. Lazy Jim. He never did nothing but when he couldn't help it ; he was as lazy as a dormus, and as blind as a howl. If the plate was dirty, Jim never touched it until the day it was wanted, and the same he did by the glas ; you might go into his pantry, and see dozens on 'em with the water (lie drenk up all the wind) which had been left in 'em since last dinner party. How such things could be allowed in a house, I don't know ; it only shewed that Smigsmag was an easy master, and that Higgs, the butler, didn't know his bisuiss. Well, the day kem for the sek'nd party. Lazy Jim's plate was all as dutty as pos'bil, and his whole work to do ; he cleaned up the plate, the glas, and everythink else, as he thought, and set out the trays and things on the sideboard. " Law, Jim, you jackass," cried out the butler, at half-past seven, jist as the people was a comen down to dinner ; " you've forgot the washand basins." Jim spun down into his room, — for he'd forgotten 'em, sure enough ; there they were, however, on his shelf, and full of water : so he brought 'em up, and said nothink; but gev 'em a polishin wipe with the tail of his coat. Down kem the company to dinner, and set to it like good uns. The society was reg'lar distangy (as they say) : there was the Duke of Haldersgit, Lord and Lady Barbikin, Sir Gregory Jewin, and Lady Suky Smithfield, asides a lot of commontators. The dinner was removed, and the bubble and squeakers (as I call 'em) put down ; and all the people began a washin themselves, like any- think. " Whrrrrr ! " went Lady Smigsmag ; " Cloocloocloocloophizz ! " says Lady Barbikin ; " Goggleoggleoggleblrrawaw ! " says Jewin (a very fat g'n'l'm'n), " Blobblobgob ! " began his Grace of Haldersgit, who has got the widest mouth in all the peeridge, when all of a sudden he stopped, down went his washand-basin, and he gev such a piercing shriek ! such a bust of agony as I never saw, excep when the prince sees the ghost in " Hamlick " : down went his basin, and up went his eyes ; I really thought he was going to vomick ! I rushed up to his Grace, squeeging him in the shoulders, and patting him on the back. Everybody was in alarm ; the duke as FASHNABLE FAX AND POLITE ANNYGOATS 257 pale as hashes, grinding his teeth, frowning, and makin the most frightful extortions : the ladis were in astarrix ; and I observed Lazy Jim leaning against the sideboard, and looking as white as chock. I looked into his Grace's plate, and, on my honour as a gnlmn, among the amins and reasons, there was two rows of teeth ! " Law ! — heavens ! — what ! — your Grace ! — is it possible 1 " said Lady Smigsmag, puttin her hand into the duke's plate. "Dear Duke of Aldersgate ! as I live, they are my lost teeth ! " Flesh and blud coodn't stand this, and I bust out lafEn, till I thought I should split ; a footman's a man, and as impregnable as hany other to the ridiklous. / bust, and every body bust after me — lords and ladies, duke and butler, and all — every body excep Lazy Jim. Would you blieve it ? He hadn't cleaned out the glasses, and the company was a washin themselves in second-hand water, a fortnit old ! I don't wish to insinuate that this kind of thing is general ; only people had better take warnin by me and Mr. Skeleton, and wash theirselves at home. Lazy Jeames was turned off the nex morning, took to drinkin and evil habits, and is now, in consquints, a leftenant- general in the Axillary Legend. Let's now get on to what Skelton calls his " Derelictions " — here's some of 'em, and very funny one's they are too. What do you think of Number 1, by way of a dereliction ? "1. A knocker on the door of a lone house in the country. " 2. When on horseback, to be followed by a groom in a fine livery ; or, when in your gig or cab, with a ' tiger ' so adorned by your side. George IV., whose taste was never excelled, if ever equalled, always, excepting on state occasions, exhibited his retinue in plain liveries — a grey frock being the usual dress of his grooms. " 4. To elbow people as you walk is rude. For such uncouth beings, perhaps, a good thrashing would be tlie best monitor ; only there might be disagreeables attending the correction, in the shape of legal functionaries. " 9. When riding with a companion, be not two or three horse- lengths before or behind. " 10. When walking with one friend, and you encounter another, although you may stop and speak, never introduce the strangers, unless each expresses a wish to that effect. " 13. Be careful to check vulgarities in children; for instance : ' Tom, did you get wet ? ' — ' No ; Bob did, but I cut away.' You 13 R 258 RCITICAL EEVIEWS should also affectionately rebuke an unbecoming tone and manner in children. "18. To pass a glass, or any drinking vessel, by the brim, or to offer a lady a bumper, are things equally in bad taste. " 19. To look from the window to ascertain who has knocked, whilst the servant goes to the door, must not be done. "26. Humming, drumming, or whistling, we must avoid, as disrespectful to our company. " 27. Never whisper in company, nor make confidants of mere acquaintance. " 28. Vulgar abbreviations, such as gent for gentleman, or buss for- omnibus, &c., must be shunned. " 29. Make no noise in eating : as, when you masticate with the lips uuclosed, the action of the jaw is heard. It is equally bad in drinking. Gulping loudly is abomiuable — it is but habit — unre- strained, no more ; but enough to disgust. " 30. To do anything that might be obnoxious to censure, or even bear animadversion from eccentricity, you must take care not to commit. "31. Be especially cautious not to drink while your plate is sent to be replenished. " 32. A bright light in a dirty lamp * is not to be endured. " 33. The statue of the Achilles in Hyde Park is in bad taste. To erect a statue in honour of a hero in a defensive attitude, when his good sword has carved his renown — Ha, ha, ha ! " Ha, ha, ha ! isn't that reg'lar ridiklous 1 Not the statute I mean, but the dereliction, as Skillyton calls it. Ha, ha, ha ! indeed ! Defensive hattitude ! He may call that nasty naked figger defensive — I say it's Ao/fensive, and no mistake. But read the whole bunch of remarx, Mr. Yoeee ; a'nt they rich ? — a'nt they what you may call a perfect gallixy of derelictions 1 Take, for instance, twenty -nine and thutty-one — gulpins, raasti- gatin, and the hactiou of the jaw ! Why, sich things a'nt done, not by the knife-boy, and the skillery-made, who dine in the back kitchin after we've done ! And nex appeal to thutty-one. Why shouldn't a man drink, when his plate's taken away? Is it unnatran is it ungen'm'n'ly ] is it unbecomin 1 If he'd said that a chap shouldn't drink when his glass is taken away, that would be a reason, and a good one. Now let's read " hayteen." Pass a glass by the brim ! Put your thum and fingers, I spose. The very notin makes me all * "If in the hall, or in your cab, this, if seen a second time, admits no excuse : turn away the man, " FASHNABLE FAX AND POLITE ANNYGOATS 259 over uncomfrble ; and, in all my experience of society, I never saw- no not a coalheaver do such a thing. Nex comes : — "The most barbarous modern introduction is the habit of wearing the hat in the 'salon,' as now practised even in the presence of the ladies. " When, in making a morning call, you give your card at the door, the servant should be instructed to do his duty, and not stand looking at the name on the card while you speak to him." There's two rules for you ! Who does wear a hat in the salong ? Nobody, as I ever saw. And as for Number 40, I can only say, on my own part individiwidiwally, and on the part of the perfession, that if ever Mr. Skclton comes to a house where I am the gen'l'm'n to open the door, and instrux me about doing my duty, I'll instruct him about the head, I will. No man should instruct other people's servants. No man should bully or talk loud to a gen'l'm'n who, from his wery situation, is hincapable of defense or reply. I've known this cistim to be carried on by low swaggerin fellars in clubbs and privit houses, but never by reel gen'l'm'n. And now for the last maxum, or dereliction : — " The custom of putting the knife in the mouth is so repulsive to our feelings as men, is so entirely at variance with the manners of gentlemen, that I deem it unnecessary to inveigh against it here. The very appearance of the act is — ' A monster of so odious mien. That to be hated, needs but to be seen.* " Oh, heavens ! the notion is overpowerin ! I once see a gen'l'm'n cut his head off eatin peez that way. Knife in your mouth ! — oh ! — fawgh ! — it makes me all over. Mrs. Cook, do have the kindniss to git me a basin ! In this abrupt way Mr. Yellowplush's article concludes. The notion conveyed in the last paragraph was too disgusting for his delicate spirit, and caused him emotions that are neither pleasant to experience nor to describe. It may be objected to his communication, that it contains some orthographic eccentricities, and that his acuteness surpasses con- siderably his education. But a gentleman of his rank and talent was the exact person fitted to criticise the volume which forms the subject of his remarks. We at once saw that only Mr. Yellowplush was fit for Mr. Skelton, Mr. Skelton for Mr. Yellowplush. There 26o CRITICAL REVIEWS is a luxury of fashionable observation, a fund of apt illustration, an intimacy with the first leaders of the ton, and a richness of authentic anecdote, which is not to be found in any other writer of any other periodical. He who looketh from a tower sees more of the battle than the knights and captains engaged in it ; and, in like manner, he who stands behind a fashionable tabk knows more of society than the guests who sit at the board. It is from this source that our great novel-writers have drawn their experience, retailing the truths which they learned. It is not impossible that Mr. Yellowplush may continue his communications, when we shall be able to present the reader with the only authentic picture of fashionable life which has been given to the world in our time. All the rest are stolen and disfigured copies of that original piece, of which we are proud to be in possession. After our contributor's able critique, it is needless for us to extend our remarks upon Mr. Skelton's book. We have to thank that gentleman for some hours' extraordinary amusement ; and shall be delighted at any further productions of his pen. 0. Y. STRICTURES ON PICTURES A LETTEE FROM MICHAEL ANGELO TITMAESH, ESQUIEB, TO MONSIEUR ANATOLE VICTOR ISIDOR HYACINTHE ACHILLE HERCULE DE BRICABEAC, PEINTEE d'hISTOIEE, EUE MOUF- FETAED, A PAEIS Lord's Hotel, New Street, Covent Garden : Tuesday, 15th May. {PROPOSE to be both learned and pleasant in my remarks upon the exhibitions here ; for I know, my dear Bricabrac, that it is your intention to translate this letter into French, for the benefit of some of your countrymen, who are anxious about the progress of the fine arts — ii^hen I say some, I mean all, for, thanks to your Government patronage, your magnificent public galleries, and, above all, your delicious sky and sunshine, there is not a scavenger in your nation who has not a feeling for the beauty of Nature, which is, my dear Anatole, neither more nor less than Art. You know nothing about art in this country — almost as little as we know of French art. One Gustave Planche, who makes visits to London, and writes accounts of pictures in your reviews, is, believe me, an impostor. I do not mean a private impostor, for I know not whether Planche is a real or assumed name, but simply a quack on matters of art. Depend on it, my dear young friend, that there is nobody like Titmarsh : you will learn more about the arts in England from this letter than from anything in or out of print. Well, then, every year, at the commencement of this blessed month of May, wide open the doors of three picture galleries, in which figure all the works of genius which our brother artists have produced during the whole year. I wish you could see my historical picture of " Heliogabalus in the Ruins of Carthage," or the full- length of Sir Samuel Hicks and his Lady, — sitting in a garden light. Lady H. reading the " Book of Beauty," Sir Samuel catching a butterfly which is settling on a flower-pot. This, however, is all egotism. I am not going to speak of my works, which are pretty well known in Paris already, as I flatter myself, but of other artists ■ — some of them men of merit — as well as myself. Let us commence, then, with the commencement — the Royal 262 CEITICAL KEVIEWS Academy. That is held in one wing of a little building like a gin- shop, which is near Saint Martin's Church. In the other wing is our National Gallery. As for the building, you must not take that as a specimen of our skill in the fine arts ; come down the Seven Dials, and I will show you many modern structures of which the architect deserves far higher credit. But, bad as the place is — a pigmy abortion, in lieu of a noble monument to the greatest school of painting in the greatest country of the modern world (you may be angry, but I'm riglit in both cases) — bad as the outside is, the interior, it must be confessed, is marvellously pretty and convenient for the reception and exhibition of the pictures it will hold. Since the old pictures have got their new gallery, and their new scouring, one hardly knows them. Ferdinand, Ferdinand, that is a treat, that National Gallery, and no mistake ! I shall write to you fourteen or fifteen long letters about it some day or other. The apartment devoted to the Academy exhibition is equally commodious : a small room for miniatures and aquarelles, another for architectural drawings, and three saloons for pictures — all very small, but well lighted and neat ; no interminable passage, like your five hundred yards at the Louvre, with a slippery door, and tiresome straggling cross-lights. Let us buy a catalogue, and walk straight into the gallery, however : — we have been a long time talking, de omnibus rebus, at the door. Look, my dear Isidor, at the first names in the catalogue, and thank your stars for being in such good company. Bless us and save us, what a power of knights is here ! Sir William Beechey. Sir Martin Shee. Sir David Wilkie. Sir Augustus Callcott. Sir W. J. Newton. Sir Geoffrey Wyattville. Sir Francis Chantrey. Sir Eichard Westmacott. Sir Michael Angelo Titmarsh — not yet, that is ; but I shall be, in course, when our little liege lady — Heaven bless her ! — has seen my portrait of Sir Sam and Lady Hicks. If all these gentlemen in the list of Academicians and Associates are to have titles of some sort or other, I should propose : — 1. Baron Beiggs. (At the very least, he is out and out the best portrait-painter of the set.) 2. Daniel, Peince Maclise. (His Koyal Highness's pictures place him very near to the throne indeed.) STEICTUKES ON PICTUEES 263 3. Edwin, Earl of Landseer. 4. The Lord Charles Landseer. 5. The Duke of Etty. 6. Archbishop Eastlake. 7. His Majesty KING MULREADY. King Mulready, I repeat, in double capitals ; for, if this man has not the crowning picture of the exhibition, I am no better than a Dutchman. His picture represents the " Seven Ages," as described by a poet whom you have heard of — one Shakspeare, a Warwick- shire man : and there they are, all together ; the portly justice and the quarrelsome soldier ; the lover leaning apart, and whispering sweet things in his pretty mistress's ear ; the baby hanging on her gentle mother's bosom ; the schoolboy, rosy and lazy ; the old man crabbed and stingy; and the old old man of all, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans ears, sans everything — but why describe them 1 You will find the thing better done in Shakspeare, or possibly translated by some of your Frenchmen. I can't say much about the drawing of this picture, for here and there are some queer-looking limbs ; but — oh, Anatole ! — the intention is godlike. Not one of those figures but has a grace and a soul of his own ; no conventional copies of the stony antique ; no distorted caricatures, like those of your " classiques," David, Girodet and Co. (the impostors !) — but such expressions as a great poet would draw, who thinks profoundly and truly, and never forgets (he could not if he would) grace and beauty withal. The colour and manner of this noble picture are neither of the Venetian school, nor the Florentine, nor the English, but of the Mulready school. Ah ! my dear Floridor ! I wish that you and I, ere we die, may have erected such a beautiful monument to hallow and perpetuate our names. Our children — my boy, Sebastian Piombo Titmarsh, will see this picture in his old age, hanging by the side of the Eaffaelles in our National Gallery. I sometimes fancy, in the presence of such works of genius as this, that my picture of Sir Sam and Lady Hicks is but a magnificent error after all, and that it will die away, and be forgotten. Near to " All the world's a stage " is a charming picture, by Archbishop Eastlake ; so denominated by me, because the rank is very respectable, and because there is a certain purity and religious feeling in all Mr. Eastlake does, which eminently entitles him to the honours of the prelacy. In this picture, Gaston de Foix (he whom Titian painted, his mistress buckling on his armour) is part- ing from his mistress. A fair peaceful garden is round about them ; and here his lady sits and clings to him, as though she would cling for ever. But, look ! yonder stands the page and the horse pawing ; and, beyond the wall which bounds the quiet garden and flowers, 264 CRITICAL REVIEWS you see the spears and pennons of knights, the banners of King Louis and De Foix " the thunderbolt of Italy." Long shining rows of steel-clad men are marching stately by; and with them must ride Count Gaston — to conquer and die at Ravenna. You can read his history, my dear friend, in Lacretelle, or Brant6me; only, perhaps, not so well expressed as it has just been by me. Yonder is Sir David Wilkie's grand picture, " Queen Victoria holding her First Council." A marvellous painting, in which one admires the exquisite richness of the colour, the breadth of light and shadow, the graceful dignity and beauty of the principal figure, and the extraordinary skill with which all the figures have been grouped, so as to produce a grand and simple effect. What can one say more but admire the artist who has made, out of such unpoetical materials as a table of red cloth, and fifty unoccupied middle-aged gentlemen, a beautiful and interesting picture? Sir David has a charming portrait, too, of Mrs. Maberly, in dark crimson velvet, and dehcate white hat and feathers : a marvel of colour, though somewhat askew in the drawing. Tlie Earl of Landseer's best picture, to my thinking, is that which represents her Majesty's favourite dogs and parrot. He has, in painting, an absolute mastery over Olbivotai Te iraffi. : this is, he can paint all manner of birds and beasts as nobody else can. To tell you a secret I do not think he understands how to paint the great beast, man, quite so well; or, at least, to do what is the highest quality of an artist, to place a soul under the ribs as lie draws them. They are, if you like, the most dexterous pictures that ever were painted, but not great pictures. I would much rather look at yonder rough Leslie tlian at all the wonderful painting of parrots or greyhounds, though done to a hair or a feather. Leslie is the only man in this country who translates Shakspeare into form and colour. Old Shallow and Sir Hugh, Slender and his man Simple, pretty Anne Page and the Merry Wives of Windsor, are here joking with the fat knight ; who, with a monstrous gravity and profound brazen humour, is narrating some tale of his feats with the wild Prince and Poins. Master Brooke is offering a tankard to Master Slender, who will not drink, forsooth. This picture is executed with the utmost simplicity, and almost rudeness ; bat is channing, from its great truth of effect and ex- pression. Wilkie's pictures (in his latter style) seem to begin where Leslie's end ; the former's men and women look as if the bodies had STRIOTUEES ON PIOTUEES 265 been taken out of them, and only the surface left. Lovely as the Queen's figure is, for instance, it looks like a spirit, and not a woman ; one may almost see through her into the waistcoat of Lord Lansdowne, and so ou through the rest of the transparent heroes and statesmen of the company. Opposite the Queen is another charming performance of Sir David — a bride dressing, amidst a rout of bridesmaids and relations. Some are crying, some are smiling, some are pinning her gown ; a back door is open, and a golden sun shines into a room which con- tains a venerable-looking bed and tester, probably that in which the dear girl is to — but parlons d'autres choses. The colour of this picture is delicious, and the effect faultless : Sir David does everything for a picture nowadays but the drawing. Who knows ? Perhaps it is as well left out. Look yonder, down to the ground, and admire a most beautiful fantastic Ariel. *' On the bat's back do I fly, After sunset merrily.' Merry Ariel lies at his ease, and whips with gorgeous peacock's feather his courser, flapping lazy through the golden evening sky. This exquisite ■ little picture is the work of Mi-. Severn, an artist who has educated his taste and his hand in the early Roman school. He has not the dash and dexterity of the latter which belong to some of our painters, but he possesses that solemn earnestness and simplicity of mind and purpose which make a religion of art, and seem to be accorded only to a few in our profession. I have heard a pious pupil of Mr. Ingres (the head of your academy at Rome) aver stoutly that, in matters of art, Titian was Antichrist, and Rubens, Martin Luther. They came with their brilliant colours, and dashing worldly notions, upsetting that beautiful system of faith in which art had lived hitherto. Portraits of saints and martyrs, with pure eyes turned heavenward ; and (as all true sanctity will) making those pure who came within their reach, now gave way to wicked likenesses of men of blood, or dangerous, devilish, sensual portraits of tempting women. Before Titian, a picture was the labour of years. Why did this reformer ever come among us, and show how it might be done in a day "i He drove the good angels away from painters' easels, and called down a host of voluptuous spirits instead, who ever since have held the mastery there. Only a few artists of our country (none in yours, where the so- called Catholic school is a mere theatrical folly), and some among the Germans, have kept to the true faith, and eschewed the tempta- 266 CRITICAL REVIEWS tions of Titian and his like. Mr. Eastlake is one of these. Who does not recollect his portrait of Miss Bury ? Not a simple woman —the lovely daughter of the authoress of " Love," " Flirtation," and other remarkable works — but a glorified saint. Who does not remember his Saint Sebastian ; his body bare, his eyes cast melan- choly down ; his limbs, as yet untouched by the arrows of his perse- cutors, tied to the fatal tree 1 Those two pictures of Mr. Eastlake would merit to hang in a gallery where there were only Raffaelles besides. Mr. Severn is another of the school. I don't know what hidden and indefinable charm there is in his simple pictures ; but I never can look at them without a certain emotion of awe — with- out that thrill of the heart with which one hears country children sing the Old Hundredth, for instance. The singers are rude, per- haps, and the voices shrill ; but the melody is still pure and god- like. Some such majestic and pious harmony is there in these pictures of Mr. Severn, Mr. Mulready's mind has lately gained this same kind of inspiration. I know no one else who possesses it, except, perhaps, myself. Without flattery, I may say, that my picture of " Heliogabalus at Carthage " is not in the popular taste, and has about it some faint odour of celestial incense. Do not, my dear Anatole, consider me too great an ass for per- sisting upon this point, and exemplifying Mr. Severn's picture of the " Crusaders catching a First View of Jerusalem " as an instance. Godfrey and Tancred, Raymond and Ademar, Beamond and Rinaldo, with Peter and the Christian host, behold at length the day dawning. ** E quando il sol gli aridi catnpi fiede Con raggi assai ferventi, e in alto sorge, Ecco apparir Gerusalem si vede, Ecco additar Gerusalem si scorge, Ecco da mille voci unitaniente Gerusalemme salutar si sente ! " Well, Godfrey and Tancred, Peter, and the rest, look like little wooden dolls ; and as for the horses belonging to the crusading cavalry, I have seen better in gingerbread. But, what then 1 There is a higher ingredient in beauty than mere form ; a skilful hand is only the sec'ond artistical quality, worthless, my Anatole, without the first, which is a great heart. This picture is beautiful, in spite of its defects, as many women are. Mrs. Titmarsh is beautiful, though she weighs nineteen stone. Being on the subject of religious pictures, what shall I say of Mr. Ward's? Anything so mysteriously liideous was never seen before now ; they are worse than all the horrors in your Spanish Gallery at Paris. As Eastlake's are of the Catholic, these may STRICTURES ON PICTURES 267 be called of the Muggletonian, school of art ; monstrous, livid, and dreadful, as the dreams .of a man in the scarlet fever. I would much sooner buy a bottled baby -with two heads as a pleasing ornament for my cabinet; and should be afraid to sit alone in a room with "ignorance, envy, and jealousy filling the throat, and widening the mouth of calumny endeavouring to bear down truth ! " Mr. Maclise's picture of " Christmas " you will find excellently described in the May number of a periodical of much celebrity among us, called Fraser's Magazine. Since the circulation of that miscellany is almost as extensive in Paris as in London, it is need- less in this letter to go over beaten ground, and speak at length of the plot of this remarkable picture. There are five hundred meiTy figures painted on this canvas, gobbling, singing, kissing, carousing. A line of jolly serving men troop down the hall stairs, and bear the boar's head in procession up to the dais, where sits the good old English gentleman, and his guests and family ; a set of mummers and vassals are crowded round a table gorging beef and wassail ; a bevy of blooming girls and young men are huddled in a circle, and play at hunt the slipper. Of course, there are plenty of stories told at the huge hall fire, and kissing under the glistening mistletoe- bough. But I wish you could see the wonderful accuracy with which all these figures are drawn, and the extraordinary skill with which the artist has managed to throw into a hundred different fa.ces a hundred different characters and individualities of joy. Every one of these little people is smiling, but each has his own particular smile. As for the colouring of the picture, it is, between ourselves, atrocious ; but a man cannot have all the merits at once. Mr. Maclise has for his share humour such as few painters ever possessed, and a power of drawing such as never was possessed by any other ; no, not by one, from Albert Diirer downwards. His scene from the " Vicar of Wakefield " is equally charming. Moses's shining grinning face ; the little man in red who stands on tiptoe, and painfuUy scrawls his copy ; and the youngest of the family of the Primroses, who learns his letters on his father's knee, are perfect in design and expression. What might not this man do, if lie would read and meditate a little, and profit by the works of men whose taste and education were superior to his own. Mr. Charles Landseer has two tableaux de genre, which possess very great merit. His characters are a little too timid, perhaps, as Mr. Maclise's are too bold ; but the figures are beautifully drawn, the colouring and effect excellent, and the accessories painted with great faithfdness and skill. " The Parting Benison " is, perhaps, the more interesting picture of the two. And now we arrive at Mr. Etty, whose rich luscious pencil has 268 CRITICAL REVIEWS covered a hundred glowing canvases, which every painter must love. I don't know whether the Duke has this year produced anything which one might have expected from a man of his rank and conse- quence. He is, like great men, lazy, or indifferent, perhaps, about public approbation ; and also, like great men, somewhat too luxurious and fond of pleasure. For instance, here is a picture of a sleepy nymph, most richly painted ; but tipsy-looking, coarse, and so naked as to be unfit for appearance among respectable people at an exhibi- tion. You will understand what I mean. There are some figures without a rag to cover them, which look modest and decent for all that ; and others, which may be clothed to the chin, and yet are not fit for modest eyes to gaze on. Verbum sat — this naughty "Somnolency" ought to go to sleep in her nightgown. But here is a far nobler painting, — the prodigal kneeling down lonely in the stormy evening, and praying to Heaven for pardon. It is a grand and touching picture ; and looks as large as if the three- foot canvas had been twenty. His wan wretched figure and clasped hands are lighted up by the sunset ; the clouds are livid and heavy ; and the wind is howling over the solitary common, and numbing the chill limbs of the poor wanderer. A goat and a boar are looking at him with horrid obscene eyes. They are the demons of Lust and Gluttony, which have brought him to this sad pass. And there seems no hope, no succour, no ear for the prayer of this wretched, wayworn, miserable man who kneels there alone, shuddering. Only above, in the gusty blue sky, you see a glistening, peaceful, silver star, which points to home and hope, as clearly as if the little star were a signpost, and home at the very next turn of the road. Away, then, conscience-stricken prodigal ! and you shall find a good father, who loves you ; and an elder brother, who hates you — but never mind that ; and a dear, kind, stout old mother, who liked you twice as well as the elder, for all his goodness and psalm- singing, and has a tear and a prayer for you night and morning ; and a pair of gentle sisteris, maybe ; and a poor young thing down in the village, who has never forgotten your walks in the quiet nut- woods, and the birds' nests you brought her, and the big boy you thrashed, because he broke the eggs : he is squire now, the big boy, and would marry her, but she will not have him — not she ! — her thoughts are with her dark-eyed, bold-browed, devil-may-care play- mate, who swore she should be his little wife — and then went to college — and then came back sick and changed — and then got into debt — and then But never mind, man ! down to her at once. She will pretend to be cold at first, and then shiver and turn red and deadly pale ; and then she tumbles into your arms, with a gush of sweet tears, and a pair of rainbows in her soft eyes, welcoming STRICTURES ON PICTURES 269 the sunshine back to her bosom again ! To her, man ! — never fear, miss ! Hug him, and kiss him, as though you would draw the heart from his lips. When she has done, the poor thing falls stone-pale and sobbing on young Prodigal's shoulder ; and he carries her, quite gently, to that old bench where he carved her name fourteen years ago, and steals his arm round her waist, and kisses her hand, and soothes her. Then comes but the poor widow, her mother, who is pale and tearful too, and tries to look cold and unconcerned. She kisses her daughter, and leads her trembling into the house. " You will come to us to-morrow, Tom?" says she, as she takes his hand at vhe gate. To-morrow ! To be sure he will ; and this very night, too, after supper with the old people. (Young Squire Prodigal never sups ; and has found out that he must ride into town, to arrange about a missionary meeting with the Reverend Doctor Slackjaw.) To be sure, Tom Prodigal will go : the moon wUl be up, and who knows but Lucy may be looking at it about twelve o'clock. At one, back trots the young squire, and he sees two people whispering at a window; and he gives something very like a curse, as he digs into the ribs of his mare, and canters, clattering, down the silent road. Yes — but, in the meantime, there is the old housekeeper, with " Lord bless us ! " and " Heaven save us ! ", and " Who'd have thought ever again to see his dear face ? And master .to forget it aU, who swore so dreadful that he would never see him ! — as for missis, she always loved him." There, I say, is the old housekeeper, logging the fire, airing the sheets, and flapping the feather beds — ■ for Master Tom's room has never been used this many a day ; and the young ladies have got some flowers for his chimney-piece, and put back his mother's portrait, which they have had in their room ever since he went away and forgot it, woe is me ! And old John, the butler, coachman, footman, valet, factotum, consults with master about supper. " What can we have 1 " says master ; "all the shops are shut, and there's nothing in the house." John. " No, no more there isn't ; only Guernsey's calf. Butcher kill'd'n yasterday, as your honour knowth." Master. " Come, John, a calf's enough. Tell the cook to senid us up that." And he gives a hoarse haw! haw! at his wit; and Mrs. Prodigal smiles too, and says, " Ah, Tom Prodigal, you were always a merry fellow ! " Well, John Footman carries down the message to cook, who is 270 CRITICAL REVIEWS a country wench, and takes people at their word ; and what do you think she sends up ? Top Dish. Fillet of vealj and bacon on the side-table. Bottom, Dish. Roast ribs of veal. In the Middle. Calves'-head soup (&, la tortue). Veal broth. Between. Boiled knuckle of veal, and parsley sauce. Stewed veal, with brown sauce and forced-meat balls. Entremets. Veal olives {for sauce, see stewed veal). Veal cutlets (pan&s, sauce piquante). Ditto (en papillote). Scotch coUops, Fricandeau of veal (pique au lard ^ la chicoree). Minced veal. Blanquet of veal. Second Course. Curry of calves'-head. Sweetbreads. Calves '-foot jelly. See, my dear Anatole, what a world of thought can be conjured up out of a few inches of painted canvas. And now we come to the great and crowning picture of the exhibition, my own historical piece, namely, " Heliogabalus in the Euins of Carthage." In this grand and finished perform *^* Mr. Titmarsh's letter stops, unfortunately, here. We found it at midnight, the 15th-16th May, in a gutter of Saint Martin's Lane, whence a young gentleman had been just removed by the police. It is to be presumed that intoxication could be his only cause for choosing such a sleeping-place, at such an hour ; and it had probably commenced as he was writing the above fragment. We made inquiries at Lord's Coffee House, of Mr. Moth (who, from being the active and experienced head-waiter, is now the obliging landlord of that establishment), and were told that a gentle- man unknown had dined there at three, and had been ceaselessly occupied in writing and drinking until a quarter to twelve, when he abruptly left the house. Mr. Moth regretted to add, that the STRICTURES ON PICTURES 271 stranger had neglected to pay for thirteen glasses of gin-and-water, half-a-pint of porter, a bottle of soda-water, and a plate of ham- sandwiches, which he had consumed in the course of the day. We have paid Mr. Moth (whose very moderate charges, and ex- cellent stock of wines and spirits, cannot be too highly commended), and shall gladly hand over to Mr. Titmarsh the remaining sum which is his due. Has he any more of his rhapsody 1 — 0. Y. A SECOND LECTURE ON THE FINE ARTS, BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH, ESQUIRE THE EXHIBITIONS Jack Straw's Castle, Hampstead. MY DEAR BRICABRAC,— You, of course, remember the letter on the subject of our exhibitions which I addressed to you this time last year. As you are now lying at the H6tel Dieu, wounded during the late unsuccessful emeute (which I think, my dear friend, is the seventeenth you have been engaged in), and as the letter which I wrote last year was received with unbounded applause by the people here, and caused a sale of three or four editions of this Magazine,* I cannot surely, my dear Bricabrac, do better than send you another sheet or two, which may console you under yoiu- present bereavement, and at the same time amuse the British public, who now know their friend Titmarsh as well as you in France know that little scamp Thiers. Well, then, from " Jack Straw's Castle," an hotel on Hamp- stead's breezy heath, which Keats, Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, F. W. N. Bayly, and others of our choicest spirits, have often patronised, and a heath of which every pool, bramble, furze-bush- with-clothes-hanging-on-it-to-dry, steep, stock, stone, tree, lodging- house, and distant gloomy background of London city, or bright green stretch of sunshiny Hertfordshire meadows, has been depicted by our noble English landscape-painter. Constable, in his own Con- stabulary way — at " Jack Straw's Castle," I say, where I at this present moment am located (not that it matters in the least, but the world is always interested to know where men of geniu^ are accustomed to disport themselves), I cannot do better than look over the heap of pioture-gallery catalogues which I brought with me from London, and communicate to you, my friend in Paris, my remarks thereon. A man, with iive shillings to spare, may at this present moment half kill himself with pleasure in London town, and in the neighbourhood of Pall Mall, by going from one picture gallery * Fraser's Magazine. A SECOND LECTUEE ON THE FINE AKTS 273 to another, and examining the beauties and absurdities which are to be found in each. There is first the National Gallery (entrance, nothing), in one wing of the little gin-shop of a building so styled near Saint Martin's Church ; in another wing is the exhibition of the Eoyal Academy (entrance, one shilling; catalogue, one ditto). After having seen this, you come to the Water-Colour Exhibition in Pall Mall East ; then to the gallery in Suffolk Street ; and, finally, to the New Water-Colour Society in Pall Mall,— a pretty room, which formerly used to be a gambling-house, where many a bout of seven's-the-main, and iced champagne, has been had by the dissipated in former days. All these collections (all the modern ones, that is) deserve to be noticed, and contain a deal of good, bad, and indifferent wares, as is the way with all other institutions in this wicked world. CorriTnengons done avec le commencement — with the exhibition of the Royal Academy, which consists, as everybody knows, of thirty-eight knight and esquire Academicians, and nineteen simple and ungenteel Associates, who have not so much as a shabby Mister , before their names. I recollect last year facetiously ranging these gentlemen in rank according to what I conceived to be their merits, — King Mulready, Prince Maclisp, Lord Landseer, Archbishop Eastlake (according to the best of my memory, for "Jack Straw," strange to say, does not take in Fraser's Magazine), and so on. At present, a great number of new-comers, not Associates even, ought to be elevated to these aristocratic dignities; and, perhaps, the order ought to be somewhat changed. There are many more good pictures (here and elsewhere) than there were last year. A great stride has been taken in matters of art, my dear friend. The young painters are stepping forward. Let the old fogies look to it ; let the old Academic Olympians beware, for there are fellows among the rising race who bid fair to oust them from sovereignty. They have not yet arrived at the throne, to be sure, but they are near it. The lads are not so good as the best of the Academicians; but many of the Academicians are infinitely worse than the lads, and are old, stupid, and cannot improve, as the younger and more active painters will. If you are particularly anxious to know what is the best picture in the room, not the biggest (Sir David Wilkie's is the biggest, and exactly contrary to the best), I must request you to turn your attention to a noble river-piece by J. W. M. Turner, Esquire, R.A., '"The Fighting Timiraire" — as grand a painting as ever figured on the walls of any Academy, or came from the easel of any painter. The old TimAraire is dragged to her last home by a little, spiteful, diabolical steamer. A mighty red sun. 274 CRITICAL REVIEWS amidst a host of flaring clouds, sinlcs to rest on one side of tUe picture, and illumines a river that seems interminable, and a count- less navy that fades away into such a vronderful distance as never was painted before. The little demon of a steamer is belching out a volume (why do I say a volume 1 not a hundred volumes could express it) of foul, lurid, red-hot, malignant smoke, paddling furiously, and lashing up the water round about it ; while behind it (a cold grey moon looking down on it), slow, sad, and majestic, follows the brave old ship, with death, as it were, written on her. I think, my dear Brioabrac (although, to be sure, your nation would be somewhat offended by such a collection of trophies), that we ought not, in common gratitude, to sacrifice entirely these noble old champions of ours, but that we should have somewhere a museum of their skeletons, which our children might visit, and think of the brave deeds which were done in them. The bones of the Affamemnon and the Captain, the Vanguard, the CuUoden, and the Victory ought to be sacred relics, for Englishmen to worship almost. Think of them when alive, and braving the battle and the breeze, they carried Nelson and his heroes vic- torious by the Cape of Saint Vincent, in the dark waters of Aboukir, and through the fatal conflict of Trafalgar. All these things, my dear Bricabrac, are, you will say, absurd, and not to the purpose. Be it so ; but Bowbellites as we are, we Cockneys feel our hearts leap up when we recall them to memory ; and every clerk in Threadneedle Street feels the strength of a Nelson, when he thinks of the mighty actions performed by him. It is absurd, you will say (and with a great deal of reason), for Titmarsh, or any other Briton, to grow so politically enthusiastic about a four-foot canvas, repi'esenting a ship, a steamer, a river, and a sunset. But herein surely lies the power of the great artist. He makes you see and think of a great deal more than the objects before you ; he knows how to soothe or intoxicate, to fire or to depress, by a few notes, or forms, or colours, of which we cannot trace the effect to the source, but only acknowledge the power. I recollect some years ago, at the theatre at Weimar, hearing Beethoven's " Battle of Vittoria," in which, amidst a storm of glorious music, the air of " God save the King " was introduced. The very instant it began, every Englishman in the house was bolt upright, and so stood reverently until the air was played out. Why so 1 From some such thrill of excitement as makes us glow and rejoice over Mr. Turner and his " Fighting Timiraire " ; which I am sure, when the art of translating colours into music or poetry shall be discovered, will be found to be a magnificent national ode or piece of music, A SECOND LECTUKE ON THE FINE AKTS 275 I must tell you, however, that Mr. Turner's performances are for the most part quite incomprehensible to me; and that his other pictures, which he is pleased to call " Cicero at his "Villa," " Agrippina with the Ashes of Germanicus," " Pluto carrying off Proserpina," or what you will, are not a whit more natural, or less mad, than they used to be in former years, since he has forsaken nature, or attempted (like your French barbers) to embellish it. On n'embellit pas la, nature, my dear Bricabrac ; one may make pert caricatures of it, or mad exaggerations like Mr. Turner in his fancy pieces. ye gods ! why will he not stick to copying her majestical countenance, instead of daubing it with some absurd antics and fard of his own? Fancy pea-green skies, crimson-lake trees, and orange and purple grass — fancy cataracts, rainbows, suns, moons, and thunderbolts — shake them well up, with a quantity of gamboge, and you will have an idea of a fancy picture by Turner. It is worth a shilling alone to go and see " Pluto and Proserpina." Such a landscape ! such figures ! such a little red-hot coal-scuttle of a chariot ! As Nat Lee sings — " Methought I saw a hieroglyphic bat Skim o'er the surface of a slipshod hat ; While, to increase the tumult of the skies, A damned potato o'er the whirlwind flies." If you can understand these lines, you can understand one of Turner's landscapes ; and I recommend them to him, as a pretty subject for a piece for next year. Etty has a picture on the same subject as Turner's, " Pluto carrying off Proserpina ; " and if one may complain that in the latter the figures are not indicated, one cannot at least lay this fault to Mr. Etty's door. His figures are drawn, and a deuced deal too much drawn. A great large curtain of fig-leaves should be hung over every one of this artist's pictures, and the world should pass on, content to know that there are some glorious colours painted beneath. His colour, indeed, is sublime : I doubt if Titian ever knew how to paint flesh better — but his taste ! Not David nor Girodet ever offended propriety so — scarcely ever Peter Paul himself, by whose side, as a colourist and a magnificent heroic painter, Mr. Etty is sometimes worthy to stand. I wish he would take Ariosto in hand, and give us a series of designs from him. His hand would be the very one for those deep luscious land- scapes, and fiery scenes of love and battle. Besides " Proserpine," Mr. Etty has two more pictures, " Endymion," with a dirty, affected, beautiful, slatternly Diana, and a portrait of the "Lady Mayoress of York," which is a curiosity in its way. The line of 276 CEITICAL KEVIEWS her Ladyship's eyes and mouth (it is a front face) are made to meet at a point in a marabou feather which she wears in her turban, and close to her cheekbone ; while the expression of the whole countenance is so fierce, that you would imagine it a Lady Macbeth, and not a lady mayoress. The picture has, neverthe- less, some very fine painting about it — as which of Mr. Etty's pieces has not 1 The artists say there is very fine painting, too, in Sir David Wilkie's great " Sir David Baird " ; for my part, I think very little. You see a great quantity of brown paint ; in this is a great flashing of torches, feathers, and bayonets. You see in the foreground, huddled up in a rich heap of corpses and drapery, Tippoo Sahib ; and swaggering over him on a step, waving a sword for no earthly purpose, and wearing a red jacket and buckskins, the figure of Sir David Baird. The picture is poor, feeble, theatrical : and I would just as soon have Mr. Hart's great canvas of "Lady Jane Grey" (which is worth exactly twopence-halfpenny) as Sir David's poor picture of " Seringapatam." Some of Sir David's portraits are worse even than his historical compositions — they seem to be painted with snuff and tallow-grease : the faces are merely indicated, and without individuality ; the forms only half-drawn, and almost always wrong. What has come to the hand that painted " The Blind Fiddler" and "The Chelsea Pensioners"? Who would have thought that such a portrait as that of " Master Robert Donne," or the composition entitled " The Grandfather," could ever have come from the author of " The Rent Day " and " The Reading of the Will " ? If it be but a coutrast to this feeble, flimsy, trans- parent figure of Master Donne, the spectator cannot do better than cast his eyes upwards, and look at Mr. Linnell's excellent portrait of " Mr. Robert Peel." It is real substantial nature, carefully and honestly painted, and without any flashy tricks of art. It may seem ungracious in "us youth" thus to fall foul of our betters; but if Sir David has taught us to like good pictures, by painting them formerly, we cannot help criticising if he paints bad ones now : and bad they most surely are. From the censure, however, must be excepted the picture of " Grace before Meat," which, a little misty and feeble, perhaps, in drawing and substance, in colour, feeling, composition, and expression is exquisite. The eye loves to repose upon this picture, and the heart to brood over it afterwards. When, as I said before, lines and colours come to be translated into sounds, this picture, I have no doubt, will turn out to be a sweet and touching hymn- tune, with rude notes of cheerful voices, and peal of soft melodious organ, such as one hears stealing over the meadows on sunshiny A SECOND LECTtJiiE ON THE PINE AETS 277 Sabbath-days, while waves under cloudless blue the peaceful golden com. Some such feeling of exquisite pleasure and content is to be had, too, from Mr. Eastlake's picture of " Our Lord and the Little Children." You never saw such tender white faces, and solemn eyes, and sweet forms of mothers round their little ones bending gracefully. These pictures come straight to the heart, and then all criticism and calculation vanishes at once, — for the artist has attained his great end, which is, to strike far deeper than the sight ; and we have no business to quarrel about defects in form and colour, which are but little parts of the great painter's skill. Look, for instance, at another piece of Mr. Eastlake's, called, somewhat affectedly, "La Svegliarina." The defects of the painter, which one does not condescend to notice when he is filled with a great idea, become visible instantly when he is only occupied with a small one ; and you see that the hand is too scrupulous and finikin, the drawing weak, the flesh chalky, and unreal. The very same objections exist to the other picture, but the subject and the genius overcome them. Passing from Mr. Eastlake's pictures to those of a greater genius, though in a different line, — look at Mr. Leslie's little pieces. Can anything be more simple — almost rude — than their manner, and more complete in their effect upon the spectator? The very soul of comedy is in them ; there is no coarseness, no exaggeration ; but they gladden the eye, and the merriment which they excite cannot possibly be more pure, gentlemanlike, or delightful. Mr. Maclise has humour, too, and vast powers of expressing it; but whisky is not more different from rich burgundy than his fun from Mr. Leslie's. To our thinking, Leslie's little head of " Sancho " is worth the whole picture from " Gil Bias," which hangs by it. In point of workmanship, this is, perhaps, the best picture that Mr. Maclise ever painted; the colour is far better than that usually employed by him, and the representation of objects carried to such an extent as we do believe was never reached before. There is a poached egg, which one could swallow ; a trout, that beats all the trout that was ever seen ; a copper pan, scoured so clean that you might see your face in it ; a green blind, through which the sun comes; and a wall, with the sun shining on it, that De Hooghe could not surpass. This young man has the greatest power of hand that was ever had, perhaps, by any painter in any time or country. What does he want? Polish, I think; thought, and cultivation. His great picture of " King Eichard and Eobin Hood " is a wonder of dexterity of hand ; but coarse, I think, and inefficient in humour. His models repeat themselves too continually. Allen k Dale, the harper, is the very counterpart of Gil Bias ; and Eobin 280 CRITICAL REVIEWS of next month, as Lord Melbourne will be to dine with her on that day. But let us return to our muttons. I think there are few more of the oil pictures about which it is necessary to speak ; and besides them, there are a host of miniatures, difficult to expatiate upon, but pleasing to behold. There are Ohalon's ogling beauties, half-a-dozen of them ; and the skill with which their silks and satins are dashed in by the painter is a marvel to the beholder. There are Ross's heads, that to be seen must be seen through a microscope. There is Saunders, who runs the best of the miniature men very hard ; and Thorburn, with Newton, Robertson, Rochard, and a host of others : and, finally, there is the sculpture-room, containing many pieces of clay and marble, and, to my notions, but two good things, a sleeping child (ridiculously called the Lady Susan Somebody), by Westmacott ; and the bust of Miss Stuart, by Macdonald : never was anything on earth more exquisitely lovely. These things seen, take your stick from the porter at the hall door, cut it, and go to fresh picture galleries ; but ere you go, just by way of contrast, and to soothe your mind, after the glare and bustle of the modern collection, take half-an-hour's repose in the National Gallery ; where, before the " Bacchus and Ariadne," you may see what the magic of colour is ; before " Christ and Lazarus " what is majestic, solemn, grace and awful beauty ; and before the new " Saint Catherine " what is the real divinity of art. Oh, Eastlake and Turner ! — Oh, Maclise and Mulready ! you are all very nice men ; but what are you to the men of old ? Issuing then from the National Gallery — you may step over to Parrance's by the way, if you like, and sip an ice, or bolt a couple of dozen forced-meat balls in a basin of mock-turtle soup — issuing, I say, from the National Gallery, and after refreshing yourself or not, as your purse or appetite permits, you arrive speedily at the Water-Oolour Exhibition, and cannot do better than enter. I know nothing more cheerful or sparkling than the first coup d'oeil of this little gallery. In the first place, you never can enter it without finding four or five pretty women, that's a fact ; pretty women with pretty pink bonnets peeping at pretty pictures, and with sweet whispers vowing that Mrs. SeyfFarth is a dear delicious painter, and that her style is "so soft " ; and that Miss Sharpe paints every bit as well as her sister ; and that Mr. Jean Paul Frederick Richter draws the loveliest things, to be sure, that ever were seen. Well, very likely the ladies are right, and it would be unpolite to argue the matter ; but I wish Mrs. Seyfiarth's gentlemen and ladies were not so dreadfully handsome, with such A SECOND LECTURE ON THE FINE ARTS , 281 white pillars of necks, such long eyes and lashes, and such dabs of carmine at the mouth and nostrils. I wish Miss Sharpe would not paint Scripture subjects, and Mr. Richter great goggle eyed, red- cheeked, simpering wenches, whose ogling has become odious from its repetition. However, the ladies like it, and, of course, must have their way. If you want to see real nature, now, real expression, real start- ling home poetry, look at every one of Hunt's heads. Hogarth never painted anything better than these figures, taken singly. That man rushing away frightened from the beer-barrel is a noble head of terror ; that Miss Jemima Crow, whose whole body is a grin, regards you with an ogle that. all the race of Richters could never hope to imitate. Look at yonder card-players; they have a penny pack of the devil's books, and one has just laid down the king of ti-umps ! I defy you to look at him without laughing, or to examine the wondrous puzzled face of his adversary without longing to hug the greasy rogue. Come hither, Mr. Maclise, and see what genuine comedy is ; you who can paint better than all the Hunts and Leslies, and yet not near so well. If I were the Duke of Devonshire, I would have a couple of Hunts in every room in all my houses ; if I had the blue-devils (and even their graces are, I suppose, occasionally so troubled), I would but cast my eyes upon these grand good-humoured pictures, and defy care. Who does not recollect "Before and After the Mutton Pie," the two pictures of that wondrous boy % Where Mr. Hunt finds his models, I cannot tell; they are the very fiower of the British youth ; each of them is as good as " Sancho " ; blessed is he that has his portfolio full of them. There is no need to mention to you the charming landscapes of Cox, Copley Fielding, De Wint, Gastineau, and the rest. A new painter, somewhat in the style of Harding, is Mr. Callow; and better, I think, than his master or original, whose colours are too gaudy to my taste, and effects too glaringly theatrical. Mr. Cattermole has, among others, two very fine drawings ; a large one, the most finished and the best coloured of any which have been exhibited by this fine artist; and a smaller one, "The Portrait," which is charming. The portrait is that of Jane Seymour or Anne Boleyn ; and Henry VIII. is the person examining it, with the Cardinal at his side, the painter before him, and one or two attendants. The picture seems to me a perfect masterpiece, very simply coloured and composed, but delicious in effect and tone, and telling the story to a wonder. It is much more gratifying, I think, to let a painter tell his own story in this way, than to bind him down to a scene of " Ivanhoe " or " Uncle Toby " ; or worse still, 282 CRITICAL REVIEWS to an illustration of some wretched story in some wretched fribble Annual. Woe to the painter who falls into the hands of Mr Charles Heath (I speak, of course, not of Mr. Heath personally, but in a Pickwickian sense — of Mr. Heath the Annual-monger); he ruins the young artist, sucks his brains out, emasculates his genius so as to make it fit company for the purchasers of Annuals. Take, for instance, that unfortunate young man, Mr. Corbould, who gave great promise two years since, painted a pretty picture last year, and now — he has been in the hands of the Annual-mongers, and has left well-nigh all his vigour behind him. Numerous Zuleikas and Lalla Rookhs, which are hanging about the walls of the Academy and the New Water-Colour Gallery, give lamentable proofs of this : such handsome Turks and leering sultanas ; such Moors, with straight noses and pretty curled beards ! Away, Mr. Corbould ! away while it is yet time, out of the hands of these sickly heartless Annual sirens ! and ten years hence, when you have painted a good, vigorous, healthy picture, bestow the tear of gratitude upon Titmarsh, who tore you from the lap of your crimson-silk-and-gilt-edged Armida. Mr. Cattermole has a couple, we will not say of imitators, but of friends, who admire his works very much ; these are, Mr. Nash and Mr. Lake Price ; the former paints furniture and old houses, the latter old houses and furniture, and both very pretty. No harm can be said of these miniature scene-painters ; on the con- trary, Mr. Price's " Gallery at Hardwicke '' is really remarkably dex- terous ; and the chairs, tables, curtains, and pictures are nicked off with extraordinary neatness and sharpness — and then 1 why then, no more is to be said. Cobalt, sepia, and a sable pencil will do a deal of work, to be sure ; and very pretty it is, too, when done : and as for finding fault with it, that nobody will and can ; but an artist wants something more than sepia, cobalt, and sable pencils, and the knowledge how to use them. What do you think, my dear Bricabrac, of a little genius 1 — that^a the picture-painter, depend on it. Being on the subject of water-colours, we may as well step into the New Water-Colour Exhibition : not so good as the old, but very good. You will see here a large drawing by Mr. Corbould of a tournament, which will show at once how clever that young artist is, and how weak and manihrL You will see some charming unaffected Enghsh landscapes by Mr. Sims ; and a capital Spanish Girl by Hicks, of which the flesh-painting cannot be too much approved. It is done without the heavy white, with which water- colour artists are now wont to belabour their pictures ; and is, A SECOND LECTURE ON THE FINE ARTS 283 therefore, frankly and clearly painted, as all .transparent water- colour drawing must be. The same praise of clearness, boldness, and depth of tone must be given to Mr. Absolon, who uses no white, and only just so much stippling as is necessary ; his picture has the force of oil, and we should be glad to see his manner more followed. Mr. Haghe's " Town Hall of Courtray " has attracted, and deservedly, a great deal of notice. It is a very fine and masterly architectural drawing, rich and sombre in effect, the figures intro- duced being very nearly as good as the rest of the picture. Mr. Haghe, we suppose, will be called to the upper house of water- colour painters, who might well be anxious to receive into their ranks many persons belonging to the new society. We hope, how- ever, the latter will be faithful to themselves ; there is plenty of room for two galleries, and the public must, ere long, learn to appreciate the merits of the new one. Having spoken a word in favour of Mr. Johnston's pleasing and quaintly-coloured South American sketches, we have but to bend our steps to Suffolk Street, and draw this discourse to a close. Here is a very fine picture, indeed, by Mr. Hurlstone, " Olympia attacked by Bourbon's Soldiers in Saint Peter's and flying to the Cross." Seen from the further room, this picture is grand in effect and colour, and the rush of the armed men towards the girl finely and vigorously expressed. The head of Olympia has been called too calm by the critics ; it seems to me most beautiful, and the action of the figure springing forward and fiinging its arms round the cross nobly conceived and executed. There is a good deal of fine Titianic painting in the soldiers' figures (oh, that Mr. Hurlstone would throw away his lampblack !), and the background of the church is fine, vast, and gloomy. This is the best historical picture to be seen anywhere this year ; perhaps the worst is the one which stands at the other end of the room, and which strikes upon the eye as if it were an immense water-colour sketch of a feeble picture by President West. Speaking of historical paintings, I forgot to mention a large and fine picture by Mr. Dyce, the " Separation of Edwy and Elgiva ; " somewhat crude and odd in colour, with a good deal of exaggeration in the countenances of the figures, but having grandeur in it, and unmistakable genius ; there is a figure of an old woman seated, which would pass muster very well in a group of Sebastian Piombo. A capitally painted head by Mr. Stone, called the "Sword- bearer," almost as fresh, bright, and vigorous as a Vandyke, is the portrait, we believe, of a brother artist, the clever actor Mr. M'lan. The latter's picture of " Sir Tristram in the Cave " deserves especial 284 CRITICAL REVIEWS remark and praise ; and is really as iine a dramatic composition as one will often see. The figures of the knight and the lady asleep in the foreground are novel, striking, and beautifully easy. The advance of the old King, who comes upon the lovers ; the look of the hideous dwarf, who finds them out ; and behind, the line of spears that are seen glancing over the rocks, and indicating the march of the unseen troops, are all very well conceived arid arranged. The piece deserves engraving; it is wild, poetic, and original. To how many pictures, nowadays, can one apply the two last terms 1 There are some more new pictures, in the midst of a great quantity of trash, that deserve notice. Mr. D. Cowper is always good ; Mr. Stewart's " Grandfather " contains two excellent like- nesses, and is a pleasing little picture. Mr. Hurlstone's " Italian Boy," and " Girl with a Dog," are excellent ; and in this pleasant mood, for fear of falling into an angry fit on coming to look further into the gallery, it will be as well to conclude. Wishing many remembrances to Mrs. Bricabrac, and better luck to you in the next ^meute, I beg here to bid you farewell and entreat you to accept the assurances of my distinguished consideration. M. A. T. Au CiTOYBN Brutus NAPOLi:oif Bricabrac, Rifugii d'Avrily Bless6 de Mai, Condamni de Juin, Decor6 de Juillet, etter" This brings him to the consideration of his uncle. " Of all the men I have ever known," says he, " my uncle united the greatest degree of cheerfulness with the sobriety of manhood. Though a man when I was a boy, he was yet one of the most agreeable companions I ever possessed. ... He embarked for America, and nearly twenty years passed by before he came back again ; . . . but oh, how altered ! — he was in every sense of the word an old man, his body and mind were enfeebled, and second childishness had come upon him. How often have I bent over him, vainly endeavouring to recall to his memory the scenes we had shared together : and how frequently, with an aching heart, have I gazed on his vacant and lustreless eye, while he has amused himself in clapping his hands and singing with a quavering voice a verse of a psalm." Alas ! such are the consequences of long residences in America, and of old age even in uncles ! Well, the point of this morality is, that the uncle one day in the morning of life vowed that he would catch his two nephews and tie them together, ay, and actually did so, for all the efforts the rogues made to run away from him ; but he was so fatigued that he declared he never would make the attempt again, whereupon the nephew remarks, — " Often since then, when engaged in enterprises beyond my strength, have I called to mind the determination of my uncle." Does it not seem impossible to make a picture out of this? And yet George Cruikshank has produced a charming design, in which the uncle and nephews are so prettily portrayed that one is reconciled to their existence, with all their moralities. Many more of the mirths in this little book are excellent, especially a great figure of a parson entering church on horseback, — an enormous parson truly, calm, unconscious, unwieldy. As Zeuxis had a bevy of virgins in order to make his famous picture — his express virgin — a clerical host must have passed under Cruikshank's eyes before he sketched this little, enormous parson of parsons. Being on the subject of children's books, how shall we enough GEOEGE CRUIKSHANK 291 praise the delightful German nursery-tales, and Cruikshank's illus- trations of them ? We coupled his name with pantomime awhile since, and sure never pantomimes were more charming than these. Of all the artists that ever drew, from Michael Angelo upwards and downwards, Cruikshank was the man to illustrate these tales, and give them just the proper admixture of the grotesque, the wonderful, and the graceful. May all Mother Bunch's collection be similarly indebted to him ; may " Jack the Giant Killer," may " Tom Thumb," may " Puss in Boots," be one day revivified by his pencil. Is not Whittington sitting yet on Highgate Hill, and poor Cinderella (in that sweetest of all fairy stories) still pining in her lonely chimney nook ? A man who has a true affection for these delightful companions of his youth is bound to be grateful to them if lie can, and we pray Mr. Cruikshank to remember them. It is folly to say that this or that kind of humour is too good for the public, that only a chosen few can relish it. The best humour that we know of has been as eagerly received by the public as by the most delicate connoisseur. There is hardly a man in England who can read but will laugh at Falstafi' and the humour of Joseph Andrews ; and honest Mr. Pickwick's story can be felt and loved by any person above the age of six. Some may have a keener enjoyment of it than others, but all the world can be merry over it, and is always ready to welcome it. The best criterion of good humour is success, and what a share of this has Mr. Cruikshank had ! how many millions of mortals has he made happy ! We have heard very profound persons talk philosophically of the marvellous and mysterious manner in which he has suited himself to the time — -fait vibrer la fibre populaire (as Napoleon boasted of himself), supplied a peculiar want felt at a peculiar period, the simple secret of which is, as we take it, that he, living amongst the public, has with them a general wide-hearted sympathy, tlmt he laughs at what they laugh at, that he has a kindly spirit of enjoy- ment, with not a morsel of mysticism in his composition ; that he pities and loves the poor, and jokes at the follies of the great, and that he addresses all in a perfectly sincere and manly way. To be greatly successful as a professional humourist, as in any other calling, a man must be quite honest, and show that his heart is in his work. A bad preacher will get admiration and a hearing with this point in his favour, where a man of three times his acquirements will only find indifference and coldness. Is any man more remark- able than our artist for telling the truth after his own manner? Hogarth's honesty of purpose was as conspicuous in an earlier time, and we fancy that Gilray would have been far more successful and more powerful but for that unhappy bribe, which turned the whole 292 CRITICAL REVIEWS course of his humour into an unnatural channel. Cruikshank would not for any bribe say what he did not think, or lend his aid to sneer down anything meritorious, or to praise any thing or person that deserved censure. When he levelled his wit against the Regent, and did his very prettiest for the Princess, he most certainly believed, along with the great body of the people whom he repre- sents, that the Princess was the most spotless, pure-mannered darling of a Princess that ever married a heartless debauchee of a Prince Royal. Did not millions believe with him, and noble and learned lords take their oaths to her Royal Highness's innocence f Cruikshank would not stand by and see a woman ill-used, and so struck in for her rescue, he and the people belabouring with all their might the party who were making the attack, and determining from pure sympathy and indignation, that the woman must be innocent because her husband treated her so foully. To be sure we have never heard so much from Mr. Cruikshank's own lips, but any man who will examine these odd drawings, which first made him. famous, will see what an honest, hearty hatred the champion of woman has for all who abuse her, and will admire the energy with which he flings his wood-blocks at all who side against her. Canning, Castlereagh, Bexley, Sidmouth, he is at them, one and all ; and as for the Prince, up to what a whipping- post of ridicule did he tie that unfortunate old man ! And do not let squeamish Tories cry out about disloyalty ; if the crown does wrong, the crown must be corrected by the nation, out of respect, of course, for the crown. In those days, and by those people who so bitterly attacked the son, no word was ever breathed against the father, simply because he was a good husband, and a sober, thrifty, pious, orderly man. This attack upon the Prince Regent we believe to have been Mr. Cruikshank's only effort as a party politician. Some early manifestoes against Napoleon we find, it is true, done in the regular John Bull style, with the Gilray model for the little upstart Oorsican : but as soon as the Emperor had yielded to stern fortune our artist's heart relented (as Stranger's did on the other side of the water), and many of our readers will doubtless recollect a fine drawing of " Louis XVIII. trying on Napoleon's boots," which did not certainly fit the gouty son of Saint Louis. Such satirical hits as these, however, must not be considered as political, or as anything more than the expression of the artist's national British idea of Frenchmen. It must be confessed that for that great nation Mr. Cruikshank entertains a considerable contempt. Let the reader examine the " Life in Paris," or the five hundred designs in which Frenchmen GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 293 are introduced, and he will find them almost invariably thin, with ludicrous spindle-shanks, pigtails, outstretched hands, shrugging shoulders, and queer hair and mustachios. He has the British idea of a Frenchman ; and if he does not believe that the inhabi- tants of France are for the most part dancing-masters and barbers, yet takes care to depict such in preference, and would not speak too well of them. It is curious how these traditions endure. In France, at the present moment, the Englishman on the stage is the caricatured Englishman at the time of the war, with a shock red head, a long white coat, and invariable gaiters. Those who wish to study this subject should peruse Monsieur Paul de Kock's histories of " Lord Boulingrog " and " Lady Crockmilove." On the other hand, the old Emigre has taken his station amongst us, and we doubt if a good British gallery would understand that such and such a character was a Frenchman unless he appeared in the ancient traditional costume." A curious book, called "Life in Paris," published in 1822, contains a number of the artist's plates in the aquatint style ; and though we believe he had never been in that capital, the designs have a great deal of life in them, and pass muster very well. A villainous race of shoulder-shrugging mortals are his Frenchmen indeed. And the heroes of the tale, a certain Mr. Dick Wildfire, Squire Jenkins, and Captain O'Shuffleton, are made to show the true British superiority on every occasion when Britons and French are brought together. This book was one among the many that the designer's genius has caused to be popular ; the plates are not carefully executed, but, being coloured, have a pleasant, lively look. The same style was adopted in the once femous book called "Tom and Jerry, or Life in London," which must have a word of notice here, for, although by no means Mr. Cruikshank's best work, his reputation was extraordinarily raised by it. Tom and Jerry were as popular twenty years since as Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller now are; and often have we wished, while reading the biographies of the latter celebrated personages, that they had been described as well by Mr. Cruikshank's pencil as by Mr. Dickens's pen. As for Tom and Jerry, to show the mutability of human affairs and the evanescent nature of reputation, we have been to the British Museum and no less than five circulating libraries in quest of the book, and " Life in London," alas, is not to be found at any one of them. We can only, therefore, speak of the work from recollection, but have still a very clear remembrance of the leather-gaiters of Jerry Hawthorn, the green spectacles of Logic, and the hooked nose of Corinthian Tom. They were the schoolboy's delight; and in 294 CRITICAL REVIEWS the days when the work appeared we firndy believed the three heroes above named to be types of the most elegant, fashionable young fellows the town aiforded, and thought their occupations and amusements were those of all high-bred English gentlemen. Tom knocking down the watchman at Temple Bar ; Tom and Jerry dancing at Almack's ; or flirting in the saloon at the theatre ; at the night-houses, after the play; at Tom Cribb's, examining the silver cup then in the possession of that champion ; at the chambers of Bob Logic, who, seated at a cabinet piano, plays a waltz to which Corinthian Tom and Kate are dancing ; ambling gallantly in Rotten Row ; or examining the poor fellow at Newgate who was having his chains knocked off before hanging : all these scenes remain indelibly engraved upon the mind, and so far we are independent of all the circulating libraries in London. As to the literary contents of the book, they have passed sheer away. It was, most likely, not particularly refined ; nay, the chances are that it was absolutely vulgar. But it must have had some merit of its own, that is clear ; it must have given striking descriptions of life in some part or other of London, for all London read it, and went to see it in its dramatic shape. The artist, it is said, wished to close the career of the three heroes by bringing them all to ruin, but the writer, or publishers, would not allow any such melancholy subjects to dash the merriment of the public, and we believe Tom, Jerry, and Logic were married off at the end of the tale, as if they had been the most moral personages in the world. There is some goodness in this pity, which authors and the public are disposed to show towards certain agreeable, disreputable characters of romance. Who would mar the prospects of honest Roderick Random, or Charles Surface, or Tom Jones ? only a very stern moralist indeed. And in regard of Jerry Hawthorn and that hero without a surname, Corinthian Tom, Mr. Cruikshank, we make little doubt, was glad in his heart that he was not allowed to have his own way. Soon after the " Tom and Jerry " and the " Life in Paris," Mr. Cruikshank produced a much more elaborate set of prints, in a work which was called " Points of Humour." These " Points " were selected from various comic works, and did not, we believe, extend beyond a couple of numbers, containing about a score of copper- plates. The collector of humorous designs cannot fail to have them in his portfolio, for they contain some of the very best efforts of Mr. Oruikshank's genius, and though not quite so highly laboured as some of his later productions, are none the worse, in our opinion, for their comparative want of finish. All the effects are perfectly given, and the expression is as good as it could be in the most GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 295 delicate engraving upon steel. The artist's style, too, was then completely formed ; and, for our parts, we should say that we pre- ferred his manner of 1825 to any other which he has adopted since. The first picture, which is called " The Point of Honour," illustrates the old story of the officer who, on being accused of cowardice for refusing to fight a duel, came among his brother officers and flung a lighted grenade down upon the floor, before which his comrades fled ignominiously. This design is capital, and the outward rush of heroes, walking, trampling, twisting, scuffling at the door, is in the best style of the grotesque. You see but the back of most of these gentlemen; into which, nevertheless, the artist has managed to throw an expression of ludicrous agony that one could scarcely have expected to find in such a part of the human figure. The next plate is not less good. It represents a couple who, having been found one night tipsy, and lying in the same gutter, were, by a charitable though misguided gentleman, supposed to be man and wife, and put comfortably to bed together. The morning came ; fancy the surprise of this interesting pair when they awoke and discovered their situation. Fancy the manner, too, in which Oruikshank has depicted them, to which words cannot do justice. It is needless to state that this fortuitous and temporary union was followed by one more lasting and sentimental, and that these two worthy persons were married, and lived happily ever after. We should like to go through every one of these prints. There is the jolly miller, who, returning home at night, calls upon his wife to get him a supper, and falls to upon rashers of bacon and ale. How he gormandises, that jolly miller ! rasher after rasher, how they pass away frizzling and smoking from the gridiron down that immense grinning gulf of a mouth. Poor wife ! how she pines and frets, at that untimely hour of midnight to be obliged to fry, fi-y, fry perpetually, and minister to the monster's appetite. And yonder in the clock : what agonised face is that we see 1 By heavens, it is the squire of the parish. What business has he there 1 Let us not ask. Suffice it to say, that he has, in the hurry of the moment, left upstairs his br ; his — psha ! a part of his dress, in short, with a number of bank-notes in the pockets. Look in the next page, and you will see the ferocious, bacon-devouring ruffian of a miUer is actually causing this garment to be carried through the village and cried by the town-crier. And we blush to be obliged to say that the demoralised miller never ofi"ered to return the bank- notes, although he was so mighty scrupulous in endeavouring to find an owner for the corduroy portfolio in which he had found them. 296 CRITICAL REVIEWS Passing from this painful subject, we come, we regret to state, to a series of prints representing personages not a whit more moral. Burns's famous " Jolly Beggars " have all had their portraits drawn by Cruikshank. There is the lovely "hempen widow," quite as interesting and romantic as the famous Mrs. Sheppard, who has at the lamented demise of her husband adopted the very same consolation. " My curse upon them every one, They've hanged my braw John Highlandman ; And now a widow I must mourn, Departed joys that ne'er return ; No comfort but a hearty can When I think on John Highlandman." Sweet "raucle carlin," she has none of the sentimentality of the English highwayman's lady ; but being wooed by a tinker and " A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle Wha us'd to trystes and fairs to driddle,'' prefers the practical to the merely musical man. The tinker sings with a noble candour, worthy of a fellow of his strength of body and station in life — ' ' My bonnie lass, I work in brass, A tinker is my station ; I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation. I've taen the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron ; But vain they search'd when off I march'd To go an' clout the caudron." It was his ruhng passion. What was military glory to him, forsooth 1 He had the greatest contempt for it, and loved freedom and his copper kettle a thousand times better — a kind of hardware Diogenes. Of fiddling he has no better opinion. The picture represents the "sturdy caird" taking "poor gut-scraper" by the beard, — drawing his "roosty rapier," and swearing to " speet him like a pliver" unless he would relinquish the bonnie lassie for ever — " Wi' ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended. An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, An' so the quarrel ended." Hark how the tinker apostrophises the violinist, stating to the GEORGE GRUIKSHANK 297 widow at the same time the advantages wliich she might expect from an alliance with himself: — " Bespise that shrimp, that withered imp, Wi' a' his noise and caperin' ; And take a share with those that bear The budget and the apron ! And by that stowp, my faith an' houpe, An' by that dear Kilbaigie ! If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. May I ne'er weet my oraigie." Cruikshank's caird is a noble creature; his face and figure show him to be fully capable of doing and saying all that is above written of him. In the second part, the old tale of " The Three Hunchbacked Fiddlers" is illustrated with equal felicity. The famous classical dinners and duel in " Peregrine Pickle " are also excellent in their way ; and the connoisseur of prints and etchings may see in the latter plate, and in another in this volume, how great the artist's mechanical skill is as an etcher. The distant view of the city in the duel, and of a market-place in " The Quack Doctor," are delight- ful specimens of the artist's skill in depicting buildings and back- grounds. They are touched with a grace, truth, and dexterity of workmanship that leave nothing to desire. We have before mentioned the man with the mouth, which appears in this number emblematical of gout and indigestion, in which the artist has shown all the fancy of Callot. Little demons, with long saws for noses, are making dreadful incisions into the toes of the unhappy sufferer ; some are bringing pans of hot coals to keep the wounded member warm ; a huge, solemn nightmare sits on the invalid's chest, staring solemnly into his eyes ; a monster, with a pair of drumsticks, is bang- ing a devil's tattoo on his forehead ; and a pair of imps are nailing great tenpenny nails into his hands to make his happiness complete. The late Mr. Clark's excellent work, "Three Courses and a Dessert," was published at a time when the rage for comic stories was not so great as it since has been, and Messrs. Clark and Cruikshank only sold their hundreds where Messrs. Dickens and Phiz dispose of their thousands. But if our recommendation can in any way influence the reader, we would enjoin him to have a copy of the "Three Courses," that contains some of the best designs of our artist, and some of the most amusing tales in our language. The invention of the pictures, for which Mr. Clark takes credit to himself, says a great deal for his wit and fancy. Can we, for instance, praise too highly the man who invented that wonderful oysterl 298 CRITICAL REVIEWS Examine him well : his beard, his pearl, his little round stomach, and his sweet smile. Only oysters know how to smile in this way ; cool, gentle, waggish, and yet inexpressibly innocent and winning. Dando himself must have allowed such an artless native to go free, and consigned him to the glassy, cool, translucent wave again. In writing upon such subjects as these with which we have been furnished, it can hardly be expected that we should follow any fixed plan and order — we must therefore take such advantage as we may, and seize upon our subject when and wherever we can lay hold of him. For Jews, sailors, Irishmen, Hessian boots, little boys, beadles, policemen, tall life-guardsmen, charity children, pumps, dustmen, very short pantaloons, dandies in spectacles, and ladies with aquiline noses, remarkably taper waists, and wonderfully long ringlets, Mr. Cruikshank has a special predilection. The tribe of Israelites he has studied with amusing gusto ; witness the Jew in Mr. Ains- worth's "Jack Sheppard," and the immortal Fagin of "Oliver Twist." Whereabouts lies the comic vis in these persons and things ? Why should a beadle be comic, and his opposite a charity boy? Why should a tall life-guardsman have something in him essentially absurd? Why are short breeches more ridiculous than long ? What is there particularly jocose about a pump, and wherefore does a long nose always provoke the beholder to laughter ? These points may be metaphysically elucidated by those who list. It is probable that Mr. Cruikshank could not give an accurate definition of that which is ridiculous in these objects, but his instinct has told him that fun lurks in them, and cold must be the heart that can pass by the pantaloons of his charity boys, the Hessian boots of his dandies, and the fan-tail hats of his dustmen, without respectful wonder. He has made a complete little gallery of dustmen. There is, in the first place, the professional dustman, who having, in the enthusiastic exercise of his delightful trade, laid hands upon property not strictly his own, is pursued, we presume, by the right owner, from whom he flies as fast as his crooked shanks will carry him. What a curious picture it is — the horrid rickety houses in some dingy suburb of London, the grinning cobbler, the smothered butcher, the very trees which are covered with dust — it is fine to look at the different expressions of the two interesting fugitives. The fiery charioteer who belabours the poor donkey has still a glance for his brother on foot, on whom punishment is about to descend. And not a little curious is it to think of the creative power of the man who has arranged this little tale of low life. How logically it is conducted, how cleverly each one of the acces- GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 299 sories is made to contribute to the effect of the whole. What a deal of thought and humour has the artist expended on this little block of ■wood ; a large picture might have been painted out of the very same materials, which Mr. Cruikshank, out of his wondrous fund of merriment and observation, can afford to throw away upon a drawing not two inches long. From the practical dustmen we pass to those purely poetical. There are three of them who rise on clouds of their own raising, the very genii of the sack and shovel. Is there no one to write a sonnet to these ? — and yet a whole poem was written about Peter Bell the Waggoner, a character by no means so poetic. And lastly, we have the dustman in love : the honest fellow having seen a young beauty stepping out of a gin-shop on a Sunday morning, is pressing eagerly his suit. Gin has furnished many subjects to Mr. Cruikshank, who labours in his own sound and hearty way to teach his countrymen the dangers of that drink. In the " Sketch-Book " is a plate upon the subject, remarkable for fancy and beauty of design ; it is called the "Gin Juggernaut," and represents a hideous moving palace, with a reeking still at the roof and vast gin-barrels for wheels, under which unhappy millions are crushed to death. An immense black cloud of desolation covers over the country through which the gin monster has passed, dimly looming through the darkness whereof you see an agreeable prospect of gibbets with men dangling, burnt houses, &c. The vast cloud comes sweeping on in the wake of this horrible body-crusher; and you see, by way of contrast, a distant, smiling, sunshiny track of old English country, where gin as yet is not known. The allegory is as good, as earnest, and as ftmciful as one of John Bunyan's, and we have often fancied there was a similarity between the men. The reader will examine the work called " My Sketch-Book " with not a little amusement, and may gather from it, as we fancy, a good deal of information regarding the character of the individual man, George Cruikshank : what points strike his eye as a painter ; what move his anger or admiration as a moralist ; what classes he seems most especially disposed to observe, and what to ridicule. There are quacks of all kinds, to whom he has a mortal hatred : quack dandies, who assume under his pencil, perhaps in his eye, the most grotesque appearance possible— their hats grow larger, their legs infinitely more crooked and lean; the tassels of their canes swell out to a most preposterous size ; the tails of their coats dwindle away, and finish where coat-tails generally begin. Let us lay a wager that Cruikshank, a man of the people if ever there was one, heartily hates and despises these supercilious, swaggering young SOO CRITICAL REVIEWS gentlemen ; and his contempt is not a whit the less laudable because there may be tant soit pen of prejudice in it. It is right and wholesome to scorn dandies, as Nelson said it was to hate Frenchmen ; in which sentiment (as we have before said) George Cruikshank undoubtedly shares. In the " Sunday in London," * Monsieur the * The following lines — ever fresh — by the author of "Headlong Hall," published years ago in the Oldbe and Traveller, are an excellent comment on several of the cuts from the " Sunday in London " : — " The poor man's sins are glaring ; In the face of ghostly warning He is caught in the fact Of an overt act Buying greens on Sunday morning. n. The rich man's sins are hidden In the pomp of wealth and ."station, And escape the sight Of the children of light, Who are wise in their generation. III. The rich man has a kitchen. And cooks to dress his dinner ; The poor who would roast. To the baker's must post. And thus becomes a sinner. IV. The rich man's painted windows Hide the concerts of the quality ; The poor can but share A craok'd fiddle in the air. Which offends all sound morality. V. The rich man has a cellar And a ready butler by him ; The poor must steer For his pint of beer Where the saint can't choose but spy him.' VI. The rich man is invisible In the crowd of his gay society ; But the poor man's delight Is a sore in the sight And a stench in the nose of piety, " GEORGE ORUIKSHA'NK 301 Chef is instructing a kitchen-maid how to compound some rascally French kickshaw or the other — a pretty scoundrel truly ! with what an air he wears that nightcap of his, and shrugs his lank shoulders, and chatters, and ogles, and grins : they are all the same, these mounseers ; there are other two fellows — morbleu ! one is putting his dirty fingers into the saucepan ; there are frogs cooking in it, no doubt ; and just over some other dish of abomination, another dirty rascal is taking snuff ! Never mind, the sauce won't be hurt by a few ingredients more or less. Three such fellows as these are not worth one Englishman, that's clear. There is one in the very midst of them, the great burly fellow with the beef : he could beat all three in five minutes. We cannot be certain that such was the process going on in Mr. Cruikshank's mind when he made the design ; but some feelings of the sort were no doubt entertained by him. Against Dandy footmen he is particularly severe. He hates idlers, pretenders, boasters, and punishes these fellows as best he may. Who does not recollect the famous picture, "What is Taxes, Thomas "i " What is taxes indeed ? well may that vast, over-fed, lounging flunkey ask the question of his associate Thomas : and yet not well, for all that Thomas says in reply is, " / don't hnoiv." " heati plushicolce," what a charming state of ignorance is yours ! In the " Sketch-Book," many footmen make their appearance : one is a huge fat Hercules of a Portman Square porter, who calmly surveys another poor fellow, a porter likewise, but out of livery, who comes staggering forward with a box that Hercules might lift with his little finger. Will Hercules do so? not he. The giant can carry nothing heavier than a cocked-hat note on a silver tray, and his labours are to walk from his sentry-box to the door, and from the door back to his sentry-box, and to read the Sunday paper, and to poke the hall fire twice or thrice, and to make five meals a day. Such a fellow does Cruikshank hate and scorn worse even than a Frenchman. The man's master, too, comes in for no small share of our artist's wrath. There is a company of them at church, who humbly desig- nate themselves " miserable sinners ! " Miserable sinners indeed ! Oh, what floods of turtle-soup, what tons of turbot and lobster- sauce must have been sacrificed to make those sinners properly miserable. My lady with the ermine tippet and draggling feather, can we not see that she lives in Portland Place, and is the wife of an East India Director 1 She has been to the Opera over-night (indeed, her husband, on her right, with his fat hand dangling over the pew door, is at this minute thinking of Mademoiselle Ldocadie, whom he saw behind the scenes) — she has been at the Opera over- 302 CRITICAL KEVIEWS night, which with a trifle of supper afterwards — a white-and-brown soup, a lobster salad, some woodcocks, and a little champagne — sent her to bed quite comfortable. At half-past eight her maid brings her chocolate in bed, at ten she has fresh eggs and muifins, with, perhaps, a half-hundred of pi-awns for breakfast, and so can get over the day and the sermon till lunch-time pretty well. What an odour of musk and bergamot exhales from the pew ! — how it is wadded, and stuffed, and spangled over with brass nails ! what hassocks are there for those who are not too fat to kneel ! what a flustering and flapping of gilt prayer-books ; and what a pious whirring of Bible leaves one hears all over the church, as the doctor blandly gives out the text ! To be miserable at this rate you must, at the very least, have four thousand a year : and many persons are there so enamoured of grief and sin, that they would willingly take the risk of the misery to have a life-interest in the consols that accompany it, quite careless about consequences, and sceptical as to the notion that a day is at hand when you must fulfil your share of the bargain. Our artist loves to joke at a soldier ; in whose livery there appears to him to be something almost as ridiculous as in the uniform of the gentleman of the shoulder-knot. Tall life-guardsmen and fierce grenadiers figure in many of his designs, and almost always in a ridiciUous way. Here again we have the honest popular English feeling which jeers at pomp or pretension of all kinds, and is especially jealous of all display of military authority. " Raw Recruit," "ditto dressed," ditto "served up," as we see them in the " Sketch-Book," are so many satires upon the army : Hodge with his ribbons flaunting in his hat, or with red coat and musket, drilled stiff and pompous, or at last, minus leg and arm, tottering about on crutches, does not fill our English artist with the enthusiasm that follows the soldier in every other part of Europe. Jeanjean, the conscript in France, is laughed at to be sure, but then it is because he is a bad soldier : when he comes to have a huge pair of mustachios and the croix-d'honneur to briller on his poitrine cicatrise'e, Jean- jean becomes a member of a class that is more respected than any other in the French nation. The veteran soldier inspires our people with no such awe — we hold that democratic weapon the fist in much more honour than the sabre and bayonet, and laugh at a man tricked out in scarlet and pipe-clay. That regiment of heroes is " marching to divine service,"' to the tune of the " British Grenadiers." There they march in state, and a pretty contempt our artist shows for all their gimcracks and trumpery. He has drawn a perfectly English scene — the little blackguard boys are playing pranks round about the men, and H h ■0> GEOEGE CRUIKSHANK 303 shouting, " Heads up, soldier," " Eyes right, lobster," as little British urchins will do. Did one ever hear the like sentiments expressed in France 1 Shade of Napoleon, we insult you by asking the ques- tion. In England, however, see how different the case is : and designedly or undesignedly, the artist has opened to us a piece of his mind. In the crowd the only person who admires the soldiers is the poor idiot, whose pocket a rogue is picking. There is another picture, in which the sentiment is much the same, only, as in the former drawing we see Englishmen laughing at the troops of the line, here are Irishmen giggling at the militia. We have said that our artist has a great love for the drolleries of the Green Island. Would any one doubt what was the country of the merry fellows depicted in his group of Paddies 1 " Place me amid O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, The ragged royal race of Tara ; Or place me where Dick Martin rules The pathless wilds of Connemara." We know not if Mr. Cruikshank has ever had any such good luck as to see the Irish in Ireland itself, but he certainly has obtained a knowledge of their looks, as if the country had boon all his life familiar to him. Could Mr. O'Connell himself desire anything more national than the scene of a drunken row, or could Father Mathew have a better text to preach upon 1 There is not a broken nose in the room that is not thoroughly Irish. We have then a couple of compositions treated in a graver manner, as characteristic too as the other. We call attention to the comical look of poor Teague, who has been pursued and beaten by the witch's stick, in order to point out also the singular neatness of the workmanship, and the pretty, fanciful little glimpse of land- scape that the artist has introduced in the background. Mr. Cruik- shank has a fine eye for such homely landscapes, and renders them with great delicacy and taste. Old villages, farm-yards, groups of stacks, queer chimneys, churches, gable-ended cottages, Elizabethan mansion-houses, and other old English scenes, he depicts with evident enthusiasm. Famous books in their day were Oruikshank's " John Gilpin " and " Epping Hunt " ; for though our artist, does not draw horses very scientifically, — to use a phrase of the atelier, he feels them very keenly ; and his queer animals, after one is used to them, answer quite as well as better. Neither is he very happy in trees, and such rustical produce ; or rather, we should say, he is very original, his trees being decidedly of his own make and composition, not imitated from any master. 304 CRITICAL REVIEWS But what then ? Can a man be supposed to imitate everything 1 We know what the noblest study of mankind is, and to this Mr. Cruikshank has confined himself. That postillion with the people in the broken-down chaise roaring after him is as deaf as the post by which he passes. Suppose all the accessories were away, could not one swear that the man was stone-deaf, beyond the reach of trumpet 1 What is the peculiar character in a deaf man's physiog- nomy ? — can any person define it satisfactorily in words ? — not in pages ; and Mr. Cruikshank has expressed it on a piece of paper not so big as the tenth part of your thumb-nail. The horses of John Gilpin are much more of the equestrian order ; and as here the artist has only his favourite suburban buildings to draw, not a word is to be said against his design. The inn and old buUdings are charmingly designed, and nothing can be more prettily or play- fully touched. " At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wond'ring much To see how he did ride. ' Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! Here's the house ! ' They all at once did cry ; * The dinner waits, and we are tired — ' Said Gilpin — ' So am I ! ' Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear. They raised the hue and cry : — ' Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman ! ' Not one of them was mute ; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space ; The toll-men thinking, as before. That Gilpin rode a race. " The rush, and shouting, and clatter are excellently depicted by the artist; and we, who have been scoffing at his manner of de- signing animals, must here make a special exception in favour of the hens and chickens ; each has a difierent action, and is curiously natural. Happy are children of all ages who have such a ballad and such pictures as this in store for them ! It is a comfort to think that / GEOEGE GKUIKSHANK 305 wood-cuts never wear out, and that the book still may be had for a shilling, for those who can command that sum of money. In the "Epping Hunt," which we owe to the facetious pen of Mr. Hood, our artist has not been so successful. There is here too much horsemanship and not enough incident for him ; but the portrait of Koundings the huntsman is an excellent sketch, and a couple of the designs contain great humour. The first represents the Cockney hero, who, " like a bird, was singing out while sitting on a tree." And in the second the natural order is reversed. The stag having taken heart, is hunting the huntsman, and the Oheapside Nimrod is most ignominiously running away. The Easter Hunt, we are told, is no more ; and as the Quarterly Eevieiv recommends the British public to purchase Mr. Oatlin's pictures, as they form the only record of an interesting race now rapidly passing away, in like manner we should exhort all our friends to purchase Mr. Cruikshank's designs of another interesting race, that is run already and for the last time. Besides these, we must mention, in the line of our duty, the notable tragedies of " Tom Thumb " and " Bombastes Furioso," both of which have appeared with many illustrations by Mr. Cruikshank. The " brave army " of Bombastes exhibits a terrific display of brutal force, which must shock the sensibilities of an English radical. And we can well understand the caution of the general, who bids this soldatesque effrenie to begone, and not to kick up a row. Such a troop of lawless ruffians let loose upon a populous city would play sad havoc in it ; and we fancy the massacres of Birming- ham renewed, or at least of Badajoz, which, though not quite so dreadful, if we may believe his Grace the Duke of Wellington, as the former scenes of slaughter, were nevertheless severe enough : but we must not venture upon any ill-timed pleasantries in presence of the disturbed King Arthur and the awful ghost of Gafier Thumb. We are thus carried at once into the supernatural, and here we find Cruikshank reigning supreme. He has invented in his time a little comic pandemonium, peopled with the most droll, good-natured fiends possible. We have before us Chamisso's " Peter Schlemihl," with Cruikshank's designs translated into German, and gaining nothing by the change. The " Kinder und Hans-Maerchen " of Grimm are Ukewise ornamented with a frontispiece, copied from that one which appeared to the amusing version of the English work. The books on Phrenology and Time have been imitated by the same nation; and even in France, whither reputation travels slower than to any country except China, we have seen copies of the works of George Cruikshank. 306 CRITICAL REVIEWS He in return has complimented the French by illustrating a couple of Lives of Napoleon, and the " Life in Paris " before men- tioned. He has also made designs for Victor Hugo's "Hans of Iceland." Strange wild etchings were those, on a strange, mad subject ; not so good in our notion as the designs for the German books, the peculiar humour of which latter seemed to suit the artist exactly. There is a mixture of the awful and the ridiculous in these, which perpetually excites and keeps awake the reader's attention ; the German writer and the English artist seem to have an entire faith in their subject. The reader, no doubt, remembers the awful passage in " Peter Schlemihl," where the little gentleman purchases the shadow of that hero — " Have the kindness, noble sir, to examine and try this bag." " He put his hand into his pocket, and drew thence a tolerably large bag of Cordovan leather, to which a couple of thongs were fixed. I took it from him, and immediately counted out ten gold pieces, and ten more, and ten more, and still other ten, whereupon I held out my hand to him. Done, said I, it is a bargain ; you shall have my shadow for your bag. The bargain was concluded ; he knelt down before me, and I saw him with a wonderful neatness take my shadow from head to foot, lightly lift it up from the grass, roll and fold it up neatly, and at last pocket it. He then rose up, bowed to me once more, and walked away again, disappearing behind the rose-bushes. I don't know, but I thought I heard him laughing a little. I, however, kept fast hold of the bag. Everything around me was bright in the sun, and as yet I gave no thought to what I had done." This marvellous event, narrated by Peter with such a faith- ful circumstantial detail, is painled by Cruikshank in the most wonderful poetic way, with that happy mixture of the real and supernatural that makes the narrative so curious, and like truth. The sun is shining with the utmost brilliancy in a great quiet park or garden ; there is a palace in the background, and a statue bask- ing in the sun quite lonely and melancholy ; there is a sun-dial, on which is a deep shadow, and in the front stands Peter Schlemihl, bag in hand : the old gentleman is down on his knees to him, and has just lifted off the ground the shadoiv of cme leg ; he is going to fold it back neatly, as one does the tails of a coat, and will stow it, without any creases or crumples, along with the other black garments that lie in that immense pocket of his. Cruikshank has designed all this as if he had a very serious belief in the story ; he laughs, to be sure, but one fancies that he is a little frightened in his heart, in spite of all his fun and joking. The German tales we have mentioned before. "The Prince riding on the Fox," "Hans in Luck," "The Fiddler and his GEORGE ORUIKSHANK 307 Goose," " Heads off," are all drawings which, albeit not before us now, nor seen for ten years, remain indelibly fixed on the memory. " Heisst du etwa Rumpelstilzchen 1 " There sits the Queen on her throne, surrounded by grinning beef-eaters, and little Eumpel- stiltskin stamps his foot through the floor in the excess of his tremendous despair. In one of these German tales, if we remember rightly, there is an account of a little orphan who is carried away by a pitying fauy for a term of seven years, and passing that period of sweet apprenticeship among the imps and sprites of fairy-land. Has our artist been among the same com- pany, and brought back their portraits in his sketch-book ? He is the only designer fairy-land has had. Callot's imps, for all their strangeness, are only of the earth earthy. Fuseli's fairies belong to the infernal regions ; they are monstrous, lurid, and hideously melancholy. Mr. Cruikshank alone has had a true insight into the character of the " little people." They are something like men and women, and yet not flesh and blood ; they are laughing and mischievous, but why we know not. Mr. Cruikshank, how- ever, has had some dream or the other, or else a natural mysterious instiuct (as the Seherin of Prevorst had for beholding ghosts), or else some preternatural fairy revelation, which has made him acquainted with the looks and ways of the fantastical subjects of Oberon and Titania. We have, unfortunately, no fairy portraits ; but, on the other hand, can descend lower than fairy-land, and have seen some fine specimens of devils. One has already been raised, and the reader has seen him tempting a fat Dutch burgomaster, in an ancient gloomy market-place, such as George Cruikshank can draw as well as Mr. Prout, Mr. Nash, or any man living. There is our friend once more ; our friend the burgomaster, in a highly excited state, and running as hard as his great legs will carry him, with our mutual enemy at his tail. What are the bets ; will that long-legged bond-holder of a devil come up with the honest Dutchman ? It serves him right : why did he put his name to stamped paper ? And yet we should not wonder if some lucky chance should turn up in the burgo- master's favour, and his infernal creditor lose his labour ; for one so proverbially cunning as yonder tall individual with the saucer eyes, it must be confessed that he has been very often outwitted. There is, for instance, the case of " The Gentleman in Black," which has been illustrated by our artist. A young French gentle- man, by name M. Desonge, who having expended his patrimony in a variety of taverns and gaming-houses, was one day pondering upon the exhausted state of his finances, and utterly at a loss 308 CRITICAL REVIEWS to think how he should provide means for future support, exclaimed, very naturally, " What the devil shall I do ? " He had no sooner spoken than a Gentleman in Black made his appearance, whose authentic portrait Mr. Cruikshank has had the honour to paint. This gentleman produced a black-edged book out of a black bag, some black-edged papers tied up with black crape, and sitting down familiarly opposite M. Desonge, began conversing with him on the state of his affairs. It is needless to state what was the result of the interview. M. Desonge was induced by tlie gentleman to sign his name to one of the black-edged papers, and foimd himself at the close of the conversation to be possessed of an unlimited command of capital. This arrangement completed, the Gentleman in Black posted (in an extraordinarily rapid manner) from Paris to London, there found a young English merchant in exactly the same situation in which M. Desonge had been, and concluded a bargain with the Briton of exactly the same nature. The book goes on to relate how these young men spent the money so miraculously handed over to them, and how both, when the period drew near that was to witness the performance of their part of the bargain, gi-ew melancholy, wretched, nay, so absolutely dishonourable as to seek for every means of breaking through their agreement. The Englishman living in a country where the lawyers are more astute than any other lawyers in the world, took the advice of a Mr. Bagsby, of Lyon's Inn ; whose name, as we cannot find it in the " Law List," we presume to be fictitious. Who could it be that was a match for the devil '\ Lord very likely ; we shall not give his name, but let every reader of this Review fill up the blank according to his own fancy, and on comparing it with the copy purchased by his neighbours, he will find that fifteen out of twenty have written down the same honoured name. Well, the Gentleman in Black was anxious for the fulfilment of his bond. The parties met at Mr. Bagsby's chambers to con- sult, the Black Gentleman foolishly thinking that he could act as his own counsel, and fearing no attorney alive. But mark the superiority of British law, and see how the black pettifogger was defeated. Mr. Bagsby simply stated that he would take the case into Chancery, and his antagonist, utterly humiliated and defeated, refused to move a step farther in the matter. And now the French gentleman, M. Desonge, hearing of his friend's escape, became anxious to be free from his own rash engage- ments. He employed the same counsel who had been successful in the former instance, but the Gentleman in Black was a great deal GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 309 wiser by this time, and whether M. Desonge escaped, or whether he is now in that extensive place which is paved with good intentions, we shall not say. Those who are anxious to know had better purchase the book wherein all these interesting matters are duly set down. There is one more diabolical picture in our budget, engraved by Mr. Thompson, the same dexterous artist who has rendered the former diableries so well. We may mention Mr. Thompson's name as among the first of the engravers to whom Cruikshank's designs have been entrusted ; and next to him (if we may be allowed to make such arbitrary distinctions) we may place Mr. Williams; and the reader is not possibly aware of the immense difficulties to be overcome in the rendering of these little sketches, which, traced by the designer in a few hours, require weeks' labour from the engraver. Mr. Cruik- shank has not been educated in the regular schools of drawing (very luckily for him, as we think), and consequently has had to make a manner for himself, which is quite unlike that of any other draftsman. There is nothing in the least mechanical about it ; to produce his particular effects he uses his own particular lines, which are queer, free, fantastical, and must be followed in all their infinite twists and vagaries by the careful tool of the engraver. Those three lovely heads, for instance, imagined out of the rinds of lemons, are worth examining, not so much for the jovial humour and wonderful variety of feature exhibited in these darling counte- nances as for the engraver's part of the work. See the infinite delicate cross-lines and hatchings which he is obliged to render; let him go, not a hair's breadth, but the hundredth part of a hair's breadth, beyond the given line, and the feeling of it is ruined. He receives these little dots and specks, and fantastical quirks of the pencil, and cuts away with a little knife round each, not too much nor too little. Antonio's pound of flesh did not puzzle the Jew so much ; and so well does the engraver succeed at last, that we never remember to have met with a single artist who did not vow that the wood-cutter had utterly ruined his design. Of Messrs. Thompson and Williams we have spoken as the first engravers in point of rank ; however, the regulations of professional precedence are certainly very difficult, and the rest of their brethren we shall not endeavour to class. Why should the artists who executed the cuts of the admirable " Three Courses " yield the pas to any one ? There, for instance, is an engraving by Mr. Landells, nearly as good in our opinion as the very best wood-cut that ever was made after Cruikshank, and curiously happy in rendering the artist's pecidiar manner : this cut does not come from the facetious publica- SIO CEITICAL REVIEWS tions which we have consulted ; but is a contribution by Mr. Oruikshank to an elaborate and splendid botanical work upon the Orchidaceee of Mexico, by Mr. Bateman. Mr. Bateman despatched some extremely choice roots of this valuable plant to a friend in England, who, on the arrival of the case, consigned it to his gardener to unpack. A great deal of anxiety with regard to the contents was manifested by all concerned, but on the lid of the box being removed, there issued from it three or four fine specimens of the enormous Blatta beetle that had been preying upon the plants during the voyage; against these the gardeners, the grooms, the porters, and the porters' children issued forth in arms, and this scene the artist has immortalised. We have spoken of the admirable way in which Mr. Cruikshank has depicted Irish character and Cockney character : English country character is quite as faithfully delineated in the person of the stout porteress and her children, and of the " Chawbacon " with the shovel, on whose face is written "Zummerzetsheer." Chawbacon appears in another plate, or else Chawbacon's brother. He has come up to Lunnan, and is looking about him at raaces. How distinct are these rustics from those whom we have just been examining ! They hang about the purlieus of the metropolis : Brook Green, Epsom, Greenwich, Ascot, Goodwood, are their haunts. They visit London professionally once a year, and that is at the time of Bartholomew fair. How one may speculate upon the different degrees of rascality, as exhibited in each face of the thimblerigging trio, and form little histories for these worthies, charming Newgate romances, such as have been of late the fashion ! Is any man so blind that he cannot see the exact face tlmt is writh- ing under the thimblerigged hero's hat? Like Timanthes of old, our artist expresses great passions without the aid of the human countenance. There is another specimen — a street row of inebriated bottles. Is there any need of having a face after this 1 " Come on ! " says Claret-bottle, a dashing, genteel fellow, with his hat on one ear — " Come on ! has any man a mind to tap me ? " Claret- bottle is a little screwed (as one may see by his legs), but full of gaiety and courage; not so that stout, apoplectic Bottle-of-rum, who has staggered against the wall, and has his hand upon his liver : the fellow hurts himself with smoking, that is clear, and is as sick as sick can be. See, Port is making away from the storm, and Double X is as flat as ditch-water. Against these, awful in their white robes, the sober watchmen come. Our artist then can cover up faces, and yet show them quite clearly, as in the thimblerig group; or he can do without faces altogether; or he can, at a pinch, provide a countenance for a GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 311 gentleman out of any given object — a beautiful Irish physiognomy being moulded upon a keg of whisky ; and a jolly English coun- tenance frothing out of a pot of ale (the spirit of brave Toby Philpot come back to reanimate his clay) ; while in a fungus may be recognised the physiognomy of a mushroom peer. Finally, if he is at a loss, he can make a living head, body, and legs out of steel or tortoise-shell, as in the case of the vivacious pair of spectacles that are jockeying the nose of Caddy Cuddle. Of late years Mr. Cruikshank has busied himself very much with steel-engraving, and the consequences of that lucky invention have been, that his plates are now sold by thousands, where they could only be produced by hundreds before. He has made many a bookseller's and author's fortune (we trust that in so doing ho may not have neglected his own). Twelve admirable plates, furnished yearly to that facetious little publication, the Comic Almanac, have gained for it a sale, as we hear, of nearly twenty thousand copies. The idea of the work was novel ; there was, in the first number especially, a great deal of comic power, and Cruik- shank's designs were so admirable that the Almanac at once became a vast favourite with the public, and has so remained ever since. Besides the twelve plates, this almanac contains a prophetic wood-cut, accompanying an awful Blameyhum Astrologicum that appears in this and other almanacs. There is one that hints in pretty clear terms that with the Reform of Municipal Corporations the ruin of the great Lord Mayor of London is at hand. His lordship is meekly going to dine at an eightpenny ordinary, — his giants in pawn, his men in armour dwindled to " one poor knight," his carriage to be sold, his stalwart aldermen vanished, his sheriffs, alas ! and alas ! in gaol ! Another design shows that Rigdum, if a true, is also a moral and instructive prophet. John Bull is asleep, or rather in a vision; the cunning demon. Speculation, blowing a thousand bright bubbles about him. Meanwhile the rooks are busy at his fob, a knave has cut a cruel hole in his pocket, a rattlesnake has coiled safe round his feet, and will in a trice swallow Bull, chair, money, and all ; the rats are at his corn- bags (as if, poor devil, he had corn to spare) ; his faithful dog is bolting his leg-of-mutton — nay, a thief has gotten hold of his very candle, and there, by way of moral, is his ale-pot, which looks and winks in his face, and seems to say, BuU, all this is froth, and a cruel satirical picture of a certain rustic who had a goose that laid certain golden eggs, which goose the rustic slew in expectation of finding all the eggs at once. This is goose and sage too, to borrow the pun of " learned Doctor Gill ; " but we shrewdly suspect that Mr. Cruikshank is becoming a little conservative in his notions. 312 CRITICAL REVIEWS We love these pictures so that it is hard to part us, and we still fondly endeavour to hold on, but this wild word, farewell, must be spoken by the best friends at last, and so good-bye, brave wood-cuts : we feel quite a sadness in coming to the last of our coUeGtion. In the earlier numbers of the Comic Almanac all the manners and customs of Londoners that would afford food for fun were noted down ; and if during the last two years the mysterious personage who, under the title of " Rigdum Funnidos," compiles this ephemeris, has been compelled to resort to romantic tales, we must suppose that he did so because the great metropolis was exhausted, and it was necessary to discover new worlds in the cloud land of fancy. The character of Mr. Stubbs, who made his appearance in the Almanac for 1839, had, we think, great merit, although his adventures were somewhat of too tragical a description to provoke pure laughter. We should be glad to devote a few pages to the " Illustrations of Time," the " Scraps and Sketches," and the " Illustrations of Phrenology," which are among the most famous of our artist's publications ; but it is very difficult to find new terms of praise, as find them one must, when reviewing Mr. Cruikshank's publica- tions, and more difficult still (as the reader of this notice will no doubt have perceived for himself long since) to translate his design into words, and go to the printer's box for a description of all that fun and humour which the artist can produce by a few skilful turns of his needle. A famous article upon the " Illustrations of Time " appeared some dozen years since in Blackwood's Magazine, of which the conductors have always been great admirers of our artist, as became men of honour and genius. To these grand qualities do not let it be supposed that we are laying claim, but, thank heaven, Cruikshank's humour is so good and benevolent that any man must love it, and on this score we may speak as well as another. Then there are the " Greenwich Hospital " designs, which must not be passed over. " Greenwich Hospital " is a hearty, good- natured book, in the Tom Dibdin school, treating of the virtues of British tars, in approved nautical language. They maul Frenchmen and Spaniards, they go out in brigs and take frigates, they relieve women in distress, and are yard-arm and yard-arming, athwart- hawsing, marlinspiking, binnacling, and helm's-a-leeing, as honest seamen invariably do, in novels, on the stage, and doubtless on board ship. This we cannot take upon us to say, but the artist, like a true Englishman as he is, loves dearly these brave guardians of Old England, and chronicles their rare or fanciful exploits with the greatest goodwill. Let any one look at the noble head of Nelson in the " Family Library," and they will, we are sure, think with us that the designer must have felt and loved what he drew. o 3! GEOEGE CRUIKSHANK 313 There are to this abridgment of Southey's admirable book many more cuts after Cruikshank ; and about a dozen pieces by the same hand will be found in a work equally popular, Lockhart's excellent "Life of Napoleon." Among these the retreat from Moscow is very fine; the Mamlouks most vigorous, furious, and barbarous, as they should be. At the end of these three volumes Mr. Cruik- shank's contributions to the " Family Library " seem suddenly to have ceased. We are not at all disposed to undervalue the works and genius of Mr. Dickens, and we are sure that he would admit as readily as any man the wonderful assistance that he has derived from the artist who has given us the portraits of his ideal personages, and made them familiar to all the world. Once seen, these figures remain impressed on the memory, which otherwise would have had no hold upon them, and the heroes and heroines of Boz become personal acquaintances with each of us. Oh, that Hogarth could have illustrated Fielding in the same way ! and fixed down on paper those grand figures of Parson Adams, and Squire AUworthy, and the great Jonathan Wild. With regard to the modern romance of "Jack Sheppard," in which the latter personage makes a second appearance, it seems to us that Mr. Cruikshank really created the tale, and that Mr. Ainsworth, as it were, only put words to it. Let any reader of the novel think over it for awhile, now that it is some months since he has perused and laid it down — let him think, and tell us what he remembers of the tale ? George Cruikshank's pictures — always George Cruikshank's pictures. The storm in the Thames, for in- stance : all the author's laboured description of that event has passed clean away — we have only before the mind's eye the fine plates of Cruikshank : the poor wretch cowering under the bridge arch, as the waves come rushing in, and the boats are whirling away in the drift of the great swollen black waters. And let any man look at that second plate of. the murder on the Thames, and he must acknowledge how much more brilliant the artist's description is than the writer's, and what a real genius for the terrible as well as for the ridiculous the former has ; how awful is the gloom of the old bridge, a few lights glimmering from the houses here and there, but not so as to be reflected on the water at all, which is too turbid and raging : a great heavy rack of clouds goes sweeping over the bridge, and men with flaring torches, the murderers, are borne away with the stream. The author requires many pages to describe the fury of the storm, which Mr. Cruikshank has represented in one. First, he has to prepare you with the something inexpressibly melancholy in 314 CRITICAL KEVIEWS sailing on a dark night upon the Thames: "the ripple of the ■water," " the darkling current," " the indistinctively seen craft," " the solemn shadows," and other phenomena visible on rivers at night are detailed (with not unskilful rhetoric) in order to bring the reader into a proper frame of mind for the deeper gloom and horror which is to ensue. Then follow pages of description. " As Roland sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a war like a volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its bondage. A moment before the surface of the stream was as black as ink. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething, like an enormous cauldron. The blast once more swept over the agitated river, whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. Destruc- tion everywhere marked the course of the gale. Steeples toppled and towers reeled beneath its fury. All was darkness, horror, con- fusion, ruin. Men fled from their tottering habitations and returned to them, scared by greater danger. The end of the world seemed at hand. . . . The hurricane had now reached its climax. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. He who had faced the gale would have been instantly stifled" &c. &c. See with what a tremendous war of words (and good loud words too ; Mr. Ainsworth's description is a good and spirited one) the author is obliged to pour in upon the reader before he can eflFeet his purpose upon the latter, and inspire him with a proper terror. The painter does it at a glance, and old Wood's dilemma in the midst of that tremendous storm, with the little infant at his bosom, is remembered afterwards, not from the words, but from the visible image of them that the artist has left us. It would not, perhaps, be out of place to glance through the whole of the " Jack Sheppard " plates, which are among the most finished and the most successful of Mr. Cruikshank's performances, and say a word or two concerning them. Let us begin with finding fault with No. 1, "Mr. Wood offers to adopt little Jack Sheppard." A poor print, on a poor subject ; the figure of the woman not as carefully designed as it might be, and the expression of the eyes (not an uncommon fault with our artist) much carica- tured. The print is cut up, to use the artist's phrase, by the number of accessories which the engraver has thought proper, after the author's elaborate description, elaborately to reproduce. The plate of " Wild discovering Darrell in the loft " is admirable — ghastly, terrible, and the treatment of it extraordinarily skilful, minute, and bold. The intricacies of the tile-work, and the mys- terious twinkling of light among the beams, are excellently felt aEORGE ORUIKSHANK 315 and rendered ; and one sees here, as in the two next plates of the storm and murder, what a fine eye the artist has, what a skilful hand, and what a sympathy for the wild and dreadful. As a mere imitation of nature, the clouds and the bridge in the murder picture may be examined by painters who make far higher pretensions than Mr. Cruikshank. In point of workmanship they are equally good, the manner quite unafi'ected, the effect produced without any violent contrast, the whole scene evidently well and philosophically arranged in the artist's brain, before he began to put it upon copper. The famous di'awing of " Jack carving the name on the beam," which has been transferred to half the play-bills in town, is over- loaded with accessories, as the first plate ; but they are much better arranged than in the last-named engraving, and do not injure the effect of the principal figure. Remark, too, the conscientiousness of the artist, and that shrewd pervading idea of form which is one of his principal characteristics. Jack is surrounded by all sorts of implements of his profession ; he stands on a regular carpenter's table : away in the shadow under it lie shavings and a couple of carpenter's hampers. The glue-pot, the mallet, the chisel-handle, the planes, the saws, the hone with its cover, and the other para- phernalia are all represented with extraordinary accuracy and forethought. The man's mind has retained the exact drawing of all these minute objects (unconsciously perhaps to himself), but we can see with what keen eyes he must go through the world, and what a fund of facts (as such a knowledge of the shape of objects is in his profession) this keen student of nature has stored away in his brain. In the next plate, where Jack is escaping from his mistress, the figure of that lady, one of the deepest of the PaOvKoXTToi, strikes us as disagreeable and unrefined ; that of Winifred is, on the contrary, very pretty and graceful ; and Jack's puzzled, slinking look must not be forgotten. All the accessories are good, and the apartment has a snug, cosy air; which is not remarkable, except that it shows how faithfully the designer has performed his work, and how curiously he has entered into all the particulars of the subject. Master Thames Darrell, the handsome young man of the book, is, in Mr. Cruikshank's portraits of him, no favourite of ours. The lad seems to wish to make up for the natural insignificance of his face by fi-owning on all occasions most portentously. This figure, borrowed from the compositor's desk, will give a v^ V* notion of what we mean. Wild's face is too violent for | the great man of history (if we may call Fielding history), but this is in consonance with the ranting, frowning, braggadocio character that Mr. Ainsworth has given him. 316 CRITICAL REVIEWS The " Interior of Willesden Church " is excellent as a composi- tion, and a piece of artistical workmanship ; the groups are well arranged ; and the figure of Mrs. Sheppard looking round alarmed, as her son is robbing the dandy Kneebone, is charming, simple, and unaffected. Not so " Mrs. Sheppard ill in bed," whose face is screwed up to an expression vastly too tragic. The little glimpse of the church seen through the open door of the room is very beauti- ful and poetical : it is in such small hints that an artist especially excels ; they are the morals which he loves to append to his st-ories, and are always appropriate and welcome. The boozing-ken is not to our liking ; Mrs. Sheppai'd is there with her horrified eyebrows again. Why this exaggeration — is it necessary for the public? We think not, or if they require such excitement, let our artist, like a true painter as he is, teach them better things.* The " Escape from Willesden Cage " is excellent ; the " Burglary in Wood's house " has not less merit ; " Mrs. Sheppard in Bedlam," a ghastly picture indeed, is finely conceived, but not, as we fancy, so carefully executed ; it would be better for a little more careful drawing in the female figure. " Jack sitting for his picture " is a very pleasing group, and savours - of the manner of Hogarth, who is introduced in the company. The " Murder of Trenchard " must be noticed too as remarkable for the effect and terrible vigour which the artist has given to the scene. The "Willesden Churchyard" has great merit too, but the gems of the book are the little vignettes illustrating the escape from Newgate. Here, too, much anatomical care of drawing is not required ; the figures are so small that the outhne and attitude need only to be indicated, and the designer has pro- duced a series of figures quite remarkable for reality and poetry too. There are no less than ten of Jack's feats so described by Mr. Cruikshank. (Let us say a word here in praise of the excellent manner in which the author has carried us through the adventure.) Here is Jack clattering up the chimney, now peering into the lonely red room, now opening " the door between the red room and the chapel." What a wild, fierce, scared look he has, the young * A gentleman {whose wit is so celebrated tliat one should be very cautious in repeating his stories) gave the writer a good illustration of the philosophy of exaggeration, Mr. was once behind the scenes at the Opera when the scene-shifters were preparing for the ballet. Flora was to sleep under a bush, whereon were growing a number of roses, and amidst which was fluttering a gay covey of butterflies. In size the roses exceeded the most expansive sun- flowers, and the butterflies were as large as cocked hats ; — the scene-shifter explained to Mr. , who asked the reason why everything was so magnified, that the galleries could never see the objects unless they were enormously ex- aggerated. How many of our writers and designers work for the galleries ? '* ■^I. GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 317 ruffian, as cautiously he steps in, holding light his bar of iron. You can see by his face how his heart is beating ! If any one were there ! but no ! And this is a very fine characteristic of the prints, the extreme loneliness of them aU. Not a soul is there to disturb him — woe to him who should — and Jack drives in the chapel gate, and shatters down the passage door, and there you have him on the leads. Up he goes ! it is but a spring of a few feet from the blanket, and he is gone — abiit, evasit, erupit ! Mr. Wild must catch him again if he can. We must not forget to mention " Oliver Twist," and Mr. Cruikshank's famous designs to that work.* The sausage scene at Fagin's, Nancy seizing the boy ; that capital piece of humour, Mr. Bumble's courtship, which is even better in Cruikshank's version than in Boz's exquisite account of the interview; Sykes's farewell to the dog; and the Jew, — the dreadful Jew — that Cruikshank drew ! What a fine touching picture of melancholy desolation is that of Sykes and the dog ! The poor cur is not too weU drawn, the landscape is stiff and formal; but in this case the faults, if faults they be, of execution rather add to than diminish the effect of the picture : it has a strange, wUd, dreary, broken-hearted look ; we fancy we see the landscape as it must have appeared to Sykes, when ghastly and with bloodshot eyes he looked at it. As for the Jew in the dungeon, let us say nothing of it — what can we say to describe it ? What a fine homely poet is the man who can produce this little world of mirth or woe for us ! Does he elaborate his effects by slow process of thought, or do they come to him by instinct I Does the painter ever arrange in his brain an image so complete, that he afterwards can copy it exactly on the canvas, or does the hand work in spite of him ? A great deal of this random work of course every artist has done in his time ; many men produce effects of which they never dreamed, and strike off excellences, haphazard, which gain for them reputa- tion; but a fine quality in Mr. Cruikshank, the quality of his success, as we have said before, is the extraordinary earnestness and good faith with which he executes all he attempts — the ludicrous, the polite, the low, the terrible. In the second of these he often, in our fancy, feils, his figures lacking elegance and descending to caricature ; but there is something fine in this too : it is good that he shotdd fail, that he should have these honest naive notions regarding the beau monde, the characteristics of which a namby- pamby tea-party painter could hit off far better than he. He is a great deal too downright and manly to appreciate the flimsy * Or his new work, " The Tower of London," which promises even to sur- pass Mr. Cruikshank's former productions. S18 CEITICAL REVIEWS delicacies of small society — you cannot expect a lion to roar you like any sucking dove, or frisk about a drawing-room like a lady's little spaniel. If then, in the course of his life and business, he has been occasionally obliged to imitate the ways of such small animals, he has done so, let us say it at once, clumsily, and like as a lion should. Many artists, we hear, hold his works rather cheap ; they prate about bad drawing, want of scientific knowledge ; — they would have something vastly more neat, regular, anatomical. Not one of the whole band most likely but can paint an Academy figure better than himself; nay, or. a portrait of an alderman's lady and family of children. But look down the list of the painters and tell us who are they ? How many among these men are poets (makers), possessing the faculty to create, the greatest among tlie gifts with which Providence has endowed the mind of man 1 Say how many there are, count up what they have done, and see what in the course of some nine-and-twenty years has been done by this indefatigable man. What amazing energetic fecundity do we find in him ! As a boy he began to fight for bread, has been hungry (twice a day we trust) ever since, and has been obliged to sell his wit for his bread week by week. And his wit, sterling gold as it is, will find no such purchasers as the fashionable painter's thin pinchbeck, who can live comfortably for six weeks, when paid for and painting a portrait, and fancies his mind prodigiously occupied all the while. There was an artist in Paris, an artist hairdresser, who used to be fatigued and take restoratives after inventing a new coiffure. By no such gentle operation of head-dressing has Cruikshank lived : time was (we are told so in print) when for a picture with thirty heads in it he was paid three guineas — a poor week's pittance truly, and a dire week's labour. We make no doubt that the same labour would at present bring him twenty times the sum ; but whether it be ill-paid or well, what labour has Mr. Cruikshank's been. Week by week, for thirty years, to produce something new ; some smiling offspring of painful labour, quite independent and distinct from its ten thousand jovial brethren; in what hours* of sorrow and ill-health to be told by the world, " Make us laugh or you starve — Give us fresh fun ; we have eaten up the old and are hungry." And all this has he been obliged to do — to wring laughter day by day, sometimes, perhaps, out of want, often certainly from ill-health or depression — to keep the fire of his brain perpetually alight : for the greedy public will give it no leisure to cool. This he has done and done well. He has told a thousand truths in as many strange and fascinating ways ; he has given a thousand new and pleasant GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 319 thoughts to millions of people; he has never used his wit dis- honestly; he has never, in all the exuberance of his frolicsome humour, caused a single painful or guilty blush : how little do we think of the extraordinary power of this man, and how ungrateful we are to him ! Here, as we are come round to the charge of ingratitude, the starting-post from which we set out, perhaps we had better con- clude. The reader will perhaps wonder at the high-flown tone in which we speak of the services and merits of an individual, whom he considers a humble scraper on steel, that is wonderfully popular already. But none of us remember all the benefits we owe him ; they have come one by one, one driving out the memory of the other : it is only when we come to examine them altogether, as the writer has done, who has a pile of books on the table before him — a heap of personal kindnesses from George Cruikshank (not presents, if you please, for we bought, borrowed, or stole every one of them) — that we feel what we owe him. Look at one of Mr. Cruikshank's works, and we pronounce him an excellent humourist. Look at all : his reputation is increased by a kind of geometrical progression ; as a whole diamond is a hundred times more valuable than the hundred splinters into which it might be broken would be. A fine rough English diamond is this about which we have been writing. A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH WITH AN INTEODUOTOEY LETTEE TO ME. YOEKE MY DEAR YORKE, — Do you remember the orders which you gave me at the close of our dinner last week at the Clarendon? — that dinner which you always provide upon my arrival in town from my country-seat ; knowing full well that Tit- marsh before he works must dine, and when he dines, must dine well? Do you, I say, remember the remarks which you addressed to me ? Probably not ; for that third bottle of Clos-Vougeot had evidently done your business, and you were too tipsy, even to pay the bill. Well, let bills be bills, and what care we % There is Mr. James Eraser, our employer, master, publisher, purse-bearer, and friend, who has such a pleasure in paying that it is a pity to baulk him ; and I never saw a man look more happy than he when he lugged out four iive-pound notes to pay for that dinner of ours. What a scene it was ! You asleep with your head in a dish of melted raspberry-ice ; Mr. Eraser calm, beneficent, majestic, counting out the thirteens to the waiters ; the Doctor and Mr. John Abraham Heraud singing " Suoni la tromba intrepida," eacli clutching the other's hand, and waving a punch-ladle or a dessert-knife in the unemployed paw, and the rest of us joining in chorus when they came to " gridando liberta." — But I am wandering from the point : the address which you delivered to me on drinking my health was in substance this : — "Mr. Michael Augelo Titmarsh, the splendid feast of which you have partaken, and the celebrated company of individuals whom you see around you, will show you in what estimation myself and Mr. Eraser hold your talents, — not that the latter point is of any consequence, as I am the sole editor of the Magazine. Sir, you have been called to the metropolis from a very distant part of the country, your coach-hire and personal expenses have been defrayed, you have been provided with a suit of clothes that ought to become you, for they have been for at least six months the wonder of the town while exhibited on my own person ; and you may well fancy A PIOTOEIAL RHAPSODY 321 that all these charges have not been incurred on our parts, -without an expectation of some corresponding return from you. You are a devilish bad painter, sir ; but never mind, Hazlitt was another, and old Peter Pindar was a miserable dauber; Mr. Alexander Pope, who wrote several pretty poems, was always busy with brush and palette, and made sad work of them. You, then, in common with these before-named illustrations, as my friend. Lady Morgan, calls them [Sir Charles returned thanks], are a wretched artist ; but a tolerable critic — nay, a good critic — nay, let me say to your face, the best critic, the clearest, the soundest, the gayest, the most eloquent, the most pathetic, and, above all, the most honest critic in matters of art that is to be found in her Majesty's dominions. And therefore, Mr. Titmarsh, for we must give the deuce his due, you have been brought from your cottage near John O'Groat's or Land's End, — I forget which, — therefore you have been summoned to London at the present season. " Sir, there are at this moment no less than five public exhibi- tions of pictures in the metropolis; and it will be your duty carefully to examine every one of them during your residence here, and bring us a fuU and accurate report upon all the pieces exhibited which are remarkable for goodness, badness, or mediocrity." I here got up; and, laying my hand on my satin waistcoat, looked up to heaven, and said, " Sir, I " " Sit down, sir, and keep your eternal wagging jaws quiet ! Waiter ! whenever that person attempts to speak, have the good- ness to fill his mouth with olives or a damson cheese. — To proceed. Sir, and you, gentlemen, and you, intelligent public of Great Britain ! (for I know that every word I say is in some way carried to you) you must all be aware, I say, how wickedly, — how foully, basely, meanly — how, in a word, with every-deteriorating-adverb that ends in ly — in ly, gentlemen [here Mr. Yorke looked round, and myself and Mr. Fraser, rather alarmed lest we should have let slip a pun, began to raise a low faint laugh] — you have all of you seen how the world has been imposed upon by persons calling themselves critics, who, in daUy, weekly, monthly prints, protrude their nonsense upon the town. What are these men 1 Are they educated to be painters ? — No ! Have they a taste for painting ? — • No ! I know of newspapers in this town, gentlemen, which send their reporters indifierently to a police-ofiice or a picture gallery, and expect them to describe Correggio or a fire in Fleet Street with equal fidelity. And, alas ! it must be confessed that our matter-of-fact public of England is itself but a dull appreciator of the arts, and is too easily persuaded by the dull critics who lay down their stupid laws. 13 X 322 CRITICAL REVIEWS " But we cannot expect, Mr. Titmarsli, to do any good to our beloved public by telling them merely that their instructors are impostors. Abuse is no argument, foul words admit of no pretence (you may have remarked that I never use them myself, but always employ the arts of gentlemanly persuasion), and we must endeavour to create a reform amongst the nations by simply preaching a purer and higher doctrine. Go you among the picture galleries, as you have done in former years, and prattle on at your best rate ; don't philosophise, or define, or talk big, for I will cut out every line of such stuff, but speak in a simple natural way, — without fear, and without favour. "Mark that latter word 'favour' well; for you are a great deal too tender in your nature, and too profuse of compliments. Favour, sir, is the curse of the critical trade ; and you will observe how a spirit of camaraderie and partisanship prevails in matters of art especially. The picture-critics, as I have remarked, are eminently dull — dull and loud ; perfectly ignorant upon all subjects connected with art, never able to guess at the name of an artist without a catalogue and a number, quite unknowing whether a picture be well or ill drawn, well or ill painted ; they must prate nevertheless, about light and shade, warm and cool colour, keeping, chiaroscuro, and such other terms, from the Painters' Cant Dictionary, as they hear bandied about among the brethren of the brush. " You will observe that such a critic has ordinarily his one or two idols that he worships ; the one or two painters, namely, into whose studios he has free access, and from whose opinions he forms his own. There is Dash, for instance, of the Star newspaper ; now and anon you hear him discourse of the fine arts, and you may take your affidavit that he has just issued from Blank's atelier: all Blank's opinions he utters — utters and garbles, of course ; all his likings are founded on Blank's dicta, and all his dislikings : 'tis probable that Blank has a rival, one Asterisk, living over the way. In Dash's eye Asterisk is the lowest of creatures. At every fresh exhibition you read how ' Mr. Blank has transcended his already transcendent reputation;' 'Myriads are thronging round his glorious canvases ; ' ' Billions have been trampled to death while rushing to examine his grand portrait of Lady Smigsmag ; ' ' His picture of Sir Claude Calipash is a gorgeous representation of aldermanic dignity and high chivalric grace ! ' As for Asterisk, you are told, ' Mr. Asterisk has two or three pictures — pretty, but weak, repeti- tions of his old faces and subjects in his old namby-pamby style. The Committee, we hear, rejected most of his pictures : the Com- mittee are very compassionate. How dared they reject Mr. Blank's stupendous historical picture of So-aiid-so ] ' " A PIOTORIAL RHAPSODY 323 [Here, my dear sir, I am sorry to say that there was a general snore heard from the guests round the table, which rather disturbed the flow of your rhetoric. You swallowed down two or three pints of burgundy, however, and continued.] "But I must conclude. Michael Angelo Titmarsh, you know your duty. You are an honest man [loud cheers, the people had awakened during the pause]. You must go forth determined to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ; as far as you, a fallible creature [cries of ' No, no ! '], know it. If you see a good picture, were it the work of your bitterest enemy — and you have hundreds — praise it." " I will," gasped I. "Hold your tongue, sir, and don't be interrupting me with your perpetual orations ! If you see a bad picture, were it the work of your dearest associate, your brother, the friend of your bosom, yoOT benefactor — cut, slash, slaughter him without mercy. Strip off humbug, sir, though it cover your best boon-companion. Praise merit, though it belong to your fiercest foe, your rival in the affections of your mistress, the man from whom you have borrowed money, or taken a beating in private ! " " Mr. Yorke," said I, clenching my fists and starting up, " this passes endurance, were you not intox ; " but two waiters here seized and held me down, luckily for you. " Peace, Titmarsh " (said you) ; " 'twas but raillery. Be honest, my friend, is all that I would say; and if you write a decent article on the exhibitions, Mr. Eraser will pay you hand- somely for your trouble ; and, in order that you may have every facility for visiting the picture galleries, I myself will give you a small sum in hand. Here are ten shillings. Five exhibitions, five shillings ; catalogues, four. You will have twelvepence for yourself, to take refreshments in the intervals." I held out my hand, for my anger had quite disappeared. "Mr. Fraser," said you, "give the fellow half-a-sovereign; and, for Heaven's sake, teach him to be silent when a gentleman is speaking ! " What passed subsequently need not be stated here, but the above account of your speech is a pretty correct one ; and, in pursuance of your orders, I busied myself with the exhibitions on the following day. The result of my labours will be found in the accompanying report. I have the honour, sir, of laying it at your feet, and of subscribing myself, with the profoundest respect and devotion, Sir, your very faithful and obedient servant, Michael Aneglo Titmaesh. Moreland's Coffee House, Dean Street, Soho. CEITIOAL REVIEWS PA-*-I2iAIA f, rPAMMA A' The Royal Academy. Had the author of the following paragraphs the pen of a Sir Walter Scott or a Lady Morgan, he would write something excessively brilliant and witty about the first day of the exhibition, and of the company which crowd the rooms upon that occasion. On Friday the Queen comes (Heaven bless her Majesty !) attended by her courtiers and train; and deigns, with Eoyal eyes, to examine the works of her Royal Academicians. Her, as we are given to under- stand, the President receives, bowing profoundly, awe-stricken ; his gold chain dangles from his presidential bosom, and sweet smiles of respectful courtesy light up his venerable face. Walking by her Majesty's side, he explains to her the wonders of the show. " That, may it please your Majesty, is a picture representing yourself, painted by the good knight. Sir David Wilkie : deign to remark how the robes seem as if they were cut out of British oak, and the figure is as wooden as the figure-head of one of your Majesty's men- of-war. Opposite is your Majesty's Royal consort, by Mr. Patten. We have tlie honour to possess two more pairs of Pattens in this Academy — ha, ha ! Round about you will see some of my own poor works of art. Yonder is Mr. Landseers portrait of your Majesty's own cockatoo, with a brace of Havadavats. Please your Royal Highness to look at the bit of biscuit ; no baker could have done it more natural. Fair Maid of Honour, look at that lump of sugar ; couldn't one take an aflfidavit, now, that it cost elevenpence a pound? Isn't it sweet? I know only one thing sweeter, and that's your Ladyship's lovely face ! " In such lively conversation might we fancy a bland president discoursing. The Queen should make august replies ; the lovely smiling Maids of Honour should utter remai-ks becoming their innocence and station (turning away very red from that corner of the apartment where hang certain Venuses and Andromedas, painted by William Etty, Esquire) ; the gallant prince, a lordly, handsome gentleman, with a slight foreign accent, should curl the dark mous- tache that adorns his comely lip, and say, " Potztausend ! but dat bigture of First Loaf by Herr von Mulready ist wunder schon ! " and courtly chamberlains, prim goldsticks, and sly polonaises of the Court should take their due share in the gay scene, and deliver their portions of the dialogue of the little drama. All this, I say, might be done in a very sprightly neat way, were poor Titmarsh an Ainsworth or a Lady Moraan ; and the A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 325 scene might be ended smartly with the knighting of one of the Academicians by her Majesty on the spot. As thus : " The Royal party had stood for three-and-twenty minutes in mute admira- tion before that tremendous picture by Mr. Maclise, representing the banquet in the hall of Dunsinane. ' Gory shadow of Banquo,' said Lady Almeria to Lady Wilhelmina, ' how hideous thou art ! ' ' Hideous ! hideous yourself, marry ! ' replied the arch and lovely Wilhelmina. ' By my halidome ! ' whispered the seneschal to the venerable prime minister, Lord Melborough — ' by cock and pie, Sir Count, but it seems to me that yon Scottish kerne, Macbeth, hath a shrewd look of terror ! ' ' And a marvellous unkempt beard,' answered the Earl ; ' and a huge mouth gaping wide for very terror, and a hand palsied with fear.' ' Hoot awa, mon ! ' cried an old Scots general, ' but the chield's Macbeth (I'm descanded from him leeneally in the saxty-ninth generation) knew hoo to wield a gude claymore ! ' ' His hand looks as if it had dropped a hot potato ! ' whispered a roguish page, and the little knave's remark caused a titter to iiin through the courtly circle, and brought a smile upon the cheek of the President of the Academy; who, sooth to say, had been twiddling his chain of ofiBce between his finger and thumb, somewhat jealous of the praise bestowed upon his young rival. " ' My Lord of Wellington,' said her Majesty, ' lend me your sword.' The veteran, smiling, drew forth that trenchant sabre, — that spotless blade of battle that had flashed victorious on the plains of far Assaye, in the breach of storm-girt Badajoz, in the mighty and supreme combat of Waterloo ! A tear stood in the hero's eye as he feU on his gartered knee ; and holding the blade between his finger and thumb, he presented the hilt to his liege lady. ' Take it, madam,' said he ; ' sheathe it in this old breast, if you will, for my heart and sword are my sovereign's. Take it, madam, and be not angry if there is blood upon the steel — 'tis the blood of the enemies of my country ! ' The Queen took it ; and, as the young and delicate creature waved that tremendous war-sword, a gentleman near her remarked, that surely never lighted on the earth a more delightful vision. ' Where is Mr. Maclise 1 ' said her Majesty. The blushing painter stepped forward. ' Kneel ! kneel ! ' whispered fifty voices ; and frightened, he did as they ordered him. 'Sure, she's not going to cut my head off?' he cried to the good knights. Sir Augustus Callcott and Sir Isaac Newton, who were standing. ' Your name, sir 1 ' said the Ladye of England. ' Sure you know it's Maclise ! ' cried the son of Erin. ' Your Christian name ? ' shrieked Sir Martin Shee in agony. ' Christian name, is it? Oh, then it's Daniel Malcolm, your Majesty, and much at 326 CRITICAL REVIEWS your service ! ' She waved the sword majestically over his head, and said, ' Rise up. Sir Malcolm Maclise ! ' "The ceremony was concluded, the brilliant cortege moved away, the Royal barouches received the illustrious party, the heralds cried, ' Largesse, Largesse ! ' and flung silver pennies among the shouting crowds in Trafalgar Square ; and when the last man-at- arms that accompanied the Royal train had disappeared, the loud vivas of the crowd were heard no more, the shrill song of the silver clarions had died away, his brother painters congratulated the newly- dubbed chevalier, and retired to partake of a slight collation of bread and cheese and porter in the keeper's apartments." Were we, I say, inclined to be romantic, did we dare to be imaginative, such a scene might be depicted with considerable eflfect ; but, as it is, we must not allow poor fancy to get the better of reason, and declare that to write anything of the sort would be perfectly uncalled for and absurd. Let it simply be stated that, on the Friday, her Majesty comes and goes. On the Saturday the Academicians have a private view for the great personages ; the lords of the empire and their ladies, the editors of the newspapers arid their friends ; and, after they have seen as much as possible, about seven o'clock the Academicians give a grand feed to their friends and patrons. In the arrangement of this banquet, let us say roundly that Messieurs de 1' Academic are vastly too aristocratic. Why were we not asked 1 The dinner is said to be done by Gunter ; and, though the soup and fish are notoriously cold and uncomfortable, we are by no means squeamish, and would pass over this gross piece of neglect. We long, too, to hear a bishop say grace, and to sit cheek by jowl with a duke or two. Besides, we could make some return ; a good joke is worth a plateful of turtle; a smart brisk pun is quite as valuable as a bottle of champagne ; a neat anecdote de- serves a slice of venison, with plenty of fat and currant jelly, and so on. On such principles of barter we might be disposed to treat. But a plague on this ribaldry and beating about the bush ! let us leave the plates, and come at once to the pictures. Once or twice before, in the columns of this Magazine,* we have imparted to the public our notions about Greek art, and its manifold deadly errors. The contemplation of such specimens of it as we possess hath always, to tell the truth, left us in a state of un- pleasant wonderment and perplexity. It carries corporeal beauty * Fraser's Magazine. A PIOTOKIAL RHAPSODY 327 to a pitch of painful perfection, and deifies tlje body and bones truly : but, by dint of sheer beauty, it leaves humanity altogether inhuman — quite heartless and passionless. Look at Apollo the divine : there is no blood in his marble veins, no warmth in his bosom, no fire or speculation in his dull awful eyes. Laocoon writhes and twists in an anguish that never can, in the breast of any spectator, create the smallest degree of pity. Diana, " La chasseresse Blanche, au sein virginal, Qui presse Quelque cerf matinal," * may run from this till Doomsday ; and we feel no desire to join the cold passionless huntress in her ghostly chase. Such monsters of beauty are quite out of the reach of human sympathy ; they were purposely (by the poor benighted heathens who followed this error, and strove to make their error as grand as possible) placed beyond it. They seemed to think that human joy and sorrow, passion and love, were mean and contemptible in themselves. Their gods were to be calm, and share in no such feelings. How much grander is the character of the Christian school, which teaches that love is the most beautiful of all things, and the first and highest element of beauty in art ! I don't know, madam, whether I make myself clearly understood in saying so much ; but if you will have the kindness to look at a certain little picture by Mr. Eastlake in this gallery, you will see to what the observation applies, and that out of a homely subject, and a few simple figures not at all wonderful for excessive beauty or grandeur, the artist can make something infinitely more beau- tiful than Medicean Venuses, and sublimer than Pythian Apollos. Happy are you, Charles Lock Eastlake, Esquire, R.A. ! I think you have in your breast some of that sacred fire that lighted the bosom of Raphael Sanctius, Esquire, of Urbino, he being a young man, — a holy kind of Sabbath repose — a calm that comes not of feeling, but of the overflowing of it — a tender yearning sympathy and love for God's beautiful world and creatures. Impelled by such a delightful sentiment, the gentle spirit of him in whom it dwells (like the angels of old, who first taught us to receive the doctrine that love was the key to the world) breathes always peace on' earth and goodwill towards men. And though the privilege of enjoying this happy frame of mind is accorded to the humblest as well as the most gifted genius, yet the latter must remember that the intellect can exercise itself in no higher way than in the practice of this kind * Alfred de Musset. 328 CRITICAL REVIEWS of adoration and gratitude. The great artist who is the priest of nature is consecrated especially to this service of praise ; and though it may have no direct relation to religious subjects, the view of a picture of the highest order does always, like the view of stars in a calm night, or a fair quiet landscape in sunshine, fill the mind with an inexpressible content and gratitude towards the Maker who has created such beautiful things for our use. And as the poet has told us how, not out of a wide landscape merely, or a sublime expanse of glittering stars, but of any very humble thing, we may gather the same delightful reflections (as out of a small flower, that bring us " thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears") — in like manner we do not want grand pictures and elaborate yards of canvas so to affect us, as the lover of drawing must have felt in looking at the Raphael designs lately exhibited in London. These were little faint scraps, mostly from the artist's pencil — small groups, unfinished single figures, just indicated ; but the divine elements of beauty were as strong in them as in the grandest pieces : and there were many little sketches, not half an inch high, which charmed and affected one like the violet did Wordsworth ; and left one in that unspeakable, complacent, grateful condition, which, as I have been endeavouring to state, is the highest aim of the art. And if I might be allowed to give a hint to amateurs concerning pictures and their merit, I would say look to have your heart touched by them. The best paintings address themselves to the best feelings of it ; and a great many very clever pictures do not touch it at all. Skill and handling are great parts of a painter's trade, but heart is the first ; this is God's direct gift to him, and cannot be got in any academy, or under any master. Look about, therefore, for pictures, be they large or small, finished well or ill, landscapes, portraits, figure-pieces, pen-and-ink sketches, or what not, that contain senti- ment and great ideas. He who possesses these will be sure to express them, more or less well. Never mind about the manner. He who possesses them not may draw and colour to perfection, and yet be no artist. As for telling you what sentiment is, and what it is not, wherein lies the secret of the sublime, there, madam, we must stop altogether ; only, after reading Burke " On the Sublime," you will find yourself exactly as wise as you were before. I cannot tell why a landscape by Claude or Constable should be more beautiful — it is certainly not more dexterous — than a landscape by Mr. or Mr. . I cannot tell why Raphael should be superior to Mr. Benjamin Haydon (a fact which one person in the world may be perhaps inclined to doubt) ; or why " Vedrai, carino," in " Don Juan," should be more charming to me than "Suoni la tromba," A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 329 before mentioned. The latter has twice as much drumming, trumpet- ing, and thundering in it. All these points are quite undefinable and inexplicable (I never read a metaphysical account of them that did not seem sheer dulness and nonsense) ; but we can have no doubt about them. And thus we come to Charles Lock Eastlake, Esquire, from whom we started about a page since ; during which we have laid down, first, that sentiment is the first quality of a picture ; second, that to say whether this sentiment exists or no rests with tiie individual entirely, the sentiment not being capable of any sort of definition. Charles Lock Eastlake, Esquire, possesses, to my thinking, tliis undefinable arch-quality of sentiment to a very high degree. And, besides him, let us mention William Mulready, Esquire, Cope, Boxall, Redgrave, Herbert (the two latter don't show so much of it this year as formerly), and Richmond. Mr. Eastlake's picture is as pure as a Sabbath-hymn sung by the voices of children. He has taken a very simple subject — hardly any subject at all ; but such suggestive points are the best, perhaps, that a painter can take ; for with the illustration of a given subject out of a history or romance, when one has seen it, one has commonly seen all, whereas such a piece as this, which Mr. Eastlake calls " The Salutation of the Aged Friar," brings the spectator to a delightful peaceful state of mind, and gives him matter to ponder upon long after. The story of this piece is simply this : — A group of innocent happy-looking Italian peasants are approaching a couple of friars ; a boy has stepped forward with a little flower, which he presents to the elder of these, and the old monk is giving him his blessing. Now, it would be very easy to find fault with this picture, and complain of excessive redness in the shadows, excessive whiteness in the linen, of repetition in the faces, — the smallest child is the very counterpart of one in the " Christ and the Little Children " by the same artist last year — the women are not only copies of women before painted by Mr. Eastlake, but absolutely copies of one another; the drawing lacks vigour, the flesh-tints variety (they seem to be produced, by the most careful stippling, with a brUliant composition of lake and burnt sienna, cooled off as they come to the edges with a little blue). But though, in the writer's judgment, there are in the picture every one of these faults, the merits of the performance incomparably exceed them, and these are of the purely sentimental and intellectual kind. What a tender grace and purity in the female heads! If Mr. Eastlake repeats his model often, at least he has been very lucky in finding or making her: indeed, I don't know in any painter, ancient or modern, such a charming character of female beauty. The 330 CRITICAL REVIEWS countenances of the monks are full of unction ; the children, with their mild-beaming eyes, are fresh with recollections of heaven. There is no affectation of middle-age mannerism, such as silly Germans and silly Frenchmen are wont to call Catholic art ; and the picture is truly Catholic in consequence, having about it what the hymn calls "solemn mirth," and giving the spectator the utmost possible pleasure in viewing it. Now, if we might suggest to Mr. Lane, the lithographer, how he might confer a vast benefit upon the public, we would entreat him to make several large copies of pictures of this class, executing them with that admirable grace and fidelity which are the characteristics of all his copies. Let these be coloured accurately, as they might be, at a small charge, and poor people for a few guineas might speedily make for them- selves delightful picture galleries. The colour adds amazingly to the charm of these pictures, and attracts the eye to them. And they are such placid pious companions for a man's study, that the continual presence of them could not fail to purify his taste and his heart. I am not here arguing, let it be remembered, that Mr. Eastlake is absolute perfection ; and will concede to those who find fault with him that his works are deficient in power, however remarkable for grace. Be it so. But then, let us admire his skill in choosing such subjects as are best suited to his style of thinking, and least likely to show his faults. In the pieces ordinarily painted by him, grace and tender feeling are the chief requisites ; and I don't recollect a work of his in which he has aimed at other qualities. One more picture besides the old Friar has Mr. Eastlake, a portrait of that beautiful Miss Bury, whom our readers must recollect in the old house, in a black mantle, a red gown, with long golden hair waving over her shoulders, and a lily in her hand. The picture was engraved afterwards in one of the Annuals ; and was one of the most delightful works that ever came from Mr. East- lake's pencil. I can't say as much for the present portrait : the picture wants relief, and is very odd and heavy in colour. The handsome lady looks as if she wanted her stays. beautiful lily- bearer of six years since ! you should not have appeared like a mortal after having once shone upon us as an angel. And now we are come to the man whom we delight to honour, Mr. Mulready, who has three pictures in the exhibition that are all charming in their way. The first ("Fair Time," 116) was painted, it is said, more than a score of years since ; and the observer may look into it with some payment for his curiosity, for it contains specimens of the artist's old and new manner. The picture in its first state is somewhat in the Wilkie style of that day (oh for the Wilkie style of that day !), having many greys, and A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 331 imitating closely the Dutchmen. Since then the painter has been touching up the figures in the foreground with his new anrl favourite lurid orange-colour ; and you may see how this is stippled in upon the faces and hands, and borrow, perhaps, a hint or two regarding the Mulreadian secret. What is the meaning of this strange colour? — these glowing burning crimsons, and intense blues, and greens more green than the first budding leaves of spring, or the mignonette-pots in a Cockney's window at Brixton. But don't fancy that we are joking or about to joke at Mr. Mulready. These gaudy prismatic colours are wonderfully captivating to the eye : and, amidst a host of pictures, it cannot fail to settle on a Mulready in preference to all. But for consistency's sake, a protest must be put in against the colour ; it is pleasant, but wrong ; we never saw it in nature — not even when looking through an orange-coloured glass. This point being settled, then, and our minds eased, let us look at the design and concep- tion of " First Love " ; and pray, sir, where in the whole works of modern artists will you find anything more exquisitely beautiful? I don't know what that young fellow, so solemn, so tender, is whispering into the ear of that dear girl (she is only fifteen now, but, sapristie, how beautiful she will be about three years hence 1), who is folding a pair of slim arms round a little baby, and making believe to nurse it, as they three are standing one glowing summer day under some trees by a stile. I don't know, I say, what they are saying ; nor, if I could hear, would I tell — 'tis a secret, madam. Recollect the words that the Captain whispered in your ear that afternoon in the shubbery. Your heart throbs, your cheek flushes ; the sweet sound of those words tells clear upon your ear, and you say, " Oh, Mr. Titmarsh, how cmi you ? " Be not afraid, madam — never, never will I peach ; but sing, in the words of a poet who is occasionally quoted in the House of Commons — ' ' Est et fide]i tata silentio Merces. Vetabo qui Cereris sacrum Vulgarit arcanse, sub Isdem Sit trabibus, fragilemve mecum Solvat phase! um." Which may be interpreted (with a slight alteration of the name of Ceres for that of a much more agreeable goddess) — Be happy, and thy counsel keep, 'Tia thus the bard adviseth thee ; Remember that the silent lip In silence shall rewarded bo. And ily the wretch who dares to strip Love of its sacred mystery. 332 CRITICAL REVIEWS My loyal legs I would not stretch Beneath the same mahogany ; Nor trust myself in Chelsea Reach, In punt or skiff, with such as he. The villain who would kiss and peach, I hold him for mine enemy ! But, to return to our muttons, I would not give a fig for the taste of the individual who does not see the exquisite beauty of this little group. Our artist has more passion than the before-lauded Mr. Eastlake, but quite as much delicacy and tenderness ; and they seem to me to possess the poetry of picture-making more than any other of their brethren. By the way, what is this insane yell that has been raised throughout the public press about Mr. Mulready's other perform- ance, the postage cover, and why are the sages so bitter against it ? The Times says it is disgraceful and ludicrous ; the elegant writers of the WeeUy Dispatch vow it is ludicrous and disgraceful ; the same sweet song is echoed by papers, Radical and Conservative, in London and the provinces, all the literary gentlemen being alive, and smarting under this insult to the arts of the country. Honest gentlemen of the press, be not so thin-skinned ! Take my word for it, there is no cause for such vehement anger — no good oppor- tunity here for you to show off that exquisite knowledge of the fine arts for which you are so celebrated throughout the world. Gentlemen, the drawing of which you complain is not bad. The commonest engravers, who would be ashamed to produce such a design, will tell you, if they know anything of their business, that they could not make a better in a hurry. Every man who knows what drawing is will acknowledge that some of these little groups are charmingly drawn ; and I will trouble your commonest en- gravers to design the Chinese group, the American, or the West Indian, in a manner more graceful and more characteristic than that of the much-bespattered post envelope. I am not holding up the whole affair as a masterpiece — pas si bSte. The "triumphant hallegory of Britannia ruling the waves," as Mathews used to call it, is a little stale, certainly, nowadays ; but what would you have ? How is the sublime to be elicited from such a subject? Let some of the common engravers, in their leisure moments, since the thing is so easy, make a better design, or the literary men who are so indignant invent one. The Govern- ment, no doubt, is not bound heart and soul to Mr. Mulready, and is willing to hear reason. Fiat justitia, ruat caelum : though all the world shall turn on thee, Government, in this instance Titmarsh shall stand by thee — ay, and without any hope of reward. A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 333 To be sure, if my Lord Normanby absolutely insists — but that is neither here nor there. I repeat, the Post Office envelope is not bad, qiioad design. That very lion, which some of the men of the press (the Daniels !) have been crying out about, is finely, carefully, and characteristically sketched; those elephants I am sure were closely studied, before the artist in a few lines laid them down on his wood-block ; and as for the persons who are to imitate the engraving so exactly, let them try. It has been done by the best wood-engraver in Europe. Ask any man in the profession if Mr. Thompson is not at the head of it ? He has bestowed on it a vast deal of time, and skill, and labour ; and all who know the diffi- culties of wood-engraving — of outline wood-engraving — and of rendering faithfully a design so very minute as this, will smile at the sages who declare that all the world could forge it. There was one provincial paper which declared, in • a style peculiarly elegant, that a man "with a block of wood and a bread-and-eheese knife could easily imitate the envelope ; " which remark, for its profound truth and sagacity, the London journals copied. For shame, gentle- men ! Do you think you show your knowledge by adopting such opinions as these, or prove your taste by clothing yourselves in the second-hand garments of the rustic who talks about bread and cheese? Try, Tyrotomos, upon whatever block thou choosest to practise; or, be wise, and with appropriate bread-and-cheese knife cut only bread and cheese. Of bread, white and brown, of cheese, old, new, mouldy, toasted, the writer of the Double-Gloster Jowrnal, the Stilton Examiner, the Cheddar Champion, and North Wilt- shire Intelligencer, may possibly be a competent critic, and (with mouth replete with the delicious condiment) may no doubt eloquently speak. But let us be cautious before we agree to and admiringly adopt his opinions upon matters of art. Mr. Thompson is the first wood-engraver in our country — Mr. Mulready one of the best painters in our or any school : it is hard that such men are to be assailed in such language, and by such a critic ! This artist's picture of an interior is remarkable for the same exaggerated colour, and for the same excellences. The landscape seen from the window is beautifully solemn, and very finely painted, in the clear bright manner of Van Dyck and Cranach, and the early German school. Mr. Richmond's picture of " Our Lord after the Resurrection " deserves a much better place than it has in the little, dingy, newly- discovered octagon closet ; and leaves us to regret that he should occupy himself so much with water-colour portraits, and so little with compositions in oil. This picture is beautifully conceived, and very finely and carefully drawn and painted. One of the apostles 334 CRITICAL REVIEWS is copied from Raphael, and the more is the pity : a man who could execute two such grand figures as the other two in the picture need surely borrow from no one. A water-colour group, by the same artist (547, "The Children of Colonel Lindsay"), contains two charming figures of a young lady and a little boy, painted with great care and precision of design and colour, with great purity of sentiment, and without the least affectation. Let our aristocracy send their wives and children (the handsomest wives and children in the world) to be painted by this gentleman, and those who are like him. Miss Lindsay, with her plain red dress and modest looks, is surely a thousand times more captivating than those dangerous smiling Delilahs in her neighbourhood, whom Mr. Chalon has painted. We must not be understood to undervalue this latter gentleman however ; his drawings are miracles of dexterity ; every year they seem to be more skilful and more brilliant. Such satins and lace, such diamond rings and charming little lapdogs, were never painted before, — not by Watteau, the first master of the genre, — and Lancret, who was scarcely his inferior. A miniature on ivory by Mr. Chalon, among the thousand prim, pretty little pictures of the same class which all the ladies crowd about, is remarkable for its brilliancy of colour and charming freedom of handling ; as is an oil sketch of masquerading figures, by the same painter, for the curious coarseness of the painting. Before we leave the high-class pictures, we must mention Mr. Boxall's beautiful " Hope," which is exquisitely refined and delicate in sentiment, colour, and execution. Placed close beneath one of Turner's magnificent tornadoes of colour, it loses none of its own beauty. As Uhland writes of a certain king and queen who are seated in state side by side, — " Der Turner furohtbar prachtig wis blut'ger Nordliohtschein, Der Boxall siiss und milde, als blickte VoUmond drein." Which signifies in English, that " As beams the moon so gentle near the sun, that blood-red burner, So shineth William Boxall by Joseph Mallord Turner." In another part of the room, and contrasting their quiet grace in the same way with Mr. Turner's glaring colours, are a couple of delightful pictures by Mr. Cope, with mottoes that will explain their subjects. " Help thy father in his age, and despise him not when thou art in thy full strength ; " and " Reject not the affliction of the afflicted, neither turn away thy face from a poor man." The latter of these pictures is especially beautiful, and the figure of the A PICTORIAL EHAPSODY 335 female charity as graceful and delicate as may be. I wish I could say a great deal in praise of Mr. Cope's large altar-piece : it is- a very meritorious performance; but here praise stops, and such praise is worth exactly nothing. A large picture must either be splendid, or else naught. This " Crucifixion " has a great deal of vigour, feeling, grace : but — the but is fatal ; all minor praises are drowned in it. EecoUect, however, Mr. Cope, that Titmarsh, who writes this, is only giving his private opinion ; that he is mortal ; that it is barely possible that he should be in the wrong ; and with this confession, which I am compelled (for fear you might overlook the circumstance) to make, you will, I daresay, console yourself, and do well. But men must gird themselves, and go through long trainings, before they can execute such gigantic works as altar-pieces. Handel, doubtless, wrote many little pleasing melodies before he pealed out the " Hallelujah " chorus ; and so painters will do well to try their powers, and, if possible, measure and understand them before they use them. There is Mr. Hart, for instance, who took in an evil hour to the making of great pictures ; in the present exhibition is a decently small one ; but the artist has overstretched himself in the former attempts ; as one hears of gentlemen on the rack, the limbs are stretched one or two inches by the process, and the patient comes away by so much the taUer : but he can't walk near so well as before, and all his strength is stretched out of him. Let this be a solemn hint to a clever young painter, Mr. Elmore, who has painted a clever picture of " The Murder of Saint Thomas k Becket," for Mr. Daniel O'Connell. Come off your rack, Mr. Elmore, or you wiU hurt yourself. Much better is it to paint small subjects, for some time at least. " Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum," as the proverb says ; but there is a number of pleasant villages in this world beside, where we may snugly take up our quarters. By the way, what is the meaning of Tom k Becket's black cassock under his canonicals ? Would John Tuam celebrate mass in such a dress % A painter should be as careful about his costumes as an historian about his dates, or he plays the deuce with his composition. Now, in this matter of costume, nobody can be more scrupulous than Mr. Charles Landseer, whose picture of Nell Gwynne is painted with admirable effect, and honest scrupulousness. It is very good in colour, very gay in spirits (perhaps too refined, — for Nelly never was such a hypocrite as to look as modest as that) ; but the gentle- men and ladies do not look as if they were accustomed to their dresses, for all their correctness, but had put them on for the first time. Indeed, this is a very small fault, and the merits of the picture are very great : every one of the accessories is curiously well painted, — some of the figures very spirited (the drawer is 336 CRITICAL REVIEWS excellent) ; and the picture one of the most agreeable in the whole gallery. Mr. Redgrave has another costume picture, of a rather old subject, from "The Rambler." A poor girl comes to be com- panion to Mr. and Mrs. Courtly, who are at piquet ; their servants are bringing in tea, and the master and mistress are looking at the new-comer with a great deal of easy scorn. The poor girl is charm- ing ; Mrs. Courtly not quite genteel, but with a wonderful quilted petticoat ; Courtly looks as if he were not accustomed to his clothes ; the servants are very good ; and as for the properties, as they would be called on the stage, these are almost too good, painted with a daguerr^o-typioal minuteness that gives this and Mr. Redgrave's other picture of " Paracelsus " a finikin air, if we may use such a disrespectful term. Both performances, however, contain very high merit of expression and sentiment ; and are of such a char- acter as we seldom saw in our schools twenty years ago. There is a large picture by a Scotch artist, Mr. Duncan, representing "The Entry of Charles Edward into Edinburgh," which runs a little into caricature, but contains a vast deal of character and merit ; and which, above all, in the article of costume, shows much study and taste. Mr. Duncan seems to have formed his style upon Mr. Allan and Mr. Wilkie — I beg his pardon — Sir David. The former has a pleasing brown picture likewise on the subject of the Pretender. The latter's Maid of Saragossa and Spaniard at the gun, any one may see habited as Irish peasants superintending "A Whisky Still," in the middle room. No. 252. This picture, I say, any one may see and admire who pleases : to me it seems all rags and duds, and a strange, straggling, misty composition. There are fine things, of course ; for how can Sir David help painting fine things ? In the " Benvenuto " there is superb colour, with a rich management of lakes especially, which has been borrowed from no master that we know of. The Queen is as bad a likeness and picture as we have seen for many a day. " Mrs. Ferguson, of Raith," a magnificent picture indeed, as grand in effect as a Rubens or Titian, and having a style of its own. The little sketch from AUan Ramsay is delightful ; and the nobleman and hounds (with the exception of his own clumsy vermilion robe), as fine as the fellow-sized portrait mentioned before. Allan Ramsay has given a pretty subject, and brought us a pretty picture from another painter, Mr. A. Johnston, who has illustrated those pleasant quaint lines, — " Last morning I was gay, and early out ; Upon a dike I leaned, glow'ring about. I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the lea ; I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me. " A PICTORIAL KHAPSODY 337 And here let us mention with praise two small pictures in a style somewhat similar — "The Recruit," and "Herman and Dorothea," by Mr. Poole. The former of these little pieces is very touching and beautiful. There is among the present exhibitioners no lack of this kind of talent ; and we could point out many pictures that are equally remarkable for grace and agreeable feeling. Mr. Stone's "Annot Lyle" should not be passed over, — a pretty picture, very well painted, the female head of great beauty and expression. Now, if we want to praise performances showing a great deal of power and vigour, rather than grace and delicacy, there are Mr. Etty's "Andromeda" and "Venus." In the former, the dim %ure of advancing Perseus galloping on his airy charger is very fine and ghostly ; in the latter, the body of the Venus, and indeed the whole picture, is a perfect miracle of colour. Titian may have painted Italian flesh equally well; but he never, I think, could surpass the skill of Mr. Etty. The trunk of this voluptuous Venus is the most astonishing representation of beautiful English flesh and blood, painted in the grandest and broadest style. It is said that the Academy at Edinburgh has a room full of Etty's pictures ; they could not do better in England than follow the eszample; but perhaps the paintings had better be kept for the Academy only — for the profanum vvlgus are scarcely fitted to comprehend their peculiar beauties. A prettily drawn, graceful, nude figure, is " Bathsheba," by Mr. Fisher, of the street and city of Cork. The other great man of Cork is Daniel Maclise by name ; and if in the riot of fancy he hath by playful Titmarsh been raised to the honour of knighthood, it is certain that here Titmarsh is a true prophet, and that the sovereign will so elevate him, one day or other, to sit with other cavaliers at the Academic round table. As for his pictures, — why as for his pictures, madam, these are to be carefully reviewed in the next number of this Magazine ; for the present notice has noticed scarcely anybody, and yet stretched to an inordinate length. " Macbeth " is not to be hurried ofi' under six pages ; and, for this June number, Mr. Fraser vows that he has no such room to spare. We have said how Mr. Turner's pictures blaze about the rooms ; it is not a little curious to hear how artists and the public differ in their judgments concerning them ; the enthusiastic wonder of the first-named, the blank surprise and incredulity of the latter. "The new moon; or, I've lost my boat: you shan't have your hoop," is the ingenious title of one, — a very beautiful picture, too, of a long shining searsand, lighted from the upper part of the 338 CRITICAL REVIEWS Riinvas by the above-named luminary of night, and from the left- hand corner by a wonderful wary boy in a red jacket — the best painted figure that we ever knew painted by Joseph MaJlord Turner, Esquire. He and Mr. "Ward vie with each other in mottoes for their pictures. Ward's epigraph to the S 's nest is wondrous poetic. 277. The S 's Nest. S. Ward, R.A. " Say they that happiness lives with the great, On gorgeous trappings mixt with pomp and state ? More frequent found upon the simple plain, In poorest garb, with Julia, Jess, or Jane ; In sport or slumber, as it likes her best, Where'er she lays she finds it a S— — 's nest." Ay, and a S 's eggs, too, as one would fancy, were great geniuses not above grammar. Mark the line, too, " On gorgeous trappings minct with pomp and state," and construe the whole of this sensible passage. Not less sublime is Mr. Ward's fellow-Academician : — • 230. "Slavers throwing overboard the Dead and Dying: Typhon coming on." J. M. W. Turner, R.A. " Aloft all hands, strike the topmasts and belay ! Yon angry setting sun and fierce-edged clouds Declare the Typhon's coming. Before it sweeps your decks, throw overboard The dead and dying — ne'er heed their chains. Hope, Hope, fallacious Hope ! Where is thy market now ? " MS. Fallacies of Hope. Fallacies of Hope, indeed : to a pretty mart has she brought her pigs ! How should Hope be hooked on to the slaver ? By the anchor, to be sure, which accounts for it. As for the picture, the R.A.'s rays are indeed terrific ; and the slaver throwing its cargo overboard is the most tremendous piece of colour that ever was seen ; it sets the corner of the room in which it hangs into a flame. Is the picture sublime or ridiculous? Indeed I don't know which. Rocks of gamboge are marked down upon the canvas; flakes of white laid on with a trowel; bladders of vermilion madly spirted here and there. Yonder is the slaver rocking in the midst of a flashing foam of white-lead. The sun glares down upon a horrible sea of emerald and purple, into which chocolate-coloured slaves are plunged, and chains that will not A PICTOEIAL RHAPSODY 339 sink ; and round these are floundering such a race of fishes as never was seen since the smculum Pyrrhcs ; gasping dolphins, redder than the reddest herrings; horrid spreading polypi, like huge, slimy, poached eggs, in which hapless niggers plunge and disappear. Ye gods, what a " middle passage " ! How Mr. Fowell Buxton must shudder ! What would they say to this in Exeter Hall? If Wilberforce's statue downstairs were to be confronted with this picture, the stony old gentleman would spring off his chair, and fly away in terror ! And here, as we are speaking of the slave-trade, let us say a word in welcome to a French artist. Monsieur Biard, and his admirable picture. Let the friends of the negro forthwith buy this canvas, and cause a plate to be taken from it. It is the best, most striking, most pathetic lecture against the trade that ever was delivered. The picture is as fine as Hogarth ; and the artist, who, as we have heard, right or wrong, has only of late years adopted the profession of painting, and was formerly in the French navy, has evidently drawn a great deal of his materials from life and personal observation. The scene is laid upon the African coast. King Tom or King Boy has come with troops of slaves down the Quorra, and sits in the midst of his chiefs and mistresses (one a fair creature, not much darker than a copper tea-kettle), bargaining with a French dealer. What a honible callous brutality there is in the scoundrel's face, as he lolls over his greasy ledger, and makes his calculations. A number of his crew are about him ; their boats close at hand, in which they are stowing their cargo. See the poor wretches, men and women, collared together, drooping down. There is one poor thing, just parted irom her child. On the ground in front lies a stalwart negro ; one connoisseur is handling his chest, to try his wind ; another has opened his mouth, and examines his teeth, to know his age and soundness. Yonder is a poor woman kneeling before one of the Frenchmen ; her shoulder is fizzing under the hot iron with which he brands her ; she is looking up, shuddering and wild, yet quite mild and patient : it breaks your heart to look at her. I never saw anything so exquisitely pathetic as that face. God bless you, Monsieur Biard, for painting it ! It stirs the heart more than a hundred thousand tracts, reports, or sermons : it must convert every man who has seen it. You British Government, who have given twenty millions towards the good end of freeing this hapless people, give yet a couple of thousand more to the French painter, and don't let his work go out of the country, now that it is here. Let it hang along with the Hogarths in the National Gallery ; it is as good as the best of them. Or, there is Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay, who 340 CRITICAL REVIEWS has a family interest in the matter, and does not know how to spend all the money he brought home from India; let the right honourable gentleman look to it. Down with your dust, right honourable sir ; give Monsieur Biard a couple of thousand for his picture of the negroes, and it will be the best black act you ever did in your life ; and don't go for to be angry at the suggestion, or fancy we are taking liberties. What is said is said from one public man to another, in a Pickwickian sense, de puissarice en puissance, — from Titmarsh, in his critical cathedra, to your father's eminent son, rich with the spoils of Ind, and wielding the bolts of war. What a marvellous power is this of the painter's ! how each great man can excite us at his wiU ! what a weapon he has, if he knows how to wield it ! Look for a while at Mr. Etty's pictures, and away you rush, your " eyes on fire," drunken with the luscious colours that are poured out for you on the liberal canvas, and warm with the sight of the beautiful sirens that appear on it. You fly from this (and full time too), and plunge into a green shady land- scape of Lee or Creswick, and follow a quiet stream babbling beneath whispering trees, and chequered with cool shade and golden sunshine ; or you set the world — nay, the Thames and the ocean — on fire with that incendiary Turner ; or you laugh with honest kind-hearted Webster, and his troops of merry children ; or you fall a-weeping with Monsieur Biard for his poor blacks ; or you go and consult the priests of the place, Eastlake, Mulready, Boxall, Cope, and the like, and straightway your mind is carried off in an ecstasy, — happy thrilling hymns sound in your ears melodious,— sweet thankfulness fills your bosom. How much instruction and happiness have we gained from these men, and how grateful should we be to them ! It is well that Mr. Titmarsh stopped here, and I shall take special care to examine any further remarks which he may think fit to send. Four-fifths of this would have been cancelled, had the printed sheets fallen sooner into our hands. The story about the " Clarendon " is an absurd fiction ; no dinner ever took place there. I never fell asleep in a plate of raspberry ice ; and though I certainly did recommend this person to do justice by the painters, making him a speech to that eff'ect, my opinions were infinitely better expressed, and I would repeat them were it not so late in the month. 0. Y. A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY; CONCLUDED AST) FOLLOWED BY A REMARKABLE STATEMENT OF FACTS BY MRS. BARBARA AND now, in pursuance of the promise recorded in the last number of this Magazine, and for the performance of which - the public has ever since been in breathless expectation, it hath become Titmarsh's duty to note down his opinions of the re- maining pictures in the Academy exhibition ; and to criticise such other pieces as the other galleries may show. In the first place, then, with regard to Mr. Maclise, it becomes us to say our say : and as the Observer newspaper, which, though under the express patronage of the Royal family, devotes by far the noblest part of its eloquence to the consideration of dramatic subjects, and to the discussion of the gains, losses, and theatrical conduct of managers,- — as, I say, the Observer newspaper, whenever Madame Vestris or Mr. Yates adopts any plan that concurs with the notions of the paper in question, does not faU to say that Madame Vestris or Mr. Yates has been induced so to reform in consequence of the Observer's particular suggestion ; in like manner, Titmarsh is fully convinced, that all the painters in this town have their eyes incessantly fixed upon his criticisms, and that all the wise ones regulate their opinions by his. In the language of the Observer, then, Mr. Maclise has done wisely to adopt our suggestions with regard to the moral treatment of his pictures, and has made a great advance in his art. Of his four pictures, let us dismiss the scene from " GU Bias " at once. Coming from a second-rate man, it would be well enough ; it is well drawn, grouped, lighted, shadowed, and the people all grin very comically, as people do in pictures called comic ; but the soul of fun is wanting, as I take it, — the merry, brisk, good-humoured spirit which in Le Sage's text so charms the reader. " Olivia and Malvolio " is, on the contrary, one of the best and most spiritual performances of the artist. Nothing can be more elegant than the tender languid melancholy of Olivia, nor more poetical than the general treatment of the picture. The long 342 OEITIOAL REVIEWS clipped alleys and quaint gardens, the peacocks trailing through the walks, and vases basking in the sun, are finely painted and conceived. Examine the picture at a little distance, and the ensemble of the composition and colour is extraordinai-ily pleasing. The details, too, are, as usual, wonderful for their accuracy. Here are flower-beds, and a tree above Olivia's head, of which every leaf is painted, and painted with such skill, as not in the least to injure the general effect of the picture. Mr. Maclise has a daguerr^otypic eye, and a feeling of form stronger, I do believe, than has ever been possessed by any painter before him. Look at the portrait of Mr. Dickens, — well arranged as a picture, good in colour, and light, and shadow, and as a likeness perfectly amazing; a looking-glass could not render a better fac- simile. Here we have the real identical man Dickens : the artist must have understood the inward Boz as well as the outward be- fore he made this admirable representation of him. What cheer- ful intelligence there is about the man's eyes and large forehead ! The mouth is too large and full, too eager and active, perhaps ; the smile is very sweet and generous. If Monsieur de Balzac, that voluminous physiognomist, could examine this head, he would, no doubt, interpret every tone and wrinkle in it : the nose firm, and well placed ; the nostrils wide and full, as are the nostrils of all men of genius (this is Monsieur Balzac's maxim). The past and the future, says Jean Paul, are written in every countenance. I think we may promise ourselves a brilliant future from this one. There seems no flagging as yet in it, no sense of fatigue, or con- sciousness of decaying power. Long mayest thou, Boz ! reign over thy comic kingdom ; long may we pay tribute, whether of threepence weekly or of a shilling monthly, it matters not. Mighty prince ! at thy imperial feet, Titmarsh, humblest of thy servants, oflfers his vows of loyalty, and his humble tribute of praise. And now (as soon as we are off our knees, and have done pay- ing court to sovereign Boz) it behoves us to say a word or two concerning the picture of " Macbeth," which occupies such a con- spicuous place in the Academy gallery. Well, then, this picture of " Macbeth " has been, to our notion, a great deal too much praised and abused ; only Titmarsh understands the golden mean, as is acknowledged by all who read his criticisms. Here is a very fine masterly picture, no doubt, full of beauties, and showing extra- ordinary power ; but not a masterpiece, as I humbly take it, — not a picture to move the beholder as much as many performances that do not display half the power that is here exhibited. I don't pretend to lay down any absolute laws on the sublime (the reader will remember how the ancient satirist hath accused John Dennis A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 343 of madness, for his vehement preaching of such rules). No, no ; Michael Angelo T. is not quite so impertinent as that; but the public and the artist will not mind being told, -without any pre- vious definitions, that this picture is not of the highest order : the "Malvolio" is far more spiritual and suggestive, if we may so speak; it tells not only its own tale very charmingly, but creates for the beholder a very pleasant melancholy train of thought, as every good picture does in its kind, from a six-inch canvas by Hobbema or Ruysdael up to a thousand-foot wall of Michael Angelo. If you read over the banquet-scene in words, it leaves an impression far more dreadfid and lively. On the stage, it has always seemed to us to fail ; and though out of a trap-door in the middle of it Mr. Cooper is seen to rise very solemnly, — his face covered with white, and a dreadful gash of vermilion across his neck ; though he nods and waggles his head about in a very quiet ghost-like manner ; yet, strange to say, neither this scene, nor this great actor, has ever frightened us, as they both should, as the former does when we read it at home. The fact is, that it is quite out of Mr. Cooper's power to look ghostly enough, or, perhaps, to soar along with us to that sublime height to which our imagination is continually carrying us. A large part of this vast picture Mr. Maclise has painted very finely. The lords are aU there in gloomy state, fierce stalwart men in steel; the variety of attitude and light in which the different groups are placed, the wonderful knowledge and firmness with which each individual figure and feature are placed down upon the canvas will be understood and admired by the public, but by the artist still more, who knows the difficulty of these things, which seem so easy, which are so easy, no doubt, to a man with Mr. Maclise's extraordinary gifts. How fine is yonder group at the farthest table, lighted up by the reflected light from the armour of one of them ! The effect, as far as we know, is entirely new ; the figures drawn with exquisite minuteness and clearness, not in the least interrupt- ing the general harmony of the picture. Look at the two women standing near Lady Macbeth's throne, and those beautiful little hands of one of them placed over the state-chair; the science, workmanship, feeling in these figures are alike wonderful. The face, bust, and attitude of Lady Macbeth are grandly designed; the figures to her right, with looks of stern doubt and wonder, are nobly designed and arranged. The main figure of Macbeth, I confess, does not please; nor the object which has occasioned the frightful convulsive attitude in which he stands. He sees not the ghost of Banquo, but a huge, indistinct, gory shadow, which seems to shake its bloody locks, and frown upon him. Through this 344. CRITICAL REVIEWS shade, intercepted only by its lurid transparency, you see the figures of the guests ; they are looking towards it, and through it. The skill with which this point is made is unquestionable; there is something there, and nothing. The spectators feel this as well as the painted actors of the scene ; there are times when, in looking at the picture, one loses sight of the shade altogether, and begins to wonder with Rosse, Lenox, and the rest. The idea, then, so far as it goes, is as excellently worked out as it is daringly conceived. But is it a just one ? I think not. I should say it was a grim piece of comedy rather than tragedy. One is puzzled by this piece of diablerie, — not deeply affected and awe-stricken, as in the midst of such heroical characters and circum- stances one should be. " Avaunt, and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! Thy bones are marrowless — thy blood is cold ; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with." Before the poet's eyes, at least, the figure of the ghost stood complete — an actual visible body, with the life gone out of it ; an image far more grand and dreadful than the painter's fantastical shadow, because more simple. The shadow is an awful object, — granted ; but the most sublime, beautiful, fearful sight in all nature is, surely, the face of a man ; wonderful in all its expressions of grief or joy, daring or endurance, thought, hope, love, or pain. How Shakspeare painted all these; with what careful thought and brooding were all his imaginary creatures made ! I believe we have mentioned the best figure-pieces in the exhibition ; for, alas ! the " Milton and his Daughters " of Sir Augustus Callcott, although one of the biggest canvases in the gallery, is by no means one of the best ; and one may regret that this most spiritual of landscape-painters should have forsaken his old style to follow figure-drawing. Mr. HoUins has a picture of " Benvenuto Cellini showing a Trinket to a Lady." A subject of absorbing interest and passionate excitement, painted in a corre- sponding manner. A prim lady sits smiling in a chair, by a table, on which is a very neat regular tablecloth, drawn at right angles with the picture-frame ; parallel with the table is a chest of drawers, secretaire, cabinet, or bahut. Near this stands a waiting- maid, smiling archly ; and in front you behold young Benvenuto, spick and span in his very best clothes and silk stockings, looking — as Benvenuto never did in his life. Of some parts of this picture, the colour and workmanship are very pretty; but was there ever A PIOTOEIAL RHAPSODY 345 such a niminypiminy subject treated in such a nmiinypiminy way ? We can remember this gentleman's picture of "Margaret at the Spinning-wheel" last year, and should be glad to see and laud others that were equally pretty. Mr. Lauder has, in the same room, a pleasing picture from Waiter Scott, " The Glee-Maiden ; " and a large sketch, likewise from Scott, by a French artist (who has been celebrated in this Magazine as the author of the picture "The Sinking of the Vengeur"), is fine in effect and composition. If Mr. Herbert's picture of " Travellers taking Refreshment at a Convent Gate " has not produced much sensation, it is because it is feeble in tone, not very striking in subject, and placed some- what too high. There is a great deal of beauty and delicacy in all the .figures ; and though lost here, amidst the glare and bustle of the Academy, it will be an excellent picture for the cabinet, where its quiet graces and merits will be better seen. Mr. Webster's "Punch," before alluded to, deserves a great deal of praise. The landscape is beautiful, the group of little figures assembled to view the show are delightfully gay and pretty. Mr. Webster has the bump o,f philoprogenitiveness (as some ninny says of George Cruikshank in the Westminster Review) ; and all mothers of large families, young ladies who hope to be so one day or the other, and honest papas, are observed to examine this picture with much smiling interest. It is full of sunshine and innocent playful good-humour ; all Punch's audience are on the grin. John, the squire's footman, is looking on with a protecting air ; the old village folk are looking on, grinning with the very youngest ; boys are scampering over the common, in order to be in time for the show ; Punchman is tootooing on the pipes, and banging away on the drum ; potboy has consigned to the earth his precious cargo, and the head of every tankard of liquor is wasting its frothy fragrance in the air ; in like manner, the pieman permits his wares to get cold; nurserymaids, schoolboys, happy children in go-carts, are employed in a similar way : indeed, a delightful little rustic comedy. In respect of portraits, the prettiest, as I fancy, after Wilkie's splendid picture of Mrs. Ferguson, is one by Mr. Grant, of a lady with a scarf of a greenish colour. The whole picture is of the same tone, and beautifully harmonious ; nor are the lady's face and air the least elegant and charming part of it. The Duke has been painted a vast number of times, such are the penalties of glory ; nor is it possible to conceive anything much worse than that portrait of him in which Colonel Gurwood is represented by his side, in a red velvet waistcoat, offering to his Grace certain 346 CEITICAL REVIEWS despatches. It is in the style of the famous picture in the Regent Circus, representing Mr. Ooleby the cigarist, an orange, a pine- apple, a champagne-cork, a little dog, some decanters, and a yellow bandanna, — all which personages appear to be so excessively important, that the puzzled eyes scarcely know upon which to settle. In like manner, in the Wellington-Gurwood testimonial, the accessories are so numerous, and so brilliantly coloured, that it is long before one can look up to the countenances of the Colonel and his Grace ; which, it is to be presumed, are the main objects of interest in the piece. And this plan has been not unartfuUy contrived, — for the heads are by no means painted up to the point of brilliancy which is visible in boots, clocks, beU-pulls, Turkey carpets, arm-chairs, and other properties here painted. Now, if the artist of the above picture wishes to know how properties may be painted with all due minuteness, and yet conduce to the general effect of the picture, let him examine the noble little portrait of Lord Cottenham, by Leslie, — the only contribution of this great man to the exhibition. Here are a number of accessories introduced, but with that forethought and sense of propriety which, as I fancy, distinguish all the works of Mr. Leslie. They are not here for mere picturesque effect or ornamental huddle ; but are made to tell the story of the piece, and indicate the character of the dignified personage who fills the centre of it. The black brocade drapery of the Chancellor's gown is accurately painted, and falls in that majestic grave way in which a chancellor's robe should fall. Are not the learned Lord's arms somewhat short and fin-like 1 This is a query which we put humbly, having never had occasion to remark that part of his person. Mr. Briggs has his usual pleasant well-painted portraits; and Mr. Patten a long full-length of Prince Albert that is not admired by artists, it is said, but a good downright honest bov/rgeois picture, as we fancy ; or, as a facetious friend remarked, good plain roast- and-boiled painting. As for the portrait opposite — that of her Majesty, it is a sheer libel upon that pretty gracious countenance, an act of rebellion for which Sir David should be put into York gaol. Parts of the picture are, however, splendidly painted. And here, being upon the subject, let us say a word in praise of those two delightful lithographic heads, after Ross, which appear in the print-shop windows. Our gracious Queen's head is here most charming ; and that of the Prince full of such manly frankness and benevolence as must make all men cry " God bless him." I would much sooner possess a copy of the Ross miniature of the Queen, than a cast from her Majesty's bust by Sir Francis Chantrey, which has the place of honour in the sculpture va,ult. A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 347 All Macdonald's busts deserve honourable notice. This lucky- sculptor has some beautiful subjects to model, and beautiful and graceful all his marbles are. As much may be said of Mr. M'Dowell's girl, — the only piece of imaginative sculpture in the Academy that has struck us as pleasing. Mr. Behnes, too, should receive many commendations ; an old man's head particularly, that is full of character and goodness ; and " The Bust of a Lady," which may be called " A Lady with a Bust," — a beautiful bust, indeed, of which the original and the artist have both good right to be proud. Mr. Bell's virgin is not so pleasing in the full size as in the miniature copy of it. For the matter of landscapes, we confess ourselves to be no very ardent admirers of these performances, clever and dexterous as most of them are. The works of Mr. Stanfield and Mr. Roberts cannot fail to be skilful ; and both of these famous artists show their wonderful power of drawing, as usual. But these skilful pictures have always appeared to us more pleasing in little on the sketching-board than when expanded upon the canvas. A couple of Martins must be mentioned, — huge, queer, and tawdry to our eyes, but very much admired by the public, who is no bad connoisseur, after all ; and also a fine Castle of Chillon, or Chalon, rudely painted, but very poetical and impressive. [Here Titmarsh exchanges his check at the door for a valuable gingham umbrella, with a yellow horn-head, representing Lord Brougham or Doctor Syntax, and is soon seen, with his hat very much on one side, swaggering down Pall Mall East, to the Water-Colour Gallery. He flings down eighteenpence in the easiest way, and goes upstairs.] Accident, or, what is worse, ill health, has deprived us of the two most skilful professors of the noble art of water-colour painting ; and, without the works of Messrs. Lewis and Cattermole, the gallery looks empty indeed. Those gentlemen are accustomed to supply the picture-lover with the pieces de rdsistance of the feast, with which, being decently satisfied, we can trifle with an old market-place by Prout, or six cows and four pigs by Hill, or a misty Downs by Copley Fielding, with some degree of pleasure. Discontented, then, with the absence of the substantials, it must be confessed that we liave been examining the rest of the pictures in no very good humour. And so, to tell you a secret, I do not care a fig for all the old town-halls in the world, though they be drawn ever so skilfully. How long are we to go on with Venice, Verona, Lago di Soandso, and Ponte di What-d'ye-call-'em ? I am 348 CRITICAL REVIEWS weary of gondolas, striped awnings, sailors with red night (or rather day) caps, cobalt distances, and posts in the water. I have seen so many white palaces standing before dark purple skies, so many black towers with gamboge atmospheres behind them, so many masses of rifle-green trees plunged into the deepest shadow, in the midst of sunshiny plains, for no other reason but because dark and light contrast together, that a slight expression of satiety may be permitted to me, and a longing for more simple nature. On a great staring theatre such pictures may do very well — you are obliged there to seek for these startling contrasts ; and by the aid of blue lights, red lights, transparencies, and plenty of drums and appro- priate music, the scene thus presented to one captivates the eye, and calls down thunder from the galleries. But in little quiet rooms, on sheets of paper of a yard square, such monstrous theatrical effects are sadly painful. You don't mistake patches of brickdust for maidens' blushes, or fancy that tinfoil is diamonds, or require to be spoken to with the utmost roar of the lungs. Wh^y, in painting, are we to have monstrous, flaring, Drury Lane tricks and claptraps put in practice, when a quieter style is, as I fancy, so infinitely more charming ? There is no use in mentioning the names of persons who are guilty of the above crimes ; but let us say who is not guilty, and that is D. Cox, upon whose quiet landscapes, moist grass, cool trees, the refreshed eye rests with the utmost pleasure, after it has been perplexed and dazzled elsewhere. May we add an humble wish that this excellent painter will remain out of doors, amidst such quiet scenes as he loves, and not busy himself with Gothicism, middleageism, and the painting of quaint interiors? There are a dozen artists, of not a tithe of his genius, who can excel him at the architectural work. There is, for instance, Mr. Nash, who is improving yearly, and whose pictures are not only most dexter- ously sketched, but contain numberless little episodes, in the shape of groups of figures, that are full of grace and feeling. There is Mr. Haghe, too, of the lower house ; but of him anon. To show how ill and how well a man may paint at the same time, the public may look at a couple of drawings by J. Nash, — one, the interior of a church ; the other, a plain landscape : both of which are executed with excessive, almost childish rudeness, and are yet excellent, as being close copies of the best of all drawing- masters. Nature : and Mr. Barrett, who has lately written a book for students, tells them very sagaciously not to copy the manner of any master, however much he may be in the mode. Some there are, fashionable instructors in the art of water-colouring, of whom, indeed, a man had better not learn at any price ; nay, were they to offer A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 349 a guinea per lesson, instead of modestly demanding the same, the reader should be counselled not to accept of their instructions. See in what a different school Mr. Hunt works, and what mar- vellous effects he produces ! There is a small picture of an interior by him (to wliich the blue ticket having the pretty word sold written on it is not fixed) that, as a copy of nature, is a perfect miracle. No De Hooghe was ever better, more airy and sunshiny. And the most extraordinary part of this extraordinary picture is, that the artist has not produced his effect of excessive brilliancy by any violent contrasting darkness; but the whole picture is light; the sunshine is in every corner of the room ; and this drawing remains unsold, while Dash, and Blank, and Asterisk have got off all theirs. The large head of the black girl is painted with wonderful power ; in water-colours we have scarcely seen anything so vigorous. The boys and virgins are, as usual, admirable ; the lad with the bottle, he reading ballads in the barn, and the red, ragged, brickdust- coloured, brigand-looking fellow, especially good. In a corner is a most astonishing young gentleman with a pan of mUk : he is stepping forward full into your face ; and has seen something in it which has caused him to spill his milk and look dreadfuDy frightened. Every man who is worth a fig, as he comes up to this picture bursts out a-laughing — he can't help himself; you hear a dozen such laughs in the course of your visit. Why does this little drawing so seize hold of the beholder, and cause him to roar ? There is the secret : the painter has got the soul of comedy in him — the undefinable humorous genius. Happy is the man who possesses that drawing : a man must laugh if he were taking his last look at it before being hanged. Mr. Taylor's flowing pencil has produced several pieces of de- lightful colour ; but we are led bitterly to deplore the use of that fatal white-lead pot, that is clogging and blackening the pictures of BO many of the water-colour painters nowadays. His large picture contains a great deal of this white mud, and has lost, as we fancy, in consequence, much of that liquid mellow tone for which his works are remarkable. The retreating figures in this picture are beautiful ; the horses are excellently painted, with as much dexterous bril- Uancy of colour as one sees in the oil pictures of Landseer. If the amateur wants to see how far transparent colour will go, what rich effect may be produced by it, how little necessary it is to plaster drawings with flakes of white, let him examine the background of the design representing a page asleep on a chair, than which nothing can be more melodious in colour, or more skilfully and naturally painted. In the beauty gallery which this exhibition usually furnishes, there is Mr. Richter, who contributes his usual specimens ; the fair 350 CRITICAL REVIEWS Miss Sharpe, with those languishing-eyed charmers whom the world admires so much ; and still more to our taste, a sweet pretty lady, by Mr. Stone, in a hideous dress, with upper-Benjamin buttons ; a couple of very graceful and delicate heads by Wright ; and one beautiful head, a portrait evidently, by Cristall, that is placed very modestly in a corner near the ground — where such a drawing should be placed, of course, being vigorous, honest, natural, and beautiful. This artist's other drawing — a mysterious subject, representing primaeval Scotchmen, rocks, waterfalls, a cataract of bulls, and other strange things, looks like a picture painted in a dream. Near it hangs Mr. Mackenzie's view of Saint Denis's Cathedral, that is painted with great carefulness, and is very true to nature. And having examined this, and Mr. Varley's fine gloomy sketches, you shall be no longer detained at this place, but walk on to see what more remains to be seen. Of the New Water-Colour Society, I think it may be asserted that their gallery contains neither such good nor such bad drawings as may be seen in the senior exhibition ; unless, indeed, we except Mr. Haghe, a gentleman who in architectural subjects lias a marvel- lous skill, and whose work deserves to be studied by all persons who follow the trade of water-colouring. This gentleman appears to have a profound knowledge (or an extraordinary instinct) of his profession as an architectural draughtsman. There are no tricks, no clumsy plastering of white, no painful niggling, nor swaggering affectation of boldness. He seems to understand every single tone and line which he lays down ; and his picture, in my humble judg- ment, contains some of the very best qualities of which this branch of painting is capable. You cannot produce by any combination of water-colours such effects as may be had from oil, such richness and depth of tone, such pleasing variety of texture, as gums and varnishes will give ; but, on the other hand, there are many beauties peculiar to the art, which the oil-painter cannot arrive at, — such as air, brightness, coolness, and flatness of surface ; points which painters understand and can speak of a great deal better than amateur writers and readers. Why will the practitioners, then, be so ambitious? Why strive after effects that are only to be got imperfectly at best, and at the expense of qualities far more valuable and pleasing? There are some aspiring individuals who will strive to play a whole band of music off a guitar, or to perform the broadsword exercise with a rapier, — monstrous attempts, that the moral critic must lift up his voice to reprehend. Valuable instruments are guitars and small-swords in themselves, the one for making pleasant small music, the other for drilling small holes in the human person ; but A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 351 let the professor of each art do his agreeable duty iu his own line, nor strive with his unequal weapons to compete with persons who have greater advantages. Indeed, I have seldom seen the works of a skilful water-colour painter of figures, without regretting that he had not taken to oil, which would allow him to put forth all the vigour of which he was capable. For works, however, like that of Mr. Haghe, which are not finished pictures, but admirable finished sketches, water is best ; and we wish that his brethren followed his manner of using it. Take warning by these remarks, Mr. Absolon ! Your interiors have been regarded by Titmarsh with much pleasure, and deserve at his hands a great deal of commendation. Mr. Absolon, we take it, has been brought up in a French school — there are many traces of foreign manner in him ; his figures, for instance, are better costumed than those of our common English artists. Look at the little sketch which goes by the laconic title of " Jump." Let Mrs. Seyffarth come and look at it before she paints Sir Roger de Coverley's figure again, and she will see what an air of life and authenticity the designer has thrown into his work. Several larger pieces by Mr. Absolon, in which are a face — is it the artist's own, by any chance? — (We fancy that we have a knack at guessing a portrait of an artist by himself, having designed about five thousand such in our own experience, — " Portrait of a Painter," " A Gentle- man in a Vandyke Dress," " A Brigand," " A Turkish Costume," and so on : they are somehow always rejected by those cursed Academicians) — but to return to Absolon, whom we have left hang- ing up all this time on the branch of a sentence, he has taken hugely to the body-coloui- system within the last twelve months, and small good has it done him. The accessories of his pictures are painted with much vigour and feeling of colour, are a great deal stronger than heretofore — a great deal too strong for the figures themselves; and the figures being painted chiefly in transparent colour, will not bear the atmosphere of distemper by which they are surrounded. The picture of "The Bachelor" is excellent in point of efifect and justness of colour. Mr. Corbould is a gentleman who must be mentioned with a great deal of praise. His large drawing of the "Canterbury Pilgrims at the Tabard " is very gay and sparkling ; and the artist shows that he possesses a genuine antiquarian or Walter-Scottish spirit. It is a pity that his people are all so uncommon handsome. It is a pity that his ladies wear such uncommonly low dresses — they did not wear such (according to the best authorities) in Chaucer's time; and even if they did, Mr. Corbould had much better give them a little more cloth, which costs nothing, and would spare much painful blushing to modest men like — never mind whom. 352 CRITICAL REVIEWS But this is a moral truth : nothing is so easy to see in a painter as a certain inclination towards naughtiness, which we press-Josephs are bound to cry fie at. Cover them up, Mr. Corbould — muslin is the word ; but of this no more. Where the painter departs from his line of beauty, his faces have considerable humour and character. The whole of the pilgrim group, as he has depicted it, is exceedingly picturesque. It might be painted with a little more strength, and a good deal less finical trifling with the pencil ; but of these manual errors the painter will no doubt get the better as his practice and experience increase. Here is a large and interesting picture by Mr. Warren, of the Pasha of Egypt in the middle of the Nubian desert, surroipided by pipe-bearers and camels, and taking his cup of coffee. There is much character both in the figures and scenery. A slight sketch by the same artist, " The King in Thule," is very pretty, and would make a very good picture. Mr. Bright is an artist of whom we do not before remember to have heard. His pictures are chiefly effects of sunset and mooiilight ; of too criarde a colour as regards sun and moon, but pretty and skilful in other points, and of a style that strikes us as almost new. The manner of a French artist, Monsieur Collignon, somewhat resembles that of Mr. Bright. The cool parts of his pictures are excellent ; but he has dangerous dealings with gamboge and orange, pigments with the use of which a painter is bound to be uncommonly cautious. Look at Mr. Turner, who has taken to them until they have driven him quite wild. If there be any Emperor of the Painters, he should issue " a special edict " against the gamboge- dealers : — 'tis a deleterious drug. " Hasten, hasten," Mr. Bright ; "obey with trembling," and have a care of gamboge henceforth. For the rest of the artists at this place, it may be said that Mr. Hicks has not been quite so active this year as formerly ; Mr. Boys has some delightful drawings in his style of art ; and for tlie curious there is, moreover, a second-hand Cattermole, a sham Prout, a pseudo-Bentley, and a small double of Cox, whose works are to be seen in various parts of the room. Miss Corbould has a pretty picture. Mr. Duncan's drawings exhibit considerable skill and fidelity to nature. And here we must close our list of the juniors, whose exhibition is very well worth the shilling which all must pay who would enter their pretty gallery. We have been through a number of picture galleries, and cannot do better than go and visit a gentleman who has a gallery of his own, containing only one picture. We mean Mr. Danby, with his " Deluge," now visible in Piccadilly. Every person in London will A PICTOKIAL EHAPSODY 353 no doubt go and see this ; artists, because the treatment and effect of the picture are extraordinarily skilful and broad ; and the rest of the world, who cannot fail of being deeply moved by the awful tragedy which is here laid before them. The work is full of the strongest dramatic interest; a vast performance, grandly treated, and telling in a wonderful way its solemn awful tale. Mr. Danby has given a curious description of.it to our hand ; and from this the reader will be able to understand what is the design and treatment of the piece. [Here follows a long description of the picture.] The episode of the angel is the sole part of the picture with which we should be disposed to quarrel ; but the rest, which has been excellently described in the queer wild words of the artist, is really as grand and magnificent a conception as ever we saw. Why Poussin's famous picture of an inundation has been called "The Deluge," I never could understand : it is only a very small and partial deluge. The artist has genius enough, if any artist ever had, to have executed a work far more vast and tremendous ; nor does his picture at the Louvre, nor Turner's Deluge, nor Martin's, nor any that we have ever seen, at all stand a competition with this extraordinary performance of Mr. Danby. He has painted the picture of "The Deluge"; we have before our eyes still the ark in the midst of the ruin floating calm and lonely, the great black cataracts of water pouring down, the mad rush of the miserable people clambering up the rocks ;^nothing can be finer than the way in which the artist has painted the picture in all its innumerable details, and we hope to hear that his room will be hourly crowded, and his great labour and genius rewarded in some degree. Let us take some rest after beholding this picture, and what place is cooler and more quiet than the Suffolk Street Gallery? If not remarkable for any pictures of extraordinary merit, it is at least to be praised as a place singularly favourable to meditation. It is a sweet calm solitude, lighted from the top with convenient Winds to keep out the sun. If you have an assignation, bid your mistress to come hither, there is only a dumb secretary in the room; and sitting, like the man in the "Arabian Nights," perpe- tually before a great book, in which he pores. This would be a grand place to hatch a conspiracy, to avoid a dun, to write an epic poem. Something ails the place ! What is it ? — what keeps the people away, and gives the moneytaker in his box a gloomy lonely sinecure 1 Alas, and alas ! not even Mr. Haydon's " Samson Agonistes " is strong- enough to pull the people in. 13 z 354 CRITICAL REVIEWS And yet this picture is worth going to see. You may here take occasion to observe the truth of Mr. Yorke's astute remark about another celebrated artist, and see how bad a painter is this great writer of historical paintings, Mr. Haydon. There is an account in some of the late papers — from America, of course — of a remarkably fat boy, three years old, five feet six high, with a fine bass voice, and a handsome beard and whiskers. Much such a hero is this Samson — a great red chubby-cheeked monster, looking at you with the most earnest, mild, dull eyes in the world, and twisting about a brace of ropes, as he comes sprawling for- wards. Sprawling backwards is a Delilah — such a Delilah, with such an arm, with such a dress, on such a sofa, with such a set of ruifians behind her ! The picture is perfectly amazing ! Is this the author of the " Judgment of Solomon " ] — the restorer or setter up of the great style of painting in this country ? The drawing of the figures is not only faulty, but bad and careless as can be. It never was nor could be in nature ; and, such as it is, the drawing is executed in a manner so loose and slovenly, that one wonders to behold it. Is this the way in which a chef d'Scole condescends to send forth a picture to the public ? Would he have his scholars finish no more and draw no better ? Look at a picture of " Milton and his Daughters," the same subject which Sir A. Callcott has treated in the Academy, which painters will insist upon treating, so profoundly interesting does it seem to be. Mr. Haydon's " Milton " is playing on the organ, and turning his blind eyes towards the public with an expression that is absolutely laughable. A buxom wench in huge gigot sleeves stands behind the chair, another is at a table writing. The draperies of the ladies are mere smears of colour; in the foreground lies a black cat or dog, a smudge of lamp-black, in which the painter has not condescended to draw a figure. The chair of the poetical organ-player is a similar lump of red and brown ; nor is the conception of the picture, to our thinking, one whit better than the execution. If this be the true style of art, there is another great work of the kind at the " Saracen's Head," Snow Hill, which had better be purchased for the National Gallery. Mr. Hurlstone has, as usual, chosen this retired spot to exhibit a very great number of pictures. There is much good in almost all of these. The children especially are painted with great truth and sweetness of expression, but we never shall be able to reconcile ourselves to the extraordinary dirtiness of the colour. Here are ladies' dresses which look as if they had served for May-day, and arms and shoulders such as might have belonged to Cinderella. Once in a way the artist shows he can paint a clean face, such an A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 355 one is that of a child in the little room ; it is charming, if the artist did but know it, how much more charming for being clean ! A very good picture of a subject somewhat similar to those which Mr. Hurktone loves to paint is Mr. Buckner's " Peasants of Sora in the Regno di Napoli." The artist has seen the works of Leopold Robert, and profited evidently by the study of them. Concerning other artists whose works appear in this gallery, we should speak favourably of Mr. O'Neill, who has two pretty pictures ; of a couple of animal pieces, " A Pony and Cows," by Mr. Sosi; and of a pretty picture by Mr. Ehnore, a vast deal better than his great Becket performance before alluded to. Mr. Tomkins has some skilful street scenes; and Mr. Holland, a large, raw, clever picture of Milan Cathedral. And so farewell to this quiet spot, and let us take a peep at the British Gallery, where a whole room is devoted to the exhibition of Mr. Hilton, the late Academician. A man's sketches and his pictures should never be exhibited together ; the sketches invariably kill the pictures ; are far more vigorous, masterly, and efiiective. Some of those hanging here, chiefly subjects from Spencer, are excellent, indeed ; and fine in drawing, colour, and composition. The decision and spirit of the sketch disappear continually in the finished piece, as any one may see in examining the design for " Comus," and the large picture afterwards, the "Two Amphitrites," and many others. Were the sketches, however, removed, the beholder would be glad to admit the great feeling and grace of the pictures, and the kindly poetical spirit which distinguishes the works of the master. Besides the Hiltons, the picture-lover has here an opportunity of seeing a fine Virgin by Julio Romano, and a most noble one by Sebastian del Piombo, than which I never saw anything more majestically beautiful. The simpering beauties of some of the Virgins of the Raphael school, many painters are successful in imitating. See, ye painters ! how in Michael Angelo strength and beauty are here combined, wonderful chastity and grace, humility, and a grandeur almost divine. The critic must have a care as he talks of these pictures, however, for his words straightway begin to grow turgid and pompous ; and, lo ! at the end of his lines, the picture is not a whit better described than before. And now having devoted space enough to the discussion of the merits of these different galleries and painters, I am come to the im- portant part of this paper — viz. to my Essay on the State of the Fine Arts in this Kingdom, my Proposals for the General Improvement of Public Taste, and my Plan for the Education of Young Artists. 356 CKITICAL REVIEWS In the first place, I propose that Government should endow a college for painters, where they may receive the benefits of a good literary education, without which artists will never prosper. I propose that lectures should be read, examinations held, and prizes and exhibitions given to students ; that professorships should be instituted, and — and a president or lord rector appointed, with a baronetcy, a house, and a couple of thousands a year. This place, of course, will be offered to Michael Angelo Tit — — Mr. Titmarsh's paper came to us exactly as the reader here sees it. His contribution had been paid for in advance, and we regret exceedingly that the public should be deprived of what seemed to be the most valuable part of it. He has never been heard of since the first day of June. He was seen on that day pacing Waterloo Bridge for two hours ; but whether he plunged into the river, or took advantage of the steamboat and went down it only, we cannot state. Why this article was incomplete, the following document will, perhaps, show. It is the work of the waiter at Morland's Hotel, where the eccentric and unhappy gentleman resided. STATEMENT BY MRS. BAEBAEA. " On the evening of the 30th of May, Anay Domino 1840, Mr. Mike Titmash came into our house in a wonderful state of delarium, drest in a new coat, a new bloo satting hankysher, a new wite at, and polisht jipannd boots, all of which he'd bot sins he went out after dinner ; nor did he bring any of his old cloves back with him, though he'd often said, ' Barbara,' says he to me, ' when Mr. Frasier pays me my money, and I git new ones, you shall have these as your requisites : ' that was his very words, thof I must confess I don't understand the same. "He'd had dinner and coughy before he wentj and we all cumjectured that he'd been somewhere particklar, for I heer'd him barging with a cabman from HoUywell Street, of which he said the fair was only hatepence ; but being ableeged to pay a shilling, he cust and swoar horrybill. " He came in, ordered some supper, laft and joakt with the gents in the parlor, and shewed them a deal of money, which some of the gentlemen was so good as to purpose to borry of him. " They talked about literary ture and the fine harts (which is both much used by our gentlemen) ; and Mr. Mike was very merry. Specially he sung them a song, which he ancored hisself for twenty A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 357 minutes ; and ordered a bole of our punch, which is chocked against his skor to this very day. "About twelve o'clock he went to bed, very comfortable and quiet, only he cooldnt stand on his legs very well, and cooldnt speak much, excep, ' Frasier for ever ! ' ' All of a York ! ' and some such nonsense, which neither me nor George nor Mrs. Stoaks could understand. "'What's the matter?' says Mrs. ftokes. 'Barbara,' says she to me, ' has he taken any thin 1 ' says she. " ' Law bless you, mum ! ' says I (I always says. Law bless you), ' as I am a Chiisten woman, and hope to be married, he's had nothin out of common.' " ' AVhat had he for dinner 1 ' says she, as if she didn't know. " ' There was biled salmon,' says I, ' and a half-crown lobster in SOBS (bless us if he left so much as a clor or tisspunfiil !), boil pork and peace puddn, and a secknd course of beef steak and onions, cole plumpuddn, maccarony, and afterwards cheese and saUat.' " ' I don't mean that,' says she. ' What was his liquors, or bavyrage ? ' " ' Two Guineas's stouts ; old madeira, one pint ; port, half a ditto ; four tumlers of niggus ; and three cole brandy and water, and sigars.' '"He is a good fellow,' says Mrs. Stokes, ' and spends his money freely, that I declare.' " ' I wish he'd ony pay it,' says I to Mrs. Stokes, says I. 'He's lived in our house any time these fourteen years and never ' " ' Hush your imperence ! ' says Mrs. Stokes ; ' he's a gentleman, and pays when he pleases. He's not one of your common sort. Did he have any tea 1 ' " ' No,' says I, ' not a drop ; ony coughy and mufins. I told you so — three on 'em ; and growled preciously, too, because there was no more. But I wasn't a going to fetch him any more, he whose money we'd never ' "'Barbara,' says Mrs. Stokes, 'leave the room — do. You're always a suspecting every gentleman. Well, what did he have at supper 1 ' "'You know,' says I, 'pickled salmon — that chap's a reglar devil at salmon — (those were ray very words) — cold pork, and cold peace puddn agin ; toasted chease this time ; and such a lot of hale and rum-punch as I never saw — nine glasses of heach, I do believe, as I am an honest woman.' " ' Barbara,' says mistress, ' that's not the question. I>id he mix his liquors, Barbara ? That's the pint.' 358 CRITICAL REVIEWS " ' No,' says I, ' Mrs. Stokes ; that indeed he didn't.' And so we agread that he couldnt posbly he affected by drink, and that something wunderile must have hapned to him, to send him to bed so quear like. " Nex morning I took him his tea in bed (on the 4th flore back. No. 104 was his number) ; and says he to me, 'Barbara,' says he, ' you find me in sperrits.' " ' Find you in sperrits ! I believe we do,' says I ; ' we've found you in 'em these fifteen year. I wish you'd find us in money,' says I ; and laft, too, for I thought it was a good un. " ' Pooh ! ' says he, ' my dear, that's not what I mean. You find me in spirits bycause my exlent publisher, Mr. Frasier, of Regent Street, paid me handsum for a remarkable harticle I wrote in his Magazine. He gives twice as much as the other publishers,' says he ; ' though, if he didn't, I'd write for him just the same — rayther more, I'm so fond of him.' '"How much has he gave you?' says I; 'because I hope you'll pay us.' " 'Oh,' says he, after a bit, 'a lot of money. Here, you, you darling,' says he (he did ; upon my word, he did), ' go and git me change for a five-pound note.' " And when he got up and had his brekfast, and been out, he changed another five-pound note ; and after lunch, another five- pound note ; and when he came in to dine, another five-pound note, to pay the cabman. Well, thought we, he's made of money, and so he seemed : but you shall hear soon how it was that he had all them notes to change. " After dinner he was a sitten over his punch, when some of our gents came in : and he began to talk and brag to them about his harticle, and what he had for it; and that he was the best cricket * in Europe ; and how Mr. Miurray had begged to be intro- juiced to him, and was so pleased with him, and he with Murray; and how he'd been asked to write in the Quartly Review, and in bless us knows what ; and how, in fact, he was going to carry all London by storm. " ' Have you seen what the Morning Poast says of you ? ' says Frank Flint, one of them hartist chaps as comes to our house. " ' No,' say he, ' I aint. Barbara, bring some more punch, do you hear? No, I aint; but that's a fashnable paper,' says he, ' and always takes notice of a fashnable chap like me. What does it say 1 ' says he. "Mr. Flint opened his mouth and grinned very wide; and taking the Morning Poast out of his pocket (he was a great friend ' Critic, Mrs. Barbara means, an absurd monomania of Mr. Titmarsh. A PICTORIAL RHAPSODY 359 of Mr. Titraarsh's, and, like a good-naterd friend as he was, had always a kind thing to say or do) — Frank pulls out a Morning Poast, I say (which had cost Frank Phippens *) : ' Here it is,' says he; 'read for youeself; it will make you quite happy.' AJid so he began to grin to all the gents like winkin. " When he red it, Titmarsh's jor dropt all of a sudn : he turned pupple, and bloo, and violate ; and then, with a mighty efi'ut, he Bwigg off his rum and water, and staggered out of the room. "He looked so ill when he went upstairs to bed, that Mrs. Stokes insisted upon making him some grool for him to have warm in bed ; but. Lor bless you ! he threw it in my face when I went up, and rord and swor so dredfle, that I rann downstairs quite frightened. " Nex morning I knockt at his dor at nine — no anser. " At ten, tried agin — never a word. " At eleven, twelve, one, two, up we went, with a fresh cup of hot tea every time. His dor was lockt, and not one sillibaly could we git. "At for we began to think he'd suasided hisself ; and having called in the policemen, bust open the dor. " And then we beheld a pretty spactycle ! Fancy him in his gor, his throat cut from hear to hear, his white nightgownd all over blood, his beautiful face all pail with hagny ! — well, no such thing. Fancy him hanging from the bedpost by one of his pore dear garters ! — well, no such thing. Agin, fancy him flung out of the window, and dasht into ten Milium peaces on the minionet- potts in the fust floar ; or else a naked, melumcoUy corpse, laying on the hairy spikes ! — not in the least. He wasn't dead, nor he wasn't the least unwell, nor he wasn't asleep neither — he only wasn't there ; and from that day we have heard nothen about him. He left on his table the following note as follows : — "'1st June, 1840. Midmight. " ' Mes. Stokes, — I am attached to you by the most disin terested friendship. I have patronised your house for fourteen years, and it was my intention to have paid you a part of your bill, but the Morning Post newspaper has destroyed that blessed hope for ever. " ' Before you receive this I shall be — ash not where ; my mind shudders to think where ! You will carry the papers directed to Regent Street to that address, and perhaps you will receive in return a handsome sum of money ; but if the bud of my youth is * Fivepence, Mrs. Barbara means. 360 CRITICAL REVIEWS blighted, the promise of a long and happy career suddenly and cruelly cut short, an affectionate family deprived of its support and ornament, say that the Morning Post has done this by its savage criticisms upon me, the last this day. Farewell.' " This is hall he said. From that day to this we have never seen the poor fellow — we have never heerd of him — we have never known anythink about him. Being halarmed, Mrs. Stoks hadvertized him in the papers ; but not wishing to vex his family, we called him by another name, and put hour address diffrent too. Hall was of no use ; and I can't tell you what a pang I felt in my busum when, on going to get change for the five-pound notes he'd given me at the public-house in Hoxford Street, the lan'lord laft when he saw them ; and said, says he, ' Do you know, Mrs. Barbara, that a queer geut came in here with five sovrings one day, has a glass of hale, and haskes me to change his sovrings for a note 1 which I did. Then in about two hours he came back with five more sovrings, gets another note, and another glass of hale, and so goes on four times in one blessed day ! It's my beleaf that he had only five pound, and wanted you to suppose that he was worth twenty, for you've got all his notes, I see ! ' " And so the poor fellow had no money with him after all ! I do pity him, I do, from my hart ; and I do hate that wicked Morning Post for so treating such a kind, sweet, good-nater'd gentleman ! {Signed) " Baebaea. " Morland's Hotel : 15 Jewin, 1840." This is conclusive. Our departed friend had many faults, but he is gone, and we will not discuss them now. It appears that, on the 1st of June, the Morning Post published a criticism upon him, accusing him of ignorance, bad taste, and gross partiality. His gentle and susceptible spirit could not brook the rebuke ; he was not angry ; he did not retort ; but his heart broke ! Peace to his ashes ! A couple of volumes of his works, we see by our advertisements, are about immediately to appear. 01}' MEN AND PICTURES A PEOPOS OF A WALK IN THE LOUVKE Paris : June 1841. IN the days of my youth I knew a young fellow that I shall here call Tidbody, and who, born in a provincial town of respectable parents, had been considered by the drawing-master of the place, and, indeed, by the principal tea-parties there, as a great genius in the painting line, and one that was sure to make his fortune. When he had made portraits of his grandmother, of the house- dog, of the door-knocker, of the church and parson of the place, and had copied, tant bien qiie mal, most of the prints that were to be found in the various houses of the village, Harry Tidbody was voted to be very nearly perfect ; and his honest parents laid out their little savings in sending the lad to Rome and Paris. I saw him in the latter town in the year '32, before an immense easel, perched upon a high stool, and copying with perfect com- placency a Correggio in the gallery, which he thought he had imitated to a nicety. No ' misgivings ever entered into the man's mind that he was making an ass of himself; he never once paused to consider that his copy was as much like the Correggio as my nose is like the Apollo's. But he rose early of mornings, and scrubbed away all day with his macgilps and varnishes ; he worked away through cold and through sunshine ; when other men were warming their fingers at the stoves, or wisely lounging on the Boulevard, he worked away, and thought he was cultivating art in the purest fashion, and smiled with easy scorn upon those who took the world more easily than he. Tidbody drank water with his meals — if meals those miserable scraps of bread and cheese, or bread and sausage, could be called, which he lined his lean stomach with; and voted those persons godless gluttons who recreated themselves with brandy and beef. He rose up at daybreak, and worked away with bladder and brush ; he passed all night at life- academies, designing life-guardsmen with chalk and stump ; he never was known to take any other recreation ; and in ten years he had 362 CRITICAL REVIEWS spent as much time over his drawing as another man spends in thirty. At the end of his second year of academical studies Harry Tidbody could draw exactly as well as he could eight years after. He had visited Florence, and Rome, and Venice, in the interval; but there he was as he had begun, without one single farther idea, and not an inch nearer the goal at which he aimed. One day, at the Life-academy in Saint Martin's Lane, I saw before me the back of a shock head of hair and a pair of ragged elbows, belonging to a man in a certain pompous attitude which I thought I recognised; and when the model retired behind his curtain to take his ten minutes' repose, the man belonging to the back in question turned round a little, and took out an old snuffy cotton handkerchief and wiped his forehead and lank cheekbones, that were moist with the vast mental and bodily exertions of the night. Harry Tidbody was the man in question. In ten years he had spent at least three thousand nights in copying the model. When abroad, perhaps, he had passed the Sunday evenings too in the same rigorous and dismal pastime. He had piles upon piles of grey .paper at his lodgings, covered with worthless nudities in black and white chalk. At the end of the evening we shook hands, and I asked him how the arts flourished. The poor fellow, with a kind of dismal humour that formed a part of his character, twirled round upon the iron heels of his old patched Blucher boots, and showed me liis figure for answer. Such a lean, long, ragged, fantastical- looking personage, it would be hard to match out of the drawing- schools. " Tit, my boy,'' said he, when he had finished his pirouette, " you may see that the arts have not fattened me as yet ; and, between ourselves, I make by my profession something considerably less than a thousand a year. But, mind you, I am not discouraged ; my whole soul is in my calling ; I can't do anything else if I would ; and I will be a painter, or die in the attempt." Tidbody is not dead, I am happy to say, but has a snug place in the Excise of eighty pounds a year, and now only exercises the pencil as an amateur. If his story has been told here at some length, the ingenious reader may fancy that there is some reason for it. In the first place, there is so little to say about the present exhibition at Paris, that your humble servant does not know how to fill his pages without some digressions ; and, secondly, the Tidbodian episode has a certain moral in it, without which it never would have been related, and which is good for all artists to read. ON MEN AND PICTURES 363 It came to my mind upon examining a picture of sixty feet by forty (indeed, it cannot be much smaller), which takes up a good deal of space in the large room of the Louvre. But of this picture anon. Let us come to the general considerations. Why the deuce will men make light of that golden gift of mediocrity which for the most part they possess, and strive so absurdly at the sublime 1 What is it that makes a fortune in this world but energetic mediocrity? What is it that is so respected and prosperous as good, honest, emphatic, blundering dulness, bellowing commonplaces with its great healthy lungs, kicking and struggling with its big feet and fists, and bringing an awe-stricken public down on its knees before it? Think, my good sir, of the people who occupy your attention and the world's. Who are they ? Upon your honour and conscience now, are they not persons with thews and sinews like your own, only they use them with somewhat more activity — with a voice like yours, only they shout a little louder — with the average portion of brains, in fact, but working them more ? But this kind of disbelief in heroes is very offensive to the world, it must be confessed. There, now, is the Times newspaper, which the other day rated your humble servant for publishing an account of one of the great humbugs of modern days, viz. the late funeral of Napoleon — which rated me, I say, and talked in its own grave roaring way about the flippancy and conceit of Titmarsh. you thundering old Times ! Napoleon's funeral was a humbug, and your constant reader said so. The people engaged in it were humbugs, and this your Michael Angelo hinted at. There may be irreverence in this, and the process of humbug- hunting may end rather awkwardly for some people. But, surely, there is no conceit. The shamming of modesty is the most pert conceit of all, the precieuse affectation of deference where you don't feel it, the sneaking acquiescence in lies. It is very hard that a man may not tell the truth as he fancies it, without being accused of conceit : but so the world wags. As has already been prettily shown in that before-mentioned little book about Napoleon, that is still to be had of the publishers, there is a ballad in the volume, which, if properly studied, will be alone worth two-and-sixpence to any man. Well, the funeral of Napoleon was a humbug; and, being so, what was a man to call it ? What do we call a rose ? Is it dis- respectful to the pretty flower to call it by its own innocent name ? And, in like manner, are we bound, out of respect for society, to speak of humbug only in a circumlocutory way — to call it some- thing else, as they say some Indian people do their devil — to wrap 364 CRITICAL REVIEWS it up in riddles and charades? Nothing is easier. Take, for instance, the following couple of sonnets on the subject : — The glad spring sun shone yesterday, as Mr. M. Titmarsh wandered with his favourite lassie By silver Seine, among the meadows grassy — Meadows, like mail-coach guards new clad at Easter. Fair was the sight 'twixt Neuilly and Passy ;. And green the iield, and bright the river's glister. The birds sang salutations to the spring ; Already buds and leaves from branches burst: ' ' The surly winter time hath done its worst," Said Michael ; " Lo, the bees are on the wing ! " Then on the ground his lazy limbs did fling. Meanwhile the bees pass'd by him with my first. My second dare I to your notice bring, Or name to delicate ears that animal accurst ? To all our earthly family of fools My whole, resistless despot, gives the law — Humble and great, we kneel to it with awe ; O'er camp and court, the senate and the schools, Our grand invisible Lama sits and rules. By ministers that are its men of straw. Sir Robert utters it in place of wit, And straight the Opposition shouts "Hear, hear !" And, oh ! but all the Whiggish benches cheer When great Lord John retorts it, as is fit. In you, my Pre&8* each day throughout the year, On vast broad sheets we find its praises writ. wondrous are the columns that you rear, And sweet the morning hymns you roar in praise of it ! Sacred word ! it is kept out of the dictionaries, as if the great compilers of those publications were afraid to utter it. Well, then, * The reader can easily accommodate this line to the name of his favourite paper. Thus : — " In you, my i •£*™«s> 1 eaiaii day throughout the year." ( Post, ) Or:— "In you, my | Berald, 1 j^jjy t^rougj^ the year." Or, in Trance : — "In you, my Galignani' s Messengere ; " a capital paper, because you have there the very cream of all the others. In the last line, for " morning " you can read " evening," or " weekly," as circum- stances prompt. ON MEN AND PICTURES 365 the funeral of Napoleon was a humbug, as Titmarsh wrote ; and a still better proof that it was a humbug was this, that nobody bought Titmarsh's book, and of the 10,000 copies made ready by the publisher not above 3000 went off. It was a humbug, and an exploded humbug. Peace be to it ! Parlous d'autres choses ; and let us begin to discourse about the pictures without further shilly-shally. I must confess, with a great deal of shame, that I love to go to the picture gallery of a Sunday after church, on purpose to see the thousand happy people of the working sort amusing themselves — not very wickedly, as I fancy — on the only day in the week on which they have their freedom. Genteel people, who can amuse themselves every day throughout the year, do not frequent the Louvre on a Sunday. You can't see the pictures well, and are pushed and elbowed by all sorts of low-bred creatures. Yesterday there were at the very least two hundred common soldiers in the place — little vulgar rufiSans, with red breeches and three-halfpence a day, examining the pictures in company with fifteen hundred grisettes, two thousand liberated shojj-boys, eighteen hundred and forty-one artist-apprentices, half-a-dozen of livery servants, and many scores of feUows with caps, and jackets, and copper-coloured countenances, and gold earrings, and large ugly hands, that are hammering, or weaving, or filing, all the week. Fi done ! what a thing it is to have a taste for low company ! Every man of decent breeding ought to have been in the Bois de Boulogne, in white kid gloves and on horseback or on hackback at least. How the dandies just now went prancing and curvetting down the Champs Elys^es, making their horses jump as they passed the carriages, with their japanned boots glittering in the sunshine ! The fountains were flashing and foaming, as if they too were in their best for Sunday ; the trees are covered all over with little twinkling bright green sprouts; numberless exhibitions of Punch and the Fantoccini are going on beneath them; and jugglers and balancers are entertaining the people with their pranks. I met two fellows the other day, one with a barrel-organ, and the other with a beard, a turban, a red jacket, and a pair of dirty, short, spangled, white trousers, who were cursing each other in the purest Saint Giles's English ; and if I had had impudence or generosity enough, I should have liked to make up their quarrel over a chopine of Strasburg beer, and hear the histories of either. Think of these fellows quitting our beloved country, and their homes in some calm nook of Field Lane or Seven Dials, and toiling over to France with their music and their juggling-traps, to balance cart-wheels and swallow knives for the amusement of our natural enemies ! They 366 CRITICAL REVIEWS are very likely at work at this minute, with grinning bonnes and conscripts staring at their skill. It is pleasant to walk by and see the nurses and the children so uproariously happy. Yonder is one who has got a halfpenny to give to the beggar at the crossing; several are riding gravely in little carriages drawn by goats. Ah, truly, the sunshine is a fine thing ; and one loves to see the little people and the poor basking in it, as well as the great in their fine carriages, or their prancing cock-tailed horses. In the midst of sights of this kind, you pass on a fine Sunday afternoon down the Elysian Fields and the Tuileries, until you reach the before-mentioned low-bred crowd rushing into the Louvre. Well, then, the pictures of this exliibition are to be numbered by thousands, and these thousands contain the ordinary number of chefs-d'oeuvre ; that is to say, there may be a couple of works of genius, half-a-dozen very clever performances, a hundred or so of good ones, fifteen hundred very decent, good, or bad pictures, and the remainder atrocious. What a comfort it is, as I have often thought, that they are not all masterpieces, and that there is a good stock of mediocrity in this world, and that we only light upon genius now and then, at rare angel intervals, handed round like tokay at dessert, in a few houses, and in very small quantities only ! Fancy how sick one would grow of it, if one had no other drink. Now, in this exhibition there are, of course, a certain number of persons who make believe that they are handing you round tokay — giving you the real imperial stuff, vrith the seal of genius stamped on the cork. There are numbers of ambitious pictures, in other words, cliiefly upon sacred subjects, and in what is called a severe style of art. The severe style of art consists in drawing your figures in the first place very big and very neat, in which there is no harm ; and in dressing them chiefly in stiflf, crisp, old-fashioned draperies, such as one sees in the illuminated missals and the old masters. The old masters, no doubt, copied the habits of the people about them ; and it has always appeared as absurd to me to imitate these antique costumes, and to dress up saints and virgins after the fashion of the fifteenth century, as it would be to adorn them with hoops and red heels such as our grandmothers wore ; and to make a Magdalen, for instance, taking off her patches, or an angel in powder and a hoop. It is, or used to be, the custom at the theatres for the grave- digger in " Hamlet " always to wear fifteen or sixteen waistcoats, of which he leisurely divested himself, the audience roaring at each change of raiment. Do the Denmark gravediggers always wear ON MEN AND PICTURES 367 fifteen waistcoats? Let anybody answer who has visited the country. But the probability is that the custom on the stage is a very ancient one, and that the public would not be satisfied at a departure from the legend. As in the matters of gravediggers, so it is with angels : they have — and Heaven knows why — a regular costume, which every " serious " painter follows ; and which has a great deal more to do with serious art than people at first may imagine. They have large white wings, that fill up a quarter of the picture in which they have the good fortune to be ; they have white gowns that fall round their feet in pretty fantastical draperies ; they have fillets round their brows, and their hair combed and neatly pomatumed down the middle ; and if they have not a sword, have an elegant portable harp of a certain angelic shape. Large rims of gold leaf they have round their heads always, — a pretty business it would be if such adjuncts were to be left out. Now, suppose the legend ordered that every gravedigger should be represented with a gold-leaf halo round his head, and every angel with fifteen waistcoats, artists would have followed serious art just as they do now most probably, and looked with scorn at the miser- able creature who ventured to scoff at the waistcoats. Ten to one but a certain newspaper would have called a man flippant who did not respect the waistcoats — would have said that he was irreverent for not worshipping the waistcoats.* But why talk of if? The fact is I have rather a desire to set up for a martyr, like my neighbours in the literary trade: it is not a little comforting to undergo such persecutions courageously. " O Socrate ! je boirai la eigne avec toi ! " as David said to Robespierre. You too were accused of blasphemy in your time ; and the world has been treat- ing us poor literary gents in the same way ever since. There, now, is Bulw But to return to the painters. In the matter of canvas cover- ing the French artists are a great deal more audacious than ours ; and I have known a man starve all the winter through, without fire and without Tseef, in order that he might have the honour of filling five-and-twenty feet square of canvas with some favourite subject of his. It is curious to look through the collection, and see how for the most part the men draw their ideas. There are caricatures of the late and early style of Raphael ; there are caricatures of Masaccio ; there is a picture painted in the very pyramidical form, * Last year, when our friend published some article in this Magazine [Fraaer^s Magazine], he seemed to be agitated almost to madness by a criticism, and a very just one too, which appeared in the Mornmg Post. At present he is similarly affected by some strictures on a defunct work of his. 368 CRITICAL REVIEWS and in the manner of Andrea del Sarto ; there is a Holy Family, the exact counterpart of Leonardo da Vinci ; and, finally, there is Achille Deveria — it is no use to give the names and numbers of the other artists, who are not known in England — there is Achille Deveria, who, having nothing else to caricature, has caricatured a painted window, and designed a Charity, of which all the outlines are half an inch thick. Then there are numberless caricatures in colour as in form. There is a Violet Entombment — a crimson one, a green one; a light emerald and gamboge Eve; all huge pictures, with talent enough in their composition, but remarkable for this strange mad love of extravagance, which belongs to the nation. Titian and the Venetians have loved to paint lurid skies and sunsets of purple and gold : here, in consequence, is a piebald picture of crimson and yellow, laid on in streaks from the top to the bottom. Who has not heard a great, comfortable, big-chested man, with bands round a sleek double chin, and fat white cushion-squeezers of hands, and large red whiskers, and a soft roaring voice, the delight of a congregation, preaching for an hour with all the appearance and twice the emphasis of piety, and leading audiences captive ? And who has not seen a humble individual, who is quite confused to be conducted down the aisle by the big beadle with his silver staff (the stalwart "drum-major ecclesiastic"); and when in his pulpit, saying his say in the simplest manner possible, uttering what are very likely commonplaces, without a single rhetorical grace or emphasis ? The great, comfortable, red-whiskered, roaring cushion-thumper is most probably the favourite with the public. But there are some persons who, nevertheless, prefer to listen to the man of timid mild commonplaces, because the simple words he speaks come from his heart, and so find a way directly to yours ; where, if perhaps you can't find belief for them, you still are sure to receive them with respect and sympathy. There are many such professors at the easel as well as the pulpit ; and you see many painters with a great vigour and dexterity, and no sincerity of heart ; some with little dexterity, but plenty of sincerity ; some one or two in a million who have both these qualities, and thus become the great men of their art. I think there are instances of the two former kinds in this present exhibition of the Louvre. There are fellows who have covered great swaggering canvases with all the attitudes and externals of piety ; and some few whose humble pictures cause no stir, and remain in quiet nooks, where one finds them, and straightway acknowledges the simple kindly appeal which they make. ON MEN AND PICTURES 369 Of such an order is the picture entitled "La Prifere," by- Monsieur Trimolet. A man and his wife are lineeling at an old- fashioned praying-desk, and the woman clasps a little sickly-looking child in her arms, and all three are praying as earnestly as their simple hearts will let them. The man is a limner, or painter of missals, by trade, as we fancy. One of his works lies upon the praying-desk, and it is evident that he can paint no more that day, for the sun is just set behind the old-fashioned roofs of the houses in the narrow street of the old city where he lives. Indeed, I have had a great deal of pleasure in looking at this little quiet painting, and in the course of half-a-dozen visits that I have paid to it, have become perfectly acquainted with all the circumstances of the life of the honest missal illuminator and his wife, here praying at the end of their day's work in the calm summer evening. Very likely Monsieur Trimolet has quite a different history for his little personages, and so has everybody else who examines the picture. But what of that? There is the privilege of pictures. A man does not know all that lies in his picture, any more than he understands all the character of his children. Directly one or the other makes its appearance in the world, it has its own private existence, independent of the progenitor. And in respect of works of art, if the same piece inspire one man with joy that fills another with compassion, what are we to say of it, but that it has sundry properties of its own which its author even does not understand ? The fact is, pictures "are as they seem to all," as Mr. Alfred Tennyson sings in the first volume of his poems. Some of this character of holiness and devotion that I fancy I see in Monsieur Trimolet's pictures is likewise observable in a piece by Madame Juillerat, representing Saint Elizabeth, of Hungary, leading a little beggar-boy into her house, where the holy dame of Hungary will, no doubt, make him comfortable with a good plate of victuals. A couple of young ladies follow behind the princess, with demure looks, and garlands in their hair, that hangs straight on their shoulders, as one sees it in the old illuminations. The whole picture has a pleasant, mystic, innocent look ; and one is all the better for regarding it. What a fiiie instinct or taste it was in the old missal illuminators to be so particular in the painting of the minor parts of their pictures ! the precise manner in which the flowers and leaves, birds and branches, are painted, gives an air of truth and simplicity to the whole performance, and makes nature, as it were, an accomplice and actor in the scene going on. For instance, you may look at a landscape with certain feelings of pleasure ; but if you have pulled a rose, and are smelling it, and if of a sudden a blackbird in a bush hard by begins to sing and 370 CRITICAL REVIEWS chirrup, your feeling of pleasure is very much enhanced most likely ; the senses with which you examine the scene become brightened as it were, and the scene itself becomes more agreeable to you. It is not the same place as it was before you smelt the rose, or before the blackbird began to sing. Now, in Madame Juillerat's picture of the Saint of Hungary and the hungry boy, if the flowers on the young ladies' heads had been omitted, or not painted with their pleasing minuteness and circumstantiality, I fancy that the eflFect of the piece would have been by no means the same. Another artist of the mystical school, Monsieur Servan, has employed the same adjuncts in a similarly successful manner. One of his pictures represents Saint Augustin meditating in a garden ; a great cluster of rose-bushes, hollyhocks, and other plants is in the foreground, most accurately delineated ; and a fine rich landscape and river stretch behind the saint, round whom the flowers seem to keep up a mysterious waving and whispering that fill one with a sweet, pleasing, indescribable kind of awe — a great perfection in this style of painting. In Monsieur Aguado's gallery there is an early Raphael (which all the world declares to be a copy, but no matter). This piece only represents two young people walking hand-in-hand in a garden, and looking at you with a kind of " solemn mirth " (the expression of old Sternhold and Hopkins has always struck me as very fine). A meadow is behind them, at the end of which is a cottage, and by which flows a river, environed by certain very prim-looking trees ; and that is all. Well ; it is impossible for any person who has a sentiment for the art to look at this picture without feeling inde- scribably moved and pleased by it. It acts upon you — how ? How does a beautiful, pious, tender air of Mozart act upon you ? What is there in it that should make you happy and gentle, and fill you with all sorts of good thoughts and kindly feelings? I fear that what Doctor Thumpcushion says at church is correct, and that these indulgences are only carnal, and of the earth earthy ; but the sensual effort in this case carries one quite away fi-om the earth, and up to something that is very like heaven. Now the writer of this has already been severely reprehended for saying that Raphael at thirty had lost that delightful innocence and purity which rendered the works of Raphael of twenty so divine ; and perhaps it may be the critic's fault, and not the painter's (I'm not proud, and will allow that even a magazine critic may be mis- taken). Perhaps by the greatest stretch of the perhaps, it may be that Raphael was every whit as divine at thirty as at eighteen ; and that the very quaintnesses and imperfections of manner observable in his early works are the reasons why they appear so singularly ON MEN AND PICTUEES 371 pleasing to me. At least among painters of the present day, I feel myself more disposed to recognise spiritual beauties in those whose powers of execution are manifestly incomplete, than in artists whose hands are skilful and manner formed. Thus there are scores of large pictures here, hanging in the Louvre, that represent subjects taken from Holy Writ, or from the lives of the saints,— pictures skilfully enough painted and intended to be religious, that have not the slightest eflFect upon me, no more than Doctor Thumpcushion's loudest and glibbest sermon. Here is No. 1475, for instance— a " Holy Family," painted in the antique manner, and with all the accessories before spoken of, viz. large flowers, fresh roses, and white stately lilies; curling tendrils of vines forming fantastical canopies for the heads of the sacred personages, and rings of gold-leaf drawn neatly roimd the same. Here is the Vii^gin, with long, stifl; prim draperies of blue, red, and white ; and old Saint Anne in a sober dress, seated gravely at her side ; and Saint Joseph in a becoming attitude ; and all very cleverly treated, and pleasing to the eye. But though this picture is twice as well painted as any of those before mentioned, it does not touch my heart in the least; nor do any of the rest of the sacred pieces. Opposite the " Holy Family " is a great " Martyrdom of Polycarp," and the catalogue tells you how the executioners first tried to burn the saint ; but the fire went out, and the executioners were knocked down ; then the soldier struck the saint with a sword, and so killed him. The legends recount numerous miracles of this sort, which I confess have not any very edifying efiect upon me. Saints are clapped into boiling oil, which immediately turns cool ; or their heads are chopped ofij and their blood turns to milk ; and so on. One can't understand why these continual delays and disap- pointments take place, especially as the martyr is always killed at the end ; so that it would be best at once to put him out of his pain. For this reason, possibly, the execution of Saint Polycarp did not properly afiect the writer of this notice. Monsieur Laemlein has a good picture of the "Waking of Adam," so royally described by Milton, a picture full of gladness, vigour, and sunshine. There is a very fine figure of a weeping woman in a picture of the " Death of the Virgin " ; and the Virgin falling in Monsieur Steuben's picture of " Our Saviour going to Execution" is very pathetic. The mention of this gentleman brings us to what is called the bourgeois style of art, of which he is one of the chief professors. He excels in depicting a certain kind of Sentiment, and in the vulgar, which is often too the true, pathetic. Steuben has painted many scores of Napoleons ; and his picture 372 CRITICAL REVIEWS of Napoleon this year brings numbers of admiring people round it. The Emperor is seated on a sofa, reading despatches ; and the little King of Rome, in a white muslin frock, with his hair beauti- fully curled, slumbers on his papa's knee. What a contrast ! The conqueror of the world, the stern warrior, the great giver of laws and ruler of nations, he dare not move because the little baby is asleep ; and he would not disturb him for all the kingdoms he knows so well how to conquer. This is not art, if you please ; but it is pleasant to see fat good-natured mothers and grandmothers clustered round this picture, and looking at it with solemn eyes. The same painter has an Esmeralda dancing and frisking in her nightgown, and playing the tambourine to her goat, capering likewise. This picture is so delightfully bad, the little gipsy has such a killing ogle, that all the world admires it. Monsijeur Steuben should send it to London, where it would be sure of a gigantic success. Monsieur Grenier has a piece much looked at, in the bourgeois line. Some rogues of gipsies, or mountebanks, have kidnapped a iine fat child, and are stripping it of its pretty clothes ; and poor baby is crying; and the gipsy-woman holding up her finger, and threatening ; and the he-mountebank is lying on a bank, smoking his pipe, — the callous monster ! Preciously they will ill-treat that dear little darling, if justice do not overtake them, — if, ay, if. But, thank Heaven ! there in the corner come the police, and they will have that pipe-smoking scoundrel off to the galleys before five minutes are over. 1056. A picture of the galleys. Two galley-slaves are before you, and the piece is called " A Crime and a Fault." The poor " Fault " is sitting on a stone, looking very repentant and unhappy indeed. The great " Crime " stands grinning you in the face, smoking his pipe. The ruffian ! That pipe seems to be a great mark of callosity in ruffians. I heard one man whisper to another, as they were looking at these galley-slaves, " They are portraits" and very much affected his companion seemed by the information. Of a similar virtuous interest is 705, by Monsieur Finart, " A Family of African Colonists carried off by Abd-el-Kader." There is the poor male colonist without a single thing on but a rope round his wrists. His silver skin is dabbled with his golden blood, and he looks up to heaven as the Arabs are poking him on with the tips of their horrid spears. Behind him come his flocks and herds, and other members of his family. In front, principal figure, is his angelic wife, in her nightgown, and in the arms of an odious blackamoor on horseback. Poor thing — poor ON MEN AND PICTURES 373 thing! she is kicking, and struggling, and resisting as hard as she possibly can. 485. " The Two Friends." Debay. "Deux jeunes femmes se donnent le gage le plus sacr^ d'une amitid sincere, dans un acte de ddvoHment et de reconnaissance. " L'une d'elles, faible, extfoufe d'efforts inutilement tenths pour allaiter, d&ouvre son sein tari, cause du ddpdrissement de son enfant. Sa douleur est comprise par son amie, k qui la santd permet d'ajouter au bonheur de nourrir son propre enfant, celui de rappeler k la vie le fils mourant de sa compagne." Monsieur Debay's pictures are not bad, as most of the others here mentioned as appertaining to the bourgeois class ; but, good or bad, I can't but own that I like to see these honest hearty representations, which work upon good simple feeling in a good downright way ; and if not works of art, are certainly works that can do a great deal of good, and make honest people happy. Who is the man that despises melodramas ? I swear that T. P. Cooke is a benefactor to mankind. Away with him who has no stomach for such kind of entertainments, where vice is always punished, where virtue always meets its reward ; where Mrs. James Vining is always sure to be made comfortable somewhere at the end of the third act ; and if 0. Smith is lying in agonies of death, in red breeches, on the front of the stage, or has just gone off in a flash of fire down one of the traps, I know it is only make-believe on his part, and believe him to be a good kind-hearted fellow, that would not do harm to mortal ! So much for pictures of the serious melodramatic sort. Monsieur Biard, whose picture of the " Slave-trade " made so much noise in London last year — and indeed it is as fine as Hogarth — has this year many comic pieces, and a series representing the present Majesty of France when Duke of Orleans, undergoing various perils by land and by water. There is much good in these pieces ; but I mean no disrespect in saying I like the comic ones best. There is one entitled "Une Distraction." A National Guard is amusing himself by catching flies. You can't fail to laugh when you see it. There is " Le Gros Pdchd," and the biggest of all sins, no less than a drum-major confessing. You can't see the monster's face, which the painter has wisely hidden behind the curtain, as beyond the reach of art ; but you see the priest's, and, murder ! what a sin it must be that the big tambour has just imparted to him ! All the French critics sneer at Biard, as they do at Paul de Kock, for not being artistical enough; but I do not think these gentlemen need mind the sneer ; they have the millions 374 CRITICAL REVIEWS with them, as Feargus O'Connor says, and they are good judges, after all. A great comfort it is to think that there is a reasonable prospect that, for the future, very few more battle-pieces will be painted. They have used up all the victories, and Versailles is almost full. So this year, much to my happiness, only a few yards of warlike canvas are exhibited in place of the furlongs which one was called upon to examine in former exhibitions. One retreat from Moscow is there, and one storming of El Gibbet, or El Arish, or some such place in Africa. In the latter picture, you see a thousand fellows, in loose red pantaloons, rushing up a hill with base heathen Turks on the top, who are firing off guns, carabines, and other pieces of ordnance, at them. All this is very well painted by Monsieur BoUange, and the rush of red breeches has a queer and pleasing effect. In the Russian piece, you have frozen men and cattle; mothers embracing their offspring; grenadiers scowling at the enemy, and especially one fellow standing on a bank with his bayonet placed in the attitude for receiving the charge, and actually charged by a whole regiment of Cossacks, — a complete pulk, my dear madam, coming on in three lines, with their lances pointed against this undaunted warrior of France. I believe Monsieur Thiers sat for the portrait, or else the editor of the Courrier Frangais, — the two men in this belligerent nation who are the belligerentest. A propos of Thiers ; the ffouvelles a la Main has a good story of this little sham Napoleon. When the second son of the Duke of Orleans was bom (I forget his Royal Highness's title), news was brought to Monsieur Thiers. He was told the Princess was well, and asked the courier who brought the news, " Comment se portait le Boi de Rome 1 " It may be said, in confidence, that there is not a single word of truth in the story. But what of that ? Are not sham stories as good as real ones ? Ask Monsieur LeuUier ; who, in spite of all that has been said and written upon a certain sea- fight, has actually this year come forward with his 1311. "H^roisme de I'Equipage du Vaisseau le Vengeur, 4 Juin, 1794." " Aprfes avoir soutenu longtemps un combat achamd contre trois vaisseaux Anglais, le vaisseau le Vengeur avait perdu la moitid de son Equipage, le reste dtait blessd pour la plupart ; le second capi- taine avait 6t6 coup^ en deux par un boulet ; le vaisseau dtait ras^ par le feu de I'ennemi, sa m&ture abattue, sea flancs cribMs par les boulets ^taient ouverts de toutes parts : sa cale se remplissait k vu d'oeil ; il s'enfon^ait dans la mer. Les marins qui restent sur son bord servent la batterie basse jusqu'k ce qu'elle se trouve au niveau ON MEN AND PICTURES 375 de la mer ; quand elle va disparaltre, ils s'^lancent dans la seconde, oil ils r^pfetent la m§me manoeuvre ; celle-ci engloutie, ils raontent sur le pont. Un tron9on de mat d'artimon restait encore debout ; leurs pavilions en lambeaux y sont clouds ; puis, r^unissant instinc- tivement leurs volont^s en une seule pensfe, ils veulent p^rir avec le iiavire qui leur a 6t6 confix. Tous, combattants, blesses, mourants se raniraent : un cri immense s'flfeve, r^p^t^ sur toutes les parties du tillao ; Vive la Rdpubliqiw 1 Vive la France ! . . . Le Vengeur eoule ... les cris continuent ; tous les bras sont dressfe aii del, at ces braves, pr^f&ant la mort \ la captivity, emportent triomphale- ment leur pavilion dans ce glorieux tombeau." — France Maritime. I think Mr. Thomas Carlyle is in the occasional habit of calling lies wind-bags. This wind-bag, one would have thought, exploded last year ; but no such thing. You caiit sink it, do what you will ; it always comes bouncing up to the surface again, where it swims and bobs about gaily for the admiration of all. This lie the Frenchman will believe; all the papers talk gravely about the affair of Vengeur as if an established fact : and I heard the matter disposed of by some artists the other day in a very satis- factory manner. One has always the gratification, in all French societies where the matter is discussed, of telling the real story (or if the subject be not discussed, of bringing the conversation roimd to it, and then telling the real story) ; one has always this gratifica- tion, and a great, wicked, delightful one it is, — you make the whole company uncomfortable at once ; you narrate the history in a calm, good-humoured, dispassionate tone ; and as you proceed, you see the different personages of the audience looking uneasily at one another, and bursting out occasionally with a " Mais cependant ; " but you continue your tale with perfect suavity of manner, and have the satisfaction of knowing that you have stuck a dagger into the heart of every single person using it. Telling, I eay, this story to some artists who were examining Monsieur Leullier's picture, and I trust that many scores of persons besides were listening to the conversation, one of them replied to my assertion, that Captain Eenaudin's letters were extant, and that the whole affair was a humbug, in the following way. "Sir," said he, "the sinking of the Vengeur is an established fact of history. It is completely proved by the documents of the time ; and as for the letters of Captain Kenaudin of which you speak, have we not had an example the other day of some pre- tended letters of Louis Philippe's which were published in a news- paper here 1 And what, sir, were those letters 1. Forgeries I " Q. E. D. Everybody said sansculotte was right : and I have 376 CRITICAL REVIEWS no doubt that, if all the Yengeur's crew could rise from the dead, and that English cox — or boat — swain, who was last on board the ship* of which he and his comrades had possession, and had to swim for his life, could come forward, and swear to the real story, I make no doubt that the Frenchmen would not believe it. Only- one I know, my friend Julius, who, ever since the tale has been told to him, has been crying it into all ears and in all societies, and vows he is perfectly hoarse with telling it. As for Monsieur Leullier's picture, there is really a great deal of good in it. Fellows embracing each other, and holding up hands and eyes to heaven ; and in the distance an English ship, with the crew in red coats, firing away on the doomed vessel. Possibly, they are only marines whom we see ; but as I once beheld several English naval officers in a play habited in top-boots, perhaps the legend in France may be, that the navy, like the army, with us, is caparisoned in scarlet. A good subject for another historical picture would be Cambronne, saying, " La Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas." I have bought a couple of engravings of the Ven- geur and Cambronne, and shall be glad to make a little historical collection of facts similarly authenticated. Accursed, I say, be all uniform coats of blue or of red; all ye epaulets and sabertashes ; all ye guns, shrapnels, and musketoons ; all ye silken banners embroidered with bloody reminiscences of successful fights : down — down to the bottomless pit with you all, and let honest men live and love each other without you ! What business have I, forsooth, to plume myself because the Duke of Wellington beat the French in Spain and elsewhere; and kindle as I read the tale, and fancy myself of a heroic stock, because my uncle Tom was at the battle of Waterloo, and because we beat Napoleon there ] Who are we, in the name of Beelzebub ? Did we ever fight in our lives'? Have we the slightest inclination for fighting and murdering one another ? Why are we to go on hating one another from generation to generation, swelling up our little bosoms with absurd national conceit, strutting and crowing over our neighbours, and longing to be at fisticuffs with them again? As Aristotle remarks, in war there are always two parties; and though it often happens that both declare themselves to be vic- torious, it still is generally the case that one party beats and the other is beaten. The conqueror is thus filled with national pride, and the conquered with national hatred and a desire to do better next time. If he has his revenge and beats his opponent as desired, these agreeable feelings are reversed, and so Pride and Hatred con- * The writer heard of this man from an English captain in the navy, who had him on board his ship. ON MEN AND PICTURES 377 tinue in scecvla sceculorwm, and ribands and orders are given away, and great men rise and flourish. " Remember you are Britons ! " cries our general ; " there is the enemy, and d 'em, give 'em the bayonet!" Hurrah ! helter-skelter, load and fire, cut and thrust, down they go ! " Soldats ! dans ce moment terrible la France vous regarde ! Vive I'Empereur ! " shouts Jacques Bonhomme, and his sword is through your ribs in a twinkling. " Children ! " roars Feld-marechal Sauerkraut, " men of HohenzoUemsigmaringen ! remember the eyes of Vaterland are upon you ! " and murder again is the consequence. Toniahee-tereboo leads on the Ashantees with the very same war-cry, and they eat all their prisoners with true patriotic cannibalism. Thus the great truth is handed down from father to son, that A Briton, A Frenchman, An Ashantee, A Hohenzollernsigmaringenite, &c. is superior to aU the world ; and by this truth the dullards of the respective nations swear, and by it statesmen govern. Let the reader say for himself, does he not believe himself to he superior to a man of any other country? We can't help it — in spite of ourselves we do. But if, by changing the name, the feble applies to yourself, why do you laugh ] ^apvXa vapparvp, as a certain poet says (in a quotation that is pretty well known in England, and therefore put down here in a new fashion). Why do you laugh, forsooth? Why do you not laugh? If donkeys' ears are a matter of laughter, surely we may laugh at them when growing on our own skulls. Take a couple of instances from "actual life," as the fashion- able novel-puffers say. A little fat silly woman, who in no country but this would ever have pretensions to beauty, has lately set up a circulating library in our street. She lends the five-franc editions of the English novels, as well as the romances of her own country, and I have had several of the former works of fiction from her store : Bulwer's " Night and Morning," very pleasant kind-hearted reading ; " Peter Priggins," an astonishing work of slang, that ought to be translated if but to give Europe an idea of what a gay young gentleman in England sometimes is ; and other novels— never mind what. But to revert to the fat woman. She sits all day ogling and simpering behind her little counter ; 378 CRITICAL REVIEWS and from the slow, prim, precise way in which she lets her silly sentences slip through her mouth, you see at once that she is quite satisfied with them, and expects that every customer should give her an opportunity of uttering a few of them for his benefit. Going there for a book, I always find myself entangled in a quarter of an hour's conversation. This is carried on in not very bad French on my part ; at least I find that when I say something genteel to the library-woman, she is not at a loss to understand me, and we have passed already many minutes in this kind of intercourse. Two days since, return- ing " Night and Morning " to the library-lady and demanding the romance of "Peter Priggins," she offered me instead "Ida," par Monsieur le Vicomte Darlincourt, which I refused, having already experienced some of his Lordship's works; next she produced " Stella," " Valida," " Eloa," by various French ladies of literary celebrity ; but again I declined, declaring respectfully that, however agreeable the society of ladies miglit be, I found their works a little insipid. The fact is, that after being accustomed to such potent mixtures as the French romancers offer you, the mild compositions of the French romanceresses pall on the palate.* "Madame," says I, to cut the matter short, "je ne demande qu'un roman Anglais, ' Peter Priggins ' : I'avez-vous ? oui ou non t " " Ah ! " says the library-woman, " Monsieur ne comprend pas notre langue, c'est dommage." Now one might, at first sight, fancy the above speech an epi- gram, and not a bad one, on an Englishman's blundering French grammar and pronunciation ; but those who know the Hbrary-lady must be aware that she never was guilty of such a thing in her life. It was 'simply a French bull, resulting from the lady's dulness, and by no means a sarcasm. She uttered the words with a great air of superiority and a prim toss of the head, as much as to say, " How much cleverer I am than you, you silly foreigner ! and what a fine thing it is in me to know the finest language in the world ! " In this way I have heard donkeys of our two countries address foreigners in broken English or French, as if people who could not understand a language when properly spoken could comprehend it when spoken ill. Why the deuce do people give themselves these impertinent stupid airs of superiority, and pique themselves upon the great cleverness of speaking their own language 1 * In our own country, of course, Mrs. TroUope, Miss Mitford, Miss Pardee, Mrs. Charles Gore, Miss Edgeworth, Miss Ferrier, Miss Stiokney, Miss Barrett, Lady Blessington, Miss Smith, Mrs. Austin, Miss Austen, &c., form exceptions to this rule ; and glad am I to offer per favour of this note a bumble tribute of admiration to those ladies. ON MEN AND PICTUEES 379 Take another instance of this same egregious national conceit. At the English pastrycook's — (you can't readily find a prettier or more graceful woman than Madame Oolombin, nor better plum-cake than she sells) — at Madame Colombin's, yesterday, a huge Briton, with sandy whiskers ami a double chin, was swallowing patties and cherry-brandy, and all the while making remarks to a friend simi- larly employed. They were talking about English and French ships. " Hang me, Higgins," says Sandy -whiskers, " if I'd ever go into one of their cursed French ships ! I should be afraid of sinking at the very first puff of wind ! " What Higgins replied does not matter. But think what a number of Sandy-whiskerses there are in our nation, — fellows who are proud of this stupid mistrust, — who think it a mark of national spirit to despise French skill, bravery, cookery, seamanship, and what not. Swallow your beef and porter, you great fat-paunched man ; enjoy your language and your country, as you have been bred to do ; but don't fancy yourself, on account of these inheritances of yours, superior to other people of other ways and language. You have luck, perhaps, if you will, in having such a diet and dwelling- place, but no merit. . . . And with this little discursive essay upon national prejudices let us come back to the pictures, and finish our walk through the gallery. In that agreeable branch of the art for which we have I believe no name, but which the French call genre, there are at Paris several eminent professors; and as upon the French stage the costume- pieces are far better produced than with us, so also, are French costume-pictures much more accurately and characteristically handled than are such subjects in our own country. You do not see Cimabue and Giotto in the costume of Francis I., as they appeared (depicted by Mr. Simpson, I think) in the Eoyal Academy Exhibition of last year ; but the artists go to some trouble in collecting their anti- quarian stuff, and paint it pretty scrupulously. Monsieur Jacquard has some pretty small pictures de genre : a very good one, indeed, of fat " Monks granting Absolution from Fasting ; " of which the details are finely and accurately painted, a task more easy for a French artist than an English one, for the former's studio (as may be seen by a picture in this exhibition) is generally a magnificent curiosity shop; and for old carvings, screens, crockery, armour, draperies, &c., the painter here has but to look to his own walls and copy away at his ease. Accordingly Jacquard's monks, especially all the properties of the picture, are admirable. Monsieur Baron has " The Youth of Eibera," a merry Spanish 380 CRITICAL REVIEWS beggax-boy, among a crowd of his like, drawing sketches of them under a garden wall. The figures are very prettily thought and grouped; there is a fine terrace, and palace, and statues in the background, very rich and luxurious ; perhaps too pretty and gay in colours, and too strong in details. But the king of the painters of small history subjects is Monsieur Robert Fleury ; a great artist indeed, and I trust heartily he may be induced to send one or two of his pieces to London, to show our people what he can do. His mind, judging from his works, is rather of a gloomy turn ; and he deals somewhat too much, to my taste, in the horrible. He has this year "A Scene in the Inquisition." A man is howling and writhing with his feet over a fire ; grim inquisitors are watching over him ; and a dreadful executioner, with fierce eyes peering from under a mysterious capuchin, is doggedly sitting over the coals. The picture is down- right horror, but admirably and honestly drawn ; and in effect rich, sombre, and simple. " Benvenuto Cellini " is better still ; and the critics have lauded the piece as giving a good idea of tlie fierce fantastic Florentine sculptor ; but I think Monsieur Fleury has taken him in too grim a mood, and made his ferocity too downright. There was always a dash of the ridiculous in the man, even in his most truculent moments ; and I fancy that such simple rage as is here represented scarcely characterises him. The fellow never cut a throat without some sense of humour, and here we have him greatly too majestic to my taste. " Old Michael Angelo watching over the Sick-bed of his servant Urbino " is a noble painting ; as fine in feeling as in design and colour. One can't but admire in all these the manliness of the artist. Tlie picture is painted in a large, rich, massive, vigorous manner; and it is gratifying to see that this great man, after resolute seeking for many years, has found the full use of his hand at last, and can express himself as he would. The picture is fit to hang in the very best gallery in the world ; and a century hence will no doubt be worth five times as many crowns as the artist asks or has had for it. Being on the subject of great pictures, let us here mention, 712. " Portrait of a Lady," by Hippolyte Flandrin. Of this portrait all I can say is, that if you take the best portraits by the best masters — a head of Sebastian or Michael Angelo, a head of Raphael, or one of those rarer ones of Andrea del Sarto — not one of them, for lofty character and majestic nobleness and simplicity, can surpass this magnificent work. ON MEN AND PICTUEES 381 This seems, doubtless, very exaggerated praise, and people read- ing it may possibly sneer at the critic who ventures to speak in such a way. To all such I say. Come and see it. You who admire Sir Thomas and the " Books of Beauty " will possibly not admire it ; you who give ten thousand guineas for a blowsy Murillo will possibly not relish Monsieur Flandrin's manner ; but you who love simplicity and greatness come and see how an old lady, with a blax;k mantilla and dark eyes, and grey hair and a few red flowers in her cap, has been painted by Monsieur Flandrin of Lyons. If I were Louis Philippe, I would send a legion-of-honour cross, of the biggest sort, to decorate the bosom of the painter who has executed this noble piece. As for portraits (with the exception of this one, which no man in England can equal, not even Mr. Samuel Lawrence, who is try- ing to get to this point, but has not reached it yet) our English painters keep the lead stUl, nor is there much remarkable among the hundreds in the gallery. There are vast numbers of English faces staring at you from the canvases ; and among the miniatures especially one can't help laughing at the continual recurrence of the healthy, vacant, simpering, aristocratic English type. There are black velvets and satins, ladies with birds of paradise, deputies on sofas, and generals and marshals in the midst of smoke and cannon-balls. Nothing can be less to my taste than a pot-bellied swaggering Marshal Soult, who rests his b^ton on his stomach, and looks at you in the midst of a dim cloud of war. The Duchess de Nemours is done by Monsieur Winterhalter, and has a place of honour, as becomes a good portrait ; and, above aU, such a pretty lady. She is a pretty, smiling, buxom blonde, with plenty of hair, and rather too much hands, not to speak disrespectfully ; and a slice of lace which goes across the middle of her white satin gown seems to cut the picture very disagreeably in two. There is a beautiful head in a large portrait of a lad of eighteen, painted by himself j and here may be mentioned two single figures in pastel by an architect, remarkable for earnest spirituel beauty ; likewise two heads in chalk by De Eudder ; most charming sketches, full of delicacy, grace, and truth. The only one of the acknowledged great who has exhibited this year is Monsieur Delacroix, who has a large picture relative to the siege of Constantinople, that looks very like a piece of crumpled tapestry, but that has nevertheless its admirers and its merits, as what work of his has not 1 His two smaller pieces are charming. " A Jewish Wedding at Tangiers " is brilliant with light and merriment ; a particular sort of merriment, that is, that makes you gloomy in the very midst of 382 CRITICAL REVIEWS the heyday : and his " Boat " is awful. A score of shipwrecked men are in this boat, on a great, wide, swollen, interminable sea — no hope, no speck of sail — and they are drawing lots which shall be killed and eaten. A burly seaman, with a red beard, has just put his hand into the hat and is touching his own to the officer. One fellow sits with his hands clasped, and gazing — gazing into the great void before him. By Jupiter, his eyes are unfathomable ! he is looking at miles and miles of lead-coloured, bitter, pitiless brine ! Indeed one can't bear to look at him long ; nor at that poor woman, so sickly and so beautiful, whom they may as well kill at once, or she -will save them the trouble of drawing straws ; and give up to their maws that poor, white, faded, delicate, shrivelled carcass. Ah, what a thing it is to be hungry ! Oh, Eugenius Delacroix ! how can you manage, with a few paint- bladders, and a dirty brush, and a careless hand, to dash down such savage histories as these, and fill people's minds with thoughts so dreadful 1 Ay, there it is ; whenever I go through that part of the gallery where Monsieur Delacroix's picture is, I always turn away now, and look at a fat woman with a parroquet opposite. For what's the use of being uncomfortable. Another great picture is one of about four inches square — " The Chess-Play ers," by Monsieur Meissonier — -truly an astonishing piece of workmanship. No silly tricks of effect, and abrupt startling shadow and light, but a picture painted with the minuteness and accuracy of a daguerreotype, and as near as possible perfect in its kind. Two men are playing at chess, and the chess-men are no bigger than pin-heads ; every one of them an accurate portrait, with all the light, shadow, roundness, character, and colour belonging to it. Of the landscapes it is very hard indeed to speak, for professors of landscapes almost all execute their art well ; but few so well as to strike one with especial attention, or to produce much remark. Constable has been a great friend to the new landscape-school in France, who have laid aside the slimy weak manner formerly in vogue, and perhaps have adopted in its place a method equally reprehensible — that of plastering their pictures excessively. When you wish to represent a piece of old timber, or a crumbling wall, or the ruts and stones in a road, this impasting method is very successful ; but here the skies are trowelled on ; the light- vapouring distances are as thick as plum-pudding, the cool clear shadows are mashed-down masses of sienna and indigo. But it is undeniable that, by these violent means, a certain power is had, and noonday effects of strong sunshine are often dashingly rendered. ON MEN AND PICTURES 383 How much pleasanter is it to see a little quiet grey waste of David Cox than the very best and smartest of such works ! Some men from Diisseldorf have sent very fine scientific faithful pictures, that are a little heavy, but still you see that they are portraits drawn respectfully from the great, beautiful, various, divine face of Nature. In the statue-gallery there is nothing worth talking about ; and so let us make an end of the Louvre, and politely wish a good- morning to everybody. JEROME PATUROT WITH CONSIDERATIONS ON NOVELS IN GENEEAl — IN A LETTER FROM M. A. TITMARSH Paris: July 20(A. IF I had been his Majesty Louis Philippe, and the caricaturist had made fun of me ever so, I would, for the sake of the country, have put up with the insult — ay, perhaps gone a little farther, and encouraged it. I would be a good king, and give a premium to any fellow who, for a certain number of hours, could make a certain number of my subjects laugh. I would take the Salle des Pas Perdus, and have an exhibition of caricature-cartoons, with a dozen of handsome prizes for the artists who should invent the dozen ugliest likenesses of me. But, wise as the French King proverbially is, he has not attained this degree of wisdom. Let a poor devil but draw the royal face like a pear now, or in the similitude of a brioche, and he, his printer, and publisher, are clapped into prison for months, severe fines are imposed upon them, their wives languish in their absence, their children are deprived of their bread, and, pressing round the female author of their days, say sadly, " Maman, oil est notre pfere ? " It ought not to be so. Laughing never did harm to any one yet; or if laughing does harm, and king's majesties suffer from the exhibition of caricatures, let them suffer. Mon Dieu ! it is the lesser evil of the two. Majesties are to be had any day ; but many a day passes without a good joke. Let us cherish those that come. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the opinion commonly held about the gaiety Fran^aise is no more than a mystification, a vulgar practical joke of the sort which the benevolent mind abhors. For it is a shame to promise us something pleasant, and then dis- appoint us. Men and children feel in this matter alike. To give a child an egg-shell, under pretence that it is an egg, is a joke ; but the child roars in reply, and from such joking the gentle spirit turns away abashed, disgusted. So about the gaiet^ Frangaise. We are told that it still JEROME PATUROT 385 exists, and are invited by persons to sit down and make a meal of it. But it is almost all gone. Somebody has scooped out all the inside and swallowed it, and left only the shell behind. I declare, for my part, I know few countries where there is less joking than in France ; it is of a piece with the boasted amenity and politeness of the Gauls. Really and truly, there is more real and true polite- ness in Wapping than in the Champs Elysdes. People whom the stranger addresses give him civil answers, and they are leaving off this in France. Men in Wapping do not jostle ladies off the street, and this they do in France, where the charcoal-man, drinking at the corner of the wine-shop, will let a lady's muslin slip into the gutter rather than step aside an inch to allow her to pass. In the matter of novels especially, the national jocularity has certainly passed away. Paul de Kock writes now in such a way as not to make you laugh, but to make you blush for the intolerable vulgarity of the man. His last book is so little humorous, that even the English must give him up — the English, whose island is said after dinner to be "the home of the world," and who certainly gave Monsieur Paul a very hearty welcome. In his own country this prophet has never been much honoured. People sneer at his simple tricks for exciting laughter, and detect a vulgarity of style which the foreigner is not so ready to understand. And as one has seen many a vulgar fellow who dropped his h's, and came from Hislington, received with respect by foreigners, and esteemed as a person of fashion, so we are on our side slow in distinguishing the real and sham foreign gentleman. Besides Paul de Kock, there is another humorous writer of a very diflferent sort, and whose works have of late found a con- siderable popularity among us — Monsieur de Bernard. He was first discovered by one Michael Angelo Titmarsh, who wrote a critique on one of his works, and pilfered one of his stories. Mrs. Gore followed him by "editing" Bernard's novel of "Gerfeuil," which was badly translated, and pronounced by the press to be immoral. It may be so in certain details, but it is not immoral in tendency. It is ftdl of fine observation and gentle feeling ; it has a gaUant sense of the absurd, and is written — rare quality for a French romance — in a gentlemanlike style. Few celebrated modem French romance -writers can say as much for themselves. Monsieur Sue has tried almost always, and, in " Mathilde," very nearly succeeded, in attaining a tone of bonne ccmpagnie. But his respect for lacqueys, furniture, carpets, titles, bcmquets, and such aristocratic appendages, is too great. He slips quietly over the carpet, and peers at the silk hangings, and looks at Lafleur handing about the tea-tray with too much awe for a 13 2 B S86 CRITICAL REVIEWS gentleman. He is in a flutter in the midst of his marquesses and princes — happy, clever, smiling, but uneasy. As for De Balzac, he is not fit for the salon. In point of gentility, Dumas is about as genteel as a courier ; and Fr^d&ic SouM as elegant as a huissier. These are hard words. But a hundred years hence (when, of course, the frequenters of the circulating library wiU be as eager to read the works of Souli^, Dumas, and the rest, as now), a hundred years hence, what a strange opinion the world will have of the French society of to-day ! Did all married people, we may imagine they wiU ask, break a certain commandment 1 — They all do in the novels. Was French society composed of murderers, of forgers, of children without parents, of men consequently running the daily risk of marrying their grandmothers by mistake ; of disguised princes, who lived in the friendship of amiable cut-throats and spotless prostitutes ; who gave up the sceptre for the savate, and the stars and pigtails of the court for the chains and wooden shoes of the galleys? All these characters are quite common in French novels, and France in the nineteenth century was the politest country in the world. What must the rest of the world have been ? Indeed, in respect to the reading of novels of the present day, I would be glad to suggest to the lovers of these instructive works the simple plan of always looking at the end of a romance, to see what becomes of the personages, before they venture upon the whole work, and become interested in the characters described in it. Why interest oneself in a personage who you know must, at the end of the third volume, die a miserable death ? What is the use of making oneself unhappy needlessly, watching the consumptive symptoms of Leonora as they manifest themselves, or tracing Antonio to his inevitable assassination ? Formerly, whenever I came to one of these fatally virtuous characters in a romance (ladies are very fond of inventing such suffering angels in their novels, pale, pious, pulmonary, crossed in love of course ; hence I do not care to read ladies' novels, except those of Mesdames Gore and Trollope) — whenever I came to one of those predestined creatures, and saw from the complexion of the story that the personage in question was about to occupy a good deal of the reader's attention, I always closed the book at once, and in disgust, for my feelings are much too precious to be agitated at threepence per volume. Even then it was often too late. One may have got through half a volume before the ultimate fate of Miss Trevanion was made clear to one. In that half volume, one may have grown to be exceedingly interested in Miss Trevanion; and hence one has all the pangs of parting with her, which were not JEROME PATUROT S87 worth incurring for the brief pleasure of her acquaintance. Le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle. It is well to say, I never loved a young gazelle to glad me with his dark blue eye, but when he came to know me well he was sure to die ; and to add, that I never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away. Is it not better, instead of making yourself unhappy, as you inevitably must be, to spare yourself the trouble of this bootless afiection'? Do not let us give up our affections rashly to young gazelles, or trees, or flowers; and confine our tenderness to creatures that are more long-lived. Therefore, I say, it is much better to look at the end of a novel; and when I read, "There is a fresh green mound in Brent- ford churchyard, and a humble stone, on which is inscribed the name of ' Anna Maria ' ; " or " Le jour aprfes on voyait sur les dalles humides de la terrible Morgue le corps virginal et ruisselant de Bathilde ; " or a sentence to that effect, I shut the book at once, declining to agitate my feelings needlessly ; for at that stage I do not care a fig for Anna Maria's consumption or Bathilde's suicide : I have not the honour of their acquaintance, nor will I make it. If you had the gift of prophecy, and people proposed to introduce you to a man who you knew would borrow money of you, or would be inevitably hanged, or would subject you to some other annoy- ance, would you not decline the proposed introduction? So with novels. The Book of Fate of the heroes and heroines is to be found at the end of Vol. III. One has but to turn to it to know whether one shall make their acquaintance or not. For my part, I heartily pardon the man who brought Cordelia to life (was it Gibber, or Stemhold and Hopkins V) I would have the stomach- pump ijrought for Eomeo at the fifth act ; for Mrs. Macbeth I am not in the least sorry ; but, as for the general, I would have him destroy that swaggering Macduff (who always looks as if he had just slipped off a snufl'-shop), or, if not, cut him in pieces, disarm him, pink him certainly ; and then I would have Mrs. Macduff and all her little ones come in from the slips, stating that the account of their murder was a shameful fabrication of the newspapers, and that they were aU of them perfectly well and hearty. The entirely wicked you may massacre without pity; and I have always admired the German Red Riding-Hood on this score, which is a thousand times more agreeable than the ferocious English tale, because, when the wolf has gobbled up Red Riding-Hood and her grandmother, in come two foresters, who cut open the wolf, and out step the old lady and the young one quite happy. So I recommend all people to act with regard to lugubrious novels, and eschew them. I have never read the Nelly part of the S88 CRITICAL REVIEWS "Old Curiosity Shop" more than once; whereas, I have Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness by heart ; and, in like manner, with regard to " Oliver Twist," it did very well to frighten one in numbers ; but I am not going to look on at Nancy's murder, and to writhe and twist under the Jew's nightmare again. No ! no ! give me Sam Weller and Mr. Pickwick for a continuance. Which are read most — " The Pirate " and " The Bride of Lammermoor," or "Ivanhoe" and "Quentin Durward"? — The former may be preferred by scowling Frenchmen, who pretend to admire Lord Byron. But, if we get upon the subject of Lord Byron, Heaven knows how far we may go. Let us return to the Frenchmen, and ask pardon for the above digression. "The taste for horrors in France is so general, that one can really get scarcely any novels to read in the country (and so much the better, no doubt, say you ; the less of their immoralities any man reads the better) ; hence (perfectly disregarding the interruption of the reader), when a good, cheerful, clever, kind-hearted, merry, smart, bitter, sparkling romance falls in the way, it is a great mercy ; and of such a sort is the " Life of Jerome Paturot." It will give any reader who is familiar with Frenchmen a couple of long summer evenings' laughter, and any person who does not know the country a curious insight into some of the social and political humbugs of the great nation. Like many an idle honest fellow who is good for nothing else, honest Paturot commences life as a literary man. And here, but that a man must not abuse his own trade, would be a fair oppor- tunity for a tirade on the subject of literary characters — those doomed poor fellows of this world whose pockets Fate has ordained shall be perpetually empty. Pray, all parents and guardians, that your darlings may not be born with literary tastes ! If so endowed, make up your minds that they will be idle at school, and useless at college ; if they have a profession, they will be sure to neglect it ; if they have a fortune, they will be sure to spend it. How much money has all the literature of England in the Three per Cents 1 That is the question ; and any bank-clerk could calculate accurately the advantage of any other calling over that of the pen. Is there any professional penman who has laid by five thousand pounds of his own earnings ? Lawyers, doctors, and all other learned persons, save money ; tradesmen and warriors save money ; the Jew-boy who sells oranges at the coach-door, the burnt-umber Malay who sweeps crossings, save money ; there is but Vates in the world who does not seem to know the art of growing rich, and, as a rule, leaves the world with as little coin about him as he had when he entered it. JEROME PATUROT 389 So, when it is said that honest Paturot begins life by publishing certain volumes of poems, the rest is understood. You are sure he will come to the parish at the end of the third volume ; that he will fail in all he undertakes ; that he will not be more honest than his neighbours, but more idle and weak ; that he will be a thriftless, vain, kind-hearted, irresolute, devil-may-care fellow, whose place is marked in this world ; whom bankers sneer at, and tradesmen hold in utter discredit. Jerome spends his patrimony, then, first, in eating, drinking, and making merry ; secondly, in publishing four volumes of poems, four copies of which were sold ; and he wondered to this day who bought them : and so, having got to the end of his paternal inherit- ance, he has to cast about for means of making a livelihood. There is his uncle Paturot, the old hosier, who has sold flannel and cotton nightcaps with credit for this half-century past. "Come and be my heir, and sell flannels, Jerome," says this excellent uncle (alas ! it is only in novels that these uncles are found, — living literary characters have no such lucky relationships). But Jerome's soul is above nightcaps. How can you expect a man of genius to be any- thing but an idiot 1 The events of his remarkable history are supposed to take place just after the late glorious Revolution. In the days of his bombance, Jerome had formed a connection with one of those interesting young females with whom the romances of Paul de Kook have probably made some readers acquainted, — a connection sanctified by every- thing except the magistrate and the clergyman, — a marriage to all intents and purposes, the ceremony only being omitted. The lovely Malvina, the typification of the grisette, as warm an admirer of Paul de Kock as any in the three kingdoms, comes to Jerome's aid, after he has spent his money and pawned his plate, and while (with the energy peculiar to the character of persons who pubHsh poems in four volumes) he sits with his hands in his pockets bemoaning his fate, Malvina has bethought herself of a means of livelihood, and says, " My Jerome, let us turn Saint-Sim onians." So Saint-Simonians they become. For some time, strange as it may seem, Saint-Simonianism was long a flourishing trade in this strange country ; and the two new disciples were admitted into the community chacun selon sa capacity [A long extract from the book relating their experiences among the Saint-Simonians is omitted.] The funds of the religion, as history has informed us, soon began to fail; and the high-priestess, little relishing the meagre 390 CRITICAL REVIEWS diet on which the society was now forced to subsist, and likewise not at all approving of the extreme devotion which some of the priests manifested for her, quitted th6 Saint-Simonians, and estab- lished herself once more very contentedly in her garret, and resumed her flower-making. As for Paturot, he supported the falling cause as long as strength was left him, and for a while blacked the boots of the fraternity very meekly. But he was put upon a diet of sour grapes, which by no means strengthened his constitution, and at last, by the solicitations of his Malvina, was induced to recant, and come back again into common life. Now begin new plans of advancement. Malvina makes him the treasurer of the Imperial Morocco Bitumen Company, which ends in the disappearance of the treasury with its manager, the despair and illness of the luckless treasurer. He is thrown on the world yet again, and resumes his literary labours. He becomes editor of that famous journal the Aspick ; which, in order to gather customers round it, proposes to subscribers a journal and a pair of boots, a journal and a greatcoat, a journal and a leg of mutton, according to the taste of the individual. Then we have him as a dramatic critic, then a writer of romances, then the editor of a Government paper ; and aU these numerous adventures of his are told with capital satire and hearty fun. The book is, in fact, a course of French humbug, commercial, legal, literary, political ; and if there be any writer in England who has knowledge and wit sufficient, he would do well to borrow the Frenchman's idea, and give a similar satire in our own country. The novel in numbers is known with us, but the daily Feuilleton has not yet been tried by our newspapers, the pro- prietors of some of which would, perhaps, do well to consider the matter. Here is Jerome's theory on the subject, offered for the consideration of all falling journals, as a means whereby they may rise once more into estimation : — " You must recollect, sir, that the newspaper, and, in conse- quence, the Feuilleton, is a family affair. The father and mother read the story first, from their hands it passes to the children, from the children to the servants, from the servants to the house porter, and becomes at once a part of the family. They cannot do without the story, sir, and, in consequence, must have the journal which contains it. Suppose, out of economy, the father stops the journal ; mamma is sulky, the children angry, the whole house is in a rage ; in order to restore peace to his family, the father must take in the newspaper again. It becomes as necessary as their coffee in n morning or as their soup for dinner. JEEOME PATUEOT 391 "Well, granting that the Feuilleton is a necessity nowadays, what sort of a Feuilleton must one write in order to please all these various people % " My dear sir, nothing easier. After you have written a number or two, you wiU see that you can write seventy or a hundred at your will. For example, you take a young woman, beautiful, persecuted, and unhappy. You add, of course, a brutal tyrant of a husband or father ; you give the lady a perfidious friend, and introduce a lover, the pink of virtue, valour, and manly beauty. What is more simple ? You mix up your characters well, and can serve them out hot in a dozen or fourscore numbers as you please. " And it is the manner of cutting your story into portions to which you must look especially. One portion must be bound to the other, as one of the Siamese twins to his brother, and at the end of each number there must be a mysterious word, or an awful situation, and the hero perpetually the hero before your public. They never tire of the hero, sir, they get acquainted with him, and the more they do so the more they like him, and you may keep up the interest for years. For instance, I will show you a specimen of the interest- ing in number writing, made by a young man, whom I educated and formed myself, and whose success has been prodigious. It is a story of a mysterious castle. " ' Ethelgida was undressed for the night. Her attendant had retired, and the maiden was left in her vast chamber alone. She sat before the dressing-glass, revolving the events of the day, and particularly thinking over the strange and mysterious words which Alfred had uttered to her in the shrubbery. Other thoughts suc- ceeded and chased through her agitated brain. The darkness of the apartment filled with tremor the sensitive and romantic soul of the young girl. Dusky old tapestries waved on the wall, against which a huge crucifix of ivory and ebony presented its image of woe and gloom. It seemed to her as if, in the night-silence, groans passed through the chamber, and a noise, as of chains clanking in the distance, jarred on her frightened ear. The tapers flickered, and seemed to burn blue. Ethelgida retired to bed with a shudder, and, drawing the curtains round her, sought to shut out the ghostly scene. But what was the maiden's terror when, from the wall at her bedside, she saw thrust forward a naked hand and arm, the hand was clasping by its clotted hair a living, bloody head ! What was that hand ! ! ! ! — what was that head !!!!!! '[To be continued in our next.)' " 392 CRITICAL REVIEWS This delightful passage has been translated for the benefit of literary men in England, who may learn from it a profitable lesson. The terrible and mysterious style has been much neglected with us of late, and if, in the recess of parliament, some of our news- papers are at a loss to fill their double sheets, or inclined to treat for a story in this genre, an eminent English hand, with the aid of Dumas, or Fr^d^ric Souli^, might be got to transcribe such a story as would put even Mr. O'Oonnell's Irish romances out of countenance. Having gone through all the phases of literary quackery, and succeeded in none, lionest Jerome, driven to despair, has nothing for it, at the end of the first volume of his adventures, but to try the last quackery of all, the charcoal-pan and suicide. But in this juncture the providential uncle (by means of Malvina, who is by no means disposed to quit this world, unsatisfactory as it is), the uncle of the cotton nightcap steps in, and saves the unlucky youth, who, cured henceforth of his literary turn, submits to take his place behind the counter, performs all the ceremonies which were neces- sary for making his union with Malvina perfectly legal, and settles down into the light of common day. May, one cannot help repeating, may all literary characters, at the end of the first volume of their lives, find such an uncle ! but, alas ! this is the only improbable part of the book. There is no such blessed resource for the penny-a-liner in distress. All he has to do is to write more lines, and get more pence, and wait for grim Death, who will carry him off in the midst of a penny, and, lo ! where is he ? You read in the papers that yesterday, at his lodgings in Grub Street, "died Thomas Smith, Esq., the ingenious and delightful author, whose novels have amused us all so much. This eccentric and kind-hearted writer has left a wife and ten children, wlio, we understand, are totally unprovided for, but we are sure that the country will never allow them to want." Smith is only heard of once or twice again. A pubHsher discovers a novel left by that lamented and talented author; on which another publisher discovers another novel by the same hand : and "Smith's last work," and "the last work of Smith," serve the bibliopolists' turn for a week, and then are found entirely stupid by the pubhc ; and so Smith, and his genius, and his wants, and his works, pass away out of this world for ever. The paragraph in the paper next to that which records Smith's death announces the excitement created by the forthcoming work of the admirable Jones ; and so to the end of time. But these considerations are too profoundly melancholic, and we had better pass on to the second tome of Jerome Paturot's existence. JEROME PATUROT S9S One might fancy that, after Monsieur Paturot had settled down in his nightcap and hosiery shop, he would have cahnly enveloped himself in lambswool stockings and yards of flannel, and, so pro tected, that Fortune would have had no more changes for him. Such, probably, is the existence of an English hosier : but in " the empire of the middle classes " matters are very differently arranged, and the bonnetier de France pent aspirer a tout. The defunct Paturot whispered that secret to Jerome before he departed this world, and our honest tradesman begins presently to be touched by ambition, and to push forward towards the attainment of those dignities which the Revolution of July has put in his reach. The first opportunity for elevation is offered him in the ranks of that cheap defence of nations, the National Guard. He is a warm man, as the saying is ; he is looked up to in his quarter, he is a member of a company ; why should he not be its captain too ? A certain Oscar, painter in ordinary to his Majesty, who paints spinach-coloured landscapes, and has an orange-coloured beard, has become the bosom friend of the race of Paturot, and is the chief agent of the gallant hosier in his attempts at acquiring the captain's epaulettes. [An extract from the novel relates his election to the National Guard.] Thus happily elected, the mighty Paturot determines that the eyes of France are on his corps of voltigeurs, and that they shall be the model of all National Guardsmen. He becomes more and more like Napoleon. He pinches the sentinels with whom " he is content " by the ear ; he swears every now and then with much energy ; he invents a costume (it was in the early days when the fancy of the National Guardsman was allowed to luxuriate over his facings and pantaloons at will) ; and in a grand review before Marshal Soban the Paturot company turns out in its splendid new uniform, yellow facings, yellow-striped trousers, brass buckles and gorgets — the most brilliant company ever seen. But, though these clothes were strictly military and unanimously splendid, the wearers had not been bred up in those soldatesque habits which render much inferior men more effective on parade. They failed in some manoeuvre which the old soldier of the Empire ordered them to perform — the front and rear ranks were mingled in hopeless confusion. " Ho, porter ! " shouted the old general to the guard of the Carrousel gate, " shut the gates, porter ! these canaries will fly off if you don't." Undismayed by this little check, and determined, like all noble §94 CRITICAL REVIEWS spirits, to repair it, Captain Paturot now laboured incessantly to bring his company into discipline, and brought them not only to march and to countermarch, but to fire with great precision, until on an un lucky day, the lieutenant, being in advance of his men, a certain voltigeur, who had forgotten to withdraw his ramrod from his gun, discharged the rod into the fleshy part of the lieutenant's back, which accident caused the firing to abate somewhat afterwards. Ambition, meanwhile, had seized upon the captain's wife, who too was determined to play her part in the world, and had chosen the world of fashion for her sphere of action. A certain Russian Princess, of undoubted grandeur, had taken a great fancy to Madame Paturot, and, under the auspices of that illustrious hyperborean chaperon, she entered into the genteel world. Among the fashionable public of Paris, we are led by Monsieur Paturot's memoirs to suppose that they mingle virtue with their pleasure, and, so that they can aid in a charitable work, are ready to sacrifice themselves and dance to any extent. It happened that a part of the Borysthenes in the neighbourhood of the Princess Flibustikopfkoi's estate overflowed, and the Parisian public came forward as sympathisers, as they did for sufiering Ireland and Prince O'Connell the other day. A great fete was resolved on, and Madame de Paturot became one of the ladies patronesses. And at this/efe we are presented to a great character, in whom the hahitui of Paris will perhaps recognise a certain likeness to a certain celebrity of the present day, by name Monsieur Hector Berlioz, the musician and critic. " The great artist promised his assistance. All the wind instruments in Paris were engaged in advance, and all the brass bands, and all the fiddles possible. " ' Princess,' said the artist, agitating his locks, ' for your sake I would find the hymn of the creation that has been lost since the days of the deluge.' " The day of the festival arrived. The artist would allow none but himself to conduct his own chef-d'oeuvre ; he took his place at a desk five metres above the level of the waves of the orchestra, and around him were placed the most hairy and romantic musicians of the day, who were judged worthy of applauding at the proper place. The artist himself, the utterer of the musical apocalypse, cast his eyes over the assembly, seeking to dominate the multitude by that glance, and also to keep in order a refractory lock of hair which would insist upon interrupting it. I had more than once heard of the plan of this great genius, which consists in set- ting public and private life to music. A thousand extraordinary JEROME PATUROT 395 anecdotes are recorded of the extraordinary power which he possessed for so doing; among others is the story of the circum- stance which occurred to him in a tavern. Having a wish for a dish of fricandeau and sorrel, the genius took a flageolet out of his pocket, and modulated a few notes. ' Tum-tiddle-di-tum-tiddle-de,' &o. The waiter knew at once what was meant, and brought the frican- deau and the sauce required. Genius always overcomes its detractors in this way. " I am not able to give a description of the wonderful marceau of music now performed. With it the festival terminated. The hero of the evening sat alone at his desk, vanquished by his emotions, and half-drowned in a lock of hair, which has previously been described. The music done, the hairy musicians round about rushed towards the maestro with the idea of carrying him in triumph to his coach, and of dragging him home in the same. But he, modestly retiring by a back-door, called for his cloak and his clogs, and walked home, where he wrote a critique for the news- papers of the music which he had composed and directed previously. It is thus that modem genius is made ; it is suificient for all duties, and can swallow any glory you please." Whether this little picture is a likeness or not, who shall say ? but it is a good caricature of a race in France, where geniuses poussent as they do nowhere else ; where poets are prophets, where romances have revelations. It was but yesterday I was reading in a Paris newspaper some account of the present state of things in Spain. " Battles in Spain are mighty well," says the genius ; " but what does Europe care for them 1 A single word spoken in France has more influence than a pitched battle in Spain." So stupendous a genius is that of the country ! The nation considers, then, its beer the strongest that ever was brewed in the world ; and so with individuals. This has his artistical, that his musical, that his poetical beer, which frothy liquor is preferred before that of all other taps ; and the musician above has a number of brethren in other callings. Jerome's high fortunes are yet to come. From being captain of his company he is raised to be heutenant^colonel of his regiment, and as such has the honour to be invited to the palace of the Tuileries with Madame Paturot. This great event is described in the following eloquent manner : — [Here follows a description of a ball at the Tuileries.] If the respected reader, like the writer of this, has never had 396 CKITICAL REVIEWS the honour of figuring at a ball at the Tuileries (at home, of course, we are as regular at Pimlico as Lord Melbourne used to be), here is surely in a couple of pages a description of the aifair so accurate, that, after translating it, I for my part feel as if I were quite familiar with the palace of the French king. I can see Louis Philippe grinning endlessly, ceaselessly bobbing his august head up and down. I can see the footmen in red, the officiers d'ordonnance in stays, the spindle-shanked young princes frisking round to the sound of the brass bands. The chandeliers, the ambassadors, the flaccid Germans with their finger-rings, the Spaniards looking like gilded old clothesmen ; here and there a deputy lieutenant, of course, and one or two hapless Britons in their national court suits, that make the French mob, as the Briton descends from his carriage, exclaim, " Oh, ce marquis ! " Fancy besides fifteen hundred women, of whom fourteen hundred and fifty are ugly — it is the proportion iu France. And how much easier is it to enjoy this Barmecide dance in the description of honest Paturot than to dress at mid- night, and pay a guinea for a carriage, and keep out of one's wholesome bed, in order to look at King Louis Philippe smiling ! What a mercy it is not to be a gentleman ! What a blessing it is not to be obliged to drive a cab in white kid gloves, nor to sit behind a great floundering racing-tailed horse of Rotten Row, expecting momentarily that he will jump you into the barouche full of ladies just ahead ! What a mercy it is not to be obliged to wear tight lacquered boots, nor to dress for dinner, nor to go to balls at midnight, nor even to be a member of the House of Commons, nor to be prevented from smoking a cigar if you are so minded ! All which privileges of poverty may Fortune long keep to us ! Men do not know half their luck, that is the fact. If the real truth were known about things, we should have their Graces of Sutherland and Devonshire giving up their incomes to the national debt, and saying to the country, " Give me a mutton chop and a thousand a year ! " In the fortunes of honest Paturot this wholesome moral is indi- cated with much philosophic acumen, as those will allow who are in- clined from the above specimen of their quality to make themselves acquainted with the further history of his fortunes. Such persons may read how Jerome, having become a colonel of the National Guards, becomes, of course, a member of the Legion of Honour, how he is tempted to aspire to still further dignities, how he becomes a deputy, and how his constituents are served by him ; how, being deputy, he has perhaps an inclination to become minister, but that one fine day he finds that his house cannot meet certain bills which are presented for payment, and so the poor fellow becomes a bankrupt. JEROME PATUROT 397 He gets a little place, he retires with Malvina into a country town ; she is exceedingly fond of canaries and dominoes, and Jerome cultivates cabbages and pinks with great energy and perfect content- ment. He says he is quite happy. Ought he not to be so who has made a thousand readers happy, and perhaps a little wiser ? I have just heard that " Jerome Paturot " is a political novel : one of the Reviews despatches this masterpiece in a few growling lines, and pronounces it to be a failure. Perhaps it is a political novel, perhaps there is a great deal of sound thinking in this care- less, familiar, sparkling narrative, and a vast deal of reflection hidden under Jerome's ordinary cotton nightcap ; certainly it is a most witty and entertaining story, and as such is humbly recom- mended by the undersigned to all lovers of the Pantagruelian philosophy. It is a great thing nowadays to get a funny book which makes you laugh, to read three volumes of satire in which there is not a particle of bad blood, and to add to one's knowledge of the world, too, as one can't help doing by the aid of this keen and good-humoured wit. The author of "Jerome Paturot" is Monsieur Reybaud, understood to be a grave man, dealing in political economy, in Fourierism, and other severe sciences. There is a valuable work by the late Mr. Henry Fielding, the police- magistrate, upon the prevention of thieving in the metropolis, and some political pamphlets of merit by the same author ; but it hath been generally allowed that the history of Mr. Thomas Jones by the same Mr. Fielding is amongst the most valuable of the scienti&c works of this author. And in like manner, whatever may be the graver works of Monsieur Reybaud, I heartily trust that he has some more of the Paturot kind in his brain or his portfolio, for the benefit of the lazy, novel-reading, unscientific world. M. A. TiTMAESH. A BOX OF NOVELS "t ^HE Argwment. — Mr. Yorke having despatched to Mr. Titmarsh, ■i in Switzerland, a box of novels (carriage paid), the latter returns to Oliver an essay upon the same, into which he in- troduces a variety of other interesting discourse. He treats of the severity of critics ; of his resolution to reform in that matter, and of the nature of poets ; of Irishmen; of Harry Lorrequer, and that Hairy is a sentimental writer ; of Harry's critics ; of Tom Burke ; of Eory O'More ; of the Young Pretender and the Duke of Bordeaux ; of Irish Repeal and Repeal songs ; concerning one of which he ad- dresseth to Eory O'More words of tender reproach. He mentioneth other novels found in the box, viz. "The Miser's Son," and " The Burgomaster of Berlin.'' He bestoweth a parting benediction on Boz. Some few — very few years since, dear sir, in our hot youth, when Will the Fourth was king, it was the fashion of many young and ardent geniuses who contributed their share of high spirits to the columns of this Magazine,* to belabour with unmerciful ridicule almost all the writers of this country of England, to sneer at their scholarship, to question their talents, to shout with fierce laughter over their faults historical, poetical, grammatical, and sentimental ; and thence to leave the reader to deduce our (the critic's) own immense superiority in all the points which we questioned in aU the world beside. I say