In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three,When theGeorgeswere ruling o'er Britain the free,There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,By theGoldsmithwho brought out theGood-Natur'd Man.New-fashioned, in truth—for this play, it appears,Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears,While the type of those days, as the learnèd will tell ye,Was theCumberlandwhine or the whimper ofKelly.So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted,And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted;But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it.Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it!Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig,Either grizzle or bob—never mind, you look big.You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles,And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles.You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter,From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre;You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet,And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street;Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow,Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know.See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing,And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing,And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir,Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?"Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs,With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs;So issue at last on the House in its pride,And pack yourself snug in a box at the side.Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit,Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,—With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming,With its impudent orange-girls going and coming,With its endless surprises of face and of feature,All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature.Then we turn to the Boxes whereTripin his laceIs aping his master, and keeping his place.Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn,Like a Duke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn!Then sniffs at his bouquet, whips round with a smirk,And ogles the ladies at large—like a Turk.But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling,AndTripmust trip up to the seats at a shilling;And spite of the mourning that most of us wearThe House takes a gay and a holiday air;For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables,And seem to catch coquetry even in sables.Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars,And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars.Look, look, there isWilkes! You may tell by the squint;But he grows every day more and more like the print(Ah!Hogarthcoulddraw!); and behind at the backHugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black.That isCumberlandnext, and the prim-looking personIn the corner, I take it, isOssianMacpherson.And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,Comes sturdy oldJohnson, dressed out in his best;How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,Whatever the law ishe'slaying it down!Beside him isReynolds, who's deaf; and the haleFresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, isThrale.There isBurkewithGeorge Steevens. And somewhere, no doubt,Is theAuthor—too nervous just now to come out;He's a queer little fellow, grave-featured, pock-pitten,Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten.But where is our play-bill?Mistakes of a Night!If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight!She Stoops.Let us hope she won't fall at full length,For the piece—so 'tis whispered—is wanting in strength.And the humour is "low!"—you are doubtless awareThere's a character, even, that "dances a bear!"Then the cast is so poor,—neither marrow nor pith!Why can't they getWoodwardor GentlemanSmith!"Lee Lewes!" Who'sLewes? The fellow has playedNothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!"Dubellamy"—"Quick,"—these are nobodies. Stay, IBelieve I sawQuickonce inBeau Mordecai.Yes,Quickis not bad. Mrs.Green, too, is funny;ButShuter, ah!Shuter'sthe man for my money!He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, isShuter,And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter.Then there's littleBulkely....But here in the middle,From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle.Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash,And the music begins with a flourish and crash,And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying,While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing.And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle,Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle;And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minuteGrows still as if naught but wax figures were in it.Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten.Who is it?The Prologue.He's sobbing. Hush! listen.
In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three,When theGeorgeswere ruling o'er Britain the free,There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,By theGoldsmithwho brought out theGood-Natur'd Man.New-fashioned, in truth—for this play, it appears,Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears,While the type of those days, as the learnèd will tell ye,Was theCumberlandwhine or the whimper ofKelly.So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted,And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted;But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it.Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it!Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig,Either grizzle or bob—never mind, you look big.You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles,And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles.You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter,From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre;You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet,And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street;Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow,Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know.See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing,And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing,And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir,Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?"Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs,With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs;So issue at last on the House in its pride,And pack yourself snug in a box at the side.Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit,Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,—With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming,With its impudent orange-girls going and coming,With its endless surprises of face and of feature,All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature.Then we turn to the Boxes whereTripin his laceIs aping his master, and keeping his place.Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn,Like a Duke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn!Then sniffs at his bouquet, whips round with a smirk,And ogles the ladies at large—like a Turk.But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling,AndTripmust trip up to the seats at a shilling;And spite of the mourning that most of us wearThe House takes a gay and a holiday air;For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables,And seem to catch coquetry even in sables.Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars,And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars.
Look, look, there isWilkes! You may tell by the squint;But he grows every day more and more like the print(Ah!Hogarthcoulddraw!); and behind at the backHugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black.That isCumberlandnext, and the prim-looking personIn the corner, I take it, isOssianMacpherson.And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,Comes sturdy oldJohnson, dressed out in his best;How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,Whatever the law ishe'slaying it down!Beside him isReynolds, who's deaf; and the haleFresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, isThrale.There isBurkewithGeorge Steevens. And somewhere, no doubt,Is theAuthor—too nervous just now to come out;He's a queer little fellow, grave-featured, pock-pitten,Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten.
But where is our play-bill?Mistakes of a Night!If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight!She Stoops.Let us hope she won't fall at full length,For the piece—so 'tis whispered—is wanting in strength.And the humour is "low!"—you are doubtless awareThere's a character, even, that "dances a bear!"Then the cast is so poor,—neither marrow nor pith!Why can't they getWoodwardor GentlemanSmith!"Lee Lewes!" Who'sLewes? The fellow has playedNothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!"Dubellamy"—"Quick,"—these are nobodies. Stay, IBelieve I sawQuickonce inBeau Mordecai.Yes,Quickis not bad. Mrs.Green, too, is funny;ButShuter, ah!Shuter'sthe man for my money!He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, isShuter,And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter.Then there's littleBulkely....
But here in the middle,From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle.Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash,And the music begins with a flourish and crash,And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying,While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing.And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle,Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle;And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minuteGrows still as if naught but wax figures were in it.Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten.Who is it?The Prologue.He's sobbing. Hush! listen.
[Thereupon enters Mr. Woodward in black, with a handkerchief to his eyes, to speak Garrick's Prologue, after which comes the play. In the volume for which the foregoing additional Prologue was written the following Envoi was added.]
Good-bye to you,Kelly, your fetters are broken!Good-bye to you,Cumberland,Goldsmithhas spoken!Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming,ForGoldsmithhas spoken andSheridan'scoming;And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free airAs she laughed with the Great Ones, withShakespeare,Molière!
Good-bye to you,Kelly, your fetters are broken!Good-bye to you,Cumberland,Goldsmithhas spoken!Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming,ForGoldsmithhas spoken andSheridan'scoming;And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free airAs she laughed with the Great Ones, withShakespeare,Molière!
Even as one in city pent,Dazed with the stir and din of town,Drums on the pane in discontent,And sees the dreary rain come down,Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass,Beholds, in fancy, visions pass,Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves,Of birds that build in thatch and eaves,Of woodlands where the throstle calls,Of girls that gather cowslip balls,Of kine that low, and lambs that cry,Of wains that jolt and rumble by,Of brooks that sing by brambly ways,Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze,Of all the dreams with which men cheatThe stony sermons of the street,So, in its hour, the artist brainWeary of human ills and woes,Weary of passion, and of pain,And vaguely craving for repose,Deserts awhile the stage of strifeTo draw the even, ordered life,The easeful days, the dreamless nights,The homely round of plain delights,The calm, the unambitioned mind,Which all men seek, and few men find.EPILOGUE.Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.Is Peacesopeaceful? Nay,—who knows!There are volcanoes under snows.
Even as one in city pent,Dazed with the stir and din of town,Drums on the pane in discontent,And sees the dreary rain come down,Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass,Beholds, in fancy, visions pass,Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves,Of birds that build in thatch and eaves,Of woodlands where the throstle calls,Of girls that gather cowslip balls,Of kine that low, and lambs that cry,Of wains that jolt and rumble by,Of brooks that sing by brambly ways,Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze,Of all the dreams with which men cheatThe stony sermons of the street,So, in its hour, the artist brainWeary of human ills and woes,Weary of passion, and of pain,And vaguely craving for repose,Deserts awhile the stage of strifeTo draw the even, ordered life,The easeful days, the dreamless nights,The homely round of plain delights,The calm, the unambitioned mind,Which all men seek, and few men find.
EPILOGUE.
Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.Is Peacesopeaceful? Nay,—who knows!There are volcanoes under snows.
In after days when grasses highO'er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honoured dust,I shall not question or reply.I shall not see the morning sky;I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!But yet, now living, fain were IThat some one then should testify,Saying—"He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust."Will none?—Then let my memory dieIn after days!
In after days when grasses highO'er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honoured dust,I shall not question or reply.
I shall not see the morning sky;I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!
But yet, now living, fain were IThat some one then should testify,Saying—"He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust."Will none?—Then let my memory dieIn after days!
"To brandish the poles of that old Sedan Chair!"—Page7.
A friendly critic, whose versatile pen it is not easy to mistake, recalls,à-proposof the above, the following passage from Molière, which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:—
1 Porteur (prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise).Çà, payez-nous vitement!Mascarille.Quoi!1 Porteur.Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout à l'heure.Mascarille.Il est raisonnable, celui-là,etc.
Les Précieuses Ridicules, Sc. vii.
"It has waited by portals where Garrick has played."—Page8.
According to Mrs. Carter (Smith'sNollekens, 1828, i. 211), when Garrick acted, the hackney-chairs often stood "all round the Piazzas [Covent Garden], down Southampton-Street, and extended more than half-way along Maiden-Lane."
"A skill Préville could not disown."—Page23.
Préville was the French Foote,circa1760. His gifts as a comedian were of the highest order; and he had an extraordinary faculty for identifying himself with the parts he played. Sterne, in a letter to Garrick from Paris, in 1762, calls him "Mercury himself."
Molly Trefusis.—Page32.
The epigram here quoted from "an old magazine" is to be found in the late Lord Neaves's admirable little volume,The Greek Anthology(Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English Readers). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature will recognize in the succeeding verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to "Molly Mogg of the Rose," which found so many imitators in his own day. Whether my heroine is to be identified with a certain "Miss Trefusis," whosePoemsare sometimes to be found in the second-hand booksellers' catalogues, I know not. But if she is, I trust I have done her accomplished shade no wrong.
An Eastern Apologue.—Page43.
The initials "E. H. P." are those of the late eminent (and ill-fated) Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely owed their origin to his translations of Zoheir, I sent them to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly. It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said these would cause no disturbance to orthodox Persians, I concluded I had succeeded in my littlepastiche, and, with his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and versatile scholars this age has seen.
A Revolutionary Relic.—Page48.
"373.St. Pierre(Bernardin de),Paul et Virginie, 12mo, old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers the words: 'à Lucile St. A.... chez M. Batemans, à Edmonds-Bury, en Angleterre,' very faintly written in pencil." (Extract from Catalogue.)
"Did she wander like that other?"—Page50.
Lucile Desmoulins. See Carlyle'sFrench Revolution, Vol. iii. Book vi. Chap. ii.
"And its tender rain shall lave it."—Page52.
It is by no means uncommon for an editor to interrupt some of these revolutionary letters by a "Here there are traces of tears."
"By 'Bysshe,' his epithet."—Page81.
i.e.The Art of English Poetry, by Edward Bysshe, 1702.
The Book-plate's Petition.—Page87.
These lines were reprinted fromNotes and Queriesin Mr. Andrew Lang's instructive volumeThe Library, 1881, where the curious will find full information as to the enormities of the book-mutilators.
"Have I not writ thy Laws?"—Page93.
The lines in italic type which follow, are freely paraphrased from the ancientCode d' Amourof the XIIth Century, as given by André le Chapelain himself.
A Dialogue, etc.—Page107.
This dialogue, first printed inScribner's Magazinefor May, 1888, was afterwards read by Professor Henry Morley at the opening of the Pope Loan Museum at Twickenham (July 31st), to the Catalogue of which exhibition it was prefixed.
"The 'crooked Body with a crooked Mind.'"—Page108.
"Mens curva in corpore curvo."Said of Pope by Lord Orrery.
"Mens curva in corpore curvo."Said of Pope by Lord Orrery.
"Neither asLockewas, nor asBlake."—Page115.
The Shire Hall at Taunton, where these verses were read at the unveiling, by Mr. James Russell Lowell, of Miss Margaret Thomas's bust of Fielding, September 4th, 1883, also contains busts of Admiral Blake and John Locke.
"The Journal of his middle-age."—Page118.
It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to theJournal of a Voyage to Lisbon, published posthumously in February, 1755,—a record which for its intrinsic pathos and dignity may be compared with the letter and dedication which Fielding's predecessor and model, Cervantes, prefixed to his last romance ofPersiles and Sigismunda.
Charles George Gordon.—Page120.
These verses appeared in theSaturday Reviewfor February 14th, 1885.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.—Page122.
These verses appeared in theAthenæumfor October 8th, 1892.
With that he made a Leg."—Page137.
"Jovemade his Leg and kiss'd the Dame,ObsequiousHermesdid the Same."Prior.
"Jovemade his Leg and kiss'd the Dame,ObsequiousHermesdid the Same."Prior.
"So took his Virtú off to Cock's."—Page137.
Cock, the auctioneer of Covent Garden, was the Christie and Manson of the last century. The leading idea of this fable, it should be added, is taken from one by Gellert.
"Of Van's 'Goose-Pie.'"—Page139.
"At length they in the Rubbish spyA Thing resembling a Goose Py."Swift'sverses onVanbrugh's House, 1706.
"At length they in the Rubbish spyA Thing resembling a Goose Py."Swift'sverses onVanbrugh's House, 1706.
"The Oaf preferred the'Tongs and Bones.'"—Page145.
"I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the tongs and the bones."
Midsummer-Night's Dream, Act iv., Sc. i.
"And sighed o'er Chaos wine for Stingo."—Page145.
Squire Homespun probably meant Cahors.
The Water-Cure.—Page178.
These verses were suggested by the recollection of an anecdote in Madame de Genlis, which seemed to lend itself to eighteenth-century treatment. It was therefore somewhat depressing, not long after they were written, to find that the subject had already been annexed in theTatlerby an actual eighteenth-century writer, who, moreover, claimed to have founded his story on a contemporary incident. Burton, nevertheless, had told it before him, as early as 1621, in theAnatomy of Melancholy.
"In Babylonian numbers hidden."—Page180.
"—nec BabyloniosTentaris numeros."Hor.i., 11.
"—nec BabyloniosTentaris numeros."Hor.i., 11.
"And spite of the mourning that most of us wear."—Page259.
In March, 1773, whenShe Stoops to Conquerwas firstplayed, there was a court-mourning for the King of Sardinia (Forster'sGoldsmith, Book iv. Chap. 15).
"But he grows every day more and more like the print.—Page259.
"Mr.Wilkes, with his usual good humour, has been heard to observe, that he is every day growing more and more like his portrait byHogarth(i.e. the print of May 16th, 1763)."
Biographical Anecdotes of William Hogarth, 1782, pp. 305-6.
Ah, Postumus, we all must go:'Postumus' unchanged. 'Posthumous' is current spelling.
Hyphenation of the following unchanged: