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443
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES
445
PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER”
In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three,
When the Georges were ruling o'er Britain the free,
There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,
By the Goldsmith who brought out the Good-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 the Cumberland whine or the whimper of Kelly.
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!
When the Georges were ruling o'er Britain the free,
There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,
By the Goldsmith who brought out the Good-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 the Cumberland whine or the whimper of Kelly.
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.
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.
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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 where Trip in his lace
Is 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,
And Trip must trip up to the seats at a shilling;
And spite of the mourning that most of us wear
The 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.
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 where Trip in his lace
Is 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!
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And ogles the ladies at large—like a Turk.
But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling,
And Trip must trip up to the seats at a shilling;
And spite of the mourning that most of us wear
The 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 is Wilkes! You may tell by the squint;
But he grows every day more and more like the print
(Ah! Hogarth could draw!); and behind at the back
Hugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black.
That is Cumberland next, and the prim-looking person
In the corner, I take it, is Ossian Macpherson.
And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,
Comes sturdy old Johnson, dressed out in his best;
How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,
Whatever the law is, he's laying it down!
Beside him is Reynolds, who's deaf; and the hale
Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is Thrale.
There is Burke with George Steevens. And somewhere, no doubt,
Is the Author—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 he grows every day more and more like the print
(Ah! Hogarth could draw!); and behind at the back
Hugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black.
That is Cumberland next, and the prim-looking person
In the corner, I take it, is Ossian Macpherson.
And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,
Comes sturdy old Johnson, dressed out in his best;
How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,
Whatever the law is, he's laying it down!
Beside him is Reynolds, who's deaf; and the hale
Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is Thrale.
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Is the Author—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 aware
There's a character, even, that “dances a bear!”
Then the cast is so poor,—neither marrow nor pith!
Why can't they get Woodward or Gentleman Smith!
“Lee Lewes!” Who's Lewes? The fellow has played
Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!
“Dubellamy”—“Quick,”—these are nobodies. Stay, I
Believe I saw Quick once in Beau Mordecai.
Yes, Quick is not bad. Mrs. Green, too, is funny;
But Shuter, ah! Shuter's the man for my money!
He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, is Shuter,
And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter.
Then there's little Bulkely . . .
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 aware
There's a character, even, that “dances a bear!”
Then the cast is so poor,—neither marrow nor pith!
Why can't they get Woodward or Gentleman Smith!
“Lee Lewes!” Who's Lewes? The fellow has played
Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!
“Dubellamy”—“Quick,”—these are nobodies. Stay, I
Believe I saw Quick once in Beau Mordecai.
Yes, Quick is not bad. Mrs. Green, too, is funny;
But Shuter, ah! Shuter's the man for my money!
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And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter.
Then there's little Bulkely . . .
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 minute
Grows 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.]
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 minute
Grows 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.
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L'ENVOI
Good-bye to you, Kelly, your fetters are broken!Good-bye to you, Cumberland, Goldsmith has spoken!
Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming,
For Goldsmith has spoken and Sheridan's coming;
And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free air
As she laughed with the Great Ones, with Shakespeare, Molière!
451
PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S “QUIET LIFE”
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 cheat
The stony sermons of the street,
So, in its hour, the artist brain
Weary of human ills and woes,
Weary of passion and of pain,
And vaguely craving for repose,
Deserts awhile the stage of strife
To 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.
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 cheat
The stony sermons of the street,
So, in its hour, the artist brain
Weary of human ills and woes,
Weary of passion and of pain,
And vaguely craving for repose,
Deserts awhile the stage of strife
To draw the even, ordered life,
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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 Peace so peaceful? Nay,—who knows
There are volcanoes under snows.
453
DEDICATION OF “THE STORY OF ROSINA”
(TO AN IDEAL READER)
What would our modern maids to-day?
I watch, and can't conjecture:
A dubious tale?—an Ibsen play?—
A pessimistic lecture?
I watch, and can't conjecture:
A dubious tale?—an Ibsen play?—
A pessimistic lecture?
I know not. But this, Child, I know
You like things sweet and seemly,
Old-fashioned flowers, old shapes in Bow,
“Auld Robin Gray” (extremely);
You like things sweet and seemly,
Old-fashioned flowers, old shapes in Bow,
“Auld Robin Gray” (extremely);
You—with my “Dorothy”
—delight
In fragrant cedar-presses;
In window corners warm and bright,
In lawn, and lilac dresses;
In fragrant cedar-presses;
In window corners warm and bright,
In lawn, and lilac dresses;
You still can read, at any rate,
Charles Lamb and “Evelina;”
To you, My Dear, I dedicate
This “Story of Rosina.”
Charles Lamb and “Evelina;”
To you, My Dear, I dedicate
This “Story of Rosina.”
454
PROLOGUE TO “EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES”
(THIRD SERIES)
“Versate . . .
Quid valeant humeri.”
—Hor. Ars Poetica.
Quid valeant humeri.”
—Hor. Ars Poetica.
How shall a Writer change his ways?
Read his Reviewers' blame, not praise
In blame, as Boileau said of old,
The truth is shadowed, if not told.
Read his Reviewers' blame, not praise
In blame, as Boileau said of old,
The truth is shadowed, if not told.
There! Let that row of stars extend
To hide the faults I mean to mend.
Why should the Public need to know
The standard that I fall below?
Or learn to search for that defect
My Critic bids me to correct?
No: in this case the Worldly-Wise
Keep their own counsel—and revise.
To hide the faults I mean to mend.
Why should the Public need to know
The standard that I fall below?
Or learn to search for that defect
My Critic bids me to correct?
No: in this case the Worldly-Wise
Keep their own counsel—and revise.
Yet something of my Point of View
I may confide, my Friend, to You.
I don't pretend to paint the vast
And complex picture of the Past:
Not mine the wars of humankind,
“The furious troops in battle joined;”
Not mine the march, the counter-march,
The trumpets, the triumphal arch.
For detail, detail, most I care
(Ce superflu, si nécessaire!);
I cultivate a private bent
For episode, for incident;
I take a page of Some One's life,
His quarrel with his friend, his wife,
His good or evil hap at Court,
“His habit as he lived,” his sport,
The books he read, the trees he planted,
The dinners that he ate—or wanted:
As much, in short, as one may hope
To cover with a microscope.
I may confide, my Friend, to You.
I don't pretend to paint the vast
And complex picture of the Past:
Not mine the wars of humankind,
“The furious troops in battle joined;”
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The trumpets, the triumphal arch.
For detail, detail, most I care
(Ce superflu, si nécessaire!);
I cultivate a private bent
For episode, for incident;
I take a page of Some One's life,
His quarrel with his friend, his wife,
His good or evil hap at Court,
“His habit as he lived,” his sport,
The books he read, the trees he planted,
The dinners that he ate—or wanted:
As much, in short, as one may hope
To cover with a microscope.
I don't taboo a touch of scandal,
If Gray or Walpole hold the candle;
Nor do I use a lofty tone
Where faults are weaknesses alone.
If Gray or Walpole hold the candle;
Nor do I use a lofty tone
Where faults are weaknesses alone.
In studies of Life's seamy side
I own I feel no special pride;
The Fleet, the round-house, and the gibbets
Are not among my prize exhibits;
Nor could I, if I would, outdo
What Fielding wrote, or Hogarth drew.
I own I feel no special pride;
The Fleet, the round-house, and the gibbets
Are not among my prize exhibits;
Nor could I, if I would, outdo
What Fielding wrote, or Hogarth drew.
Yet much I love to arabesque
What Gautier christened a “Grotesque;”
To take his oddities and “lunes,”
And drape them neatly with festoons,
Until, at length, I chance to get
The thing I designate “Vignette.”
To sum the matter then:—My aim
Is modest. This is all I claim:
To paint a part and not the whole,
The trappings rather than the soul.
What Gautier christened a “Grotesque;”
To take his oddities and “lunes,”
And drape them neatly with festoons,
Until, at length, I chance to get
The thing I designate “Vignette.”
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Is modest. This is all I claim:
To paint a part and not the whole,
The trappings rather than the soul.
The Evolution of the Time,
The silent Forces fighting Crime,
The Fetishes that fail, and pass,
The struggle between Class and Class,
The Wealth still adding land to lands,
The Crown that falls, the Faith that stands...
All this I leave to abler hands.
The silent Forces fighting Crime,
The Fetishes that fail, and pass,
The struggle between Class and Class,
The Wealth still adding land to lands,
The Crown that falls, the Faith that stands...
All this I leave to abler hands.
457
EPILOGUE TO “EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES
(SECOND SERIES)
“What is it then,”—some Reader asks,—
“What is it that attaches
Your fancy so to fans and masks,—
To periwigs and patches?
“What is it that attaches
Your fancy so to fans and masks,—
To periwigs and patches?
“Is Human Life to-day so poor,—
So bloodless,—you disdain it,
To ‘galvanize’ the Past once more?”
—Permit me. I'll explain it.
So bloodless,—you disdain it,
To ‘galvanize’ the Past once more?”
—Permit me. I'll explain it.
This Age I grant (and grant with pride),
Is varied, rich, eventful;
But, if you touch its weaker side
Deplorably resentful:
Is varied, rich, eventful;
But, if you touch its weaker side
Deplorably resentful:
Belaud it, and it takes your praise
With air of calm conviction;
Condemn it, and at once you raise
A storm of contradiction.
With air of calm conviction;
Condemn it, and at once you raise
A storm of contradiction.
458
Whereas with these old Shades of mine,
Their ways and dress delight me;
And should I trip by word or line,
They cannot well indict me.
Their ways and dress delight me;
And should I trip by word or line,
They cannot well indict me.
Not that I think to err. I seek
To steer 'twixt blame and blindness;
I strive (as some one said in Greek)
To speak the truth with kindness:
To steer 'twixt blame and blindness;
I strive (as some one said in Greek)
To speak the truth with kindness:
But—should I fail to render clear
Their title, rank, or station—
I still may sleep secure, nor fear
A suit for defamation.
Their title, rank, or station—
I still may sleep secure, nor fear
A suit for defamation.
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