University of Virginia Library

PRELUDE ON THE STAGE.

Manager of a Strolling Company. Stage-Poet. Merryfellow.
MANAGER.
Ye twain, in weal and woe to me
Who have been faithful company,
Say, have ye heard yet what effect is making
In German lands our hopeful undertaking?
Without the multitude we cannot thrive,
Their maxim is, to live and to let live.
The posts are up, the planks are fastened all,
And every one expects a festival.
With arch'd eye-brows already sit they there,
And gape for something new to make them stare.
I know how to conciliate the mob,
But ne'er yet felt it such a ticklish job:
'Tis true, what they have read is not the best,
But that they much have read must be confessed.
How shall we make our pieces fresh and new,
And, with some meaning in them, pleasing too?
In sooth, I like to see the people pouring
Into our booth, like storm and tempest roaring,
When, as the waving impulse onward heaves them,
The narrow gate of grace at length receives them.
When, long ere it be dark, with lusty knocks,
They fight their way on to the money-box,
And, like a starving crowd around a baker's door.
For tickets, as for bread, they roar.
So wonder-working is the poet's sway
O'er every heart,—so let it work to-day!

POET.
O mention not that motley crowd to me,
Which, only seen, makes frighted genius flee:
Hide from my view that wild tumultuous throng,
Whose whirlpool drags us forcibly along!
No! lead me to some heavenly still retreat,
Where blooms pure joy, such as for bards is meet:
Where love and friendship, with their sweet control,
Create and cherish blessings for the soul.
Alas! what there from the deep bosom sprung,
What scarce was lisp'd out by the feeble tongue,
What now and then succeeds, but oftener not,
Is swallowed by the moment, and forgot.
Full oft it toils through many a patient year,
Till in its finished beauty it appear.
Vain glittering show may snatch a fleeting fame,
But genuine worth Posterity shall claim.

MERRYFELLOW.
With sons and grandsons we have nought to do,
Look to the world that lives and moves with you;
And if the future be the present's heir,
'Tis meet the living first should have their share.
Methinks, the present of a goodly boy
Has something that the wisest might enjoy.
Whoso with easy sweetness can discourse,
May tame the humours of the mob by force;
He courts a crowd, the surer to control
By strength of art the sympathetic whole.
Quit ye like men, be honest bards and true,
Let Fancy, with her many-sounding chorus,
Reason, sense, feeling, passion, move before us;
But, mark you well! a spice of folly, too.

MANAGER.
Give what you please, so that you give but plenty.
They come to see, you must engage their eyes;
Scene upon scene, each act may have its twenty,
To keep them gaping still in new surprise.
This is the royal road to public favour,
You snatch it thus, and it is yours for ever.
The mass can be compelled by mass alone,
Each one at length seeks out what is his own.
Bring much, and every one is sure to find,
From out your nosegay, something to his mind.
You give a piece—give it at once in pieces,
Such a ragout each taste and temper pleases,
And is as easy to the bard's invention,
As from the players it needs small attention.
In vain into an artful whole you glue it,
The public, in the long run, will undo it.

POET.
Ye do not feel how vile such petty craft must be!
How far beneath the artist's dignity.
You, too, it seems, can condescend to praise
The bungling maxims of these modern days.

MANAGER.
I do not fear such an objection;
Whoso would work with circumspection
Must use the tools that are most fit.
Consider what soft wood you have to split,
And for what sort of audience you write!
One comes to kill a few hours o'the night;
Another, with his drowsy wits oppressed,
An over-sated banquet to digest;
And not a few—whom least of all we choose—
Come to the play from reading the reviews.
They come to us as to a masquerade,
And curiosity wings every pace;
The ladies shew themselves, and shew their dress,
And play their parts, although they are not paid.
What dream you of, on your poetic height?
A crowded house, forsooth, gives you delight!
Look at your patrons, as you should,
You'll find them one-half cold, and one-half rude.
One leaves the play, to spend the night
Upon a damsel's breast in wild delight;
Another o'er a billiard table frets,
And play and players both alike forgets.
For such an audience, and for purpose such,
Why should ye plague the gentle Muses much?
I tell you, give them more, and always always more,
'Tis the sole precept of dramatic lore;
And since with quality to please is vain,
With quantity confound them if you can—
But what's the matter?—ravishment or pain?

POET.
If such your service, I am not the man!
Shall then the poet make his birthright vain?
The right of man, that Nature's gift imparts,
To please the many, reckless jest away?
What gives him power to move all hearts?
Each stubborn element to sway?
What but the harmony, his being's inmost tone,
That sucks all feelings back into his own?
When listless Nature her eternal thread
Th'unwilling spindle twists around,
When hearts to hearts, in life's confus'd parade,
With jarring dissonance resound;
Who guides with living power the measur'd row,
That with well-balanced impulse it may flow?
Who consecrates each motion of the soul,
To beat in glorious concert with the whole?
Who makes the storm of youthful passions rage,
And glow the evening-red of thoughtful age?
Who scatters Spring's most lovely blooms upon
The path of the beloved one?
Who plaits the leaves, that unregarded grow,
Into a crown, to deck the honour'd brow?
Who charms the gods? Who makes Olympus yield?
The power of man in poet's art reveal'd.

MERRYFELLOW.
Then learn such noble powers to wield,
And on the poet's business enter
As one does on a love adventure.
First let them meet by chance, then feel, and then remain,
Till, net-caught by degrees, they find retreat is vain;
Their fortune seems to rise, anon it sinks again,
Deep anguish follows on enjoyment's trance,
And, e'er they are aware, it turns out a romance.
A play like this will please, I warrant you!
Portray the fulness of the living man,
The life that each one lives, though it be known to few;
A faithful likeness pleases every one.
Strange motley pictures in a misty mirror,
A spark of truth within a cloud of error;
'Tis thus we brew the genuine beverage,
To edify and to refresh the age.
The bloom of youth, in eager expectation,
With gaping ears, draws in your revelation;
Each tender sentimental disposition
Sucks from your work sweet woe-begone nutrition;
All see their inmost soul reveal'd by thee,
And yield them to the power of wondrous sympathy.
As yet they weep and laugh, and ask not why,
Their spirits freely soar, the show of things gives pleasure;
The finish'd man applies the critic's measure,
Where growing minds content them to enjoy.

POET.
Then give me back the time again,
When mine own spirit, too, was growing,
When my whole being was a fount
Of thronging songs within me flowing!
When mist the world around me veil'd,
Each bud embryo-wonders cherish'd,
And I the thousand flow'rets broke
That on each meadow richly flourish'd!
Though I had nothing, yet I had a treasure,
The thirst for truth, and in delusion pleasure.
Give me the free unshackled impulse,
The height of joy, the depth of pain,
The might of love, the strength of hatred,
O give me back my youth again!

MERRYFELLOW.
The fire of youth, good friend, you need, of course,
Into the hostile ranks to break,
Or when the loveliest damsels hang by force,
With amorous clinging, from your neck,
When the fleet runner's destin'd wreath
From the far distant goal is winking,
And when the hurried dance you leave,
To spend a noisy night in drinking.
But to awake the well-known lyre,
With graceful touch, that tempers fire,
And to a self-appointed goal,
With pleasant rambling, on to roll,
Such, aged sirs, your easy duties are,
But not the less for this we honour you;
That old age makes us children is not true,
It only finds us children as we were.

MANAGER.